Beck Scordato (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beckstitch) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2016-07-26 07:54 pm
beckstitch) wrote in thecapitol2016-07-26 07:54 pm
Entry tags:
we walked the plank with our eyes wide open [CLOSED]
Who: Beck and Emily
What: Breakdown, the sequel. Beck gets incredibly drunk and looks for comfort.
When: About three weeks after Snow's death
Where: The Capitol
Warnings: Alcohol, PTSD, and general drama
From outside, it looks like losing the war is what does it. Losing the war, and being an enemy in her own city, being an enemy of the Rebels who now, she guesses, aren't rebels at all.
It's not because of the end of the war. Beck broke apart the moment she turned a corner to see a dead Avox, to see the face of a woman who'd been the closest thing to a parent she'd ever had. It just took until the end of the war for breaking to turn into falling, as if the Peacekeeper's armour was the only thing holding the pieces of her together. She's numb, and it shows - for days, she stares into space and barely speaks, until they let her go back to her damaged house on the edge of the city. Then she sits on the couch in the room where she grew up, and hugs her knees to her chest, and sometimes cries.
She starts drinking around the end of the first week. At first, she forces herself to go out to drink, but that only reminds her that nothing's the same - the clubs she used to spend all her time at are scorched husks, the friends she used to have are missing, and the air of easy hedonism is nowhere to be found. So she drinks at home, instead, letting the bottles pile up on the floor. There's no Avoxes to clean them away. There's nobody. Nobody at all.
It's a combination of desperation and drink, but mostly drink, that finally sends her reeling out of her house. She doesn't look at all like the chic, fashion-forwards Stylist she used to be. Her hair's tangled and overlong, she's wearing no makeup or jewellery, and she's lost so much weight that her tailored clothes hang off her like sheets on a rack. In flat shoes, she looks even smaller.
She's not thinking. She's past thinking. She just can't spend another night in that house, on her own. She feels like a shadow, like she's disappearing into herself. So she winds up on Emily's doorstep, reeking of vodka and grief. She knows this is going to hurt, but at least it'll be a new hurt, something to break the monotony of loneliness and grief. Anger would be a nice change.
Leaning her forehead against the doorframe, she takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell.
What: Breakdown, the sequel. Beck gets incredibly drunk and looks for comfort.
When: About three weeks after Snow's death
Where: The Capitol
Warnings: Alcohol, PTSD, and general drama
From outside, it looks like losing the war is what does it. Losing the war, and being an enemy in her own city, being an enemy of the Rebels who now, she guesses, aren't rebels at all.
It's not because of the end of the war. Beck broke apart the moment she turned a corner to see a dead Avox, to see the face of a woman who'd been the closest thing to a parent she'd ever had. It just took until the end of the war for breaking to turn into falling, as if the Peacekeeper's armour was the only thing holding the pieces of her together. She's numb, and it shows - for days, she stares into space and barely speaks, until they let her go back to her damaged house on the edge of the city. Then she sits on the couch in the room where she grew up, and hugs her knees to her chest, and sometimes cries.
She starts drinking around the end of the first week. At first, she forces herself to go out to drink, but that only reminds her that nothing's the same - the clubs she used to spend all her time at are scorched husks, the friends she used to have are missing, and the air of easy hedonism is nowhere to be found. So she drinks at home, instead, letting the bottles pile up on the floor. There's no Avoxes to clean them away. There's nobody. Nobody at all.
It's a combination of desperation and drink, but mostly drink, that finally sends her reeling out of her house. She doesn't look at all like the chic, fashion-forwards Stylist she used to be. Her hair's tangled and overlong, she's wearing no makeup or jewellery, and she's lost so much weight that her tailored clothes hang off her like sheets on a rack. In flat shoes, she looks even smaller.
She's not thinking. She's past thinking. She just can't spend another night in that house, on her own. She feels like a shadow, like she's disappearing into herself. So she winds up on Emily's doorstep, reeking of vodka and grief. She knows this is going to hurt, but at least it'll be a new hurt, something to break the monotony of loneliness and grief. Anger would be a nice change.
Leaning her forehead against the doorframe, she takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell.
no subject
In some ways it was a relief. Beck haunted her every step in the Capitol, everything she'd fallen in love with here and simultaneously everything she held in contempt. She was glad that she didn't have the time or space to think about her, about them, just answering the lingering questions from people who'd read one too many issues of Celebrus with the same vapid smile and a quick change of the subject.
She's been asleep almost an hour when the doorbell rings, a soft, smooth chime that fails to rouse her the first time it sounds. Slowly Emily blinks awake, wrapping a white robe around her as she shuffles toward the entrance to her apartment, squinting out at the unmistakable woman on the doorstep. For a second she doesn't say anything, for the simple reason that she has no idea what to say.
"You look like shit."
As soon as the words leave her mouth she feels bad for having said them, but it's an accurate assessment, worry flitting across her brow as she realises just how thin she's gotten.
no subject
For a long moment more, she's quiet, her mouth moving slightly like she's trying to figure out how to make words, or what she can possibly say. At last, she raises her head to look at Emily full-on, from under puffy eyelids swollen from crying and lack of sleep. The sight of Emily hurts, but less than she'd thought it would. It's like an echo of hurt, like it's a long way off and not really hers at all.
"You can laugh at me if you want," she says at last, rubbing her hand over her mouth. "But can I come in?"