(no subject)
Jan. 7th, 2012 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
un_glovedIf she'd been paying closer attention to the lightening and darkening of the room, Rogue might have known what day it was. She hadn't, though, and so she didn't. The first day had been a misery, and everything else was too vague and surreal to feel like it mattered.
She'd gone to bed happy, wrapped up in a particularly lanky embrace, and woken up to an empty bed. That wasn't cause for immediate concern, but after she'd wandered down the halls of the townhouse and the emptiness of the place had set it, then she'd become worried.
She went through all the closets, and all the drawers, and there was nothing.
His clothes were gone. He was gone. Everything was gone, except a Jericho 941 9mm semi-automatic pistol.
So she'd climbed into bed with it and stayed there. First, she'd wept, the kind of sobs that hurt, that moved so tight in her chest she barely made any sound, and pressed her face against the sheets where he'd been lying beside her a few hours earlier and tried desperately to keep the smell of him in her mind. Eventually she exhausted herself and slept, and awoke groggy and with her hand on the Jericho.
She got up a few times, to drink a little water and use the bathroom, or to sit in the shower until the hot water turned icy, and then she climbed back into bed. Eventually the crying stopped- she was drained, and even though her thoughts kept turning to what had happened, to who was gone, her body had stopped responding. By that point, she had lost any interest in getting up. She kept her hand curled around the Jericho, finger looped against the trigger, and drifted listlessly into and out of awareness, and decided she was done.
She was just done.
She'd gone to bed happy, wrapped up in a particularly lanky embrace, and woken up to an empty bed. That wasn't cause for immediate concern, but after she'd wandered down the halls of the townhouse and the emptiness of the place had set it, then she'd become worried.
She went through all the closets, and all the drawers, and there was nothing.
His clothes were gone. He was gone. Everything was gone, except a Jericho 941 9mm semi-automatic pistol.
So she'd climbed into bed with it and stayed there. First, she'd wept, the kind of sobs that hurt, that moved so tight in her chest she barely made any sound, and pressed her face against the sheets where he'd been lying beside her a few hours earlier and tried desperately to keep the smell of him in her mind. Eventually she exhausted herself and slept, and awoke groggy and with her hand on the Jericho.
She got up a few times, to drink a little water and use the bathroom, or to sit in the shower until the hot water turned icy, and then she climbed back into bed. Eventually the crying stopped- she was drained, and even though her thoughts kept turning to what had happened, to who was gone, her body had stopped responding. By that point, she had lost any interest in getting up. She kept her hand curled around the Jericho, finger looped against the trigger, and drifted listlessly into and out of awareness, and decided she was done.
She was just done.
