![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Feb. 23rd, 2009 05:03 pm- Describe me in one word - just one single word. Positive or negative.
- Leave your word in a comment, before looking at what words others have used.
- Copy and paste the meme to your journal to find out how people describe you when limited to one word.
- Leave your word in a comment, before looking at what words others have used.
- Copy and paste the meme to your journal to find out how people describe you when limited to one word.
It's been a few days.
Her commlink's broken, still on the floor in the corner of her father's room - her room. She had thrown it, frustrated with Siren's harassment. She hasn't bothered picking it up or attempting to fix it.
She hasn't gone to her day job. She hasn't called. She doesn't care. They can replace her easily. Deskwork and client talks weren't that difficult for a person to take care of.
She most definitely hasn't gone to her night job. No training sessions. No medical work. Nothing. Let them rage. If they had wanted to get hold of her - they would have hunted her down already.
Shilo's done this before. She's thrown temper tantrums, pulled a disappearing act. It's almost expected. She knows there will be punishments, but she doesn't care.
They won't break her that easily. It's been five years, and she's managed.
She's not all there. She has her moments - easily slipping from the confused and scared little girl she still is and something much different, something she has her father to thank for. Something dangerous, monstrous.
It takes a lot of effort for her to pull on clothes and leave the house, using the underground tunnel and coming out in the family mausoleum on the other side. Her mother's finally there, where she should have been buried in the first place. And her father's there, right by her side. It's the least the Largos could have done. She just wishes they will be that kind to her.
She sits for a while on the cold stone steps, her hands in her lap, silently watching the two tombs, her expression blank. There are no flowers this time, and she apologizes. She'll make up for it somehow, she promises.
Her commlink's broken, still on the floor in the corner of her father's room - her room. She had thrown it, frustrated with Siren's harassment. She hasn't bothered picking it up or attempting to fix it.
She hasn't gone to her day job. She hasn't called. She doesn't care. They can replace her easily. Deskwork and client talks weren't that difficult for a person to take care of.
She most definitely hasn't gone to her night job. No training sessions. No medical work. Nothing. Let them rage. If they had wanted to get hold of her - they would have hunted her down already.
Shilo's done this before. She's thrown temper tantrums, pulled a disappearing act. It's almost expected. She knows there will be punishments, but she doesn't care.
They won't break her that easily. It's been five years, and she's managed.
She's not all there. She has her moments - easily slipping from the confused and scared little girl she still is and something much different, something she has her father to thank for. Something dangerous, monstrous.
It takes a lot of effort for her to pull on clothes and leave the house, using the underground tunnel and coming out in the family mausoleum on the other side. Her mother's finally there, where she should have been buried in the first place. And her father's there, right by her side. It's the least the Largos could have done. She just wishes they will be that kind to her.
She sits for a while on the cold stone steps, her hands in her lap, silently watching the two tombs, her expression blank. There are no flowers this time, and she apologizes. She'll make up for it somehow, she promises.
When she finally gets home - after the seemingly endless shift at the office, after taking all the abuse at her training sessions, after the visit to the local Zydrate dealer for provisions - Shilo leaves her things in the foyer, carelessly strewn about, and goes down the stairs behind the fireplace, the ones she didn't even know existed until well after she killed her father her father, the late Nathan Wallace, passed away.
Then she immerses herself in her cadaver work, finding herself elbows-deep in blood and gore and occasionally flipping through the medical textbooks that sit next to her on the table. It had taken some time and plenty of convincing the boss to let her do these studies in private, but she got more things done while learning at her own pace - and being in the house proved to be more comforting, just like the way her father's hand-me-down surgical tools felt in her hands as she worked on the more delicate procedures.
It doesn't bother her that much anymore. She treats the bodies like bugs, the sharp instruments like needles. Instead of opera, she uses the loudest classic rock or dance possible in order to focus on the task at hand. And she spends hours downstairs, only dragging herself back up the stairs for bed when her body simply won't take anymore.
Her comm is switched on, sitting next to the half-empty forgotten mug of tea by the textbooks. And the music - her familiar rotation of The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, and Billy Idol - is loud.
Distractions would bother her. But they would be welcome. Depending on who they're from.
Then she immerses herself in her cadaver work, finding herself elbows-deep in blood and gore and occasionally flipping through the medical textbooks that sit next to her on the table. It had taken some time and plenty of convincing the boss to let her do these studies in private, but she got more things done while learning at her own pace - and being in the house proved to be more comforting, just like the way her father's hand-me-down surgical tools felt in her hands as she worked on the more delicate procedures.
It doesn't bother her that much anymore. She treats the bodies like bugs, the sharp instruments like needles. Instead of opera, she uses the loudest classic rock or dance possible in order to focus on the task at hand. And she spends hours downstairs, only dragging herself back up the stairs for bed when her body simply won't take anymore.
Her comm is switched on, sitting next to the half-empty forgotten mug of tea by the textbooks. And the music - her familiar rotation of The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, and Billy Idol - is loud.
Distractions would bother her. But they would be welcome. Depending on who they're from.
