SEASON 1 - White Feather Community Hospital

[Fiadh]

Header Code

[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Character:
Time/Location:
Scene Status:
Tagging:[/COLOR][/B]
[HR=3][/HR]

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Character: Abigail Vance
Date/Time: Monday, November 7th | 11:43am
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: ---

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The faint hum of respirators and the smell of disinfectant were the ambience of the palliative care wing - more like a few rooms tucked away in a corner to be forgotten - beside Abby's office at White Feather. Like gatekeeper of Hades she was posted at the mouth of the corridor, which she loathed. When her day shifts ended she was left plunged in a hallway that was utterly dark on both sides. Leaving had been... a challenge. Abby huffed out the sour scent permeating the hospital's halls thankful for the bountiful cup of black tea doused with milk steaming under her nose.

One hand was tucked around the chipped porcelain handle. With the other, she pushed open her office door. A plaque shuddered when it closed.

Dr. Abigail Vance, PhD.
Counsellor

She rounded her spartan desk and settled in a cushy old leather chair, the back draped in her plain black blazer. Abigail gently placed the mug of tea down to her right. An illuminated screen was turned slightly against the east facing window she'd drawn the blinds up on so the whole room was awash with a bright golden glow. Two hard chairs were tucked under the front lip of her desk while a couch was pushed to the back wall for group sessions, if needed.

"Hmm," she grumbled, at once planting an elbow on the desk causing a low thud.

Her head tipped down towards her desk, pointedly staring away from the manila folders collected in her inbox tray, and the blinking cursor on the screen with an open patient files. Another low groan pealed from her pink glossy lips. She'd been at it since 6am without any breaks. Normally that wasn't an impressive feat except she typically skated by with a few hours of sleep, and now it started to catch up to her. The back of her warm hand rubbed across the crescent purple-blue shadows under her bleary eyes. Abigail covered up the sleepiness haphazardly with a little foundation on her run out the door but there wasn't enough English Breakfast blend in the world to fix this.

Just ten minutes, the small voice in her head was pleading.

A cursory flick of those tired baby blues at the door assured her it was latched. No one would notice if she took a nap.

Abby turned off the monitor screen and folded her arms on top of her desk. As comfortable as she could manage to she cradled her head down in the arms of her bunched cream coloured sleeves, creating a soft cable knit pillow. Only for a few minutes, she reasoned again. She was dead tired.

Someone knocked on the door. Hard.

Startled, Abigail snuffled a little and whipped her head up. She frantically smoothed down the brunette halo that came out of the low messy bun she piled it into earlier.

"Coming!" Abby announced. Her voice was a little hoarse from the nap, probably. On her way to the door she shot a fleeting glance up at the clock in case she'd forgotten an appointment --

What? No way!

The hands marked 5:33 pm. Most of the light was sapped from her room and outside the tall window it was dim.

She stopped short of the door to linger under the clock. Just in case it wasn't working... Then it ticked over to 5:34.

Another knock.

Briefly bewildered by sleeping through the day, Abby remembered the door. She turned the handle down and opened with a fresh apology on her lips.

"Sorry for the wait. I--" But the hall was empty. And dark.

Colour faded from Abigail's already alabaster face. All semblance of a professional faded away to something meek in her place. Nervously, her hands crept up her arms as she dared to investigate. She leaned out past the threshold of the door slowly, her feet never crossing the line, and looked down one side towards the patients. Nothing. Now the other side.. Still nothing. Her brow bunched into a little furrow, a mix of curiosity and fear tracing the outline of her features.

Someone started to walk down the dark hall towards her. Except, she couldn't see any one in the dark... The steps sped up to a jog. Echoes got closer, half way down the hall, building speed into a sprint.

Her eyes widened with fear and Abby pulled her head out of the dark past the threshold. She scrambled for the knob and slammed the door shut hard, flicking the lock with a trembling hand just as the steps of the invisible assailant stopped outside the door. The brackets and frame shook against a residual boom. Breath caught in her throat as the door went under fire of another thunderous knock.

Another, deeper.

Another, faster.

The pounding moved through the door into her head.

Again and again and again and AGAIN.

Abigail gasped like a drowning man taking that first lungful of air. Sputtering, she jerked her head up from her arms and immediately looked at the clock.

1:06 pm.

Her shoulders visibly slumped in relaxation, or as close as she could get. "Shit," she grumbled. Abby planted her face in her palms, willing the exhaustion away. From between her fingers she side-eyed the window still full of daylight streaming in her office. Her mouth drew a hard line before she released a sigh.

"I need a drink." The announcement was to no one in particular. After reviewing her screen and double checking that the patient files didn't need review ASAP, Abby pushed back from the desk and grabbed her blazer off the back of the chair. She snatched the files up anyway and piled them into a worn leather tote bag on the floor beside her desk. With a satisfied - or relieved? - sound, Abigail rolled her tight shoulders and slung the tote strap over her shoulder. She headed out of her office.

At least this time, the lights were on.

 

[Praxis]

Character: Charlie Liddle
Date/Time: Monday, November 7th | 6:45am
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: @Andronica (Abby), in reference

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Most of the time she could make it the whole way without crying.

On the best days, carrying the one-sided conversations with her father came more naturally than the awkward bouts of small talk she occasionally found herself backed into. She'd always been a miserable wreck at that: small talk. Unplugging from whatever most present anxiety was tick-tocking away in the back of her mind to allow herself the simple pleasure of discussing ...what? Potholes? The cold front that was malingering just outside of town? All great options, maybe, but never a one was Charlie able to readily grasp for when the time came.

Dad had always been a good listener. Aggressive cancer and a plethora of pharmaceuticals had helped that along, sure, but on the best days, Charlie was able to imagine well enough what he might say. She could bring him up to speed on the most recent of events, skipping or plodding along the most pertinent points. The house? Good. New windows in the downstairs – it's amazing how much warmer it is now. Work? Eh, well, ya know. It goes; some days I dunno if they'd even notice I was gone. Frank? Dad ...don't ask. The less you know the better. He's still mad at me about the car. I told 'im I'd take him when he needed to go places, but his phone never works.

Me? I'm fine. I'm always fine, dad.

Most of the time, it went like that. Editing the sad parts, over-exposing the highlights and generally assuring herself as much as anyone that might've been listening that she was – in the most bedrock of senses – fine. The morning after Morris Blevins, she'd only managed fine about as far as the parking lot of White Feather Community Hospital before she was staying back tears, a panic attack, or some fiendish hybrid of both that had her eyes, chest and stomach all burning, knotting and roiling. Locked in indecision for the better part of twenty minutes, it was only another car door closing and the subsequent startling it gave her that had her hurrying to the hospice wing.

She'd sat in relative silence for another half of an hour, hands folded in her lap, eyes affixed vaguely toward the one window in the room while machinery beeped, and the quiet passing of hospital staff went about their rounds. They'd rolled an old recliner into the corner of the room, nearest the bed, and though the fabric was pilled and the footrest no longer extended, it was a small bit of comfort in the hours she spent there. She'd have to leave a thank you note for Abby about that. To her knowledge, Frank Liddle Sr. was the wing's most senior resident. To that same point, Charlie Liddle had become something of a regular as his only visitor. For all the times he'd visited, White Feather may as well have been another place in Dawn Chorus Frank wasn't allowed, and most of her father's friends kept their distance. Who could blame them? These days, the town seemed like it was being eaten alive by something, so who had the time to sit around and watch a friend further along in the process?

"I just..." as suspected, the words she'd tried for came out sounding a lot more like tears, "I don't know what's happening, dad. I..." she couldn't bring herself to look at him. Some part of her – a large part – knew his silence would be more deafening now than she could bear. Knew that his stillness of expression and vacancy of spirit would confirm, coldly, how utterly and crushingly alone she'd felt when the night had finally ended, and she'd returned home. She'd showered until the water in old pipes ran cold before chasing the dawn from a place on the sofa. Obligation, and only that, had forced her back out into the world.

"I don't know what to do."

Most days, being out and awake on a crisp morning would've been just what she needed to start her shift. Most days, having spent at least an hour at White Feather, with her father, would've been followed by something sugary from Juniper Street Diner and an excuse to avoid the station's routinely terrible coffee situation. Most days there weren't blood stains being seen to by city maintenance. Most days, shambling half-corpses didn't spat forth their final words for an audience of anyone and everyone.

Most days, she felt like she knew what to do in some general, forward moving, sense.

Now, here, after everything, she felt like she could hardly move. She felt adrift, alone and, in a way that she was increasingly aware of, cold: to the bone, to the core and through her soul. "I just ...really wish you were here." Somehow, the words came out without catching on a sob. "But I gotta go now." She blinked. Her eyes still felt like smouldering ash. "I'll come again Wednesday, okay? I ordered you some music. Says it'll be here tomorrow, but I hear the weather's been kinda bad up through the mountains. So ...we'll see."

She made it as far as the parking lot again, and into the cold, tomb-like interior of the prowler before she was sobbing. Thankful for the momentary privacy, she let herself be consumed by these waves long enough to return to a still, numb quiet. When it was only her own breathing and the distant sound of nails being hammered, she started the engine. Dr. Feelgood had a song playing, one she eagerly turned up to drown out whatever else might've been lurking around in her subconscious. It was early enough; the town still sleeping off the nightmare. She'd want to be in before the Sheriff if she had any hope of catching the coatails of what came next in this whole horrible mess.

Maybe that would help. Maybe pushing forward, even if it was into total darkness, would feel better than the inertia in her bones.

 

[Praxis]

Character: Charlie Liddle
Date/Time: November 9th | 7:00am
Scene Status: Open

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Here's one you don't know about Charlene Rae Liddle.

There's a chip -- a sliver really -- missing from her right canine tooth. Nothing substantial (the girl isn't walking around with a cove of broken, smashed rocks for teeth), but enough to give her what some have, perhaps affectionately, referred to as a "crooked smile". Enough to show at certain angles (hence the crook), and enough for her to be both aware of, and self conscious anytime she thought someone might notice. Only slightly fang-like, and aimed at the corner of her lip, every smile comes with it's bite; every expression a subtle, albeit memorable, reminder of the time she'd broken.

She tells herself that people don't notice. That it's not worth noticing. That no one is looking that closely anyway.

It'd always worked like that: Frank took the risk while Charlie took the bruise, the scrape, the hurt. A tree branch, and a crescent shaped scar from when she was too young to remember and when Frank hadn't been looking behind him. A split in her thumbnail, from when a pair of yard sticks had seemed more like rapiers to their active imaginations. And, yes, a sliver -- no more than a fraction really -- missing from the corner of her smile from when Frank's own righteousness had paired disastrously with brotherly duty.

"Is that him?" He'd asked, already leaning on the accelerator.​

​

"Frank..." She'd replied, still only asking. Still mostly unsure of what his plan was.​

You've heard the story in some shape or form by now. It's tough being invisible when the whole world is moving around you. Its hardly a surprise when a carelessly opened locker door greets your face, just after first period, and you're left with a fat lip and a new kink to an already bent pair of glasses. The surprise comes from the laughing; the disinterest in your pain -- however minor -- and the nonchalance at your expense. A trickle of blood and all the embers of hell beneath her cheeks, Charlie had defaulted to her usual response to physical or emotional trauma.

She'd cried. Not then, in the hallway, while Jason Mewley and his cohorts had yucked it up, but later, alone, tucked into the most secluded bathroom stall the campus offered. Though she wasn't sure, and had no way to prove it, Charlie suspected that she was the reigning champion as it came to tears shed at Dawn Chorus High School. If there were a medal, or a trophy, or a plaque to commemorate such contributions, surely it'd be her name on it. It was on these small, silly, insignificant trivialities that she was able to focus, and clamber back onto solid ground to carry out with the rest of her day. Frank noticing her worsened frames, and somewhat bedraggled demeanor, that afternoon had likewise come as a shock.

He surprised her like that sometimes.

Not often, but sometimes.

"I'm just gonna put a little scare into him," he'd insisted, gripping the steering while and pressing further on the accelerator; a sub-manic glee alight behind his eyes.​

​

"Frank." She'd said again, pleading this time. "Knock it off."​

Charlie looked down at her mangled, wrapped hand. Even through the gauze, and the temporary cast, and without her lenses, she could see where ordinary shape; of bone, and contour, had been smashed. Not broken, but mangled from when they'd fell. She'd heard it, then, when it happened, but was only able to truly appreciate the stunning significance of it as it replayed in her head against a backbeat of hallway noise, and footsteps from beyond her curtain. Closing her eyes sent a throb of dull pain through one side of her face. She hadn't sought out a mirror yet. An astigmatism can make even the most horrific moments a blur but, mostly, she just didn't want to see. The Physician's Assistant had said "concussion". Based on that, Charlie wasn't holding out much hope.

"Alright, Miss uh -- oh, uh -- Deputy Liddle." Another PA said after he'd stepped briskly from behind the privacy curtain. He was looking down at her chart. Charlie didn't lift her head. "So," he cleared his throat, "slip and fall? Wow, that'll be our eighth tonight. Thank goodness, right? I..." she could tell his expression faltered when they made eye contact. Recognition. Incredulity. However many years worth of education and praxis telling him that whatever had happened to her, it hadn't been from a slip and fall. Not unless Deputy Liddle had found the nearest second-story balcony to fall, face-first, from. "I, uh..." it looked like he was still staring, but she couldn't tell. Putting pieces together more like; looking at her, weighing the stories that were flying over a crazed gunman and his victim, and coming back around again to nothing but a beaten cop and more blood pouring in from the streets. "They, uh ...they went over concussion protocol with you?"

"Uh huh."

She was staring at her hand again even as the PA kept talking. She heard enough to know when to nod at least, and maintained his questions while the forefront of her mind soldiered through misplaced memories, aggression, and the latent, compounding effects of both. Still, through the concussion, through the broken ulna, through the hurt and the tears she wouldn't allow herself, Charlie knew -- in that way that your heart knows before your mind does -- that this ...wasn't that.

She'd nearly been killed.

Would have been killed ...if not for Frank.

Oh, Frank.

"Promise me, Frank!" Screaming then, pulled onto the soft shoulder, out where Tipton Street bends from North to West and there's too many trees to hear or see much down the road. ​

​

He's apologizing, laughing, more one than the other, and watching back the way they came. It's already late afternoon, sprinting toward dusk. She's finished crying, well into anger, and Jason Mewley's just learned a few important life lessons. Chief among them, that a Schwinn -- regardless of the condition -- does a shit job of outrunning even the worst GTO.​

​

"Put a scare into him", he'd said. He'd looked it, in the brief glimpse Charlie had caught before Frank veered hard left, and sent Jason tumbling down the soft shoulder into the treeline. ​

​

She's back to crying, begging, demanding that he promise her that this is the last time. The final hoorah of stupidity, and his send-off for a life better not experienced. She demands that he promise, and he does. Twice.​

​

They never speak on the matter again. ​

She thought of it; of him, of the sheriff, of all that blood, and the mess it'd made, and let out a short, gasp of a sob.

The PA paused, and probably stared.

"I'm okay. Mostly. I just ...I need to get out of here. I need to go ...home."

"Is there somebody who ca--"

"I'm," she blinked, made an attempt to meet his eyes, and said "I'm gonna meet with my brother. I'll be okay. He'll keep an eye on me."

"You can't drive right now." He said, more bluntly, his tone shifting away from awkward, if not courteous, professionalism, toward something more earnest. More honest. "I can't -- on good practice -- let you leave the building. For everyone's safety."

"I don't have my car."

He inhaled, his tone shifting again when he said, "Well, maybe we can figure that out."
​