stunt_muppet

I'm trying to get into the habit of a) freewriting and b) writing something every day, even if it's not something I want to cross-post anywhere. I haven't written anything since November and I'd like to change that, but just stewing at the computer isn't going to help.

I'm not sure if I'll continue to put the results up here; this one's mostly just going up so I don't have to create a whole separate Word Document for it. Read it if you want, but bear in mind that it's all unedited and doesn't represent my best work.

Total time: 3 hours

Total words: 888 (!!!)



I couldn’t rip the bandages off your arm fast enough. I wanted to see wanted to know that something was still there underneath all that plaster or plastic or whatever it is they make bandages out of, I never did know. I elbowed the nurse when she tried to make me stop, because they can just put new bandages on, can’t they? I just wanted to see.

You were crying. I didn’t see until after I’d gotten them off your wrist your hand your what exactly is the name of the lower part of the arm, the bit between wrist and elbow? But I think after I did I calmed down a little bit. I thought maybe they’d just brought in a shell, a dummy covered up in red sticky paint and bandages and told me it was you so I’d go away.

I’ve seen them do things like that. For the theater. It’s easy to make blood, make burned flesh, make bones and bruises.

I didn’t see you were crying. You didn’t say anything – thinking about it now, maybe you couldn’t. Maybe they wired your jaw shut or something, I don’t know why but I couldn’t see your face. That’s when they told me to stop, took me away.

I’ve never seen makeup that could make someone look that burned up and cut up but I guess there must be a way, because they have corpses and burn victims on TV and they’re not real corpses.



Anybody else, baby, they would have been sobbing. Not you. No, you’re too fucking stoic for that, aren’t you? You just stand there like you’re supposed to be supporting me or something. Why would I need that? I don’t want you to support me. Break down, dammit, cry, scream, throw furniture, spit curses at people, make a fucking scene. Do something. I don’t want it to be just me. I want it to hurt you too – I don’t want you to be so much stronger than me all the time.

I’m crying. Why don’t you start too? I think you want to. I think most of the time you really, really like not crying and being everyone’s calm collected center but I think right now you wish you weren’t. Cry. I’m going to scream; scream along with me. We’ll be maniacs together. We’ll tear up the waiting room magazines and break clipboards on our knees and wail and gnash our teeth and they’ll have to call in every security guard in the goddamn building to make us shut up. Do that with me.

They don’t let people really grieve anymore, you know that? We don’t emote properly anymore. We’re all civilized oh how nice oh how sad oh I feel so lonely oh I want you oh I hate you. Nobody screams anymore and if you do it’s because you can’t control your emotions and you’re crazy. You want to change that? I want to change that. I think it’s a shame we’ve got to look all nice and composed for each other when everyone knows we’re not.

Please, please, just do something. Say something. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to break something. I’m going to hurt somebody. I don’t know where I’m going.


----



It’s a lovely dress.

Well, “lovely” is a diplomatic way of putting it, at least. His own personal list of descriptors starts closer to “Good God” and goes a bit downhill from there.

Not that he would think of Miss Shaw in terms unfit for polite company, of course. He settles instead on some neutral adjectives: deep green, a bit shiny – silk or something like that – no sleeves whatsoever, because never mind the chilly weather, apparently a formal dinner requires that a young lady wear as little fabric as she can get away with.

He resolves, once again, that he will never quite understand women and proffers his arm to her as she descends the last few steps. She’s taking her time of it, he can’t help but notice – well, of course he can’t help but notice, her dress has this annoying habit of swiveling as she walks, outlining her hips as they swing with each step, rippling back into place with the opposite step. It’s terribly showy and someone should really put a stop to it, he thinks, somewhat hazily.

She rolls her eyes at the formality, but links her arm in his. “You look ridiculous in that uniform.”

“Evening to you too, Miss Shaw.” He smiles his best imperturbable smile (he’s practiced; working with the Doctor nigh well requires it). “Do try to be civil; we are here to make an impression.”

She arches an eyebrow. “An impression that, if I’m not mistaken, could be easily made by a few tersely-worded phone calls from Geneva? Or are you just that eager for champagne and caviar?”

“Trust me, I’m no happier about this than you are.” He lowers his voice to speak as they draw closer to the crowd. “And I’ve never cared for caviar.”