Antranig Sutlian
New Member
Healer
Looking for a sign that the universal minds have written you into the passion play.
Posts: 28
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Post by Antranig Sutlian on Aug 26, 2006 6:48:23 GMT -5
So this is the place his colleagues flocked too when there weren't lives to wretch free of the talons of pestilence and death.
Antranig had been at the hospital for only two weeks, but had been there long enough to hear of The Bar. Drinking was not a favored pasttime of the wizard, hating to have his senses dulled by drink or anything else for that matter. It lulled one into a false sense of security, made one complacent, content with how things were so long as there was a bottle to drown this affair or that one in. Man's purpose was to eke out a name for himself amongst so much that was wrong with the world, to wear a groove into the planet in the shape of his footprints so that once he was gone the world was marked by where he stood. Without constantly evolving, self-actualizing, remaking oneself daily into a higher image, such things were impossible, and alcohol was counterintuitive to every purpose he could see for himself.
But he was a curious beast as much as he was a pensive one, and tonight curiosity had her way with him, drawing him across the street to the dimly lit and loudly accompanied scene he now took in from the dimmest corner he could find. Five minutes he had been in the room, and he was already covninced that this would be his first and last foray into the world of Bar, though now that he was in the establishment, he would at least stay in observe for awhile.
"So many beautiful faces to be viewedt in London," he commented lowly to himself as he drew a silver cigarette case with the initials 'AAS' engraved in Gothic script from the confines of the breast pocket of the black suit jacket he wore on this evening. Clicking the case open, his eyes moved slowly to a group of intriguing creatures dancing upon the stage and his gaze remained focused where he was as he drew a long black clove cigarette from its resting place and lit it with a subtle snap of his fingers.
Perhaps in climes more conducive to the wizard he might have left the nook he had etched out for himself amongst the sea of activity to search out a woman to sweep home to his quarters, but as it were, he was content to smoke and eye the ladies who carried on as if he was not even there. But despite his seeming invisibility, he smiled though at what or who was only for the shadows to guess.
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Ben Jones
New Member
Healer-in-Charge
Posts: 97
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Post by Ben Jones on Aug 27, 2006 2:39:13 GMT -5
Thirteen was one unlucky number. It didn’t matter if you were superstitious or not, thirteen was just a bad number. Thirteen was officially the beginning of being a Teenager, those seven years when mood fluctuated by the minute, when parents were the last thing you wanted to see, when that first bottle of triple sec tequila seemed to last forever. Being a teenager seemed like bliss and like hell to the kid experiencing it. At times (that time you got high at that dance, the time you lost your virginity), nothing could be better, but when it rained, it poured (that time you came home drunk, that time you got grounded from that summer party). Everyone looked on parents with teenagers with pity. That thirteen-year-old that had the expensive Bat Mitzvah or Confirmation, or the girl who had been so sweet at twelve, but come her first pimple and she was a monster with PMS.
Thirteen was a special number for everyone, that was for sure. For Benjamin Jones, Healer-In-Charge, thirteen was a symbol. Thirteen years ago, he made a mistake. Not a relatively small one, either, not one that could be punished with some sort of deprivation or grounding. Ben had made the one mistake every parent hoped to avoid when they settled their newborn in their arms for the first time. Every parent looked in their child’s face and hoped with all their souls that they would stay out of trouble, that they would marry and have a beautiful little family.
Ben could remember every feeling of that night. He remembered her touch, and how she felt, and their chests heaving. He remembered every bead of sweat, every hair, every inch of skin, every sweet nothing that had been exhaled. If he chose to call on that memory, he could remember tracing his fingers down her stomach and the taste of her kiss. He could remember everything that made him blush if and when he ever thought of it. Things that she would want him to forget for her own humility. He could remember her. He could remember Lucille Carmichael.
But no harm no foul. His Lucy had become pregnant, and he was at fault, yes. But after an abortion, after nipping their problem in the bud, she was once again left with an empty womb and he with a stomach full of guilt. Ever since the day that she had decided to abort their child, everything tasted bitter with the acrid tinge of disappointment. Disappointment in himself, in her, in everything. He had never been against abortion, but when it came to his child, his genes, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. He had an aborted child. He had hit the End button on his own child’s life, he had let someone else abort his child like some failed video game mission. Anyone else could do that. Abortion was the mother’s prerogative, but…his child?
That child would be twelve now. Twelve, or thirteen. He had always imagined her as a little girl, a sweet little girl with Daddy’s eyes and Mommy’s smile. A little girl that loved him, but hardly got to see him because she lived with Mommy. But when Mommy was being a bitch and wouldn’t let her see her boyfriend, she could come to Daddy and Daddy would fight with Mommy again but it was for her. Obviously, Ben had spent many hours creating a lifetime of false memories with his “daughter.” But what would he do with a kid? He wouldn’t know what to do. Did he even remember what he was like when he was seventeen and eighteen? Stirring up shit just for the fun of it? He wouldn’t have been there for her. He would have been Deadbeat Dad who, after a few years of working as a Healer, would have sent her some money to lock away in a trust fund and occasionally dropped off a teddy bear at a birthday party. He would hate himself more than he did without the kid.
Ben hated a lot. Ben hated fancy words for ugly things, or super ugly words for already ugly things. He hated girly drinks that sounded like a magazine-Cosmopolitans! He hated punks who egged houses, or teenagers that wore too much black. He hated prostitutes but he hated the Yorkshire Ripper. He hated slutty makeup and clothes and people who slacked off at work and people who didn’t take work seriously. If you worked at a hospital, it was your job to take everything seriously. People’s lives were in your hands, and you could not afford to fuck around with that. He hated people who sucked down coffee all day and talked about one another while they were supposed to be looking after patients.
Out of the office, it was a whole different story. He didn’t have to be uptight and on-edge. He didn’t have to be Bad Cop, the guy who had to rope everyone into getting their asses on track. He didn’t have to police everyone at the office. Out of the hospital, didn’t have to be around her. He didn’t have to remember. He didn’t have to regret everything the last thirteen years hadn’t been. Outside of the office he could love. He could love loud noises and long hair. He could love drinks that belonged in a bar. He could love forgetting, he could love touching. He didn’t have to love sex.
Now, he was walking that line. He was leaving the office. It was those last minutes where he was tense, even more so than usual. He was late leaving because he was held up fulfilling the In Charge part of his title. He had places to go, people to see. But leaving meant walking past her. Maybe she was gone already?
Lucky him. He was able to slink out St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries unharmed.
There was no choice about where to go. Where else would he go on a night like this? Where did everyone else he knew go on nights like this? The Bar. Yes, The Bar. He and his coworkers had spent hours and hours at The Bar, drinking and dancing and doing everything that was great about bars. They had spent nights there, stumbling home, grappling each other and wending their way through the streets of London, the best city on the planet. On those nights, London unraveled herself, revealed her Muggleness to Ben and his friends. There was the Tower of London, where King Muggle the VIII was raised or killed or buried. And there was Little Ben, the laughable, smaller version of London’s famous clock.
He hadn’t bothered to stop at his flat to redress. He was set in what he had, the Clothes Under the Scrubs. All the women he knew didn’t care that they had dressed to kill for work, even under their green scrubs. They still chose to go home and arrange themselves in stilettos and miniskirts and whatever else. Jeans were good enough for Ben.
He pressed his palm flat against the door and pushed it open. Everything was already in full swing, he could tell. People were dancing and drunk and happy. Ben tried to reach them emotionally, tried to make himself giddy and alive, but he was caught in Work Mode, the vestiges of past clinging to his jacket. He shook himself, and headed to the bar, where he could watch inconspicuously. Quietly, he ordered a gin and tonic and settled himself against the bar, his had still jammed on his head. On nights like these, he preferred to watch for a little bit before jumping in.
He watched Caroline Martin, or Carrie as she was known, dance with Aimee Kensington. It didn’t matter how many times the two girls danced, or how long they had known each other-it was still hot. Carrie, with her blonde hair everywhere, versus Aimee’s dark hair…Ben could watch forever. And then, charmingly, Sean Andrews breezed right by him and began a (no doubt witty) banter with the two girls, plus another who worked at the hospital. He was no doubt drunk, and in the second that he had been near Ben, he had caught the scent of marijuana. Knowing Andrews, he was no doubt proud of himself for being an old guy, but still kickin’, still cool enough to take a few hits off some kids’ big ol’ fattie. All Ben could say to that was Whatever.
Ah, the first joint. The oily feel of that first crappy one you were handed at a party or some other function, rolled from newspaper. The feel of its delicacy, and the tingle of having something so illegal and coveted in your hand, its sweet and sour smell wafting from the end. Some gagged at the smell of herb, but others lived off it, followed its traces down to its source. For years, Ben had been the latter, the kid who could smell the difference between Peruvian and Cuban, the kid who could roll a joint from anything. But he hadn’t smoked any ganja for years. But when he had smoked, he had smoked. Not just Mary Jane, either. He had experimented with bananos and all that stuff.
After a few drinks, he looked again at his coworkers. He was focusing more on one than any of the others, and had thus completely missed the whole Andrews Dry Humping Aimee business. Not that he would have cared anyway. Carrie was his latest tease. Even though he was across the room, he could feel her body, the way she moved. She was not his past, but he could still feel that part of him tug at those feelings, wave those memories in his face.
He couldn’t help himself. He left some money on the counter and threw his jacket on the rack near the door, keeping the hat for style points. But instead of walking straight up to Carrie and obeying her “Kiss me” shirt, he made his way over to the little music box and slipped in a few coins. He flipped through the selection and landed on one of his old favorites, a song he had well worn out over the years because it was one of the only songs he knew by name.
“Aaaaaaare you gonna take me home tonight? Ahhhhhh, down beside that red firelight. Aaaaaaare you gonna let it all hang out? Fat bottomed girls, you make my rockin’ world go round!”
He sat on top of the box, a beer in his hand, watching Carrie watch Andrews and Aimee connect then separate, smirking a little. Because he wasn’t at work anymore.
[It’s shit in Flavor Flav’s floor, but whatever. And I had to put Queen in there…]
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Post by Eleanor Jansen on Aug 27, 2006 4:59:51 GMT -5
Sara Jansen had raised her children like you baked a cake. Follow the instructions, add the right ingredients and wham, they turned out perfect. For two days in Sara’s life she had drowned herself in her own tears of regret and question. She had done all the right things, raising her children with discipline, morals and love. So where had she gone wrong? The first time Sara had caved was the night of Kate’s official and final diagnosis.
Perched in a waiting room, a magazine abandoned at her feet Sara swayed and eyed the door straight ahead. Her one goal for that day was to not have to go into that room. The room was in fact the doctor’s office and through her time in that waiting room, everything that around her fell to heavy scrutiny, just so she could distract herself that wee bit longer. The only people she had seen leave that room were ones with tears streaming down their faces, pale skin and empty eyes, as though their tears had stolen the last ounce of life from them. It was the shock that did it she confirmed as the facts ran over and over in her mind. She wanted to find another reason for the bruises that gleamed across her daughter’s spine like a line of sapphires. She wanted to suddenly realise that she was like all mothers, over-reacting at the idea anything could be wrong with her precious baby. She wanted to forget the face Kate had worn so helplessly as her arms reached for her mother, fighting back the doctor and the nurse with all that her two year old body had in it. They had poked her with needles, they had run tests, they had stretched every possibility, reached far into every corner, wanting to cover every option. That alone was a condolence, knowing that there was someone there trying to find out what was wrong with her precious girl. Knowing that they weren’t going to give up until it was confirmed and overlooked, double checked and written in ink and paper. It was that idea that made it so real, seeing the words written, a confirmed diagnosis. But without any words but a simple ‘Please come this way’ and a motion towards that confounded door was all Sara needed to know.
“APL … a subgroup of myeloid leukemia. The rate of survival … is twenty to thirty percent, if treatment starts immediately.”
Kate had cancer. Everything from that point was inflated to bursting point. Every conflict, blown up into an enormous size with such tension applied to it, it was surely going to explode. Twelve years later and things weren’t much different. Kate was still in treatment after undergoing a relapse as seven. Only this time they had three children and the problem wasn’t with Kate and her cancer but Jesse and his rebellion. Those were the second tears she shed.
Jesse was fifteen when he lit the school on fire. Granted it was after hours and no one was in the building nor on the grounds but himself and his faithful box of matches. Such a strange rebellion to dwell in, to watch a building engulf itself in fire knowing that it was his fathers job, as a fireman, to put an end to it, in more ways than one. There was something about these empty buildings that the boy found a relationship to. They were empty, like him. They were useless, like him. He hadn’t been able to save her. He’d wanted to and he had tried at age three being poked by needles because Kate was sick and needed to borrow something from him, he had hoped that what he gave her she would like. That it would make her better. But it didn’t he hadn’t been a match and so they had had to call in new recruits. That was where Eleanor came in. She was to be Kate’s saviour, the hero, the last ounce of hope. And she was only a baby. Jesse lit fires to feel alive, to be noticed, to realise. He felt a connection with those buildings as they soared into flames; glowing red and them black, watching them crumble and fall apart. And every time he did it he felt as though he were killing another part of himself, a useless part. One day he hoped all that would be left would account to something. There was nothing he wanted more than to matter.
And so it came, the two scratches in her mind where Eleanor saw weakness in her mother. The ex-lawyer who had given up her career and her life to fight a battle that wasn’t hers but her daughters. It was this lesson that Sara had taught to her daughter and it had been learned in secret. Curled in a ball, rocking beside the bathtub, pearl coloured tiles underfoot Sara cried the tears she would never share for the family that once was and the daughter that was threatened to never be. Twice, but once in her life that Eleanor had witnessed, on the night of Kate’s diagnosis and the night that Jesse was uncovered she’d slip into her shell and wash clean the thoughts that tormented and twisted on the inside. And as Eleanor stood, invisible by the door, her breath caught in her chest, wanting to go to her mother to believe in her and to soothe her blinded wounds, she could not. The lesson learned took place after these disturbances. Dressed in suits freshly pressed and crisp Sara would brush her silky blonde hair before her dressing table mirror and apply a face so different from her blotchy red one. Make-up could cover anything, a painted on smile looked as true as a real one. You could hide anything if you tried.
Eleanor Jansen weaved her way through the crowd of drunken men and women alike. Hands reached for her, beckoning, grabbing at her waist, her hips, her behind but she continued on without a second glance. Tonight she had left the confines of her flat after her first day at St Mungo’s, leaving Jesse to brood over what was and wasn’t on television and how much beer was left in the fridge. Tonight she had taken the word of mouth, from Healer to Healer that the Bar was the place to be. Tonight she was going to have fun.
Sliding onto a bar stool Eleanor looked to the bartender and flashed him a smile.
“Anything. Give me anything.”
With a laugh the man placed a glass in front of her and cocking an eyebrow he replied.
“Just drink it. You did, after all, say anything.”
Shrugging Eleanor picked up the glass in one hand and took a sip. It burnt the back of her throat and she coughed slightly. She’d never been a big drinker; it just wasn’t something you did when you were hospitalised every other day. She’d never really been given the chance to go out. With a smile she raised the glass to her lips again and took a bigger drink. She could get used to this.
Turning in her chair, glass still in hand, Elle’s eyes roamed the crowds for a trace of a familiar face. Granted it had only been her first day and she’d barely talked to anyone, having to instead fill out forms and then tag along after the blonde Healer called Carrie. She could see her now, in the distance, dancing on the stage with a brunette. All the other faces were lost on her but they way they responded to one and another, implied friendships or at least acquaintances. Draining her drink Eleanor eyes lingered on a man who had left some coins on the table a metre along the bar from her and had then moved to the music box, selecting a new song.
“Aaaaaaare you gonna take me home tonight? Ahhhhhh, down beside that red firelight. Aaaaaaare you gonna let it all hang out? Fat bottomed girls, you make my rockin’ world go round!”
In an instant she was laughing. Queen, an old favourite of her dads, the very song they used to dance around the living room to as kids, the same song she danced around the flat in her underwear to.
Sometimes you have to forget where you come from to pursue what you’re going to be.
[[MAJORLY recycled. And if you're from Academy you'll probably recognise half of it. -Snorts- But hey, I posted so there.]]
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Carrie Martin
Junior Member
Healer
Pffft....you know I look damn sexy in my work uniform
Posts: 107
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Post by Carrie Martin on Aug 27, 2006 19:46:27 GMT -5
-postie on the way-
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Carrie Martin
Junior Member
Healer
Pffft....you know I look damn sexy in my work uniform
Posts: 107
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Post by Carrie Martin on Aug 27, 2006 20:18:30 GMT -5
Two shots later and a few song changes and the Bar was once again the place to be. Bodie filled every inch, and still more were piling in, but as expected, the stage was home. Aimee and their siamese dancing patterns, the smell of alcohol and sweat was right. And no one could tell her other wise. At this point she was too hazy to care about the details surrounding her. There was the way Sean had been dancing with Aimee, a hint of intamacy before she pulled her best friend away, but she only laughed it off, knowing Aimee was just as crazy as Carrie herself when she wanted to be. There was Tatty going somewhere, and Damita making an appearence. She thought she caught site of Jack Bowler as well, but it was too packed for her to find him. These were the details. The finer things. She just saw the big picture. The music, the way her muscles were so used dancing a marthon, and the way the lights danced before her eyes, telling her that drinks could still come, so long as she wasn't seeing black. Carrie loved the feeling. The feeling that her world was right. The feeling that nothing could go wrong. Only one other thing, ok, well, maybe two, could make it better. No sooner had she thought it than an all to familiar song blasted through the room.
“Aaaaaaare you gonna take me home tonight? Ahhhhhh, down beside that red firelight. Aaaaaaare you gonna let it all hang out? Fat bottomed girls, you make my rockin’ world go round!”
"Ben's here!"
She squealed, stopping mid hip-sway and jumping off the stage. She recognized the Healer-in-Charges favorite song. He only blasted it through the flat every chance he got. He only played it every time he came to the bar. But where to find her handsome flat-mate? She prowled the floor, always moving her hips in time to the song. Other men came up to her, smirks on there faces, thinking they were going to score. She simply wagged her finger at them and their puppy dog sulks, parading around the Bar. By the time she found him, the song was coming to a close. She positioned herself behind him, standing on her tip toes and snaking her arms around his head, covering his eyes.
"Get on your bikes and ride Ooh yeah oh yeah them fat bottomed girls Fat bottomed girls Yeah yeah yeah Alright, ride 'em, c'mon Fat bottomed girls - yes yes"
She sang along, still moving her body a bit, unable to stop dancing now that she had started. It was contagious. Almost half the room had been doing some form of dancing or another, and she even spotted more of Sean's awkward shuffle going around.The Bar. Get Dancing or Get Out. She smiled at the slogan she had created, before wheeling Ben around and smiling a smile that would make heads turn. She wrinkled her nose at him as he just stood there, not dancing while she was still in constant motion. Of course it would take Ben a drink or two to loosen up. The guy was strictly business, sometimes. But Carrie refused to revert to shop-talk. She didn't want him to comment on the patients they were tending, or the new trainee that had arrived that day, she simply wanted to have fun. Oh, Benny Boy. A nickname she kept to herself, most of the time, considering he wasn't exactly fond of it.
"Hello handsome."
She twirled once, facing him again. At the corner of her eye, she spotted said trainee, and waved. The girl stood not to far off, looking every bit Hollywood glam with such ease. Eleanor Jansen. Carrie's new project. She loved the idea of training someone in a profession that she loved so much, and Ben had finally granted her an opportunity to do so. Up until recently, whenever Carrie had asked to help with the trainees, Ben had said no, coming up with a zillion reasons that Carrie couldn't meet the standards. She was too immature, too young, to fresh out of trainee herself. No matter how fiercly Carrie had pouted and flirted, he had still said no. Until now. Now she had Eleanor. What had changed Ben's mind, she didn't know, and frankly didn't care. She couldn't have asked for a better trainee, at that. The girl had been attentive, but kind of shy. A shell for Carrie to crack. That made it all the more fun. But the best part was? Despite the stress, the girl was a natural. She had a great bed-side-manner from what Carrie had witnessed with the girl talking to patients, and seemed to fit in just fine at St. Mungo's.
Curling her finger and genturing Eleanor over, she jumped up once and waved at Aimee to show her best friend she was still alive, a little signal that Carrie had to do at The Bar so Aimee didn't stress that Carrie hadn't gone too overboard. No, she was still alive. Alive and loving every minute of it.
[[bleh...lacking creativity]]
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Tatum MacNamara
Junior Member
Healer
Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Posts: 128
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Post by Tatum MacNamara on Aug 27, 2006 20:44:19 GMT -5
“Ya know know I’m equipped with two left feet.”
"Really?" the Irish witch smirked, "That's a good thing cause I have two right ones. We can help each other out, aye?" Giving him a teasing wink, she continued her urging toward the dancefloor. She believed that there was a distinct possibility that Jack couldn't dance and that her shoes, newly glossy from a polishing charm would be well scuffed from the end of the night from a lot of trample-age, but the thought didn't concern her. She had taught five older brothers how to get by on the dance floor without looking like an epileptic chicken.
But before she could successfully move Jack to the dancefloor, they had been intercepted by a witch she did not recognize. Coming to a hault as they were spoken to, she turned her ice blue eyes to Jack as she did not know the witch before them from Adam and was therefore fairly certain that the question had been more for him than for her.
Dropping his hand as it was awkward to be holding it now that there apparently was not going to be any dancing in the immediate future, she shrugged her narrow shoulders. "I've been here an hour maybe." That said, she let her eyes wander up toward the stage, watching Aimee move from the stage toward the bar, and then following the path she took back to Sean. After a mental shake of her head, she turned her attention back to Jack and Damita, though her mind was only half on the place her eyes were focused.
{sorry was a bit crap, but i got a bit confused as to what was going on . . . i thought we were walking not standing at the bar}
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Post by Eleanor Jansen on Aug 28, 2006 9:57:38 GMT -5
To Eleanor every moment since she had stood her ground was part of an alternate universe. An alternate universe, which gave her space to breathe, think and be alone. Eleanor had never been alone. In a physical sense she had shared a room with Kate until the moment she moved out with Jesse. To her parents there was no reason to give the girls their own room, they were sisters, closer even and with Kate absent what need was there for a larger house, which was barely lived in? In an emotional sense there always seemed to someone plaguing her mind. Since she was a young girl Sara had taken Eleanor to see her big sister Kate. So pale she looked, her complexion washed out against the starched white of the pillowcase, her body emersed in sheets and blankets, pressing down on her and Kate so small, so tiny looking like she was going to break under enormous expectations and hopes. You can help her, Sara had said. You can save her.
But before then there had been no asking, only assumptions made on her behalf. Her body was like a birthday cake, the kids making bids on what slice they wanted.
Eleanor had finally had enough of the subconscious guilt trips on her mothers part, and the sorrow that followed her in her fathers gaze. She had left the family home under the excuse that staying with Jesse was closer to the hospital and with the promise that she would be there whenever Kate needed her. Sara had let go somewhat reluctantly, with heavy persuasion on her father’s part, and she had moved in with Jesse and started at St Mungo’s a week later.
Tonight marked the end of that week. Her first week of freedom, the conclusion of her first working day and her first night at the infamous Bar.
Eleanor had watched the comings and goings with interest, her foot bouncing to the beat of Queen, avoiding the eye and advances of the man that lingered on the seat before her she shook back loose brown hair and turned her back on him.
“C’mon darling. Just a smile?”
His hand reached for her arm, his own smile was crooked, his breath a mixture of smoke and whisky. Eleanor pulled away on instinct. Her eyes grazing him for a moment before looking past him to a familiar blonde whom was chatting up another familiar face. Carrie and Ben, who would have thought that they would be her saviours.
Sliding off the barstool she left her empty glass on the counter top and waved a hand to the pair.
“Not today buddy. My friends await.”
It was a pretty strong term for two people she had only met that day and had barely exchanged words with but at that moment Eleanor would have sworn that she was a bisexual and those two her alternating partners just to get this guy off her back.
Weaving between the sweaty bodies, the tainted stench of alcohol invading her nostrils Eleanor stopped before Carrie and Ben. Carrie seemed nice enough, very happy, very energetic, like the batteries of those ads on television. Never say die. And Ben, well she wasn’t entirely sure. To be honest most men confused her just plainly because she’d never really had to deal with them. She’d dated Ryan for two years before breaking up with him purely because it felt like a safety net. She wanted to start something new she couldn’t hold onto that part of her life if she wanted to embrace every aspect of the present. Besides two years was an awfully long time for someone still so young. Fear of commitment? No…
Eleanor smiled.
“Hello to you both.”
Her voice was raised slightly over the music. Her eyes drifted to stage where several people were now dancing, that combined with the piling crowd that filled every inch of this place, moving in rhythm was enough to tease her. Man she would love to dance right now.
[[Dodgy....]]
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Cassandra Andrews
New Member
Healer-in-Charge
Silence tells me secretly, everything.
Posts: 4
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Post by Cassandra Andrews on Aug 28, 2006 11:54:50 GMT -5
Why was it that Cassandra could always be so conflicted and not even care? It was another one of those nights; she was seated in her study, a place that had now become a safe haven of sorts for the woman. For the better part of the evening she’d actually been reading, ‘studying up’ if you will, but now she was staring rather blankly, blue eyes boring into a photograph, that in her lack of attentiveness, she couldn’t even register what the image itself actually was. She had been angry with Sean again this evening, it seemed to be impossible not to be these days, and while she truly loved the man, she was too stubborn to not keep her distance, it was as if the littlest things he did made her feel unwanted and that’d make her close off.
Even that evening, dinner had been relatively nice, he’d brought her favourite wine, Cassandra had noticed it right away and while it was a nice sentiment something inside her refused to let the woman acknowledge it. So they’d sat in silence, both stiff and unaffectionate to one another, these kind of dinners frequented much more than the charming little evenings, filled with teases and ideal chitchat, that made her angry too, at who no one could really be sure. Then she’d returned to her study, a while later Sean had asked her to go out and she’d blatantly refused, of course she would’ve wanted to go and again she couldn’t form the simple word ‘yes’ in her mouth.
Her conflictions were now resting with her own stubbornness and her guilt, both seemed to annoy her beyond belief but what could she do. Cassandra now felt as if she was pushing him away, too far and yet she expected him to be right by her side. She was debating upon whether she should go or not, it wasn’t all that late and seeing as her husband could not be found stumbling through the doorway, that he was still where he claimed to have gone. Shifting in her seat, her eyes flickered to the doorway, attentiveness returning to her for the first time in a little while. She’d made up her mind by now and quickly stood up, exiting the room and changing into something, suitable for an outing, while she wasn’t about to wear business attire, she was hardly in that scene enough to truly look as if she belonged.
Where’d he mention going again? Right…a bar.
Cassandra was expecting to see a lot of co-workers there, that day at the hospital talk of going out for another ideal evening of fun had reached her ears and while she rolled her eyes and continued to work on her chart, the words had left an imprint in her mind as to lead her to where she assumed she’d find her husband. Entering, the mingling scents of alcohol, smoke and sweat had reached her before she could really get anywhere. The fact that she found it somewhat repulsive didn’t hinder her from making her way in with somewhat of a struggle and stopping at the bar to order a drink. Receiving it she held the glass to her lips, eyes scanning the sea of bodies, some swaying to the music others standing around the outside watching. It was then her eyes hit a scene she rather disliked.
Her husband and the Healer, Kensington making nice on the dance floor. Of course the part that annoyed her most that there was nothing in there action that could make the woman outright call her husband a cheat, in all actuality it was just them having fun. In reality, Cassandra also knew even if she had witnessed such defined intimacy she would have convinced herself she hadn’t. However, her mind was now reeling, to her own actions, as if it was her pigheadedness that had driven her husband to the arms of this woman, younger than Cassandra, sexy, and more fun. Wait...wait, wait, Cassandra was now getting ahead of herself, it was just…dancing. And so as she watched momentarily, a cold glance in her direction and a blank face she turned her head staring at her drink as she swirled it half-heartedly in her glass.
So much for the make up.
((Argh. Okay, it's not great and if you're looking at this post and going...wtf. Well...I only skimmed the posts, too lazy to read all of them... I can always edit this though. ^^))
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Ben Jones
New Member
Healer-in-Charge
Posts: 97
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Post by Ben Jones on Aug 28, 2006 22:47:48 GMT -5
Ben wasn’t much of a music person. When he was fifteen or sixteen, he thought he might want to be a musician, in some kind of badass band or something, but he never really felt like practicing any instrument, and a lot of music sounded the same to him. He wasn’t in contact with a lot of Muggle music (or much Wizarding music for that matter), so he never got around to really falling in love with anything. However, when he started coming in closer contact with Muggles, as he began his training as a Healer, music became integrated into his life. He only knew about a few bands, of course, and could recognize some songs from what he had heard at the bar. He had heard a fair few bad karaoke renditions of Love Shack, and he had heard a song about “I like big butts and I cannot lie…” more times than he had ever cared to hear. But mostly, the bands he knew by name were The Beatles, The Who? The Jimmy Hendricks, and, of course, his personal favorite, Queen.
He had no idea what this band looked like, or how long they had been together. For all he knew, they were all gay and the lead singer was some hairy guy who died of AIDS years ago. But it didn’t matter. He had one CD of theirs that he played over and over, blasting “You’re My Best Friend” to annoy Darcy, and, when one of the girls was taking too long in the bathroom, “I Want to Break Free.” He had sang and played and karaoke’d (after far too many drinks, of course) his own versions of “Killer Queen,” “Another One Bites the Dust,” and, of course, “Fat Bottomed Girl.” Every song he had heard of theirs had its own special place in Ben’s heart.
Greeting The Bar with his trademark band was his way of kicking off the night. Instead of walking up to everyone and being oh-so-original in that way, he decided to strut his stuff over to the music player and select a song about fucking fat girls all the time. It was his way of saying-
“Ben’s here!”
He had been watching her for a bit, sitting on the music player, swinging his feet and occasionally belting out “She was such a naughty nanny!” or “I’ve seen every blue-eyed floozy ‘long the wayyyy!” He followed her progress, shouting, “But their beauty and their style wore kind of smooth after awhile...!” After she left his peripheral vision, he followed the whole “Out of sight, out of mind” theme, and jumped from shiny thing to shiny thing: a watch, a necklace, earrings…
Shiny things were good to look at for a while, he figured, but the inside of a pretty girl’s palms was better. Honestly. He grinned, knowing exactly who it was. Carrie was always at The Bar. Ben didn’t think he had ever been there without her. Maybe once or twice. But when she wasn’t working or sleeping or doing something else Carrie-ish (like her movie nights), she was at the bar, like a wind-up toy. She didn’t seem to need a lot of sleep to “Get on her bike and ride,” as she was singing. She got up, and she did her thing, all day, sometimes for twenty-four hours or more. Ben had developed an addiction to coffee, a drink he largely despised but depended on to stay awake. He was able to gulp down two cups in a very short amount of time, especially when he didn’t have to think about how hot it was or how bitter.
She spun him around to face her. In that fluid movement alone, she exerted more energy and flourish than he had possibly all day. Did she ever stop moving? She was wiggling in front of him, flashing him that glittery blonde smile of hers,that delightfully contagious beam that always made Ben laugh and want to kiss her. She was so cute, it was annoying. In the mornings, after a late night, when all Ben wanted was quiet and coffee, Carrie was bouncing around, smiling and being disgustingly cute in a way that made you want to stop her and encourage her at the same time. Some nights, when Ben’s greatest desire was to sleep, Carrie was bouncing around, smiling and being disgustingly cute in a way that made you want to stop her and encourage her at the same time. He would bang on her door, yell, “Shut the FUCK up!” and sometimes play “I Want to Break Free” again or “Another One Bites the Dust.” But he could never stay mad at her. She was too disgustingly cute in a way that made you want to stop her and encourage her at the same time.
“Hello gorgeous,” he responded, tipping his hat as she twirled. As if she needed to ruin the moment, she looked over Ben’s shoulder and beckoned someone over to them. Ben turned around, bracing himself for Aimee, Sean, Darcy, anyone, and found that skinny little bimbo prancing their way.
Carrie’s little trainee had a way of looking like she was walking on air with her long legs. But she was just as smart as she was ugly, Ben had found. He found it hard to believe that she actually had an interest in saving lives and all that jazz, instead of maybe modeling or doing hair or something. He had some contempt for the thing, because she seemed so incompetent, but he also liked her because, well–because she was hot.
Ben had never let Carrie have a trainee. He never really told her the reason, but that was because he had never really had one. He had told her she was not emotionally ready yet, she had not been working long enough, she wasn’t focused enough, even “You’re too pretty.” Every excuse was followed by a quick change of subject, like “But anyway, I’m hungry, so I’ll see you around.” It was really for two reasons. The first was that Ben was that annoying control freak guy who liked everything under his control (at work, anyway. He didn’t show that much passion for organization outside of St. Mungo’s), and reason two was too irrational. He feared that she would get some attractive young male trainee that would just take her breath away. Like she needed more men mooning over her.
Darcy Peterson had been Ben’s best friend for years and years and years. Ben knew Darcy like a brother. He knew it when Darcy was interested in a girl. He would act all sweet and charming, open doors for her and look at her in his little I Have A Girl’s Name, Too way. He had always made fun of his best friend for his name. When Darcy wanted to meet girls, Ben would always introduce Darcy and point out that both he and the woman he was trying to pick up had girls’ names, just to yank Darcy’s chain. So it didn’t take long to figure out that Darcy, too, had a thing for Carrie. They had never talked about it.
When Carrie’s deerlike assistant (whose name he still didn’t know) had made her way over, Ben blinked, looked her quickly up and down, his eyebrows raised (whether critically or approvingly, it would be hard to tell) and then nodded to her. He didn’t really have much to say, besides (in a very slow and clear voice), “Caaaaan I geeeeeet yeee-ooo aaaa driiiiiiiink?” Or maybe “Tuuuuuuurn arouuuuund aaaaand beeeeeeend ooooooverrrrrr.”
[Haaathbpppp]
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Post by Aimee Kensington on Aug 30, 2006 9:49:08 GMT -5
Okay ladies and gentlemen I've decided to run this on posting order since there are so many characters in it. It's kind of made around who's talking with who at the moment and who's waiting for who to respond. And also who hasn't replied in a while. Hope I didn't mess up too bad. Also other characters will probably join soon and I'll just add them to the list. So the order is [no pressure]:
Sean. Jack. Aimee. Damita. Antranig. Carrie. Tatum. Cassandra. Eleanor. Ben.
If you play double characters I tried to not put them too close together. Anyway, there you go. Enjoy.
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Sean Andrews
New Member
Healer-in-Charge
Whatever gets you through the night
Posts: 46
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Post by Sean Andrews on Aug 30, 2006 22:41:39 GMT -5
It wasn’t long enough. That was Sean’s first thought as Aimee went back to dancing with Carrie. That small amount of time that they had danced to together was more intoxicating then anything he had drank, or smoked that night. But then she was gone, and he was left with nothing expect those looks. The looks that drove him mad in night, while he was laying next to Cassandra. The looks that made it hard for him to retain a normal conversation at work. The looks he loved.
He stepped back from the dancing madness on the stage to take a look around the bar. Though everything seemed strangely slow, and muddled. Ah the wonderful effects of drinking to much. He saw Ben Jones, sitting, and then with Carrie, and then almost next to him. He saw Tatty run off to Jack. He saw a shit load of people from work. So many that it made his head spin, and he wasn’t able to put names to faces. But then he saw one face that made his blood run cold. Cassandra.
What the hell was she doing here. She was suppose to be at home, being her normally bitchy self, in that goddamned study were she spent most of her time. She wasn’t suppose to be here. Cassandra didn’t go to bars, not anymore at least. No Cassandra spent her time at home, nagging Sean, or at working doing her crap, and nagging Sean. No no no. This wasn’t right. Cassandra was at home, waiting for him to come stumbling in drunk as a sailor, and then nag and bitch some more. Nothing was right here. Why was she here?
Ok, he needed to clam himself. Drinks, yes drinks. Ignore Ben, ignore everyone, don’t talk. Maybe everyone missed his and Aimee’s dance. No fuck, they didn’t. Maybe no would talk. Yeah that sounded good. Wait what if Cassandra saw? Fuck. This wasn’t claming down. Ok drinks, drinks. He made his way over to the bar, a far end far away from his wife. Ordered two triples of whiskey, and downed them abnormally fast.
Ok breath. Remember to breath. Sean barely felt the liquor burn down his throat, he was already loaded, but the two drinks were making things worse. He was in the simplest terms, completely fucked out of his face. He made his way over to Cassandra stumbling only once. Before stopping in front of her and offering her his best smile.
“Hey Darling”
Words anything but articulate, slurring together. He racked his finger through his hair, stil smiling uncomfortably. He let his hand from drop his hair, and into his pocket were he pulled out and sloppily lit a fag, inhaling deeply and letting it hang in his mouth he questioned.
“Wwwhatdareyoudoinghere?”
[sokhg Sorry it took so long Ive been working my ass off these past few days. Sorry its short too.
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Ben Jones
New Member
Healer-in-Charge
Posts: 97
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Post by Ben Jones on Aug 30, 2006 23:37:33 GMT -5
But uh just an idea/footnote If you fricking take too long to post, you should be skipped Emily? Sound good?
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Post by Aimee Kensington on Aug 31, 2006 3:17:59 GMT -5
-Nods- Yep. Agreed Jason.
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Post by Aimee Kensington on Sept 3, 2006 4:46:54 GMT -5
Aimee measured the success of her life in occurrences that never took place. Collecting lists mentally of the situations she had never put herself into, the acts of deceit and crime she had never committed. Throughout the course of her life, for instance, she had never taken drugs, other than the legal sort; she had never been raped and had never painted her toenails an awful shade of orange. Aimee measured the success of her day by the trouble she didn’t get herself into. It was habit when you played with fire and secrets like children played with dolls. She’d make promises to herself. If she held her breath for a minute she’d kiss Sean the next day without guilt, if she took the stairs three at a time she’d be allowed an ice cream. If she stopped lying to herself she’d be able to move on. It was Aimee’s way of stacking the odds in her favour. If the list of bad things she had never done were longer than the devilry she’d put in play, than surely she could be forgiven.
For the others Healers at St Mungo’s, their days were spent saving lives, for Aimee her days were spent delaying the inevitable. She put herself between her patients and the arms that reached for them. She fought for them when there was no fight left within their aching bones, their eyes to wide and young and hopeful. They looked to her when they had no one left, when hope had deserted them. And she would never, never let them down. But when her patients gave in, exhausted Aimee didn’t feel pained because she had lost a patient. She felt pained because not only had she failed them but she’d failed herself.
Aimee had never dealt well with failure. When you measured your successes by the bad things you had never done, you never truly failed but when you lost a patient, your patient, there was no denying it. She failed. She had failed.
Aimee had never been a failure. She put everything she had into everything she did, throwing herself in with every inch of fight she had left. Aimee was driven by her determination, by the need to prove herself to everyone around her, by her competitive drive that told her for her to ever be good at anything she needed to out shine all the others stars in the sky. For Aimee there was fantastic and there was fail. There was no good. She needed to be better than that. She needed to be fantastic, fabulous, indescribable. There was a monster inside her that kept her awake at night, a monster that needed to be fed and what it craved most of all was the swell of pride when she succeeded. There was simply no option in her mind. As soon as Aimee attempted something it had to be followed through to the last detail, it had to be prefect, it had to work.
At the hospital Aimee lived off procedure. Her drive to succeed was the smile she imagined on her patients families faces when she informed them of their loved ones improvements. But what happened when there was no criteria, no promised smile and when success walked hand in hand with your own failure?
Aimee wanted Sean. She wanted every part of him, everything he had and she wanted to call it hers. However the success story in this case was her own demise. If Aimee got Sean she would always be the woman who stole the loyal husband from his wife’s side. She would never be his fairytale ending, there would never be a fairytale ending. Anything concerning Sean had a down side, but the positives were always rewarding enough to keep her in the game.
In a squeal and flash of blonde hair Carrie had disappeared leaving Aimee alone with Sean once more. This time she managed to keep the distance that threatened to destroy her but in a moment, her too was gone and Aimee was in panic. Red hair, long legs, amazing smile. Cassandra.
Had she seen? Would she know?
Her head blurred and thumped to the music. Aimee was spinning and falling and being pulled back to her feet. She shook back her hair, it was too warm on her shoulders, her cheeks were flushed. She needed fresh air. She needed to calm down and breath and find some space but instead all she found was the humour in a serious situation. Aimee laughed.
Moving through the crowd, a dance all its own Aimee avoided the area she had mentally named ‘The Danger Zone,’ where Sean and Cassandra would now be talking, dancing even, and…kissing? She didn’t want to think about it. And the best part was, she didn’t have to. To everyone else Aimee was single, her own woman who didn’t need a man. With the intention of finding Carrie and Ben Aimee stumbled to the back of the bar and found herself blinking at a man who seemed remotely familiar. He was sitting in possibly the darkest corner of the bar and smoke was spiralling around his lonesome figure. Another smoker, she commented, referring not to herself but to the man that haunted her thoughts.
In normal circumstance where Aimee was sober and breathing she would not have taken to leaning against the wall beside him, her head tilted and asked what at any other moment would have been a fatal question.
“You work at St Mungo’s don’t you?”
Naturally this was not a normal time and Aimee found herself lingering in the wake of her question, only slightly aware that if he weren’t and was just a Muggle, she would be in a little trouble.
Circumstances were never normal when alcohol was concerned.
[[Rawr. So she's talking to Antranig. And ohmigod. Okay that is such a crap post by me. It's like blah and all over the place. And I blame my head. I've done so much homework today.]]
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Antranig Sutlian
New Member
Healer
Looking for a sign that the universal minds have written you into the passion play.
Posts: 28
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Post by Antranig Sutlian on Sept 3, 2006 8:20:15 GMT -5
{Lise = tres confused, and Antranig will most likely suck as a result. I apologize on his behalf v.v}
Antranig had decided that perhaps he had his fill of this place after only five minutes. While there were plenty of appealing faces, interesting contours, slim waistlines that led upwads to more swollen profiles, the entire aura was the place was not his own. Everything was so flash, and he was a man of the shadows. The driving volume of the music with its inane lyrics about nannies and fannies and other not-so-clever rhymings with euphemisms for arse offended his sensibilities. He liked to fancy that he was of a more refined taste than this arena of garish decadence and too much drink. He had seen how the other half lived and was confident in the knowledge that he was still glad he was not them, and was about to push from his resting place against the wall.
But in the end, he remained where he was.
And the thing had kept him place was a witch of all things, one of the first he had noticed when he came in, the one who had separated from a man who looked quite intent on taking her down beside that red firelight. Now Antranig was never the sort to be kept in a place because of a witch, never allowing one to work her away around his leg like an added weight to drag when leaving this place or that. And if this witch had just sidled next to him with hopeful buy-me-a-drink eyes, he more than likely would have continued on his way.
But this witch came next to him as if she knew him, leaned against the wall that he had claimed for himself, spoke to him without the good sense of hiding who she was. He was intrigued, though for the moment he told himself it was just to see what had prompted her to consume so much of the liquid the seemingly benign Sam was peddling to make her so uncouth.
"I do, Miss," he nodded without looking at her. "Lucky for you."
It was then that he turned his gaze to hers, locking his penetrating gaze with hers. "I am Antranigk Sutlian. I vork on the first floor."
He did not ask for her name, figuring she was obviously forward enough to tell him on her own volition. He rarely asked a witch for her name. Not unless he planned to be whispering in her ear in the throes of passion later in the evening.
And there was no chance of that with this witch. Pretty as she was, he was not the sort to poach off those encumbered with drink. He left that to his fellow rogues.
"You shouldt heff some vater," he suggested, though the words were spoken sharply enough to have been a command. From the smell of her, he guessed without it she would be a sorry sight in the morning. Placing a hand at the back of her neck as if to steer her toward the bar, he continued with what might have been a teasing smirk, "Be a goodt girl andt listen to your healer."
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