Re: Highway to Hell [Master]
Posted: 14 Mar 2016, 12:40
Finley was told to wait, and forced to gulp; she swallowed the bile that had already started to rise as a lump in her throat, the taste of it causing her to wretch once more. That hand of hers, so smooth with its nails painted their bright red, lifted to cover her rouge-smeared lips. Even as they stumbled across the threshold, she could hardly hold on; splatters of vomit seeped through her fingers, one small mouthful worth. But it was then that she was lowered, and it indeed was her knees that she fell to. The runaway bride curled in on herself, the dress not allowing for much movement otherwise.
Although she should have been asking so many questions, instead she grasped for the vase – unaware of its age of value – and released the contents of her stomach. There wasn’t much food there. Bits and pieces of snacks mixed in with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. The vomit was a chunky kind of amber, mixed through with an acrid green, a few shades of yellow. Not at all pretty, no matter what your view on beauty might be. Even if imperfect things have their own kind of allure, this was just all kinds of wrong.
Finley was only vaguely aware of the body behind her, which exuded no warmth. Instinct warned her that she was somewhere she didn’t recognise, with someone she did not know. The knowledge sat at the back of her mind, a warning ready to be unleashed. For the moment, however, she was far too preoccupied by her aim – trying only to vomit in the vase and not all the way around it. She was of course aware of her dirty hands, of the way it smeared the side of the vase, and the floor which she momentarily clawed at to keep her balance.
Although she was in the process of emptying her stomach of any remnant of alcohol she had swallowed that night, she was still dizzy. A headache was beginning to form at her temples, but it was the kind of headache that was numbed until the effects of the alcohol were to wear off. Except, Finley’s whole body felt numb. Her vision was blurred. Although she’d been floating on a cloud for the last few hours, now she was coming crashing back down to the ground. She’d taken a dive from a cliff and her psyche was split – one half of her ready to leap out of her own body and watch her own gruesome death with a detached kind of interest, and the other half screaming because, well – it was about to be smashed open on the rocks below.
She could feel her heart in her chest, beating at a rate that could not possibly be normal; slamming so hard against her chest she thought that if she was to rip the dress from her body, she’d see her ribs vibrating in time with her racing heart. It hurt. There was something wrong. Something…
”…oh” she gasped. No. She groaned, before she wretched again. It was only bile, now, burning its way up her throat. This wasn’t normal. It was too early for this. Too early for the hangover to start. The nausea – regardless of the upside-down trip from the car. This felt like a drug. And if it was the wrong kind…
”M’allergic,” she said, gasping for breath. Who’d done it? One of those sleaze-bags back at the pub. Hadn’t one of them been angrier than the others when she’d been saved, and taken away? A waste of a perfectly good roofie.
She reared backwards and started to tear at her dress. How the **** did this thing come off?! Oh, she hoped it was just a panic attack, but it didn’t feel like it. No, it felt like that time as a child when the doctor’s had given her that drug for that death-flu – the drug that was supposed to make everything better but made everything worse instead. The one that her body had rejected. And now someone had slipped it to her. And she felt like she was dying.
Get it off, she screamed. Except she didn’t scream, just gargled, murmured, growled as she clawed at the lace. There it was again – that one half of her body soaring, thinking the removal of the dress would solve all her problems, slightly bemused. The other, trapped and smothered by this child that only wanted to pull it under, all reason and common sense completely snuffed.
Although she should have been asking so many questions, instead she grasped for the vase – unaware of its age of value – and released the contents of her stomach. There wasn’t much food there. Bits and pieces of snacks mixed in with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. The vomit was a chunky kind of amber, mixed through with an acrid green, a few shades of yellow. Not at all pretty, no matter what your view on beauty might be. Even if imperfect things have their own kind of allure, this was just all kinds of wrong.
Finley was only vaguely aware of the body behind her, which exuded no warmth. Instinct warned her that she was somewhere she didn’t recognise, with someone she did not know. The knowledge sat at the back of her mind, a warning ready to be unleashed. For the moment, however, she was far too preoccupied by her aim – trying only to vomit in the vase and not all the way around it. She was of course aware of her dirty hands, of the way it smeared the side of the vase, and the floor which she momentarily clawed at to keep her balance.
Although she was in the process of emptying her stomach of any remnant of alcohol she had swallowed that night, she was still dizzy. A headache was beginning to form at her temples, but it was the kind of headache that was numbed until the effects of the alcohol were to wear off. Except, Finley’s whole body felt numb. Her vision was blurred. Although she’d been floating on a cloud for the last few hours, now she was coming crashing back down to the ground. She’d taken a dive from a cliff and her psyche was split – one half of her ready to leap out of her own body and watch her own gruesome death with a detached kind of interest, and the other half screaming because, well – it was about to be smashed open on the rocks below.
She could feel her heart in her chest, beating at a rate that could not possibly be normal; slamming so hard against her chest she thought that if she was to rip the dress from her body, she’d see her ribs vibrating in time with her racing heart. It hurt. There was something wrong. Something…
”…oh” she gasped. No. She groaned, before she wretched again. It was only bile, now, burning its way up her throat. This wasn’t normal. It was too early for this. Too early for the hangover to start. The nausea – regardless of the upside-down trip from the car. This felt like a drug. And if it was the wrong kind…
”M’allergic,” she said, gasping for breath. Who’d done it? One of those sleaze-bags back at the pub. Hadn’t one of them been angrier than the others when she’d been saved, and taken away? A waste of a perfectly good roofie.
She reared backwards and started to tear at her dress. How the **** did this thing come off?! Oh, she hoped it was just a panic attack, but it didn’t feel like it. No, it felt like that time as a child when the doctor’s had given her that drug for that death-flu – the drug that was supposed to make everything better but made everything worse instead. The one that her body had rejected. And now someone had slipped it to her. And she felt like she was dying.
Get it off, she screamed. Except she didn’t scream, just gargled, murmured, growled as she clawed at the lace. There it was again – that one half of her body soaring, thinking the removal of the dress would solve all her problems, slightly bemused. The other, trapped and smothered by this child that only wanted to pull it under, all reason and common sense completely snuffed.