|
Post by Bonnie-Marie on Aug 13, 2006 3:27:54 GMT -5
*enters with Ichabod*
This is a dressing room.
|
|
|
Post by Irene on Aug 13, 2006 11:15:01 GMT -5
"Excuse me", I said, "What are you doing in my dressing room?"
|
|
|
Post by Ichabod Crane on Aug 14, 2006 6:02:54 GMT -5
Ichabod jumped, startled at the annoyed-sounding voice. "Ah, Bonnie-Marie here was just giving me a tour," he explained.
|
|
|
Post by Irene on Aug 14, 2006 9:49:42 GMT -5
I smiled at the handsome man.
"How kind of her. I'm sorry for being impolite, but I was simply startled. My name is Irene Adler."
|
|
|
Post by Bonnie-Marie on Aug 15, 2006 1:44:32 GMT -5
*jumps as well*
Oh, goodness! I'm so sorry, I had no idea anyone was in here!
*clears her throat and extends her hand to Irene*
It's nice to meet you Irene. I'm Bonnie-Marie de Changy. Once again, I'm so sorry and embarassed! I would never have wanted to bother you...
*begins to rattle on in a rather annoying manner*
|
|
|
Post by Ichabod Crane on Aug 15, 2006 4:48:13 GMT -5
Ichabod nodded politely and extended his hand to Miss Adler. "Hello," he replied, "My name is Jonathan Crane."
|
|
|
Post by Irene on Aug 16, 2006 8:42:48 GMT -5
"Oh, I don't mind. By the way, your name- de Chagny...It seems familiar. There was a man by that name, I believe, a man Arielle warned me to avoid."
|
|
|
Post by Bonnie-Marie on Aug 16, 2006 11:38:50 GMT -5
*nods understandingly*
My cousin, Raoul. I'm told he's quite a dog, though I have no clue what that means.
*stares off into space for a moment, then smiles brightly at Irene as if all is normal*
|
|
|
Post by Bonnie-Marie on Aug 22, 2006 12:21:16 GMT -5
((*revives thread*))
*coughs* Well, Ich--er, Jonathan. Jonathan, what do you want to see next?
|
|
|
Post by Ichabod Crane on Aug 22, 2006 14:45:27 GMT -5
((Going completely OOC for a few moments...))
"I'm certainly not picky," he replied with a brief smile. He pushed a lock of thick, wavy dark hair out of his face and before meeting her gaze. "Of course, that depends on exactly what you wish to show me..."
|
|
|
Post by Bonnie-Marie on Aug 22, 2006 16:50:06 GMT -5
((*spits soda...almost literally* Well, that's certainly one way to revive things...))
*smiles at him, unaware of how OOC that was what he may have meant but suddenly feeling as though she doesn't want anyone else around anymore*
Alright...um...ooh! The kitchens! I'll cook for you!
*takes his arm and leads him to the door, turning back to Irene once*
Once again, I'm so sorry for coming in without your permission, Irene, and it was lovely to meet you!
*exits to the kitchen with Ichabod*
|
|
|
Post by Belladonna on Feb 11, 2007 23:56:19 GMT -5
*comes into the abandoned room and angsts over a random picture of Christian*
When I look at you, what I always see Is the face of someone else who once belonged to me Still I can hear him laugh And even though that melody plays on, he's gone When I look at you, he is standing there I can almost breathe him in like summer in the air Why do you smile his smile? That heaven I'd forgotten eases through, in you If you could look at me once more With all the love you felt before If you and I could disappear into the past And find that love we knew I'd never take my eyes away from you When I look at you, he is touching me I would reach for him, but who can hold a memory? And love isn't everything That moonlight on the bed will melt away, someday Oh, you were once that someone Who I followed like a star Then suddenly you changed, And now I don't know who you are Or could it be that I never really knew you from the start? Did I create a dream? Was he a fantasy? Even a memory is paradise for all the fools like me Now, remembering is all that I can do Because I miss him so, when I look at you
|
|
|
Post by Raoul on Feb 12, 2007 12:36:41 GMT -5
((gag))
|
|
|
Post by Nadir on Feb 12, 2007 12:41:15 GMT -5
(( You brought in a Margot!Song? Buzz kill. Major buzz kill.))
|
|
|
Post by Norman Bates on Mar 30, 2007 16:00:24 GMT -5
*NEW DAY/NIGHT*
*Norman watches the girls changing through a strangely convenient contrivance of mirrors. He had watched the rehearsal, reveling in the artistry and the music of ballet--the fit limbs, the feats of deceptively delicate athleticism, the wisps of tulle floating about slender bodies. He genuinely loved beauty, and was conscious of the privilege bestowed in viewing it.
But his presence here was another thing entirely. He had held the feelings at bay, as he'd been taught. "Until you can control yourself, Norman, you mustn't think of sex. One day, you will be able to express yourself maturely; for now, keep yourself from such situations. We trust you." He remembers the benevolent smile of his doctor as he'd been released from care, vowing never to harm another.
Well, he already had. Seeking to distract himself with Art, he'd come here; but he'd found himself spying on the ballerinas anyway, transformed now from distant artistes to young girls of flesh and blood.
Girls who are, even now and unknowingly, flaunting their ripe sexuality with no mercy. Girls bend at the waist to retrieve ribbons or untie shoes; stretch their pliable bodies into arabesques to show off for one another; shimmy neatly out of practice outfits only to don underthings that make them even more desirable, if possible.
He knows he should not have come. His hands dig into the flesh of his knees; when that is not enough harsh crescents draw blood from his palms. He will *not* succumb. He will not do what his mother's voice commands even now. He knows now she is not alive; that part of his delusion has died. But he has internalized her morality even so--to look is evil, to touch even more so, and it is the girls' own promiscuous appearance that makes him feel the way.
That makes him want to sin.
The last girl, a straggler, bends to button her boots. Norman is upon her in an instant, his natural lust subsumed under his learned reaction. He dispatches her quickly, unthinking, slitting her throat and puncturing her body several times for good measure. As always, when he comes to himself, he is horrified. He knows now this was his work, not Mother's--but it does not matter. It must still be cleaned up.
He dumps the body in the passage behind the dressing room and sets himself to scrubbing the floors, his hands, his knife. No trace, he thinks. He can conquer this; but not in prison.*
|
|