Post by Brenna Gordon on Sept 5, 2016 17:50:19 GMT -5
It wasn't always like this, you know.
I remember when my thoughts were always as clear as the purest spring water one can find, the current quick-moving--but steady, able to be easily followed from logical point to logical point. If I squint hard enough, I can imagine how it was when I could look through that stream of conscious thought to the pebbles and rocks and other things that comprise my subconscious. I recall the freshness of every moment, the sweet taste of a pleasant afternoon's conversation... the free feeling of not having a care in the world and never questioning my mother's love. I miss being able to just drift off into thought and not fear any of the thought-fish that nibbled at the edges of my awareness, tickling and beguiling all at once. Maybe ignorance truly is bliss for the one caught in its grip, being cradled gently--though reality has long since turned that embrace into something that threatens to crush me, body and soul alike.
I'm afraid that it has already started to make off with my mind.
What happened in the shower, I... I'm sure that the maintenance men blame a spike in water pressure, but considering how I could likely empty my bladder with more force than they usually have? That can't be it. Not when I felt something move inside of me, reaching out to try to shove her back and away so that I could breathe. But was that just what she told me? Is it a case of the narrative she wants me to believe coloring how I see the evidence being presented to me? I don't know, but all I do know is this.
Now, moreso than ever... I must be careful.
Too much is riding on me for me to do anything else.
The smell of wet leather might have been displeasing to some, but there was something about it that soothed the one that was allegedly Born of Myth. Seeing the stains from the corn syrup and red food dye still hanging on after more than a little scrubbing, though...that was far less pleasant, and not just because of how her right arm was starting to ache. While she was by no means destitute any longer, the cost of the custom attire she wore to ply her trade was not inconsiderable--and considering the Hell she'd caught just for snagging a strap on something or other and tearing it loose, well, she wasn't remotely in the mood for a scolding about taking better care of her couture, designer garb. Such was the price of doing business with a Pisces, she supposed as she dragged the saddle sponge she'd picked up at some farm supply store on the way back to the hotel through the suds she'd whipped up in a shallow Styrofoam bowl that she had liberated from the bar on her way past. The work was great, exceptional even... but whatever forces above, below, and sideways forbid if it got even so much as scuffed.
Sigh.
At least she'd been wearing robes when Jason had chosen to pull a Carrie on the entire ring and the title belt she would soon be relieving him of--the thick material may have itched like a bastard, but it had absorbed the brunt of the sticky, viscous liquid. She'd still looked like a B Movie extra when she had shed it, though. The fact that the supposedly brilliant cult leader hadn't thought of going to Wal-Mart to get a couple four dollar cans of waterproofing spray was enough to make her chuckle as she went back to scrubbing at the pesky spot that was stubbornly clinging to one cup of her bra top, the foam quickly turning a diluted pink as she worked it over. Those too-large, too-dark eyes flickered to the jug of white vinegar that was waiting in the wings to get the reddish-pink stains off of her skin before she shook her head. She wasn't about to risk making her leather smell like that, not when the saddle soap she'd bought to recondition the leather smelled so good. After all, she was already going to have a Hell of a time cleaning the excess corn syrup she'd scraped away with her spare hotel room key, not to mention the sink and the countertop surrounding it. And the towels, well... those were a complete and utter loss. How much was she going to get charged for that? Probably nothing, thinking about it. After all, corn syrup was probably on the lower end of weird and unusual things they've found on such--
...and that briskly-working hand went still, the only thing saving that leather top from a plunge into that bowl of lukewarm water being the instinctive tension that flared to life in each and every fiber of Brenna's being. A trembling breath escaped her as she carefully moved to place the top down on one of the only clean towels that was left before she was using the edge of it to dry both of her hands off, trying to cut the tie that moisture seemed to help her mother create. Holding her breath for a moment, the one who was allegedly Born of Myth attempted to simply, silently push her mother's mind away from her own--
Fat lot of good that it did her.
She swore that Moira's chuckle rolled its way through her conscious mind, time doing nothing to dim the memory of the mesmerising way it rose and fell in cadence, the sensual sort of undulations that would draw in whatever man or woman was unfortunate enough to hear it. For a moment, it succeeded in scooping her up, in carrying her along that little bit closer to the rocky beaches of her memory... but then she directed her gaze back to the pink-dyed foam atop that tiny little vessel, so small and insignificant. It was a speck in the ocean of what her mother would consider, but what it brought to Brenna's own mind--
theseafoamwasasredasthebloodshewipedawayfromhermouthasshedesperatelytriedtoswimfortheshore
--made her set her jaw, her irises growing so dark that they seemingly consumed her pupils whole as the temper that had reared its head after the delusional cult leader had seen fit to drag her into his bullshit by pulling the whole puppeteer shit while she was still in the ring with Kelli Starr showed itself anew. Something was different, though--more intense, more pure in its source as she forced her head to stay above the surface of memory. Even if her voice didn't raise beyond a low murmur, the way it trembled with barely-contained rage distantly reminded her of how Nor'easters sounded before they hit shore... a promise of power, of real and genuine might that'd tear anything it ran into asunder. Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging into the flesh of her palms deeply enough to draw blood--though she didn't notice. She didn't notice how the edges of her vision were becoming too clear, how her breath was speeding up... none of it. All the more she knew was that she was fed up with this invasion of her privacy, of her very mind, all because her mother couldn't get one simple truth through her head.
"Get the fuck out of my head, you bitch. You weren't invited and you sure as fuck aren't wanted."
For a moment, her world threatened to tip itself over sideways as she thought she felt her mother trying to drag her under, to force the issue like she had in the shower--but as everything righted itself, she realized what it was her own mind's wave that had carried her this time around, lifting her up and out and away from her mother's influence. She'd been deposited on the shore before the tsunami of her emotion (and maybe a hint of something more) slammed itself into her mother, washing her out of her mind with all the mercy of Mother Nature at her most powerful...which was to say none whatsoever. A jagged piece of mental flotsam--
--snagged a corner of her mind, but a shake of her head was all the more that she needed to dislodge it and send it out to the ocean that was what lay beyond her mind. Whatever happened to it after that, if it got tangled up in the net of someone else's thoughts was beyond her reckoning, and in truth? She couldn't say that she gave a fuck if it did or not. Let Moira Gordon be someone else's problem, someone else's barnacle to scrape off of their thoughts again and again and again. She wasn't going to let it happen to her again. Her hand was only trembling a little when she picked up the sponge and her top and got back to work. She needed to get this cleaned up for her return to the ring at Trauma 198, after all--and she had no doubt whatsoever that it would be a victorious one. Why would she have any? After all, she had faced down far worse than a delusional cult leader and Darker Dee and Darker Dumb... and she had come out of it the winner.
Dealing with the three of them would be a cakewalk in comparison.
I remember when my thoughts were always as clear as the purest spring water one can find, the current quick-moving--but steady, able to be easily followed from logical point to logical point. If I squint hard enough, I can imagine how it was when I could look through that stream of conscious thought to the pebbles and rocks and other things that comprise my subconscious. I recall the freshness of every moment, the sweet taste of a pleasant afternoon's conversation... the free feeling of not having a care in the world and never questioning my mother's love. I miss being able to just drift off into thought and not fear any of the thought-fish that nibbled at the edges of my awareness, tickling and beguiling all at once. Maybe ignorance truly is bliss for the one caught in its grip, being cradled gently--though reality has long since turned that embrace into something that threatens to crush me, body and soul alike.
I'm afraid that it has already started to make off with my mind.
What happened in the shower, I... I'm sure that the maintenance men blame a spike in water pressure, but considering how I could likely empty my bladder with more force than they usually have? That can't be it. Not when I felt something move inside of me, reaching out to try to shove her back and away so that I could breathe. But was that just what she told me? Is it a case of the narrative she wants me to believe coloring how I see the evidence being presented to me? I don't know, but all I do know is this.
Now, moreso than ever... I must be careful.
Too much is riding on me for me to do anything else.
------------------------------♒------------------------------
CHAPTER SIX
s u f f o c a t e
------------------------------♒------------------------------
CHAPTER SIX
s u f f o c a t e
------------------------------♒------------------------------
The smell of wet leather might have been displeasing to some, but there was something about it that soothed the one that was allegedly Born of Myth. Seeing the stains from the corn syrup and red food dye still hanging on after more than a little scrubbing, though...that was far less pleasant, and not just because of how her right arm was starting to ache. While she was by no means destitute any longer, the cost of the custom attire she wore to ply her trade was not inconsiderable--and considering the Hell she'd caught just for snagging a strap on something or other and tearing it loose, well, she wasn't remotely in the mood for a scolding about taking better care of her couture, designer garb. Such was the price of doing business with a Pisces, she supposed as she dragged the saddle sponge she'd picked up at some farm supply store on the way back to the hotel through the suds she'd whipped up in a shallow Styrofoam bowl that she had liberated from the bar on her way past. The work was great, exceptional even... but whatever forces above, below, and sideways forbid if it got even so much as scuffed.
Sigh.
At least she'd been wearing robes when Jason had chosen to pull a Carrie on the entire ring and the title belt she would soon be relieving him of--the thick material may have itched like a bastard, but it had absorbed the brunt of the sticky, viscous liquid. She'd still looked like a B Movie extra when she had shed it, though. The fact that the supposedly brilliant cult leader hadn't thought of going to Wal-Mart to get a couple four dollar cans of waterproofing spray was enough to make her chuckle as she went back to scrubbing at the pesky spot that was stubbornly clinging to one cup of her bra top, the foam quickly turning a diluted pink as she worked it over. Those too-large, too-dark eyes flickered to the jug of white vinegar that was waiting in the wings to get the reddish-pink stains off of her skin before she shook her head. She wasn't about to risk making her leather smell like that, not when the saddle soap she'd bought to recondition the leather smelled so good. After all, she was already going to have a Hell of a time cleaning the excess corn syrup she'd scraped away with her spare hotel room key, not to mention the sink and the countertop surrounding it. And the towels, well... those were a complete and utter loss. How much was she going to get charged for that? Probably nothing, thinking about it. After all, corn syrup was probably on the lower end of weird and unusual things they've found on such--
You should be proud of yourself, my little one. Exposing the frauds and their false gods for what they are... mm, now you merely need to embrace our bloodline and show them what a real deity looks like.
...and that briskly-working hand went still, the only thing saving that leather top from a plunge into that bowl of lukewarm water being the instinctive tension that flared to life in each and every fiber of Brenna's being. A trembling breath escaped her as she carefully moved to place the top down on one of the only clean towels that was left before she was using the edge of it to dry both of her hands off, trying to cut the tie that moisture seemed to help her mother create. Holding her breath for a moment, the one who was allegedly Born of Myth attempted to simply, silently push her mother's mind away from her own--
You cannot hold your breath forever, dear--not while you deny what you truly are.
Fat lot of good that it did her.
She swore that Moira's chuckle rolled its way through her conscious mind, time doing nothing to dim the memory of the mesmerising way it rose and fell in cadence, the sensual sort of undulations that would draw in whatever man or woman was unfortunate enough to hear it. For a moment, it succeeded in scooping her up, in carrying her along that little bit closer to the rocky beaches of her memory... but then she directed her gaze back to the pink-dyed foam atop that tiny little vessel, so small and insignificant. It was a speck in the ocean of what her mother would consider, but what it brought to Brenna's own mind--
--made her set her jaw, her irises growing so dark that they seemingly consumed her pupils whole as the temper that had reared its head after the delusional cult leader had seen fit to drag her into his bullshit by pulling the whole puppeteer shit while she was still in the ring with Kelli Starr showed itself anew. Something was different, though--more intense, more pure in its source as she forced her head to stay above the surface of memory. Even if her voice didn't raise beyond a low murmur, the way it trembled with barely-contained rage distantly reminded her of how Nor'easters sounded before they hit shore... a promise of power, of real and genuine might that'd tear anything it ran into asunder. Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging into the flesh of her palms deeply enough to draw blood--though she didn't notice. She didn't notice how the edges of her vision were becoming too clear, how her breath was speeding up... none of it. All the more she knew was that she was fed up with this invasion of her privacy, of her very mind, all because her mother couldn't get one simple truth through her head.
"Get the fuck out of my head, you bitch. You weren't invited and you sure as fuck aren't wanted."
For a moment, her world threatened to tip itself over sideways as she thought she felt her mother trying to drag her under, to force the issue like she had in the shower--but as everything righted itself, she realized what it was her own mind's wave that had carried her this time around, lifting her up and out and away from her mother's influence. She'd been deposited on the shore before the tsunami of her emotion (and maybe a hint of something more) slammed itself into her mother, washing her out of her mind with all the mercy of Mother Nature at her most powerful...which was to say none whatsoever. A jagged piece of mental flotsam--
I MADE YOU, YOU LITTLE BITCH!
--snagged a corner of her mind, but a shake of her head was all the more that she needed to dislodge it and send it out to the ocean that was what lay beyond her mind. Whatever happened to it after that, if it got tangled up in the net of someone else's thoughts was beyond her reckoning, and in truth? She couldn't say that she gave a fuck if it did or not. Let Moira Gordon be someone else's problem, someone else's barnacle to scrape off of their thoughts again and again and again. She wasn't going to let it happen to her again. Her hand was only trembling a little when she picked up the sponge and her top and got back to work. She needed to get this cleaned up for her return to the ring at Trauma 198, after all--and she had no doubt whatsoever that it would be a victorious one. Why would she have any? After all, she had faced down far worse than a delusional cult leader and Darker Dee and Darker Dumb... and she had come out of it the winner.
Dealing with the three of them would be a cakewalk in comparison.
