Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2013-04-05 04:03 pm
ikissdhimbck) wrote2013-04-05 04:03 pm
Entry tags:
Following Evergreen Mills, in Milliways
Kate wakes up in the stables.
As best as she can tell, her head's trying to do the Argentine Tango and then split clean open. She grimaces against the oppressive light of day, cradling her face in her hands, hay coming out of her hair and every seam of her dirty clothes. She's in one of the vacant stalls, and it's comfortable enough for sleeping — hay retains heat, and be that it ain't a feather bed it's at least warm enough against the late March chill — she just can't remember how she got here.
Oh, wait. That's right.
Evergreen Mills.
She entered not long after Miss Ellen last night, headed for a quiet corner of the Bar where she could think, and then — nothing. Bourbon. Lots of bourbon, judging by the taste in her mouth, and through some arrangement of events she can't quite recall she ended up here. Hungover and confused.
She gets up, groans, stretching out her weary joints. Beaut cranes her head out over her stall door, and gives Kate a disapproving stare. Well, that at least is familiar.
"Get on, Glue Pot."
Beaut grumbles in return, a low, gruff whickering, and Kate rubs her temples.
Nothing. Her head is pounding, and she feels like she might be sick all over herself at any minute. It's hard to think around all that, except — well, there is something. A ringing in her ears. A hollow hum, a vacuum that was once filled with such an almighty sound ... gunfire, and dynamite, and the howl of unearthly creatures. Warfare the likes of which she's never seen or heard before.
Well. Except once.
She rubs at the dull echo, but it doesn't go away.
The hangover's brought with it a foul humor, or maybe the foul humor was there to begin with. She's frustrated by the gaps in her recollection, the deep ache in her bones, and the way the world won't stop spinning on its axis. Hell, if she's going to be sick she's going to do it outside where she won't have to clean it up. That is, if she can walk a straight line long enough to get there.
She jerks to an abrupt stop on her way past the Brahmin's stall.
There's a salt lick the size of Kansas sitting outside.
"Mercy, Katherine, bless your pea pickin' li'l heart. Y'could throw yourself t'the ground an' miss."
Well, now she remembers last night.
"Your brain must be rattlin' 'round like a BB in a boxcar. Y'ever did have an idea, it'd die of loneliness ... "
Sometime after her muttering stops, but before losing the full contents of her stomach, she pieces the entirety of last night together. She came in after Miss Ellen, and blended in surprisingly well. Then again, in their particular crew she hardly stood out even with the torn blouse and blood-smeared trousers, not to mention the variety of weapons strapped to her person. She inched away from the crowd, stood contemplating the Bar for twenty full minutes before she found her voice and ordered a bourbon. There was a generous credit on her tab which she wouldn't do Miss Ellen the discourtesy of refusing, though she would have gladly helped her for free.
It'd been a year since that day (red skies, the tang of ozone, horses screaming blood dirt viscera tears and death), as Teja had recently reminded her. She didn't know why, but she couldn't stop thinking about it in Ellen's world. Maybe it had been the noise (guns screaming shouting wailing explosions), or maybe it had been the way that man's throat split so easily under her blade. Maybe it had been the pony-sized scorpions, or the white-out heat-bleached terrain along their journey. Maybe it hadn't been anything at all.
(She thought it was over, the nightmares, the restlessness, the way she itches in ways she can't scratch like her skin don't fit, everything's off and she shouldn't be standing here, she should be running somewhere anywhere free not dead not dying but alive, and then she went to New York and nothing was over at all, nothing.)
One bourbon turned into two, and then three. She should have cleaned herself up, changed into clothes that weren't spoiled and cleaned her weapons, put everything away, got some sleep. But the thought of sleep terrified her, the idea of a room that was dark and quiet and wholly unnerving; she should have talked to someone, but the only body that came to mind was Tommy, and that wasn't going to happen. And that's when she got angry. Angry at him for complicating something that wasn't supposed to be complicated, angry at herself for needing him to be there and angry that he wasn't. Angry at the note he left in her room. Angry that he made her so goddamn worried about him and wouldn't let her help the way she wanted to. Angry at everything he said. Angry that she was always there, always opened the door, always willing whenever he'd breeze in needing something when she's never seen his room, doesn't even think he has one, couldn't go looking for him for help or comfort even if she wanted to and yet he still puts her on trial for turning him away on Christmas? Because he was ready, then. Because he'd breezed in, on his time, on his schedule, when he wanted to, and she was supposed to be there, willing, door open. Did he ever stop to think that if she wanted his help there would be no way she could even find it? Why need someone who isn't there? Why need someone who's just going to run away, leave you, stop caring, when all you wanted was one goddamn night alone?
The more she thought about how much he thinks she owes him, the more she drank. The more she wished he was there right now, the more she drank. The more she thought about the blood she could still see on her hands, dried around her cuticles, pilling off her fingertips as she rubbed her brow, the more she drank. She ran her hand through her hair and tried not to think about whose reputation she'd just wiped away; whose memory could be dying her gold hair red. She's not a creature of undue sympathy for slave masters and miscreants. Those who died today deserved what they got. But there was a ringing in her ears (gunfire, and dynamite, and the howl of unearthly creatures).
Time danced out of order (red skies, the end of the world), she tried to replay the events of the day back in her head, but she couldn't. It was all a blur, a smudged finger-painting of torn canvas, soot, and blood. She thought this was over (it's never over, never), she thought she came to terms with what happened that day. Every reckless, life-affirming event that led to pulling Tommy into her bed, every whim, every caution-free laugh she threw into the wind, every deed that made her feel good, that made her feel alive (she shouldn't be alive, she shouldn't be here, everything ended and everything began again and all she wanted to know was why), suddenly meant nothing. Part of her was unbalanced enough to want to pull the first willing fella she saw into her room because Tommy weren't there, he's never there and he ruined a good thing anyhow, but the other part of her just kept thinking about Voodoo's note and ended up feeling sick, self-loathing, angry. Angry.
She used some of that credit on her tab to buy a little extra treat for Ellen's Brahmin, because why the hell not? She was glad she could help. They did decent work. They freed folk from a life of misery, they put down those who deserved it. She would have done it for free. Miss Bar held onto her weapons, and the glass of bourbon that eventually turned into a bottle found its way to the stables, along with Kate. She'll ride hell for leather, and everything would feel okay again. She'll take her hands off the reins and let Beaut carry them through the dark, and it would feel right again. She don't need anyone.
The horse got an earful about why men are useless for the better part of a half-hour before Kate got tired instead. The stall door separating them was the only thing that kept her upright, and through her drunken ire what remained of her good sense told her to go back inside and get in bed.
Yeah, that ain't gonna happen.
Beaut gave a disapproving twitch of her ears, snorted a reprimand, and Kate told her to get on and leave her be. The stall next door was clean, and better yet it was less than ten feet away. She don't have to brave stairs, or the unyielding quiet of her room, or the innocent purring of her cats as they lick the blood from her hands.
Everything else, as they say, is silence. Kate lies in the grass staring up at the blue morning, as heavy as a rock, dew collecting on her skin. She'll be hungover half the day, if not longer. Hell, if she's smart, she just won't stop drinking.
"Come Josephine in my flying machine," she hums, just under her breath. "Going up she goes
Up she goes
Balance yourself like a bird on a beam
In the air she goes
There she goes
Up, up, a little bit higher
Oh, my, the moon is on fire
Come Josephine in my flying machine
Going up
All on
Good-bye."
As best as she can tell, her head's trying to do the Argentine Tango and then split clean open. She grimaces against the oppressive light of day, cradling her face in her hands, hay coming out of her hair and every seam of her dirty clothes. She's in one of the vacant stalls, and it's comfortable enough for sleeping — hay retains heat, and be that it ain't a feather bed it's at least warm enough against the late March chill — she just can't remember how she got here.
Oh, wait. That's right.
Evergreen Mills.
She entered not long after Miss Ellen last night, headed for a quiet corner of the Bar where she could think, and then — nothing. Bourbon. Lots of bourbon, judging by the taste in her mouth, and through some arrangement of events she can't quite recall she ended up here. Hungover and confused.
She gets up, groans, stretching out her weary joints. Beaut cranes her head out over her stall door, and gives Kate a disapproving stare. Well, that at least is familiar.
"Get on, Glue Pot."
Beaut grumbles in return, a low, gruff whickering, and Kate rubs her temples.
Nothing. Her head is pounding, and she feels like she might be sick all over herself at any minute. It's hard to think around all that, except — well, there is something. A ringing in her ears. A hollow hum, a vacuum that was once filled with such an almighty sound ... gunfire, and dynamite, and the howl of unearthly creatures. Warfare the likes of which she's never seen or heard before.
Well. Except once.
She rubs at the dull echo, but it doesn't go away.
The hangover's brought with it a foul humor, or maybe the foul humor was there to begin with. She's frustrated by the gaps in her recollection, the deep ache in her bones, and the way the world won't stop spinning on its axis. Hell, if she's going to be sick she's going to do it outside where she won't have to clean it up. That is, if she can walk a straight line long enough to get there.
She jerks to an abrupt stop on her way past the Brahmin's stall.
There's a salt lick the size of Kansas sitting outside.
"Mercy, Katherine, bless your pea pickin' li'l heart. Y'could throw yourself t'the ground an' miss."
Well, now she remembers last night.
"Your brain must be rattlin' 'round like a BB in a boxcar. Y'ever did have an idea, it'd die of loneliness ... "
Sometime after her muttering stops, but before losing the full contents of her stomach, she pieces the entirety of last night together. She came in after Miss Ellen, and blended in surprisingly well. Then again, in their particular crew she hardly stood out even with the torn blouse and blood-smeared trousers, not to mention the variety of weapons strapped to her person. She inched away from the crowd, stood contemplating the Bar for twenty full minutes before she found her voice and ordered a bourbon. There was a generous credit on her tab which she wouldn't do Miss Ellen the discourtesy of refusing, though she would have gladly helped her for free.
It'd been a year since that day (red skies, the tang of ozone, horses screaming blood dirt viscera tears and death), as Teja had recently reminded her. She didn't know why, but she couldn't stop thinking about it in Ellen's world. Maybe it had been the noise (guns screaming shouting wailing explosions), or maybe it had been the way that man's throat split so easily under her blade. Maybe it had been the pony-sized scorpions, or the white-out heat-bleached terrain along their journey. Maybe it hadn't been anything at all.
(She thought it was over, the nightmares, the restlessness, the way she itches in ways she can't scratch like her skin don't fit, everything's off and she shouldn't be standing here, she should be running somewhere anywhere free not dead not dying but alive, and then she went to New York and nothing was over at all, nothing.)
Christ, it was just-- you can't prepare for something as catastrophic as that.
You just can't. You do what you can, with what you can, however you can, and--
well, you either make it out or you don't.
One bourbon turned into two, and then three. She should have cleaned herself up, changed into clothes that weren't spoiled and cleaned her weapons, put everything away, got some sleep. But the thought of sleep terrified her, the idea of a room that was dark and quiet and wholly unnerving; she should have talked to someone, but the only body that came to mind was Tommy, and that wasn't going to happen. And that's when she got angry. Angry at him for complicating something that wasn't supposed to be complicated, angry at herself for needing him to be there and angry that he wasn't. Angry at the note he left in her room. Angry that he made her so goddamn worried about him and wouldn't let her help the way she wanted to. Angry at everything he said. Angry that she was always there, always opened the door, always willing whenever he'd breeze in needing something when she's never seen his room, doesn't even think he has one, couldn't go looking for him for help or comfort even if she wanted to and yet he still puts her on trial for turning him away on Christmas? Because he was ready, then. Because he'd breezed in, on his time, on his schedule, when he wanted to, and she was supposed to be there, willing, door open. Did he ever stop to think that if she wanted his help there would be no way she could even find it? Why need someone who isn't there? Why need someone who's just going to run away, leave you, stop caring, when all you wanted was one goddamn night alone?
The more she thought about how much he thinks she owes him, the more she drank. The more she wished he was there right now, the more she drank. The more she thought about the blood she could still see on her hands, dried around her cuticles, pilling off her fingertips as she rubbed her brow, the more she drank. She ran her hand through her hair and tried not to think about whose reputation she'd just wiped away; whose memory could be dying her gold hair red. She's not a creature of undue sympathy for slave masters and miscreants. Those who died today deserved what they got. But there was a ringing in her ears (gunfire, and dynamite, and the howl of unearthly creatures).
Time danced out of order (red skies, the end of the world), she tried to replay the events of the day back in her head, but she couldn't. It was all a blur, a smudged finger-painting of torn canvas, soot, and blood. She thought this was over (it's never over, never), she thought she came to terms with what happened that day. Every reckless, life-affirming event that led to pulling Tommy into her bed, every whim, every caution-free laugh she threw into the wind, every deed that made her feel good, that made her feel alive (she shouldn't be alive, she shouldn't be here, everything ended and everything began again and all she wanted to know was why), suddenly meant nothing. Part of her was unbalanced enough to want to pull the first willing fella she saw into her room because Tommy weren't there, he's never there and he ruined a good thing anyhow, but the other part of her just kept thinking about Voodoo's note and ended up feeling sick, self-loathing, angry. Angry.
She used some of that credit on her tab to buy a little extra treat for Ellen's Brahmin, because why the hell not? She was glad she could help. They did decent work. They freed folk from a life of misery, they put down those who deserved it. She would have done it for free. Miss Bar held onto her weapons, and the glass of bourbon that eventually turned into a bottle found its way to the stables, along with Kate. She'll ride hell for leather, and everything would feel okay again. She'll take her hands off the reins and let Beaut carry them through the dark, and it would feel right again. She don't need anyone.
The horse got an earful about why men are useless for the better part of a half-hour before Kate got tired instead. The stall door separating them was the only thing that kept her upright, and through her drunken ire what remained of her good sense told her to go back inside and get in bed.
Yeah, that ain't gonna happen.
Beaut gave a disapproving twitch of her ears, snorted a reprimand, and Kate told her to get on and leave her be. The stall next door was clean, and better yet it was less than ten feet away. She don't have to brave stairs, or the unyielding quiet of her room, or the innocent purring of her cats as they lick the blood from her hands.
Everything else, as they say, is silence. Kate lies in the grass staring up at the blue morning, as heavy as a rock, dew collecting on her skin. She'll be hungover half the day, if not longer. Hell, if she's smart, she just won't stop drinking.
"Come Josephine in my flying machine," she hums, just under her breath. "Going up she goes
Up she goes
Balance yourself like a bird on a beam
In the air she goes
There she goes
Up, up, a little bit higher
Oh, my, the moon is on fire
Come Josephine in my flying machine
Going up
All on
Good-bye."