How did you end up in the mines? "I was carried... and taken... and..." What did you see? "I don't know... I don't know."
samantha
"I thought we were close... After his sisters disappeared, he'd come and talk to me. He said I was the only one who understood him. I thought... I thought we had a connection." If you need someone to talk to... "I'm fine." Sometimes after a traumatic experience— "I said I'm fine."
jessica
"Mike..." What do you remember? "He came for me... He did..!" Came for you? "Where is he? Did he make it?"
samantha
"You need to listen to me. I don't care if you believe me or not. Doesn't matter, because you will. You need to go down to the mines." What's in the mines, Sam? "I've seen what's down there, and I'd give anything to unsee it."
It's been a long, long, long day.
Sam is so tired that she's practically buzzing with exhaustion, feeling it humming beneath her skin and in her fingertips, her body vibrating and twinging with little aches and pains. Scrapes and cuts and bruises, and dried blood on her skin. Sitting in the chair in the hallway of this police station, she keeps staring blankly down at her fingertips and the dirt and blood caught under her nails.
The tiles of the hallway are clean and white, and the fluorescent lights overhead are clean and white, and there's the distant white noise of conversation in the other offices and rooms: people going about their business, working on paperwork, officers having a chat by the coffee machine. Everything bright and normal and safe. It feels like an entirely different world from the one they've been living. It feels unreal.
In the chair beside her is Jessica Riley, who looks even more fucked-up than she does. Sometimes an admin walks past, clutching an armful of paperwork, and they give the teens a kind of aghast, horrified look: they all look like shit. Chris and Ashley are standing outside for some fresh air; Emily's in the bathroom trying to wash off some of the blood; Mike is still doing his interview. The rest of theirs have already wrapped, and Sam feels— drained, empty. They poured out the truth to those officers, and god knows they probably won't believe them. She could already see it in the men's skeptical expressions, the fact that they were already mentally writing this off as hysterical, over-imaginative kids. She's a pacifist but, like, it made her want to shove her fist through that recording camera.
They've called her parents, and they're on their way up here into the Canadian Rockies to pick her up. It's a long drive. She's not sure what the others are doing yet.
Slumped in her seat, her dirty track hoodie zipped up to her throat, Sam glances over to the side. "How are you feeling?" she asks, tentatively. It's the worst question, the stupidest question, but she has to ask it anyway.
Everything still hurts. That's the part her mind keeps sluggishly making its way back to. Might be she should be in a hospital, but she doesn't want to go anywhere else with strangers who ask questions. Jessica feels tired, feels weak, feels horrific. Even now she's barely processed not just what happened to her, but what happened to the others - something about Josh, something about a psycho. The monster, that she'd seen first hand.
At the voice next to her, she quietly clutches the coat she's disappearing in closer to herself. She's still wearing the miner's jacket underneath, and only underwear beneath that. Someone at the station had wrapped a thick coat and a blanket around her, help warm her up and restore a semblance of decency to her.
It takes her a moment to register that the voice adressed her, and when she looks up she remembers that yes, it's Sam next to her. Jessica knew that - she just drifted away enough that she didn't recall immediately. Everything is just a little fuzzy around the edges.
Right... How is she feeling?
"I don't..." She trails off, shakes her head a little. There's blood crusted all over, and Jessica has to take a slow breath. She just wants to cry and go home. But... she had to see... had to know... that the others are okay, too. "I don't know." Yeah. That she can settle on, for now.
Sam doesn't even really know what she was expecting with that question. None of them are doing okay. If she lets her attention drift too much, she keeps remembering the sound of Josh screaming, the sight of his skeletal transformed sister dragging him back into the water, her claws around his head.
Don't think about that.
Her focus wandering further along, her memories drift into the lodge instead: the hot breath of the wendigo in her face, its watery white eyes. Her whole body frozen in panic in front of it, muscles clenched so tight she'd given herself a cramp, everything aching beneath the skin in addition to all the cuts and bruises. Her bare feet are a mess. She can't believe she had to go running through that rusty basement in a towel.
Which meanders over into another recollection: Josh's hands over her mouth, the needle sinking into her skin.
Don't think about that.
Her attention keeps skittering around, ping-ponging off the walls, but everything she lands on is off-limits. Sam's foot keeps jittering beneath her, thankfully now clad in those running shoes. They need to get Jess some pants. Why didn't the Lost & Found have pants?
She takes a deep breath, still feeling hopelessly scattered. "I heard you were having trouble reaching your parents," she starts, tentative. "If you wanna come back with us, I've got clothes that'll probably fit you. And a spare bed. I mean, it's my parents' guest room, but you could crash with us. If you needed."
They were barely friends before tonight — friendly acquaintances within the friends group, mostly, but neutral — but that doesn't really seem to matter anymore. Surviving A Horrific Ordeal kinda trumps all the rest, somehow.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
littlemissunderstood) wrote2019-12-05 07:16 pm
o death, spare me over another year.
It's been a long, long, long day.
Sam is so tired that she's practically buzzing with exhaustion, feeling it humming beneath her skin and in her fingertips, her body vibrating and twinging with little aches and pains. Scrapes and cuts and bruises, and dried blood on her skin. Sitting in the chair in the hallway of this police station, she keeps staring blankly down at her fingertips and the dirt and blood caught under her nails.
The tiles of the hallway are clean and white, and the fluorescent lights overhead are clean and white, and there's the distant white noise of conversation in the other offices and rooms: people going about their business, working on paperwork, officers having a chat by the coffee machine. Everything bright and normal and safe. It feels like an entirely different world from the one they've been living. It feels unreal.
In the chair beside her is Jessica Riley, who looks even more fucked-up than she does. Sometimes an admin walks past, clutching an armful of paperwork, and they give the teens a kind of aghast, horrified look: they all look like shit. Chris and Ashley are standing outside for some fresh air; Emily's in the bathroom trying to wash off some of the blood; Mike is still doing his interview. The rest of theirs have already wrapped, and Sam feels— drained, empty. They poured out the truth to those officers, and god knows they probably won't believe them. She could already see it in the men's skeptical expressions, the fact that they were already mentally writing this off as hysterical, over-imaginative kids. She's a pacifist but, like, it made her want to shove her fist through that recording camera.
They've called her parents, and they're on their way up here into the Canadian Rockies to pick her up. It's a long drive. She's not sure what the others are doing yet.
Slumped in her seat, her dirty track hoodie zipped up to her throat, Sam glances over to the side. "How are you feeling?" she asks, tentatively. It's the worst question, the stupidest question, but she has to ask it anyway.
no subject
At the voice next to her, she quietly clutches the coat she's disappearing in closer to herself. She's still wearing the miner's jacket underneath, and only underwear beneath that. Someone at the station had wrapped a thick coat and a blanket around her, help warm her up and restore a semblance of decency to her.
It takes her a moment to register that the voice adressed her, and when she looks up she remembers that yes, it's Sam next to her. Jessica knew that - she just drifted away enough that she didn't recall immediately. Everything is just a little fuzzy around the edges.
Right... How is she feeling?
"I don't..." She trails off, shakes her head a little. There's blood crusted all over, and Jessica has to take a slow breath. She just wants to cry and go home. But... she had to see... had to know... that the others are okay, too. "I don't know." Yeah. That she can settle on, for now.
no subject
Sam doesn't even really know what she was expecting with that question. None of them are doing okay. If she lets her attention drift too much, she keeps remembering the sound of Josh screaming, the sight of his skeletal transformed sister dragging him back into the water, her claws around his head.
Don't think about that.
Her focus wandering further along, her memories drift into the lodge instead: the hot breath of the wendigo in her face, its watery white eyes. Her whole body frozen in panic in front of it, muscles clenched so tight she'd given herself a cramp, everything aching beneath the skin in addition to all the cuts and bruises. Her bare feet are a mess. She can't believe she had to go running through that rusty basement in a towel.
Which meanders over into another recollection: Josh's hands over her mouth, the needle sinking into her skin.
Don't think about that.
Her attention keeps skittering around, ping-ponging off the walls, but everything she lands on is off-limits. Sam's foot keeps jittering beneath her, thankfully now clad in those running shoes. They need to get Jess some pants. Why didn't the Lost & Found have pants?
She takes a deep breath, still feeling hopelessly scattered. "I heard you were having trouble reaching your parents," she starts, tentative. "If you wanna come back with us, I've got clothes that'll probably fit you. And a spare bed. I mean, it's my parents' guest room, but you could crash with us. If you needed."
They were barely friends before tonight — friendly acquaintances within the friends group, mostly, but neutral — but that doesn't really seem to matter anymore. Surviving A Horrific Ordeal kinda trumps all the rest, somehow.