losttheright | (no subject)

It's not as if Molly expected the bruises on her face to go away overnight. She's had them before, after all, though in the past, it was always typical bumps and scrapes, barely noticeable marks on elbows or knees or shins from walking into something or tripping. Not having been beaten up, having a gun pressed to her temple, by one of the closest friends she has here. A punch to the face has a much more lasting effect than bumping into the edge of a desk, and that's just where the physical is concerned. Inside, she's just as much of a mess as she looks. She's barely slept since, and not just because of the virus that she now knows she can name as the cause of Russell's behavior (it doesn't lessen the weight of it at all); the times she does, she wakes up terrified, remembering the way it felt when he held his gun to her head and she knew he'd go through with pulling the trigger. She'd want to stay in anyway, thinking it safer to keep herself here than tempt fate by going to work or even taking herself to the quarantine at the hospital like she's probably supposed to, having been in such close proximity to someone infected. Now, it's imperative. She doesn't want anyone to see her like this, face still too banged up for makeup to cover the damage done.

What she doesn't see coming is how quickly she starts to feel like she's losing her mind. Not usually one to wallow, too set on making the most of the chance she has here to let herself, after a couple of days shut in her apartment, she gets restless. This isn't what she wanted at all. Maybe that makes her the fucking stupid one for refusing to believe that Russell would hurt her, even after he already had, but it's not as if there's anything to do about that now, or anything to do, really, except wait. She can work a little from her computer, but that's it, and it's not enough when she could so badly use something to keep her mind off all that's happened.

Going to the basement to do her laundry isn't going to be that, the task too menial to really serve as much of a distraction, but at least it's something, getting her out of the walls of her apartment while still keeping her out of the way. Plenty of people live in her building, but it's not like this place is usually packed or anything. When she manages to make it without running into anyone, she thinks she's in the clear, and it's a relief. It makes it all the more surprising when, in the elevator on her way back upstairs, a basket of clothes in her arms, the doors open and Patrick steps in. Somehow, she's all the more self-conscious of how bad she looks for the fact that he isn't a stranger, her gaze dropping, teeth pressing to her lower lip, as if just looking away could hide the bruises she hasn't bothered trying to cover when she hasn't gone anywhere. "Um, hey."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In the cramped bathroom of a packed club on the southside of the city, called Wire or Crate or Buzzed or some other meaninglessly trendy one syllable word, I do two lines of coke with someone from the office. James Simons or Alan Wakefield or maybe Sam Talbot. I can't remember, but more importantly, I don't care. He's excruciatingly boring when he's sober, and gratingly obnoxious while on coke, so I left him talking to a fat liberal arts major with a nose ring and hailed a cab.

Pulling my Burberry calfskin gloves from my hands and hastily shoving them into the pocket of my camel's hair coat, by Prada, I have a smile on my face when I notice I'm not alone, but whatever I might have been prepared to say dies in my throat.

Her pale skin is mottled with fading bruises. A ghastly smear of yellowing blue across her cheekbone, and it's not until I'm nearly hit by the closing elevator doors that I move forward into the elevator car.

"You do your own laundry?" I ask, my voice strained.

Though it only serves to make her feel more self-conscious, the way Patrick stares doesn't actually come as a surprise. She looks bad and she knows it; the couple people she's crossed paths with have seemed to make a point of averting their eyes, but it's only to avoid doing this, she's sure. The question is what she finds unexpected, brow raising as she glances up at him again. At least he's trying, or so it seems to her.

"Yeah," she answers, the lone word tapering off into silence. When she speaks up again, it's all feigned confidence, not quite so convincing as it would be under usual circumstances. She can try and she damn well means to, but something this visible, this frightening, can't just be pretended away. "But that's not really what you want to ask, is it?"

Trying to at least inject some facade of levity, I huff out a laugh, offering her a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry, that was... rude."

It was, wasn't it? I can't be sure.

The smile fading from my face, I ask, "Don't tell me someone did that to you."

Molly means to tell him not to worry about it, that it wasn't really rude at all, the subject one that she knows isn't exactly easy to breach. Without a reason to, she probably wouldn't have brought it up anyway, though she suspects that would be just as awkward. Now, at least, no matter how much she might not want to answer his question, there's no need to dance around it.

"Well, I didn't do it to myself," she says dryly, glancing at the floor. Much as she'd like to dismiss it as an accident, she doesn't have it in her to. It was too close a call for that, and besides, with talk of this virus widespread now, at least it's explainable. "I, uh... He wouldn't have done it, normally. There was something wrong with him."

"Well, there had to have been, if he did... that."

Something wrong with him. But even the most normal of people will commit unspeakable acts of violence in the right conditions. But those animalistic outbursts, those momentary breaks with sanity, are only a fraction of what I'm capable of. Only a fraction of the rage and disdain pumping through my veins.

"You... look alright," I offer, as if that might be some consolation.

"I look like shit," Molly counters, letting out as much of a laugh as she can manage, tired but at least genuine. "But thank you." It could be worse, she knows that. The bruises, though dark now, will eventually fade, and after a while, it will be like nothing ever happened, at least outwardly. Mentally speaking is another story, but that isn't the point now. She's kept enough shit to herself before. She can manage this, too.

"I can imagine they're a challenge to cover, but if I might suggest, a yellow-based concealer would do wonders," I suggest, already considering which brand might be the best endorsement.

Courtney used to get the most God-awful dark rings under her eyes, and she swore by yellow-based concealer. It's something I kept in mind, after some bitch hooker nearly gave me a black eyes. One well placed kick to the face and I was an hour late to work after an emergency trip to the skincare counter at Bergdorf Goodman.

"Yeah?" Molly asks, brow raising slightly. It's something she's thought about, picking up makeup to cover them, but she hasn't gone out yet to be able to buy anything. Still, there's something almost reassuring about having it mentioned by someone else, like it's proof that it's a good idea and not something she should feel bad about, some part of her irrationally thinking that she shouldn't have to, too reminded of clichés about women in abusive relationships. "I was thinking I might get something, yeah."

"Potted concealer," I specify, "It tends to give a better, more even coverage. Really, it doesn't look that bad, but you might feel... more comfortable."

It seems almost a waste, to cover them. More than a waste, I feel a wave of anxiety prickle at the back of my neck, when I realize she might actually take my advice.

"Yeah," Molly says, with an exhale that doesn't quite count as a laugh. Really, that's putting it mildly, but just admitting to it says enough. She has no desire to go on and on about how fucked in the head she is, thinking of how she close she came to dying again. "It's not really... You know. It doesn't look good. And people ask."

"People don't know how to mind their own fucking business," I say cheerfully, grinning in a way that probably looks like good-natured sarcasm. A friendly joke, between equals.

I wonder what her brains would look like, smeared across the walls of my apartment.

"No," Molly says, letting out a surprisingly genuine laugh, "they really don't." That's true everywhere and of everything, but with something like this, it carries a little more weight for her than it ordinarily might. "And it's not exactly enjoyable to have to talk about it."

Her laugh isn't the trilling, nasally giggle that Evelyn favored, but there's something no less jarring in the tone of it. The easy friendliness, the openness. It seems bizarrely intimate, and I realize I'm sweating under my collar.

"Then we'll talk about something else. How's... work?"

Molly shrugs, intending to say that it's alright, but that's not strictly the truth right now, either. Shit's crazy there, she knows from keeping in touch over her computer, doing as much as she can from here while keeping herself shut away until the bruises fade a little more.

"I've been calling out," she admits. "But, you know, something like this happens, people start panicking... There's a lot to take care of."