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Sep. 15th, 2012 06:11 amIt'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."
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."
