Post by Monique Marie LeSalle on Feb 23, 2010 22:00:01 GMT -5
How long had it been? She had lost count. The days and nights blended together in a sleepless adrenaline-and-coffee induced haze. Combine that with cigarettes and painkillers (among whatever uppers she could come across when she was near falling over), she would fight whoever would piss her off. Every four to five days she'd stumble into her apartment, pass out on the floor, couch or rarely her bed, taking a shower when she woke up, scarfing whatever was in her fridge, then going out to do it again.
Each fight left her weaker and clumsier than the last, ending, finally in the middle of the night. The injuries had cumulated to the point where in the midst of a fight, she lost her knife to her opponent, having it plunge through her upper arm first, then her thigh, before finally coming to rest in her side, covering her with the sticky metallic warmth of blood. It had been a little under a month since she had been told to go away, and by someone that she had come to think of as a friend, much to her chagrin.
As she slid down the wall at the back of the alley, barely noticing the scraping of the bricks against her already battered and throbbing injuries and the solid thunk of a headache building in the back of her head, forcing her pulse loudly through her ears. Somewhere inside of her she knew that to survive she'd need to go to the hospital, but bringing out her phone she couldn't bring herself to dial the necessary emergency numbers. Her finger hovered over the two-key, Matt's position on her speed-dial, then the three, Cupid's place, before skipping down to the next taken position, number five. Striker's old number, the voicemail comforting and familiar to her.
Hitting the number one last time for nostalgia's sake, the familiar message washed over her in a voice she hadn't heard for two years. "Yo, I'm not here to talk vith you, so leave a message and I'll vill try to get back to you. Pretty girls, feel free to talk away, and your call vill be returned." A chuckle here "If you are the boyfriend of a pretty girl, I am probably not the guy you're looking for. Monique, you're a sadistic bitch and you have to come to terms with that. But you know you love me, after all who doesn't, and so all is forgiven. You vill come to terms vith that love eventually. And so I vill, undoubtedly, talk to you later. Goodbye."
Monique lowered her arm and the phone back to her lap, flicking it closed as she did, sighing slowly as everything started feeling heavier. Her head was aching and a lethargy had seeped into her very being, preventing most of the higher thought processes. Still, as she found it harder and harder to breathe, a laugh escaped her. She was tired of life yes, but that didn't mean that she expected it to end in an alley with a knife in her. Which was precisely why she had to pull it out before she passed out.
Gripping the handle, slicking it with the blood that oozed onto her hand, Monique pulled, apparently too hard as she lost the grip on it as soon as the blade was out of her, leaving behind a momentary slice through the numbness that had invaded her, white hot in the chill permeating her and negating all else. As the weapon clattered out into the mouth of the alley, Monique's vision grew dark and she slumped over to the side, closing her eyes for what she figured to be the last time.
***************
As soon as he walked through the doors the scent of antiseptic and bleach washed over him, causing his stern face to twist into momentary distaste. His steps were as crisp as his clothes, a simple button down shirt and jeans, accenting the slight muscles he had accumulated through the years of military type training, and bringing out his sharper facial features. Not many people would guess him to be Monique's brother, as he held nearly a foot on her, and he was much more controlled. Also, where her hair was curly and naturally pure chestnut brown, his was straight and held natural golden tones within the brown hues. Over one arm he held the black leather jacket that Monique was forever stealing, as well as a bag of her personal affects, brought from her room in the States.
As soon as it was known who he was, and why he was there, they were more than prompt in filling him in on the details and leading him to Monique. None of the words really sank in until he saw her there, pale and covered in bandages, hair a mess from the hasty wash it received to get the blood out, with wires stuck to her all over, and nearly as many tubes as wires. The one thing that gave him the most hope was that she was breathing on her own. She just hadn't woken up yet.... and it had been three days.
Walking in by her the crispness seemed to fall off of him, footsteps and his own heartbeat syncing up with the various beeping noises coming off the monitors. As he reached her bedside, he reached out a hand slowly, avoiding the wires and ever so gently stroking her hair then down onto her cheek, the tenderness of a parent and sibling mixed into one. As he looked down at her each of the injuries that had been rattled off seemed to come into focus, into reality.
Fractures to her wrist and ankle were wrapped in braces. There were bruises smattered across what little skin was exposed, the slight rasp to her breathing indicated that ribs were indeed fractured. Various scrapes were on her hands, arms and forehead, and she looked like she hadn't been eating or sleeping before this had happened. The IV was apparently dripping nutrients and pain meds into her. The bruises and scrapes on her face brought the concussion into reality for him, and he could just barely see the edge of the bandages sticking out at the neck of the hospital gown that she was dressed in. He made a mental note to get the nurses to put her in something more Monique-friendly.
From what the doctor had told him none of the injuries had hit anything vital, and she was only on the border of the coma scale, though her through her injuries they had stated that there was no real, medical reason for her to be in a coma. But Matt knew. He had been watching this happen for years and years. He had watched his sister grow colder, older, and deader for years. She didn't want to wake up, so she didn't. He, however, did want her to wake up. It was selfish, knowing all that she had been through, but he couldn't help it. She was his sister, the only family he had left. Was it so wrong for him to want her to stay alive with him?
********
After two days of sleeplessness in the hospital Matt was given back the things Monique had been holding when she was found. A knife, the same one Aiden had given Monique when they were kids. It hadn't been sharp when it had been gifted to her, but it was now. sharp and now mostly clean. Elegant decorated silver folding blade, the engravings on the blade itself detailed in red and blue, with a black base that held similar engravings. The blade had to be four inches, and could do major damage.
The other thing was a cell phone. It was still mostly smeared with blood as well. He pulled it out of the bag it had been delivered in, gingerly holding the device, before opening it and powering it up. First he looked at the recent call logs, and frowning when he saw that he had called Striker's old phone number, presumably to hear his voice again.
After spending several long moments looking at her sadly, he turned to her speed-dial list, and hit the number that came after his. The line on the other end rang for over a minute before clicking over to the voice-mail. After listening to the message and hearing the beep Matt cleared his voice and took a breath, before beginning to speak. "Hello.... You don't know me, and most likely do not even know of me. But that's not important. You know Monique. You're on her speed dial.... and so that leaves two options. One, you're her friend and she cares about you. Two, she just likes to annoy you at her convenience. If it's the former, she needs you here now. Room 2314 at the Hospital De Barcelona. If not, well, sorry for interrupting your day, and have a good one." He hung up now, sighing softly and looking at Monique again.
He dropped the blood coated cell phone on top of the bag holding her knife, then went to wash the blood remnants off of his hands. Drying them he sat in the chair next to his sister's bedside, looking tiredly down at her still unconscious form. Her hair was brushed and she was in her normal pajamas, black and silky long sleeves (which were pushed up to accommodate the IV lines and most of the wires) and pants. She almost looked peaceful. Even if she had bruises and cuts all over. With her fair skin and the curls lying neatly around her shoulders, she looked so similar to their mother that it was uncanny. Albeit it was a gothic rendition of their mother, but still.
Matt stood again after a few moments, and turned on the multimedia player that he had brought, which was being stocked with her CDs, playing loud enough for them to hear, but quiet enough not to disturb anyone else. After that he got another cup of coffee and sat back down, rubbing at his eyes. "What am I gonna do with you kid? You've got to calm down one of these days...." He muttered, settling in for a long, sleepless, wait until she (hopefully) woke up.
Each fight left her weaker and clumsier than the last, ending, finally in the middle of the night. The injuries had cumulated to the point where in the midst of a fight, she lost her knife to her opponent, having it plunge through her upper arm first, then her thigh, before finally coming to rest in her side, covering her with the sticky metallic warmth of blood. It had been a little under a month since she had been told to go away, and by someone that she had come to think of as a friend, much to her chagrin.
As she slid down the wall at the back of the alley, barely noticing the scraping of the bricks against her already battered and throbbing injuries and the solid thunk of a headache building in the back of her head, forcing her pulse loudly through her ears. Somewhere inside of her she knew that to survive she'd need to go to the hospital, but bringing out her phone she couldn't bring herself to dial the necessary emergency numbers. Her finger hovered over the two-key, Matt's position on her speed-dial, then the three, Cupid's place, before skipping down to the next taken position, number five. Striker's old number, the voicemail comforting and familiar to her.
Hitting the number one last time for nostalgia's sake, the familiar message washed over her in a voice she hadn't heard for two years. "Yo, I'm not here to talk vith you, so leave a message and I'll vill try to get back to you. Pretty girls, feel free to talk away, and your call vill be returned." A chuckle here "If you are the boyfriend of a pretty girl, I am probably not the guy you're looking for. Monique, you're a sadistic bitch and you have to come to terms with that. But you know you love me, after all who doesn't, and so all is forgiven. You vill come to terms vith that love eventually. And so I vill, undoubtedly, talk to you later. Goodbye."
Monique lowered her arm and the phone back to her lap, flicking it closed as she did, sighing slowly as everything started feeling heavier. Her head was aching and a lethargy had seeped into her very being, preventing most of the higher thought processes. Still, as she found it harder and harder to breathe, a laugh escaped her. She was tired of life yes, but that didn't mean that she expected it to end in an alley with a knife in her. Which was precisely why she had to pull it out before she passed out.
Gripping the handle, slicking it with the blood that oozed onto her hand, Monique pulled, apparently too hard as she lost the grip on it as soon as the blade was out of her, leaving behind a momentary slice through the numbness that had invaded her, white hot in the chill permeating her and negating all else. As the weapon clattered out into the mouth of the alley, Monique's vision grew dark and she slumped over to the side, closing her eyes for what she figured to be the last time.
***************
As soon as he walked through the doors the scent of antiseptic and bleach washed over him, causing his stern face to twist into momentary distaste. His steps were as crisp as his clothes, a simple button down shirt and jeans, accenting the slight muscles he had accumulated through the years of military type training, and bringing out his sharper facial features. Not many people would guess him to be Monique's brother, as he held nearly a foot on her, and he was much more controlled. Also, where her hair was curly and naturally pure chestnut brown, his was straight and held natural golden tones within the brown hues. Over one arm he held the black leather jacket that Monique was forever stealing, as well as a bag of her personal affects, brought from her room in the States.
As soon as it was known who he was, and why he was there, they were more than prompt in filling him in on the details and leading him to Monique. None of the words really sank in until he saw her there, pale and covered in bandages, hair a mess from the hasty wash it received to get the blood out, with wires stuck to her all over, and nearly as many tubes as wires. The one thing that gave him the most hope was that she was breathing on her own. She just hadn't woken up yet.... and it had been three days.
Walking in by her the crispness seemed to fall off of him, footsteps and his own heartbeat syncing up with the various beeping noises coming off the monitors. As he reached her bedside, he reached out a hand slowly, avoiding the wires and ever so gently stroking her hair then down onto her cheek, the tenderness of a parent and sibling mixed into one. As he looked down at her each of the injuries that had been rattled off seemed to come into focus, into reality.
Fractures to her wrist and ankle were wrapped in braces. There were bruises smattered across what little skin was exposed, the slight rasp to her breathing indicated that ribs were indeed fractured. Various scrapes were on her hands, arms and forehead, and she looked like she hadn't been eating or sleeping before this had happened. The IV was apparently dripping nutrients and pain meds into her. The bruises and scrapes on her face brought the concussion into reality for him, and he could just barely see the edge of the bandages sticking out at the neck of the hospital gown that she was dressed in. He made a mental note to get the nurses to put her in something more Monique-friendly.
From what the doctor had told him none of the injuries had hit anything vital, and she was only on the border of the coma scale, though her through her injuries they had stated that there was no real, medical reason for her to be in a coma. But Matt knew. He had been watching this happen for years and years. He had watched his sister grow colder, older, and deader for years. She didn't want to wake up, so she didn't. He, however, did want her to wake up. It was selfish, knowing all that she had been through, but he couldn't help it. She was his sister, the only family he had left. Was it so wrong for him to want her to stay alive with him?
********
After two days of sleeplessness in the hospital Matt was given back the things Monique had been holding when she was found. A knife, the same one Aiden had given Monique when they were kids. It hadn't been sharp when it had been gifted to her, but it was now. sharp and now mostly clean. Elegant decorated silver folding blade, the engravings on the blade itself detailed in red and blue, with a black base that held similar engravings. The blade had to be four inches, and could do major damage.
The other thing was a cell phone. It was still mostly smeared with blood as well. He pulled it out of the bag it had been delivered in, gingerly holding the device, before opening it and powering it up. First he looked at the recent call logs, and frowning when he saw that he had called Striker's old phone number, presumably to hear his voice again.
After spending several long moments looking at her sadly, he turned to her speed-dial list, and hit the number that came after his. The line on the other end rang for over a minute before clicking over to the voice-mail. After listening to the message and hearing the beep Matt cleared his voice and took a breath, before beginning to speak. "Hello.... You don't know me, and most likely do not even know of me. But that's not important. You know Monique. You're on her speed dial.... and so that leaves two options. One, you're her friend and she cares about you. Two, she just likes to annoy you at her convenience. If it's the former, she needs you here now. Room 2314 at the Hospital De Barcelona. If not, well, sorry for interrupting your day, and have a good one." He hung up now, sighing softly and looking at Monique again.
He dropped the blood coated cell phone on top of the bag holding her knife, then went to wash the blood remnants off of his hands. Drying them he sat in the chair next to his sister's bedside, looking tiredly down at her still unconscious form. Her hair was brushed and she was in her normal pajamas, black and silky long sleeves (which were pushed up to accommodate the IV lines and most of the wires) and pants. She almost looked peaceful. Even if she had bruises and cuts all over. With her fair skin and the curls lying neatly around her shoulders, she looked so similar to their mother that it was uncanny. Albeit it was a gothic rendition of their mother, but still.
Matt stood again after a few moments, and turned on the multimedia player that he had brought, which was being stocked with her CDs, playing loud enough for them to hear, but quiet enough not to disturb anyone else. After that he got another cup of coffee and sat back down, rubbing at his eyes. "What am I gonna do with you kid? You've got to calm down one of these days...." He muttered, settling in for a long, sleepless, wait until she (hopefully) woke up.