the broken record

who: eris
where: her loft
when: early evening

Eris had spent most of her day sleeping. She'd been up for quite a long while after Brett had left her, and really only managed to drop off once she'd had enough to drink to do it. When she woke, she recognized that she'd spent the entire time tossing and turning, the sheets twisted around her form, most of her blankets kicked off the side of the bed at some point.

Getting moving had taken work. She was sluggish, and even if she'd slept she didn't feel like she had. Her head hurt, her stomach ached, and generally, she felt like hell. She'd spent a little while listening to music, trying to lift her sullen, dark mood, but that didn't really help. She'd emptied the buckets of water from the leaking roof because she nearly tripped over one of them, as opposed to her actually remembering, which had her cursing herself. After that, she'd made herself eat something, which wound up being plain toast and water. Even that didn't sit terribly well and she went back to drinking, to take the edge off. That seemed to work better, even if it did nothing for her mood.

The real downswing hit, however, when she tried to come up with some sort of system for herself. She had a notebook and pen, and as she'd sat on her messy bed, she'd tried about ten times to come up with some sort of way to keep herself organized with her medication. But she kept circling round to the same thing. A system only worked if she remembered the system. And as she tried to organize things, she would notice mistakes. Misnumbering, things counted twice--it didn't work. If there was a system that did work? She couldn't come up with it. Bed and floor littered with crumpled paper that she ripped from the book and tossed, eventually the book itself went sailing across the room to smack harmlessly against the wall.

She skipped her meds. Not necessarily intentionally, but they didn't get taken. Instead, it got later, and she needed to get ready to go downstairs and perform. To sing, keeping herself in the shadows. To entertain while hiding. After taking a bath, she stood in front of the mirror, the murky surface steamed and she reached out to wipe a clear streak through, looking at herself. She was paler now. It had been a while since she'd really been 'allowed' outside. Looking out windows behind curtains didn't count, and she started to wonder when the last time she'd seen the sky was. It gave her a claustrophobic feeling, like her chest couldn't fully expand, like she wasn't getting enough air.

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she leaned heavily on the sink, and hung her head, wet curls falling around her shoulders and down her back. She tried to calm down, to push back all those feelings. You're fine. You're okay. This isn't going to crack you. You've been through worse. Just get it done. Suck it up, pull yourself together, go downstairs, do your thing, and it'll all be okay. she tried to tell herself, but it was really hard to lie to yourself when you were a realist by nature. When your entire existence had been built on a bed of lies and fantasy, so much so that you knew bullshit when you heard it. Even if it came from yourself.

When she opened her eyes back up again, she looked back at her reflection. That whole lack of sun, paled thing didn't do her any favors. Mostly because it made the ring around her neck stand out even more. She reached up, watching her reflection move with her, and she touched it, running her fingers along the edge of it. Then her eyes narrowed, and she lashed out, an irrational flare up of ire blotting out everything else for a moment. The side of her fist struck against the glass, and it cracked, pinching her skin enough to make her bleed, even if it was a shallow slice. None of the shards fell down, the break wasn't that bad, but it splintered her reflection enough.

That looked better to her. Looking back down into the sink, she watched blood drip down into the basin, and she didn't know how long she stood there, lost in her own thoughts, lost in a blank moment like she had sometimes, when things just didn't connect right. Eventually, she broke out of it, looking around and coming back to herself somewhat. She washed her hand then went to go find a smaller mirror to do her makeup. To put on her face: her mask, her dress: her costume. To go downstairs and sing songs everyone already knew. To be a broken record, repeating everything night after night.