You need practice.

I am tired of trying to hold things together that cannot be held.

[sticky post]voicemail
[neu] do go on
"You've reached the voice mailbox of Celia Bowen. Please leave a message, and I'll return your call as soon as I am able. Have a lovely day."

[In creating this journal, the author has assumed the identity of a fictional person for use in the role-playing game fandomhigh, for the sole purpose of entertainment, without intending to obtain a benefit or to injure or defraud either the person who created the fictional person, nor any reader of this content. The author does not purport to be the creator of the fictional person, or to be affiliated with the creator, or with any person or entity with an interest in the fictional person. The author does not claim to be the person who is being used as the graphical representation of that fictional person, nor intend to obtain a benefit or to injure or defraud that person by use of their image.]

Room 302 [Saturday morning]
[spec] zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Celia, who was a late riser by nature, was even less inclined than usual to get out of bed this morning. And that seemed entirely excusable -- she'd stayed up quite late the night prior, after all, and it was Saturday, and Saturdays were meant for sleeping in a bit. Particularly when one had someone to sleep in with, as she was discovering.

Given the circumstances -- namely, how utterly content she was to just doze here with Ichabod all morning -- it seemed entirely reasonable to Celia that that rather annoying knocking she thought she might hear was just part of her dream, and ought to be ignored.

Except it wasn't part of her dream, and it was only going to get more insistent.

[you all know where this is headed. for the boy and one other!]

Room 302 [Friday late afternoon]
[pos] shy smile
Celia had never been one for Christmas, really. It didn't hold much weight for her father aside from increased ticket prices for the month of December, and for Celia, all that had meant was more time spent on her own in hotels and dressing rooms. She had vague memories of attending midnight mass with her mother as a child, of candles and wishes and a distant sort of warmth -- but as with all things from that time in her life, even Celia didn't know how many of those memories were real, versus a retroactive hope for what she'd wanted it to be.

In any case, this year had been somewhat different. For one thing, it was the first time she could remember receiving gifts (in the plural, even!) For another, and much more importantly -- it was the first time she'd spent it amongst people who made her understand why the whole world fell in love with holly and tinsel for a month. Staying on the island had absolutely been the best choice, especially considering her father hadn't so much as written for her to join him, anyway. She'd delighted herself with the picking out and wrapping of gifts, and yesterday had been everything she'd imagined Christmas could be -- she'd spent the day with Ichabod, to whom she had given a smartphone after a few weeks of agonizing endlessly over her choices. (And she would be forever grateful to Ms. Pryde for teaching her enough to know what to look for, and not to be overwhelmed by her many, many options.)

Friday, meanwhile, found her playing with her own gift from him -- though 'playing,' perhaps, was not exactly the right word. She'd started the assembly process for her new telescope while daylight was still filtering through the window, though of course it wouldn't be especially useful until the sun set. (Celia had not yet realized that she could use it to spy on people during the day, of course -- possibly because the idea didn't actually hold all that much appeal. The radio did that anyway, after all.) And in an effort to enjoy it as it was meant to be enjoyed, she was thus far refraining from using her magic to put it together, and instead carefully following the directions.

"Attach telescope main body, H, by aligning the hole in the telescope saddle with that in the yoke. Screw yoke locking knobs, L, through both holes and tighten the knob," she read aloud, then looked at the pieces she had spread out before her on the floor. "...saddle? Which one's the saddle?"

Magic, honestly, probably wouldn't really help, anyway.

[for the boy, please! edit: and maybe not the safest thing for work, now?]

Room 302 [Monday afternoon]
[neu] are you sure?
It was miserable to be angry and upset and heartbroken, under totally normal circumstances. It was even more miserable, somehow, to be angry and upset and heartbroken when school was out for break. It had been a cruel twist of fate that Celia had found the incriminating letter in Ichabod's room the very day before she was to take her last exam, and as a result she'd spent the weekend already in a desperately bored sort of depression.

She'd tried to read to take her mind off it, but something would remind her of what she'd already read, and she'd be back to brooding angrily over nothing. She'd already shattered and repaired several tea cups, and had finally resorted to plastic mugs over the weekend.

There were, perhaps, possibly more constructive ways for her to have taken the news that her boyfriend was engaged. Maybe she could have approached him about it, instead of adopting 'Avoiding Ichabod' as her primary activity over the last few days, in lieu of studying or reading or anything she liked. Maybe she could have talked to someone else about it, instead of brooding and pouting and trying to work out increasingly implausible explanations. (Maybe he was a spy, and so was this Mary. Maybe the letter was a code, and the...perfume some sort of additional cipher!)

She could have probably handled a lot of this better. But as talented and bright as Celia generally tended to be, she was also still very much sixteen, and this was very much the first time she'd allowed her heart to be broken. So she was given to acting like a teenager about it, which was why she was stretched out on her bed today, ostensibly reading some twentieth century poetry. Of course, the fact that the light had started flickering probably spelled out a bit how little she was paying attention to the words, and how much her mind had strayed. But at least she hadn't actually burned out the bulb, yet?

(It was possibly only a matter of time, the way she was brooding, now.)

[open door and post, super-grumpy girl within, and SP for me! EDIT: and just warning here that the Alana thread has a bit of a discussion of physical abuse.]

A dress shop on the mainland [Wednesday afternoon]
[pos] oh you silly
This was the second time in a week that Celia had donned her blue jeans (and critically examined her hips in a mirror for no less than fifteen minutes, once she had done so) and headed off the island. This trip, however, held far less promise of education, and far more expectation of glitter. Yes, Celia could make her own dress (and Eleanor's, for that matter), but she owed her friend both an afternoon of fun, and a birthday present.

And much as she wouldn't admit it, shopping for modern clothes was actually sort of fun. One could try things on so easily.

"So do we know exactly who or what is coming home?" she asked Eleanor as they stepped through the doors. "Is it just the alumni, or should we be dreading some sort of Lovecraftian monster?"

Someone was knee-deep in 20th century horror literature, in celebration of Halloween, yes.

[NFB and for she who is mentioned!]

Frostfruit Inn, Room 15 [Monday morning]
[spec] zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Celia had changed overnight (and she'd argue that it was for the better, thank you, when she was awake enough to do so.) Of course, Celia was also a very, very deep sleeper, and probably wouldn't have woken up if they'd experienced an avalanche, much less something as subtle as this.

So while her hair was longer (and far more tangled now, since she hadn't braided it before bed) than it was when she'd gone to sleep, and the loose men's shirt she'd worn didn't fit quite the same way it had before, and she was overall much smaller...the only thing she really was aware of at the moment, on any level, was that her nose was quite cold.

So she burrowed a little deeper under the covers, clinging to sleep even if she was vaguely starting to wake up and murmuring sleepy protests against the stupid freezing air.

[for the person sharing the bed, yes.]

Near the causeway [Sunday early evening]
[neu] her father's eyes
Well, this weekend had gone about as disastrously as it was possible for it to have gone. Celia's father had criticized everything from the school itself to her figure to the company she kept, and she was exhausted. Because, of course, not only had she had to endure her father's endless tirade about everything he found unacceptable here, but Celia had also spent the weekend with half her brain devoted to maintaining illusions for a man who thought she was an unacceptable match for his son.

cut for mentions of physical abuseCollapse )

Suffice it to say, her mood could have been better.

She was incredibly on edge as she and her father approached the causeway, though she listened intently in case he said something that she would sincerely regret missing.

[trigger warning for physical and verbal abuse, open if anyone wants to find celia after her dad leaves.]

Room 302 [afternoon]
[neu] are you sure?
After her technology class, Celia found herself far more intrigued by computers and the like than she had been up to this point. Yes, of course they provided ample resources to educate herself further -- but there was simply so much, and such a steep learning curve, that she didn't exactly know where to start. It had been nearly a hundred and fifty years since her own time, after all. And while she'd already experienced the better part of 2014, she still wasn't entirely sure she could tell a tablet from a cell phone.

In any case, she'd swung by the library on her way back to her room, and was now sprawled on her bed in a sea of skirts and glossy catalog pages. The good news was that she was able to look at nearly everything that was available on the market, this way. The bad news, of course, was that they were a solid three years out of date and she hadn't noticed yet, so Celia's excitement over finally knowing something was probably going to be fairly short-lived.

[open, SP whooo!]

Room 302 [Tuesday morning]
[neu] pensive
As adorably traditionalist Celia found it to be a magic user toting an owl around, she was really beginning to worry. Today was the ninth day since Ichabod had turned into a bird, and Celia had finally gotten herself some books from the library on animal transformation after her conversation with Barry yesterday.

She'd spent the better part of the evening poring over them and occasionally offering bits aloud to Ichabod. (Mostly helpful, reassuring things like, "Well, it says here that you probably won't retain any bird-like qualities after the first day or so, so that's promising!") Today, she was resolved to look for more texts at work -- the Magic Box's literary collection was so diverse, she was sure there had to be something helpful there.

It didn't especially matter that she knew he was going to change back (everything she'd read, and seen firsthand over the last six months, told her this) -- Celia was still fairly anxious and losing her patience, because she was sure he would prefer not to be an owl any longer, and...well.

"I miss you being you," she said softly to the owl perched on her open windowsill, reaching out to gently scritch his neck with a soft sigh.

[primarily for one, as you might have guessed!]

Room 1 [late Tuesday afternoon]
[neu] pensive
Celia had stopped to get coffee for herself and Eleanor on the way home from work, and had been perhaps a touch creative in her order -- there was more caramel and whipped cream in both drinks than actual coffee, but she didn't much care. The day was dreary enough to warrant both a hot drink and a treat.

She'd set the drinks down on her nightstand when she'd come in, padding off to the bathroom to fuss with her hair in the mirror for a moment. When she returned and took a sip of the one marked with a big 'C,' though, she'd nearly spat it out.

"How are you cold already?" she wondered, wrinkling her nose as she touched her fingertips to the cup to warm it back up. She gave Eleanor's the same treatment before checking hers again and finding it lukewarm.

Maybe an iced coffee would have to do, but she was less perturbed by that than by the fact that it shouldn't be so cold so quickly. This house gave her the chills, and now the uneasiness was prevalent in her room, rather than just the common room of bizarrely-changing television channels.


[open door and post with the usual I'm-at-work-so-SP caveat!]


Log in

No account? Create an account