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Post by dessi on Sept 23, 2010 10:21:49 GMT -8
you’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do. A week had gone by with little chaos or seemingly important things popping up. She spent most of her time laying on her bed, sprawled out under the ceiling fan as it turned the stuffy hot air in her room at high speeds, listening to the drone of the monotonous tv, looked at new horses and started writing her new book. Her recent book had been unwittingly spurred by her latest encounters with a certain Dekker Morrison. When she had first started writing, it did not even cross her mind that the plotline was following closely to how she had met Dekker, it was not until she accidentally wrote his name as the lead male character that she realized she was tromping all over her morals of not making a book too personal. However, she had already gotten a good 4 thousand words down and was not about to turn back, instead she changed the names to completely different things.
Besides, Dessi was sure Dekker was not the type to read the genera that she wrote.
It was with that single thought that she kept writing. There had been a point in the recent week where she thought that her leg was going to get better and she’d be able to dismiss Dekker from princess watch, but after the show in Wellington, she realized that she paid with more than sweat and angry words hissed at her horses, she was also thrown a few days of recovery back (much to his discontent). When he had seen her at the show they simply kept their distance…well, actually Dessi had been doing her best to avoid him, not wanting to hear him say the truth; that she shouldn’t be riding. Once all the horses had come home and Dessi had a couple days off the leg, she realized that maybe she shouldn’t have avoided her nurse as much as she did.
Now, it was like day one.
Barely able to walk, confined to her bed and only able to get news from the outside world from the internet, tv, and Dekker. Now that the week was drawing to a close and she was no better, he had insisted on taking her to the doctor, even though that phone conversation had been a good two hours of her arguing and him throwing out legitimate reasons as to why she should go. In the end, he won, and her appointment with the orthopedic surgeon for x-rays, MRI’s and a physical evaluation. She had no idea when he’d be here, but she was confidant she’d know when he was, and she was right. Around one in the afternoon he walked into her house and up to her room where she had been dwelling. Glancing up at him over the top of her computer she eyed the crutches in his hand and frowned, You could have brought me those sooner. Setting her computer, with the manuscript for her book left wide open and begging for prying eyes, next to her she grabbed the crutches and stood up on her own for the first time. Leaning her weight onto them she looked at Dekker for a moment before saying, Ok…yeah. You know, let me go put something on that I haven’t been in for two days and attempt to tame my nappy hair.
Without anything else, she hobbled off to her bathroom and closed the door with a crutch and started to search for something decent, all the while running a brush through her hair, cringing each time the teeth of the brush hit a knot.
o599 notes: WOOHOOO. Now Dekker gets to feel aaawwwkkkwwaaaaarrrddd. >D
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Post by rivalo on Sept 23, 2010 11:26:43 GMT -8
do not let the length scare jooooooo!!!! he is mostly puttering around, ignore itttt!! xD------------------- i just shut down there's still too much to learn, just so much to learnDEKKER [/SIZE][/size][/center] The brown haired man had to admit he enjoyed his tending to Dessi to a certain extent; it was an excuse to be around her all the time, even if she had been avoiding him at the last show for whatever reason. He hadn't been surprised when she'd called him back in to help her out and so answered her call pretty quickly. He hadn't picked up much work yet, but he was working under another vet now to keep his business going; in time, he would strike up his own practice. Thoughts of work, though, were pushed far from his mind as he pulled the older model Toyota car up to Dessi's stunning little home. He'd been surprised to learn of her celebrity author status, but after some thought had remembered he'd heard of her books before. He'd never had time to pick them up, but he'd had no idea who the author was. Regardless, it had been a pleasant surprise to file away about her. That explained her creativity and rambunctious nature; he should have expected her to be a writer.
He'd climbed the stairs now familiar to him up to her overly cozy room with crutches in hand, a big grin on his blue eyed face as he'd pushed it open to show her the gifts he came bearing. Instead of 'aw thanks!' he of course got a snappy comment about the fact that he should have brought them sooner. He rolled his eyes comically, handing them over to the raven haired woman as she scrambled to try reaching her feet. "Maybe I just wanted to keep you as dependent on me as possible." he said with a joking shrug as if she should have thought of that. She stared at him for a moment with her forever captivatingly violent eyes and he stared right back with an amused smirk on his face. After a moment she turned towards the bathroom, abandoning her messy bed and still active computer to slam the bathroom door in his face. He grinned, shaking his head and watching the door for a moment; she never ceased to amuse him, he found her to be completely adorable with her consistently nasty attitude. "Maybe you should try taking a shower, too!" he called to her, completely kidding but chuckling to himself at the attempt to get a rise out of her. Why he would want to put his neck on the line like that, don't ask.
While she began to clink around in the bathroom he took the initiative to start picking up her area while she wasn't in it, moving her laptop carefully onto a side table after clearing it up trash and dirty dishes, creating a neat pile on the dresser to take down with him and filling the wastebasket a little at a time. With the bed and surrounding places cleaned off, he stripped the sheets and fetched a new batch from her closet, being careful not to be too nosy in there aside from getting the sheets. He turned, stretching the mattress pad straight and following with the fitted white sheet, flipping the flat sheet out and tucking it in carefully without adding a blanket for her. It was too hot in this room, and he made it a point to remember to turn to air down whether she liked it or not. With that done, he replaced her pillowcases and put the dirty sheets and such in a hamper and moved back to her computer, aiming to replace it on the now spotless bed.
He set it down, then took a few Clorox Wipes to the side tables before moving out her room and taking the dishes downstairs. He walked quietly into the kitchen, placed them in hot water after filling the sink and went back up again. He'd do them before he left. As his feet hit the landing and crossed into her room again, he saw she was still getting cleaned up, so he moved to sit on her bed and wait. It was then he noticed that her computer was up and what appeared to be a rather large document was still up. He looked first to the bathroom door, scratched his head indecisively, then picked up the laptop and scrolled to the top. It wouldn't hurt, he supposed, after all he was curious about her writing style since she'd told him she was an author. He hadn't had a moment to go pick up one of her books, so why not skim the one she was working on? He began to read quickly, but comprehendingly, noticing the scenario immediately as he often replayed it in his own mind. Was she writing about him? A small smile spread across his lips in surprise, but he tried to remain focused on the words in front of him. So closely was he paying attention to the document he began to tune out what might be going on around him. Say, an angry insecure author coming to slap him across the face with her new crutches? Yes, perhaps he would miss that. [/SIZE][/blockquote]
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Post by dessi on Sept 23, 2010 19:17:35 GMT -8
you’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do. Leaning on her crutches, she gazed at herself in the mirror, her dark eyes tracing every imperfection that she had kept tabs on for years. Starting with the permanent dark circles under her eyes that she generally kept covered up with makeup, but now that she had recently washed her face, what little makeup she had on that was concealing the dark shadows was now gone, she could see it all. Leaning closer she frowned at the accentuated wrinkles that shouldn’t be there, only noticeable up close and without makeup. Next, and lastly, she studied the scars on her neck. Without thinking, she lifted a steady hand to trace the raised elongated, thin lumps on the left and right side of her neck, all reminders of the mistakes she had made.
Of the betrayal.
In a way, she wished she could get rid of the hundred some odd scars that littered her neck, but at least she kept those covered pretty well and didn’t really have too many questions on them. Her fear was that sooner or later Dekker was going to see her without makeup, sooner or later he was going to notice the signs of aging that shouldn’t be there for only being 23 years old. She had tried to hold consistent friendships and relationships after she had clawed her pitiful way out of rehab, but most people backed away quickly after they realized she was not as old as she looked, as if worried that she’d suddenly age 200 years in front of their eyes and die. The thing that had given her friends in high school was leaving her friendless in her post-school career.
After a while, she had just stopped trying.
Until Dekker came along, that is. She had tried to ignore him, push him away, but he kept coming back, kept creeping into her mind and work (obviously since she was suddenly basing an entire book around him). She had severed all ties with anyone ‘important’ to her in her past, but Dekker was making his own connections and she was having a hard time cutting them off. After a few more minutes of useless staring she snapped out of her thoughts when she heard Dekker say something about showering, she laughed at his joke and called through the closed door, You know, no. I want to smell like poptarts and various alcoholic drinks. Fact: instead of drinking water like a normal person, she had decided to drink any alcohol she could get within her reach, needing something to do with her mind other than sit there and let it be numbed by the liberal media and working on her book. Though, looking back in the mirror, she supposed she could use a quick shower to rid herself of the ‘funk’ smell that she had accumulated from simply laying in her bed like a useless lump.
At least she had more ability to hold herself up than before and there was a less chance of her falling.
Quickly showering, she climbed out and rummaged through her walk-in closet, settling on a pair of shorts and a cotton tee-shirt. Gathering up her crutches she quietly exited the bathroom, the first thing she noticed was that her room was clean. Since when was Dekker like a Mr. Mom? Either way, this pleased her, this meant less for her to do, maybe she could hire him as a maid. Scanning the room, her eyes suddenly fell on Dekker, bent over her laptop, obviously reading the incomplete manuscript of her unnamed book. Frowning she quietly hobbled over to him, read along with him for a second, even though she knew every bit of it word by word before unexpectedly whacking him across the back of his knees with her crutch, Didn’t your mother teach you it was rude to read other people’s manuscripts without asking? Though her voice was dark, her eyes retained the playful sparkle, not too terribly upset over it, but she was sure he was feeling awful awkward right about now.
How could he not?
o68o notes: poor dekker, getting all beat up ;___;
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Post by rivalo on Sept 24, 2010 10:31:07 GMT -8
i just shut down there's still too much to learn, just so much to learnDEKKER [/SIZE][/size][/center] As he read along he saw her talent, the raw emotion she could transfer from her mind to the blank page and admired it, struck by the way she put her words together. To think that this was only the rough draft of a novel, she was doing extremely well! Obviously he hadn’t the least little inkling as to what it took to write a book and get it published, but he was a decent writer himself. Without a doubt far from author material, but he had good grammar and things, and was alright at expressing himself. The thought of comparing his writing against hers was like comparing a kindergartner to a college professor. Well, maybe not quite so dramatic, but you get the point. He read along not getting too far, more marveling at the thought of her writing about him of all people. Was it possible she had feelings for him? Was his teenage-like crush on this dark haired, fiery-tongued, spirited wild woman not just something he could play around with in his head? She was writing about him.. him of all people. For a writer, that seemed to be kind of a big deal to him.
This was her profession, so how much must he be swimming around in her mind to want to write about him? A mix of confusion, anticipation, anxiety, hope, and insecurity blended around in his head and he wondered what to do with this information. And was there something about drugs he was reading here? It might not be non-fiction, he had no idea what genre she was into. Drugs were something he detested, and he didn’t think highly of people who wasted their lives away with it, but if a person could bring themselves up from the pit of despair that was always worth respecting. He wasn’t sure what to make of all this information opening up to him, and so when something hard cracked against the back of his knees he reflexively exclaimed, ”Ouch!” and reached his hand down to grab what turned out to be the leg of a crutch. Oh shit.
His stomach dropped to his feet and his face flushed in awkward embarrassment, causing him to stand up in front of her, setting the computer carefully on the freshly made bed. He backed up, his hands moving from his back pockets as he looked at the ground to his front as he jabbered out nonsense. ”Um, yeah, I’m sorry, it was just sitting there and I thought,” he started, raising his brows and brandishing his hands forward in a ‘well, what else could I do?’ sort of gesture. ”I mean, I was waiting for you and it was up and I hadn’t even read anything of yours, so,” he shrugged, his face going an impossibly deeper shade of red as his nerves jittered wildly throughout his body. He sighed, looking at the ground with his hands on the hips of his jeans before looking hopelessly back at Dessi, expecting her to be fuming angry at him. Surprisingly, despite the dirty tone she’d taken with him, he could see a somewhat amused sparkle in her ever-captivating eyes. Taken aback, he didn’t know what to say for a moment but then smile hesitantly, a nervous laugh coming out. ”I’m sorry, Dessi, I should have asked.” he said gently, hoping she wouldn’t take a turn and chuck him out the door never to be seen again. Would she want to talk about it? Should he bring up the things he’d read already? Should he ask what all this meant? Unsure and afraid to ruin what might actually have potential, he kept his mouth shut and kept his blue eyes trained on hers to gauge her reaction. [/SIZE][/blockquote]
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Post by dessi on Sept 24, 2010 11:00:19 GMT -8
you’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do. Half the time when someone asked to read a manuscript, or get an early release of one of her next books, Dessi was vehemently against any sort of spoilers. Back when she had a roommate who as deeply into her books, the girl had gone out of her way to take Dessi’s computer out of her room and break into it to read what she had been writing, then had the audacity to change a few things (that Dessi had caught immediately when she was doing her customary re-reading of what she had written so far). Perhaps that’s where her distaste for sneak peeks had come from. Of course, she had to deal with her editors and publishers reading her stuff, even though it deeply bothered her, but she always had to sit back and remind herself that it was their job to scrutinize every single little word, idea, and punctuation mark. After all, without them, her books would probably not have reached the potential that they had. So really, she had to suck it up, because no writer was perfect without an extra pair of eyes looking over their work.
Even if it really, really irritated her.
So, if that was the case, that she hated people reading her stuff beforehand so much, then why was she not tempted to aim a crutch at his head then shove him out her front door and tell him she’ll just wait to be able to walk and that he could stop tending to her every little need? In the past, such a situation had exploded into something much worse. Instead, she was nonchalantly standing there, leaning on her crutches, smirking and reveling in the sight of his pure embarrassment. Most people only got mad at her back when she got mad at them, but he was truly sorry for ‘prying’ in her business. Watching him nervously set her laptop on the bed, as if he was expecting her to pick it up and throw it at him she raised an eyebrow before breaking out into a wide smile and said, Do I portray you well? Or do I need to tweak him a little more?
She looked back at her computer and internally started to panic.
Dessiree knew that she started talking, referencing, and discussing the old drug issue pretty early in, and though it was a fictional story, most people were able to like her books so much because of the emotion she managed to throw in each chapter, each page, each story. It was because she had been there, she had done that. Adolescent, angst-ridden teenage girls the world over flocked to buy her books simply because they felt like finally, there was someone out there that ‘understood’ them. If Dekker did not like drugs, or got the wrong impression, this could destroy anything before it started, and her heart began to beat quickly. Trying to cover the signs of distress that threatened to break her mask, she rocked back on her heels, using her crutches as a balance then playfully boasted, You should feel special, I don’t write about people I meet very often. Lies.
She wrote about people in her life all the damn time.
Looking at the time on her computer she began to hobble towards the door and down the stairs, calling over her shoulder, C’mon doctor, or we’ll be late for the forced visit. Staring down the stairs she analyzed how she could do this, without thinking she threw the crutches down the stairs then clung to the rail and hopped down slowly on one leg. It probably looked very odd. Finally at the bottom she bent down and picked up her crutches and waited for Dekker. Her mind still stuck on what he did (or didn’t) know. She prayed he didn’t bring anything up or even ask, the thought of having to truthfully answer made her sick to her stomach.
When it came to her drug history, Dessi was painfully honest.
o668 notes: omnomnom
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Post by rivalo on Sept 25, 2010 6:50:52 GMT -8
i just shut down there's still too much to learn, just so much to learnDEKKER [/SIZE][/size][/center] Dekker’s heart was only working against him as it beat faster to pump the blood more and more into his face. He was trying to keep it cool, but he couldn’t quite get it under control. She stood there, an eyebrow raised and he was sure she was simply letting the anger build before she exploded. Much to his surprise, though, a huge smile broke out on her face as if she was getting the biggest kick out of the entire situation. He smiled laughing nervously, a tinge of relief evident in his tone. At least she wasn’t about to have a total fit about it. He was legitimately sorry after all. He looked the ground, shaking his head for a moment and then looked back up at her. She was looking at the computer again, but a sort of tension had suddenly set into her shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Why was she uncomfortable now? He ignored it for the time being, ”Sure, you.. you portray me pretty well I guess. Besides, it’s more about your impression rather than my opinion, right?” he said, shrugging and all the while feeling the color slowly drain from his previously on fire face. It was likely still flushed, but not more red than an apple at this point.
He nodded, not really sure what to say to her writing about him. Did she really mean that? Or was she just saying it to make a point to him? Again, should he be reading into her words too much or was he simply over-reacting? He thought to play it off, ”Well I am kind of special.” he started to say jokingly, but it kind of filtered off into silence as she proceeded to power past him on her crutches and towards the staircase. He turned, watching her head for the steps before pausing to chuck them down the stairs. His eyes narrowed and his head turned in thought, hands still snug against his waist as he realized she was now avoiding what she’d been handling so well. Why was she running from him now? Perhaps it wasn’t all in his head; maybe it was something they should talk about. Was it the fact that she was writing about him, a man she’d only met a week or so before who had been willingly caring for her hand and foot? Or was it the fact that she’d written openly about drugs and things amidst the words about himself? He was so confused, and insecure, but he wasn’t about to say it. He is an adult, working hard at his career, and ought not to be feeling such childish emotions. But then, he hadn’t ever experienced anything or anyone like Dessi before, either. Sighing, he proceeded out of her room and down the stairs, smiling resolutely at her. ”Yes, ma’am.” he said sarcastically, mock bowing and then debating if he ought to annoy her further and carry her to the car again. Thinking better of it, he opened the door to let her out, giving her a moment to lock it behind them as they stepped into the driveway.
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The ride to the doctor’s was mostly silent between them, the radio offering some relief to the tension which inexplicably hung in the air within his compact Toyota. He would say something now and then as would she, but he tried to keep it focused more on Witch and how she was doing or the way her leg had been feeling since the show. He poked fun here and there at how he’d make sure she didn’t down-play anything to the doc, and that was a decent filler. Fortunately for the both of them the office wasn’t far from her neighborhood; a convenient thing considering how often Witch evidently injured her. He slid the dusty sedan into a close park, being sure to allow enough space on her side to work with between the massive SUVs that were on either side of him. Cutting the engine and hopping out, he walked around to the other side to open her door for her, smiling and offering a hand as if she were a princess exiting a carriage. He tried to keep it light, but he didn’t know if they would end up talking before they reached the waiting room. It was a lot of awkwardness to leave hanging, but a public place wasn’t necessarily the best place to do it. Plus, if they ended up fighting for whatever reason she likely wouldn’t let him go into the room with her; she might even stomp off (or hobble off) and refuse to go in altogether. Waiting for her to adjust herself, his expression became troubled and thoughtful. ”Should we.. talk about it?" he asked hesitantly, his free hand going from the car to the back of his neck as he looked off into the parking lot then refocused his eyes on her face again. He was legitimate in his questioning, but if she didn’t want to talk about it he wasn’t going to pressure her. Not yet anyway; they still hadn’t known each other all that long, so in his opinion the relationship was so undeveloped that it was fragile. Then again, a relationship is only as fragile as its members. He was willing to work for her friendship; who would he be if he couldn’t accept her or talk openly with her about things?
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Post by dessi on Sept 26, 2010 7:58:07 GMT -8
you’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do. Waiting for her oddly attentive nurse to follow her down the stairs, Dessi reminisced on how worried he had seemed to be about her reaction, true, she was as predictable as a hungry, desperate shark (very unpredictable), but for some reason she couldn’t quite bring herself to find a way to explode on him like she would have so many other times before. The color that had flushed his cheeks had successfully swayed her otherwise immovable temper. The fact that a good 80% of her habits and typical reactions changed when she was around him was beginning to worry her. Dessi was a slightly habitual person, it didn’t ever take her long to get into the ‘swing’ of things in a new place, she was versatile enough to allow her personal ideals to stretch just a bit to fit whatever situation or place she was in. Unfortunately, the situation she was slowly finding herself in with Dekker was beginning to completely change her; and Dessi was eventually going to have none of that.
First, she had to find out why she acted differently.
Finally she heard him coming down the stairs, as she watched him closely she studied him, looking for some sort of physical evidence that would have set the ‘changes’ into motion. Sure, he was an eye catcher, but she had met plenty of other head turners and none of them had changed her personality so drastically to the point where she was beginning to question her own integrity and decisions. For the most part, every inch of her instincts were screaming at her to run away, to get as far as she could from the hole that she was digging for herself, but running would be work, and she kind of liked it where it was, so for now she was going to ignore the hole growing beneath her until she hit the bottom. She allowed him to usher her out the door, as things between them fell silent, her mind paced, raced, panicked, and debated.
For the majority of the ride to the doctor’s, she was quiet.
Staring out the window with a stoic air settling in the car. She could tell that he knew something was up, the tension that had suddenly rigged the space between them was the biggest indication that she had of the situation that was about to explode in her face. Sure, she knew that she could only keep it a secret for so long, but she had not really wanted to address it now (or ever if that was an option). Pushing back in her seat, her eyes averted to the building that loomed before them as he pulled into the parking lot. Not necessarily wanting to get out, she sunk down in the seat farther, but accepted the dilemma as he came over to her side and opened the door. Unbuckling herself and grabbing her crutches, she was so focused on her own petty thoughts that she almost missed his question.
A flash of distress in her eyes and body language, but then was gone.
Quickliy putting a leash on her emotions, she replaced the glimmer of fear with a stoic expression. Her once expressive eyes suddenly locked up and grew distant, even the smile on her face didn’t reach her eyes as it usually did, but her tone was kept as light as she could possibly manage as she slid out of the car and onto her crutches, offering Dekker with a more nonchalant (and avoiding) answer than what he was probably looking for, What, my leg? Because I think the doctor’s about to clear this all up for us, though, I suppose if you really want to we can sit here and chit chat about my health, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ll get a human doctor’s opinion on this one, yes? Not leaving him any room to speak, she hobbled to the doctor’s, with her nurse close on her heels.
The remainder of the visit was quiet, as far as conversation between the two went.
A few hours of physical examination determined that she had broken a couple layers of muscle, she was ordered to stay on her crutches and off her horses. As if, but since Dekker was standing there, she had told the doctor she wouldn’t ride until she was better, inwardly crossing her fingers and telling herself ‘when murder is ok, then I’ll not ride my horses’. Getting the prescription for a few pain meds, the pair made their way back to his car, like before he let her back in. So chivalrous. As the car started up and he began to drive her back home, she looked out the window blankly, her mind falling back to the drug issue. Curling up in her seat, with her knees painfully brought to her chest, she leaned forward as far as the seat belt allowed and rested her knees on her chin.
Dessiree knew full well what his question had been about.
Daring herself to look over at him she sighed then uncurled, stretching out her legs on the floor board, shoving the crutches out of the way. With at least twenty minutes of time left, there was no way she could continue running now, the hole was dug, and the trap set. What more was there left to do other than fall into it? Chewing on her lip for a moment she finally broke the silence with a quiet, scared voice, I know what you wanted to talk about…what do you really want to know? Looking back at him, for the first time of the day, she looked less like an adult and more like a sheepish child whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar.
o965 notes: SO MUCH FOR SHORT POSTS, LOL.
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Post by rivalo on Sept 26, 2010 17:26:39 GMT -8
i just shut down there's still too much to learn, just so much to learnDEKKER [/SIZE][/size][/center] Dessi stood up from the passenger seat and he could see the panic on her face for a moment and almost regretted saying anything. He couldn’t just let the tension linger, though, and for a moment he wondered if her discomfort was over the fact that she’d written about drugs or the fact that she’d written about him and had only known him a week. He could understand where her insecurities might come from in regards to both subjects, but which was causing her the most discomfort? Drugs weren’t his subject or object of choice for sure, but if she had gotten past that time in her life he could respect her for that. It might alter his view just a little bit if he knew she’d only recently come out of rehab, especially if he allowed thoughts of her relapsing to enter his mind. Then he might not be able to trust her, even though he didn’t deserve her trust at any point in their still-infant relationship. She composed herself pretty well, but the way she talked about her leg showed she was far more uncomfortable than her expression showed. He let it slide, figuring pushing her about any of it would do more damage than good, especially since he could tell she’d been hurt in far more ways than just drugs. Something led up to that. Something got her as reckless and beautiful as she was, and he didn’t want to run her off.
The got through the doctor’s appointment in one piece even though her leg didn’t, and when she told the doctor she’d do as she was told he almost laughed out loud at her. A grin did cross his face for the first time that day and it was legitimate, lighting up his eyes as he knew exactly what she was surely thinking. ”Like hell I won’t ride my horses.” He got her Rx and sent them out the automatic doors to his Toyota and they were soon on the road again. It was only quiet for a little bit and as she pulled her knees tightly to her chest he wanted to reach out and touch her. He didn’t like this, not one bit, and he subconsciously beat himself over the head with a portable xray machine for having touched her computer at all. They were better off with him being infatuated and her being rambunctious and ignorant to it. She sighed and stretched back out again, and he braced for whatever she would say. Surprisingly her voice was the most subdued and terrified he’d ever heard and he couldn’t help but clench his jaw and look straight ahead for several moments. He didn’t want her terrified, he didn’t want her so upset. He wanted to forget it, to put the fire back in her voice. He glanced at her and was struck by her expression; she was terrified of what he might ask. Him having feelings for her wouldn’t terrify her so much; she would more likely poke fun at him for it and tease him endlessly, enjoying watching him blush like a teenager. This was about the drugs.
He pulled over carefully even though they only had another twenty minutes of driving and left the car idling well off the shoulder and into the grass of the interstate. He unbuckled, turning to look her in the face and let the silence stretch between them. He studied her, his blue eyes searching her terrified ones before he decided to answer her question. ”Are you using now?” he asked neutrally, trying to hide the effort it took not to touch her or how much it hurt to see her coiled like an injured child in his passenger seat. He had to know, though, especially if he wanted to try making something more of their developing friendship down the road. He wouldn’t be happy if she was, not at all, but he wanted to help if she was in fact still messing with the stuff. It would explain why she was so small (even though he hadn’t looked at it that way before) and he hoped his perception of her wouldn’t be changed by her answer. The air conditioner whirred quietly in the background, the occasional semi roaring past followed with the quiet whoosh of smaller vehicles. He studied her closely, trying to keep from getting distracted by the impulse to comfort her. [/SIZE][/blockquote]
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Post by dessi on Sept 26, 2010 20:02:42 GMT -8
you’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do. Once upon a time, Dessi had anything and everything she had ever hoped, wished, and dreamed of in life. A bright and young bouncy little girl at the tender age of fourteen, wide eyed and bushy tailed, ready to step foot into high school for the first time; she was about to enter an era in which books, shows, and other various mediums had been based off of. A place where adolescent dreams and nightmares formed, a breeding ground for sex, white lies, and alibis was created. Dessi was ready, armed to the teeth to make all the right decisions. All throughout elementary and middle school she had listened to the anti-drugs, anti-teenage sex programs with an attentive ear. They had given her plenty of weapons to say no with, she knew how to say, do, implement everything and counter any rebuttals.
High school was the war, the classes simply her boot camp.
Her mother had sent her off with brand new everything, but as Dessiree quickly discovered, the scenarios and situations she had been so guarded against were all too real in high school, the actuality of being in that situation quickly overwhelmed her. She had remained ‘sober’ for all of two days before she answered with all the wrong answers to the test of reality. As much as she wishes she could say it, when it really came down to it, Dessi was not as strong as she presented herself as, in all honesty, she’s just a really great actress. As flawlessly demonstrated with Dekker, Dessi’s more than capable of seamlessly covering up her emotional tracks. When the peer pressure band wagon pulled up to her locker and asked if she’d like to get on or say no, she got on for the ride.
The ride lasted nearly five years.
Somehow, while she was shooting up behind the bleachers out by the football field in between classes, finding her way into various boy’s pants (popular and the nobodies), she found the time to maintain straight b’s. Not having overly pushing parents, they were just pleased that their seemingly perfect daughter was maintaining an acceptably passing grade and somehow balanced her busy ‘social’ life. Her parents were painfully oblivious to the illegal activities their daughter was up to for four years, they even watched her happily march across the stage and accept her diploma (with an unclear future), they were just happy to see her graduate, that she had stood the ‘test’ of peer pressure (which she didn’t).
It was a beautiful, sunny day out the day her life ended.
Her parents had been out of town, and Dessi was never one to do her drugs in the house or anywhere near her house, but she had missed going out with her friends that morning, and was crashing, crashing fast. She needed to shoot up, and her ‘rule’ was ignored as she pulled out a pre-prepared syringe and practically sprinted to the bathroom. Unfortunately, as she leaned into the mirror and poked around the scars for her vein, she did not hear her parent’s car drive up and hear them walk in. She had left the bathroom door wide open; an invitation for them to come in, her mother saw her first.
If Dessi could even comprehend how her mother had felt that instant, it would probably make her wish she could take back all her bad decisions even more.
The only thing she saw in her mother’s eyes was disapproval, no compassion or honest desire to fix the problem. That was the moment she watched her mom throw all her stuff out on the lawn, the second her mother threw all her syringes and needles in the fireplace and lit the artificial fire. Her father, a naturally passive man, simply followed her hot-natured mother around as she kicked their daughter out. The entire time, Dessi was begging for her to help her, telling her how sorry she was. The last thing she could remember her mother saying was drowned out by the sound of a door slamming shut on her. For two hours, Dessi sat in the yard and cried, then panicked when she realized night was coming, and that she needed to get drugs, and get them quick (or get to rehab).
That last memory, the one of the door slamming in her face, had become the driving force for the rest of her life.
Such memories she had worked hard to keep tucked neatly under her mattress, out of sight out of mind. However, the recent week, story, and Dekker’s dramatic appearance in her life had made her slowly delve into the painful thoughts and emotions that she thought she had gotten rid of. Obviously, she had done a worse job at abolishing her emotions than she thought. Dekker pulled the car over to the side of the road, was he about to kick her out and tell her to walk home? That wouldn’t be the first time someone abandoned her, she figured she could pull her shirt down far enough and get a decent ride back into town if he did kick her out.
Though, she wouldn’t blame him if she did.
Dessi was her biggest adversary, criticizing everything she did, demeaning herself whenever she had the chance, reminding her that everything she felt deep inside was all her fault; condescendingly scolding herself for thing that she might have found an understanding friend in Dekker. After all, wasn’t everyone just looking for someone? Dessi thought her parents had been her pillar, that summer day it had become painfully clear that they were just the cracked foundations for something grater. She didn’t even want to look him in the eye, for fear that she’d see the truth that she’d wanted to see for a long time. She wanted someone to actually tell her she was a bad person; her mother never said it, the councilors at rehab never said it. So while Dessi told herself that she was a bad person every day, she could only convince herself so much. The first step to healing was denial, but she had completely bypassed the denial and launched herself straight into acceptance, then manipulated it into blame.
Was she using any now?
Save for the drugs she had just been prescribed, after she checked herself into rehab, she had sworn that if she ever did drugs again, she’d pray that next shoot up was the one that finally killed her. Sinking into the seat, she brushed aside the dark hair on her neck that she kept around it to hide the scars and lifted her chin. Closing her eyes she pointed to the biggest one running along where her jugular was (the others were in various spots when she missed), her voice was quiet, meek, No, heroin’s not something adults should play with; I found that out the hard way. She dropped her hair back down and finally looked at him, suddenly holding her gaze steady, and the false strength slipping back into her voice, Four years. Until I came to my senses and went to rehab. Came to her senses…more like none of her friends would give her heroin for free.
Such was the problem with befriending (and only befriending) drug dealers.
1215 notes: today just isn’t a short post day for ashie.
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Post by rivalo on Sept 27, 2010 10:18:03 GMT -8
i just shut down there's still too much to learn, just so much to learnDEKKER [/SIZE][/size][/center] Her discomfort was almost tangible as it wavered through the small atmosphere of the car’s cabin, and his tension at what he might say wasn’t helping matters any. He wasn’t panicking or anything of the sort; he was worried, unsure of what kind of difference this would make to himself. A few hours ago Dessiree Pearson was a wild child with a big attitude he had a head over heels feeling for, and now she was sitting like a wounded animal in his passenger seat talking about drugs. Being as sheltered as he was he hadn’t ever had to deal with drugs or those who did them so directly; he’d seen users in college, but never up close and personal. Just enough to build enough disgust for them he didn’t want to look any closer. Dessi, though, was a different story. He wanted her, he’d gotten to know her a little, and it all was a bit much for him to take in at one time. How could he want her after he’d spent so much time looking down on people who did drugs for so long? Her answer, he would have to wait for her answer..
His blue eyes wavered as she sank further down, he looked to his lap and then out the front windshield, one hand gripping the steering wheel a little tighter and the other arm leaning against the headrest of his seat. When his eyes returned to her face, she was moving her hair, showing him scars he’d never noticed before. That he’d never been looking for. Her words were a relief to a certain extent, but the physical evidence was so much that he sighed, keeping one hand on the wheel and the other brought up to run a hand through his hair as the strain of seeing it struck his gut with a heavier pain than he’d thought possible. He said nothing and she covered it up again, her voice stronger now even though he wasn’t looking at her.
Four years. Four God-forsaken years she’d been doing the damage to herself before she quit. His gaze was trained on the front window but it was obvious he wasn’t really seeing out of it. His jaw stayed clenched and he slowly lowered himself back to a normal sitting position. As his jeans settled back into the seat he exhaled slowly and unclenched his jaw, closing his eyes for a moment and then slowly put the car back in drive. It idled a little more restlessly now, but he kept his foot on the brake pedal. He turned to look at her, his expression guarded and sad, a little tinge of disappointment and relief mingling in it amongst other things. He would never get over the way her dark eyes seemed like windows to her troubled soul, but he kept that little thought to himself. ”Okay.” he said finally, accepting her words and releasing his foot from the break. He checked over his shoulder and gradually picked up speed to slip rapidly back ionto the intersate. It took the small car a few moments to get back to the speed limit, but in no time they were whirring down the road again.
He checked his mirrors, putting a left blinker on to get back into the middle lane of the three lane highway and settled into silence. She more than likely wouldn’t let him leave it at that, but he was having a hard time at the moment. So much distaste for the practice of drug use was instilled in him, but the fact that she’d picked herself up and become as successful as she had was worth respecting he supposed. It was just a lot to digest at one time. What if she relapsed? How long had it been since she’d gotten her last high? Surely it had been some time; she couldn’t possibly write successful books and be indulging in the monster at the same time.
Would this change his view of her? Should he be suspicious of what she might do? Was this why she was so reckless with her well-being, not minded at all what might happen to her? This thought frustrated him and his lips pursed for a moment, but for all she knew it could have been because a sleek little sports car had just cut him off to dart across the lanes and into the exit lane. He only watched it for a moment; his guilty pleasure in automobiles was far from his mind at the moment. Dessi swam relay races through his mind and his hands tightly gripped the wheel as they gradually made their way back to her home. He knew this wasn’t the end of the conversation, far from it, but at the moment he just didn’t know what else to say. He accepted that she wasn’t using, he was relieved - almost elated in a way - but he wasn’t used to handling this kind of thing. Was he supposed to ask how she made it? How it started? What it felt like? Did he even want to know more than that? Should he pretend the conversation never happened? This was something he couldn’t avoid; it was a part of her, regardless of what he thought, and always would be something he would have to deal with when it came to her. What should he do now? [/SIZE] comments: OMFG i know, he said one word. literally. >.< -bashes dekker in the head-[/blockquote]
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Post by dessi on Sept 27, 2010 15:39:46 GMT -8
you’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do. If someone asked Dessi when the last time she talked to her mother was, she’d idly reply that it had been a while. If someone asked Dessi what her last ‘fond’ memory of her family was, she’d ignore them. Any good memories of the last few years with her family had been burned away by the bitterness of the only memory that she held onto. There was rarely a night that went by when she did not lay in bed staring up at the ceiling and watching the fan as it turned, with that last moment as the hard hand of her mother’s morals and law closed the door in her face and turned her back on the child she had carefully raised from a newborn. Somehow, the concept of simply throwing away eighteen years of hard work was not something Dessi could understand, but then again, she knew how her parents looked down on the drug users and drug abusers of the world.
Their daughter had joined the legion of filthy scum clogging up the gutters of the streets and crowing the cemeteries with their over-dosed bodies.
Their view was shared with how most of the world thought of the drug users, and by the silence and his lack of desire to look at her now, and his one worded reply, Dessi could tell that Dekker thought the same way. For some reason, his reluctance to further the conversation hurt more than anyone else’s disgust in her (or did he really despise her as she was believing he did?). Perhaps she just allowed herself to be so wounded by this simply because she had fooled herself into believing that she deserved someone nicer in her life, someone whose roots was not in drugs or the corrupted white-collar working world. Fate may as well have punched her in the face and kicked her in the gut while she was down.
Still, she had already started to detach herself the second he asked the question.
She had been mentally preparing herself for another failed friendship, she’d be left back on the road she had started on many times before, wandering through life looking for someone to understand (not care, mind you, caring only lead to trouble in her views). She had already accepted the fact that there’d be a lot of trial and error before she got it right, jumping ahead of herself, she had already added Dekker to the ‘failed’ list, the successor of many other failures, just another dark chapter in her history of trying to ‘get it right’. Biting her lip, she held back the tears as his continued silence told her everything she felt she needed to know. She felt so small in a big, cruel world. Looking out the window as he eased them back to traffic, she prayed they didn’t have much farther to go, not so sure how much longer she’d be able to hold herself together.
Her emotions were bursting at the seams, begging to be cut loose.
If she were a different person, she’d probably already started to cry, but after she had sucked it up like a big kid after sitting on her parent’s lawn for three or four hours, she had told herself that would be the last time she’d let herself cry over something so ‘silly’. Still, that did not mean that she had completely ruled out crying over things all together, rather. She would never cry where someone could see, and Dekker was the last person she’d show weakness to. Her reactions to his questions had already been enough weakness; she didn’t need to suffer any more casualties to her pride. However, as she looked out the window, shielding her face from him, as she leaned her forehead on the window, a few tears escaped her eyes. Raising a hand to her pale and defeated face, she wiped them away before he could notice.
The rest of the ride was as quiet as it had been when they were going to the doctor.
When he pulled onto her street, she had already unbuckled and unlocked the door, ready to jump out and run away before he could even park. As his car’s tires pulled up into her driveway and the Toyota slid to a stop, she opened the door and grabbed the prescription order and her crutches and practically leapt out of the car. Holding the car door open with her body she looked down at him and put on a plastic smile to cover the anguish and startling realization that if he didn’t like drugs, or people that wasted their lives with the substances, then there’d be nothing for them in the future.
Dessi was no ‘educated’ woman, but previous experiences had taught her a hard-learned lesson that she’d rather die than forget.
Her voice was strained as she struggled to hold herself together. That carefully created mask had finally generated a few more cracks than she could handle. This time though, she didn’t think writing a few words and watching the experience grow into another success story would fix it; regardless, she knew she’d have to push on, and she was going to start that right now, with another attempt at severing the ties that kept her rooted for Dekker. Thanks for everything, you’ve been a great help, I really do appreciate it, that and the time you’ve wasted. Though, I’m on the fast track to recovery, so I don’t think you’ll need to keep coming back. Didn’t really plan on you finding out about the drugs so soon, I like to establish something a bit more before I spring that surprise, but hey, she offered him a weak smile, I can’t control everything, now can I? I’ll see you at the barn then, yeah? And in case you’re wondering, I only spent a few months in rehab before I got out shortly after my nineteenth birthday, it was a late present to myself. She took a step back and teetered on her crutches, not sure whether she should just go in her house now or make sure he got out of the driveway quickly.
Whatever it was, she hoped it was quick, her defenses were falling down and internally, she was already dying.
1o48 notes: ;___; for some reason, this post made me sad xD
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Post by rivalo on Sept 27, 2010 16:27:04 GMT -8
i just shut down there's still too much to learn, just so much to learnDEKKER [/SIZE][/size][/center] The silence was stretching out to a point that it seemed to be too thin to even be present. The monotonous drown of repetitive music seemed to disappear and only a vague humming was present in his ears as his mind reeled over the information newly presented to him. If he weren’t such a guy he might have noticed her head pressed against the glass, the way her body was so tightly wound she might have fallen to pieces if he’d reached over to comfort her, and the way she reached up to wipe tears of despair out of her eyes. If he wasn’t such a guy he’d realize he was only making matters worse and pushing her away from him. He might have realized how close he was coming to losing her completely and that she may in fact have the same feelings for him as he had forming for her. His thoughts were quite different than what Dessiree might have imagined; he was going over things in his head, trying to imagine her stabbing needles into her veins and being in such conditions as the pitiful people he’d occasionally seen throughout his life. He was trying to imagine being so tied to something and coming off it, supposedly it was like quitting cigarettes or weaning a baby off a bottle, but the baby as a vampire and the bottle full of blood. Supposedly it was like a lifeline due to the feeling it offered. He wondered at her state of mind, of how it was she’d gotten this far and he hadn’t known at all. He wondered if someone could actually get over that kind of thing.
Then, sooner than he even had time to comprehend, he had the car in park and with a confused blink he realized her door was open and she was in her driveway, prescription already latched tightly in one hand and the crutches he’d gotten her in the other. Her voice cut into his ears and he turned blue eyes to face her dark ones. She never looked so worn as right now, and the things she was saying completely caught him off guard. Was she... breaking up with him? They’d never been together, but he couldn’t help but feel like she was severing (or attempting to sever) whatever had kept them tied together so far. Whether that be a forming friendship or a budding relationship he wasn’t sure, but she was sure as hell standing at his car trying to get him the hell off of her property. It showed, too, though, that it wasn’t something she originally wanted. She didn’t want him gone and he knew it; he wasn’t about to let her push him right out of her life when he’d only just met her.
Anger was the first thing to hit his brain and it showed on his face just a little, his skin reddening and brow furrowing as he cut the engine rather roughly before jumping out and getting to the other side before she could limp off. He walked somewhat calmly around the car, but tension was apparent in his clenched jaw and tightened fists. He stopped a respectable distance so that she couldn’t hit him if she felt so inclined, but placed a hand on the hood of his car and the other on top of his head. ”Dessiree Pearson, I know you are not trying to shove me out of your life right now.” he said sternly, almost as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And what was her point about rehab? Was that supposed to tell him something? Push him away more now that she seemed to think he thought her nothing more than a chunk of manure out of Witch’s stall? Make him feel like shit for wondering if she’d been clean long and if it would last? Oh, she made it painfully obvious she had already started blocking him off and planned to push him out anyway. Again, if he were less of a guy he might have seen this coming.
He sighed, letting the frustration out in the only physical way he knew how at the moment. He looked away then back at her shadowed face with hurt and anger now written equally in his eyes. ”Surely you didn’t think my finding out would have me all smiles and everything else, you’ve got to give it a second to set in. So you didn’t mean for me to know yet, whatever, but it doesn’t change the circumstances! I’m not going anywhere, God dammit, not until we talk this out!” he exclaimed almost desperately; she was a strong minded woman and if she wanted him gone she could make it happen, even if it was only for a day or two to let her calm down. But he wasn’t about to walk away from her. No, that was the furthest thing from his mind. ”All that matters to me is that you aren’t using now.” he said, gesturing with his hand in her direction to emphasize the ‘now.’ His eyes searched hers for signs of understanding, of anger, stubbornness, of anything other than the crushing betrayal she seemed to be feeling in regards to himself. How could he have been so stupid? Didn’t he know that people with her background naturally demeaned themselves to the point of self-destruction, and without support could relapse tenfold in a matter of minutes? What had he done now? He took a step closer to her, pleading with his entire self to her. ”Do you understand anything that I’m saying to you right now?” he asked her, frustrated about the whole thing. Surely she should understand what it took for a basically sheltered country boy to realize and accept that the woman he had one of a kind feelings for was a former addict with all kinds of complexes. Shouldn’t she? He wanted to know her pain, he wanted to shoulder it for her, he wanted her to go back to being rambunctious and mean, he wanted to take her inside and let her tell him all about it.
He wanted her to trust him, and he wanted most of all to understand.
After everything they’d been through today, wasn’t that the least he could do for her? For himself? [/SIZE] comments: IT MADE ME SAD TOO! D:[/blockquote]
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Post by dessi on Sept 27, 2010 19:17:17 GMT -8
you’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do. Scars. Funny how when she was younger with less of a complex than she has now, she thought that scars were cool, a symbol of how she was thumbing her nose at the oppression that the government had everyone under; the idea that drugs were taboo, something that no one should dare touch and if you did you were no better than the dirtiest rat with the most lice. In fact, her ‘kind’ may as well not even be worthy to lick the dirt from the poorest man’s filthy foot. There was an innate thrill that every new addict felt, it was that feeling that no one could conquer you, that you alone stood on top of the world, there was no force in heaven or hell that could topple you.
Until you needed another dose to get you high again.
Dessiree was no stranger to the ups and downs of addiction. But the thing that truly kept her coming back for more was the lack of control she had when she started to hit rock bottom. Wasn’t that the ‘hook’ of drugs though? Spiraling out of control after that first high and needing more, there was that fear of no control that took every budding addict by the throat and threatened to choke them out. It was that fear that kept her going back for more. Though, perhaps if she had been a different person when she hit the wall of withdrawal, she might have let the brief moment of no control pass and say ‘ok, there’s limits, and I don’t like that feeling’, but she would not have become the Dessi she was known as know if she had ever submitted to limits that society had planned out.
Instead, when the sickening feeling hit her, she lost her mind and scraped at the bottom of her piggybank and bought more simply because she needed, wanted, and had to have more.
Withdrawals was something that no addict liked to face (alone or in a group), and Dessi was no exception to the rule. When the dark face of addiction loomed over her, she tucked her tail between her legs and scurried back to her dealer as quickly as she could for another hit. While she sometimes had to wait six to eighteen hours before the dreaded withdrawal set in, there were times as she got deeper into the drug where it only took a couple hours before she was right back at it with a needle in her vein slamming herself with the drug. While she managed to control her addiction for most of her high school career, she found that senior year was the worst as far as her addiction standards went.
How she managed to balance school and heroin was a mystery to both her and her addict friends.
Biting her tongue she jumped slightly at the sound of his engine shutting off, part of her wondered what he was about to do as he practically leapt out of his car then calmly buy briskly walked over to where she was standing, slightly blocking her way to her front door. She gazed over his shoulder and decided that any break for home she tried to make would simply be stopped; a trapped rat would be the only way to describe how she felt. Fiddling with the paper in her hands, she recognized the anger in his eyes and body language, and part of her was scared, part of her was ready to whack whim with a crutch if needed. Though deep down she knew he wouldn’t physically harm her (but it was always nice to be prepared). Her eyes studied his posture, eyeing his balled up fists and clenched jaw; wondering what she had done to anger him.
What could she have said when she was just trying to keep him from getting in too deep into a situation where most people ran away from?
Obviously that’s where her powers of understanding other people stopped, automatically putting them in comparison to other people she had met in the past and automatically assuming that their actions would mirror many other’s actions before her. The sting of betrayal had left her jaded and numb, reluctant to trust. Perhaps if he had met her earlier in her life, she’d be much more eager to jump right into a friendship or relationship, but it seems he came just a little too late. After all, what was that age old adage? Hurt me once shame on you, hurt me twice shame on me? And as long as she had the powers to do so, she’d never live to tell the tale where being hurt was her fault. Or maybe she just didn’t want to have another thing to blame herself for.
She could only take so much.
The second he sighed frustratingly and started to talk, she could see that he just cared, and that scared her more than the anger. Curling up inside and shrinking away, her mind inevitably drew her back to times where she had thought she’d met people that actually cared, but she had found that when it came down to the stretch, no one cared. Not her mother, her father. Not her non-addict ‘friends’. Not her addict friends. Not even a few of her friends she had made at rehab. It seems that in a world of generosity, she had somehow weeded out the selfish ones and called them her own; save for this one time. However, as much as she wished she could believe instantly, she was hesitant to trust. She looked sheepish as he scolded her like a little child for simply trying to take the easy way out and just get rid of him. He had hit the nail on the head; every fiber of her being was begging her to give it a chance.
But second chances had been given before, and they had all ended badly.
He scolded her for thinking that telling him about her addiction later on would have changed things, but worst of all he wanted to talk about it. No one had ever wanted to talk about it, save for the councilors at rehab, but it was their job, and no one was paying Dekker (as far as she knew) to play therapist with her. Rocking back on her crutches she felt her throat swell closed as tears of anger threatened to ruin her composure. She was angry at him, angry at herself, angry at the past, angry at the present, angry at the drugs, but mostly angry at herself for even allowing any of this to happen. She had been ‘happy’ before she had met him; her life had been as good as a post-addiction addict’s life could be. Sure, there was that occasional thought of ‘well maybe I could try it again just this once’, but she had learned her lesson. Dessi’s attention was back on him as he asked if she understood what he wanted, meekly shrugging her shoulders, she failed to respond.
She was too busy gathering her thoughts and words on what to do next.
Dekker was most certainly throwing her a few hard balls, and she was simply taking longer to react. Finally, after a few seconds of quiet reconciliation, she looked at him square in the eye, her jaw hardening, and her gaze growing cold, almost angry (though she knew she shouldn’t be) at his desire to ‘care’, throwing her hands up and leaning against his car she exploded in a torrent of locked up emotion, Well what the hell am I supposed to do?! I’ve tried being honest about it up front, that backfired! I’ve tried waiting a few days, and that backfired! What the hell was I supposed to do when everyone I thought I’ve ever needed ended up leaving me alone? How am I supposed to know that every new person I meet is going to be different from the next when plenty of people before you have done what the person before them did? I can only offer so many second chances, but I’ve found I’m much safer this way.
Setting her jaw, she figured outside was not the best place to ‘talk’ about it.
Dragging her crutches with one hand, she hobbled by and grabbed his arm with the other, ushering him into her house. She could yell louder in her house if she wanted. Closing the door behind them she balanced back on her crutches, taking the weight off of her leg that now pulsed in pain, she gazed at him for a second before spitting back at him, Ok, fine. You want to talk about it? Start asking questions. Tired of running and lying, she might as well be willing to give him a chance, what did she have to lose other than another important person in her life?
1485 notes: fuuu. What ever happened to my short posts? D: I so sorry they got long xD
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Post by rivalo on Sept 28, 2010 9:31:56 GMT -8
i just shut down there's still too much to learn, just so much to learnDEKKER [/SIZE][/size][/center] He had to admit he was out of his element on this one; he’d never had to handle a situation quite like this much less played such a direct role in another person’s state of mind. Sure, he’d been pretty damn important in his parents’ eyes, but that wasn’t the same and far off from what he and Dessi had going. If he couldn’t get his point across, if he couldn’t make her understand he didn’t want to go anywhere, he wasn’t sure what he would do from here. The chips were fully on her end of the craps table, so it was up to her to decided whether or not she wanted to put her bets on him. As his exasperation became apparent to her he watched her shrink back just a little, her expression pained and vulnerable before turning to some mild form of sheepishness. Was he hitting home with her? Was he only making it worse? Did he have any hope of being in this woman’s life at this point? In reality he supposed he didn’t have to try diving into her world without looking back; he could always walk away and make it easier on himself and potentially his family in the long run and find some other girl to call his own. Some girl who wasn’t a physically and mentally scarred former addict who would compliment him and not feel inclined to act recklessly and be indifferent to what could happen to her.
But, alas, it wasn’t what he wanted to do. The second he walked through her front door again (because he fully intended to) he knew there would be no turning back. Whether they simply were friends or something more, he knew he was making a choice to stand by and help Dessi through the pain she evidently suffered constantly. No, as he looked at her expressive face and his defenses crumbled in a dusty heap on the ground he knew he would stay with her no matter what. So, as she set her jaw and looked suddenly back at him he let stubbornness stick toughly to himself and he glared determinedly back. Surprisingly, she didn’t say a word and instead he could see the tears building in her angry eyes and the frustration becoming obvious as her body tensed and fists clenched. Then, leaning against the car so suddenly it actually moved just a bit, she flung her hands in the air in a defeated manner and proceeded to simply explode at him. At that moment he realized it likely hadn’t been a good idea to start up in the driveway surrounded by prying neighbors’ eyes and ears, but he made no move to head indoors. It wasn’t his call.
What she had to say (or yell, rather) was heartbreaking to hear, and he thought again of people like her he’d avoided in the past. All one of them needed was maybe for someone to say they cared and to stick around; could he have made a difference in one of their lives? He didn’t know if he’d make a difference to Dessi, but the fact that she was so raw about everything showed him she’d been betrayed one too many times. He could understand, now, why she wouldn’t want him to know and why she might want him to leave her alone. He could understand, yes, but it wasn’t something he was happy with hearing anyway. He couldn’t believe she was so willing to just give up, but he hadn’t walked in her shoes or seen what she’d seen in her life. The frustration in her voice and the hurt which lined every syllable was almost more than he could take himself, but before he had the opportunity to walk away for a moment or even react at all she suddenly grabbed his arm somewhat roughly (obviously not all that rough to him) and proceeded to drag him as effectively as she could towards her front door.
Surprise was fleeting, but he was somewhat glad she realized the outdoors weren’t the best place for a fight (even if he had started it). Especially for living in the suburbs. She slung him in and shut the door loudly before proceeding to bark angrily at him about asking questions. He was facing into her living room and so turned, hands placed on his hips now to look at her with no words to offer. His eyes narrowed and he figured up how to say what he was thinking without yelling and making matters worse. Obviously she was frustrated and confused, but the way she was leaning heavily against her crutches gave him a way to avoid her nasty attitude towards everything and throw her off. ”How about we get you off your feet first, and then you can talk to me.” He said with a somewhat sarcastic smile. Hesitantly at first, his larger hand reached out in her direction palm up, inviting her to take his hand in more ways than just one. He didn’t just want to elevate her leg and get some pain meds in her; he wanted her to accept the possibility that he might not go anywhere. He wanted her to take his hand so they could both calm down and hopefully start communicating instead of yelling at one another. For whatever reason he seriously doubted Dessi would be jumping at this option, so keeping his hand extended he looked away to gather his thoughts and then returned a much softer gaze to her face.
”Listen, Des,” he began gently, his tone much calmer and quieter than before. ”I’m not going to pretend I know what you’ve been through, and I’m not going to sugar coat it and tell you everything is just fine by me and we should go... back some damn cookies or something.” he said with a roll of his eyes and brandishing towards the kitchen as if that had been a serious consideration. With a sigh, ”All I’m saying is that I want a chance. It’s always easier to push everyone away and try protecting your heart the only way you know how, but if you’re as tough as you make out to be what’s giving me a chance, the same as you gave everyone else, going to harm? Seems fair to me.” he said with a shrug, his eyes devoid of any anger he’d been feeling before and instead was replaced with the hope that she would accept. Another moment of silence, ”Please?” he asked, offering up a small legitimate smile to try and give her some kind of adorable face, like puppies do that always seem to make women drop their guard. Damn puppies.
comments: THASOKAY. :] [/SIZE][/blockquote]
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Post by dessi on Sept 28, 2010 17:58:15 GMT -8
you’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do. There were the party addicts, the ones who only dared to try drugs at parties and parties only. There were the addicts who got high to remember better times. There were the addicts who got high to forget better times. Then there were the hopeless addicts who had no true grasp on what they wanted in life, so they simply devoted it to the one thing they knew; drugs. Dessi wasn’t a party addict (though she may have been better off if she was), she wasn’t getting high to bring back fond memories, nor was she in it to forget pain. Instead, she just went about creating her own pain to remember and forget. Without truly thinking about it, Dessiree purposely alienated herself from the world, and when she hit rock bottom, she finally looked around to see who would throw her a ladder to help her out, only to find that they had all climbed out a long time ago.
Funny how time flies and things go right under one’s nose when high.
Dekker had most willingly followed her into her house, and suddenly Dessi felt exposed, vulnerable. He was within her own domain, in her heart and soul, the one place she spent almost as much time as the barn, her house was a part of her, and she had already let him in several times; even if he didn’t realize it. So then perhaps cutting the ties to him would be much harder (and much more painful) than planned. Sure, if someone wanted to emotionally hurt her more than she already was, all they had to do was take her horses away, but if someone wanted to destroy her, all they had to do was destroy her house and all the small memories of better times she had placed within it. After she had gotten out of rehab, her first priority had been finding a ‘home’, a place where she could dwell within and be herself without the scrutinizing opinion of the public to sway her choices. As he extended hand in her direction, the message was clear.
He really cared. Really cared. Cared.
Care. It had been such a taboo word in her life, simply because care had done nothing but backfire in her face like an incorrectly loaded gun (or something else volatile). However, the longer he stayed, the more she began to realize that he wasn’t going anywhere, and obviously there was nothing she could say (but she assumed there was whole lot she could do) to get him out of her life; and she was beginning to slowly accept this fact. While total recovery would be a long road, at least she was on the road to somewhere good for once. The point he was making as he spoke to her was clear; there’d be no easy way out this time. Once again, she recognized, acknowledged and accepted this fact. True, she had spent a long time running away from the problem and taking the easy way out. The times the pain became too much, she’d simply write up a few thousand words, compress them into a few hundred pages, send it off to her editor in an emotional package then watch the fame grow.
Yes, for a few years now, Dessiree Pearson had used the general public as a way to blindly cope with the rejection.
Some authors detested the love and adoration they got from their younger fans, but Dessi danced in the spotlight, she’d do all sorts of tricks and back flips for them if they asked; simply because that meant they’d love her even more, and love was something she’d lost a long time ago and had yet to get back. She had come to a point in her life where all she was doing was constantly searching for something that appeared to always be within her sights but always just out of her needy, greedy grasp. Looking at his extended hand, she quickly decided that she didn’t want to be comfortable if she was going to spill just about everything she’d kept locked up, being comfortable would lull her into a fake sense of security; a level of trust she wasn’t about to submit herself to (even though she was trusting him enough with precious information about herself).
Instead of taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the couch she threw her crutches down and crumpled down on the floor, looking up at his puppy dog face, hoping he’d realize she wasn’t trying to get him out of her life anymore.
Instead, she reached up and grabbed his hand, tugging him down to her level. He told her that if she was as tough as she seemed, it was about time to start acting like it; but if only he knew she wasn’t as tough as she acted. She wasn’t tough at all, she was just turning a blind eye to her consequences…but she’d let him figure that out on his own. Curling a knee up to her chest and resting her chin on it she gazed at him, not really sure where to start. Leaning forward she picked at the hall carpet beneath her, pulling up threads and flicking them aside, trying to figure out where would be a ‘good’ place to start. She could always start from when she started the drugs, but that story was boring, and through the years she’d fabricated it so much through her books, she wasn’t sure if she was capable of giving him an unedited version.
Her mind finally ran across a memory that she might as well get through, since it’d be bound to show up sooner or later.
Biting her lip she looked away from her carpet and to his face, her gaze unwavering as she said, Judging by the fact that you went to college, I’d assume your parents loved you a lot, yeah? Do anything for you, try anything just to help you. That is what parents are supposed to do, right? I guess mine just didn’t get the memo. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they fucking loved me up until after I graduated. Hell, my mother was spewing all kinds of lies about her daughter, how I was going to go to college and become a well educated white-collar working woman who’d one day become the CEO of some important company, and I wanted to be that image that she had made in her mind of me…but I wasn’t, I’d come to terms with that fact the first day I shot up. She sighed then cracked a bitter smile; her tone included the emotion, Was I upset with myself throughout high school that I simply let my mother’s imagination run wild and put me on a gold pedestal with expectations that I’d never reach? No. Her happiness wasn’t one of my chief concerns, maybe when I was sober it was; but I was rarely sober, so her happiness wasn’t important to me… She dropped all animosity and asked herself out loud, Am I ashamed of it now, four years down the road?
She let the silence set in for climactic effect (just the perks of being a writer).
Hell no, but I suppose if certain circumstances had been different, I’d regret that part of the drugs every day of my life. What you have to understand, Dekker. Is that I thought that to throw away eighteen years of pride and joy was something that was damn near impossible for a proud parent, but the day my mom walked in on me shooting up in the bathroom of her house was the day I was proved wrong. She laughed coldly and fell onto her back, looking up at the ceiling, fighting the tears, My dad was always a passive man. I guess I get my stubborn from my mom, her fierce nature musta burned whatever kindness my dad could have given me, but I’ll never forget either of their faces that day. My mom didn’t even say a word, she just turned around and stormed off to my room and began ripping all of my clothes out of the drawers and off of hangers and chucking them out of the house. By the time I had the chance to realize what was going on, she had stripped my room of anything that could have possibly made it mine and thrown it on the lawn.
Dessi felt a few tears seep out of the corners of her eyes; she lifted a hand and wiped them away.
The only other person she had ever talked about this to was, well. No one. The only thing her councilors at rehab had really been concerned about was why she had started the drugs, not what had happened to get her there, so they didn’t ask and she didn’t answer. Four years of bitter emotion locked up; it could only all go so well. But Dessi knew that she needed this. In fact, she felt like she needed a lot of things. She needed a friend, she needed to talk about it, she needed a helping hand, she needed, needed, needed, she also wanted a hug. But the last thing she was going to do was meekly crawl across the floor and hug someone she’d only know for a week and a half (but she hadn’t completely ruled it out). My dad, he looked like he wanted to say something so bad, but he just followed my mom around like a confused puppy and my mom, deaf to me and whatever I said. If I counted out the times I said sorry right now, we’d be here a good hour or so; because I apologized as much as I possibly could. As she dragged me towards the door I had basically resorted to begging. The entirety of my situation didn’t kick in until I hit the concrete of the sidewalk. If you didn’t think an older woman could throw someone half way across the lawn, then I’d have to tell you to go meet my mom…if she’d even let you in.
Sitting back up she stared at him, trying to gauge how he was taking in the flood of information, but he had wanted to know, and she wasn’t stopping now, there was little that could stop her anyway.
Sighing she ran a frustrated hand through her hair then snarled, After three hours of sitting on the lawn, I finally came to my senses and realized that I could cry for three years on her stupid property, and she still wouldn’t open the door. And between you and me, that was the last real encounter I had with my parents. Sure, I’ve tried to make things up, sent free copies of all my books, sent a couple paychecks their way, I got the message after the third paycheck got sent back; either they moved and the new people wanted nothing to do with my money or couldn’t deposit the checks, or my parents had kicked me off of the Pearson family tree. Biting her tongue, she held back tears then looked at Dekker and quietly asked, Anything else you’d like for me to talk to you about? Because I’ve got plenty that I’ve never talked to anyone about, that was just one part of what the councilors at rehab didn’t care about. So honestly, if you want to sit here for the next six hours and let me talk your ear off, then I’ll do it. Or, we could go bake cookies while you mull your decision over.
At least she was still giving him chances to run (even though she knew he wasn’t going anywhere).
<____< 1958 notes: OK. SO. fukk. my posts just keep getting longer D: and I did have this post written like…an hour ago, but my internet decided to take a shit.
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