Post by Brenna Gordon on Oct 7, 2019 15:57:00 GMT -5
Hello again, post-match soreness. Did you miss me? Because I sure as Hell didn't miss you.
A huff of amusement left Brenna Gordon's lips as she stepped into her locker room, allowing the door to swing closed behind her on its own. Even if it had been over a year since she had last set foot in the ring, it turned out that professional wrestling really was like riding a bike... well, if the bike was fighting her every second that she was trying to ride it while it careened through one of the upper levels of Hell. She certainly felt like she had gone through Hell, as much as every last inch of her being ached after stepping into the ring with Gerard Angelo--though that discomfort was at least tempered with the satisfaction of being victorious, not to mention the adrenaline of it being such a close thing. All those intermingling emotions and feelings had her feeling good, high almost, and that was why after she locked the door, instead of heading into the shower... she chose to take a calculated risk, heading for her duffel bag instead. After all, if she had learned anything about handling anything to do with her mother, it was the importance of having a clear mind.
Her hands were still trembling as they withdrew the bundled-up square of sailcloth from the deeps of her bag.
Sinking to sit Indian-style on the floor, the chill of the tile beneath the bare skin of her legs was a sensation she who was Born of Myth clung to as she carefully unwrapped the journal... and the moment she saw that battered leather cover? The sound of roaring waves once again flooded her mind, the smell of salt becoming so thick that it burned to breathe. Fighting against the panic that was already threatening to swamp her mental resistance and sweep her away into the currents of the past and all she had suffered at the hands of her mother's madness, Brenna forced herself to open the journal.
I don't know what's happening to me, so I'm going to start writing it all down.
....and something in that sentence, in the sweep of Moira Gordon's beautiful cursive that flowed like the ocean's waves, opened the floodgates.
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?
the ocean
--ward of the state. Your new foster parents are--
You just love collecting broken and abandoned things, don't you?
--poor thing nearly drowned. Shh, it'll be alright.
m̙͆̆ͦ̀i̥̩͉̖̝͉͇̐́s͙̜͈̚s̗̯͕͎̱̉ͯ͠e̤͍̯ŝ̷̜͎͚̖̎̓͌
So long as you do as you're told.
its d̫̹͙̋̓̍ͤ̑̚̕a̡͙̲͆̈́̂͛͊̋̈̀̕͠u̬̟̦͙̰̟͋ͤͧ͛̒ͧ̾͛́͡͝g̝̜̗̜̯̙͇͐́̕h͒͗̔̒͊͏̜̝̜̺̲̗tͦͫ̑͏̷̹̱̥̗ę̷̥̼̍͛ͬ̕r̝̪͕͙̊̉̑̂̓̐̍͆. g͓̖̻̪ͮ͐ͮͧ̎̅̓ͦi̢̢̤͚͆ͥ͠v̴͂̇̊ͪ҉̗̘͢e̯̯͖̩͙͇̹ͯ̇ͨͫͤ̔ ̢̥͚̭͓̲̻̰ͨ͂̇̌ͯ̿̇͟h̢͔̟͈͖ͥ̍e̞̟̿͛͛̃r͔̭̍͘ ͂͋̍͌̅ͫ͆̒҉̷̱͓͙̘̹̗b̤͖̈͒̉̏̋̐̈̾a̵̝̜͕̺̦̗̘̱ͮ͜c̰̤̲̲̖̋ͦ̋ͥͬ̌̾ͮ̀ķ͕̹̪͔͚̟̞ͥ͌̈͠. g͓̖̻̪ͮ͐ͮͧ̎̅̓ͦi̢̢̤͚͆ͥ͠v̴͂̇̊ͪ҉̗̘͢e̯̯͖̩͙͇̹ͯ̇ͨͫͤ̔ ̢̥͚̭͓̲̻̰ͨ͂̇̌ͯ̿̇͟h̢͔̟͈͖ͥ̍e̞̟̿͛͛̃r͔̭̍͘ ͂͋̍͌̅ͫ͆̒҉̷̱͓͙̘̹̗b̤͖̈͒̉̏̋̐̈̾a̵̝̜͕̺̦̗̘̱ͮ͜c̰̤̲̲̖̋ͦ̋ͥͬ̌̾ͮ̀ķ͕̹̪͔͚̟̞ͥ͌̈͠.
g̴̸̡̨͇͍̺͇̳̲͆́ͤ̈̔̋ͣͬͧ̀̀i̷̡̢̩̜̞̰̘̥͑ͥ̓̆̆ͭ̔̿̋̑v̶̢̭̠̟̣͗ͫͩ̊ͥͥ̿ͯ͛͒̈ͮ͢ȩ̶̝͍͇̪͔͉̼̰̜̞͖̠̯̹̦̏̆̈́̐̌́ ̨̗̮̭̣͐̓ͨ͒́ͪ͟͟͢h̵̨̯͈̣͖̰͈̯̝͔̭̗̺͎̠ͯ͛̿ͨ̿͂ͧͣ̎ͤ̾̏ͪ̏ͯͭͪ͌̕ͅȩ̵̺͕̹̙̔͗̏̊̑ͣ̈̏ͭ̃̋̎̋͟r̸̴̐̿̎ͧͫ̒ͯ̿͐ͥͯ̒̕͏͍͈͕̭̜̰͔̠̥̤͔͇̭͔͘ ̷̲̲̪͙̬͕̹̬͕͈̘̖͓ͥ̎ͬ̾ͪ̊͛̿̐̊̋̀̏̂̓̕͜bͯ̂ͣͭ̇ͥͭ͆̌ͦ̓̉̽ͥ̎ͬ͌͛̚͘͜͟͏̲̞̠̼̖͞a͍̮̮̠̮̯͓̦̳̳̖̞̘̞̜̬̲̗̎͆ͥͩͤͯ͘͞ͅc͖̼͉͖͂̈ͧ͋̂͒͂͐̇̅̐́͘̕ḵ̦͕̼̤̳̣̘͎̮̠̦̊͛ͯ̓͐̆̇ͩ̇ͣ͗͌̎́͘!̋̓͛ͧ̒́҉̱̟̲͉͎̝̤͕̰̜̱̙̩̘͚͠ͅ
"No--!" A strangled cry left Brenna lips and she flung the journal across the locker room, paying no mind to where it landed--and the moment she did? She could breathe again. Sides heaving, she slumped back against the locker behind her as her gaze flickered from place to place, not really seeing anything until too-large eyes landed upon the sink against the opposing wall. As the tide receded and she could hear again, she registered two things at once. The sound of running water....
And water gushing out of the tap with far more force than should've been possible.
