feel_human (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
feel_human) wrote2010-10-09 08:18 am
feel_human) wrote2010-10-09 08:18 am
Entry tags:
Entrance post
No matter what Hadley thinks or advises, Sookie isn't going anywhere. The house already suffered while she was gone; the ruin of Maryanne's madness proof enough if she needed it to convince anyone that her absence isn't enough to stop the coming storm from wrecking her home.
Still, she's shaken, and that scares her even more than the threat of absolute and inescapable violence breaking over her head like a wave. Jason's shotgun is heavy, unwieldy in her hands and she, awkward, swings it to her shoulder a few times, trying to get a feel for the heavy arc through the air. After the fourth try, she think that she might have it. Regardless, it's as smooth as she's going to get, and when she stops, there's some time left still to calm her nervous fingers -- it's doubtful the wolves will come before full dark.
That leaves an hour or so for her to be alone with her thoughts and the aching vacuum in her heart which had until now been filled by Bill. There's no one to call -- Alcide is miles away and getting further with every turn over of his truck's rusty engine, and Lord only knows where Sam is -- not that she'd have the right to call even if she found him. Jason had stormed out and she's too afraid of what he might have done, too determined not to hear more bad news to seek him out. She is irrevocably alone, sitting silent at the kitchen table with the blank album on one side of her hands, the shotgun to the other. Even knowing that Bill will come if she's in danger is no comfort; she no longer knows if she wants him nearby, protecting her or not.
For something to do, she gets up and washes the dishes from lunch, makes a pot of coffee, cradles the steaming mug in her hands instead of drinking. She thinks of Russell's threats, the veneer of charm he wears which can't hide the barbarism beneath; Tara's fear; the frightening energy as the Were pack shifted, stirring the sawdust on the floor of the club with blunt paws scratching and heavy breath heaving. She thinks of Bill. He's always been there, since the day they met -- a shadow at the back of her mind -- but now her thoughts of him are dark, full of fear and suspicion. He almost killed her, yet he says he loves her. Was he working with Russell? Why would he keep a file on her?
I don't know how to begin forgiving you.
Her mouth quivers, the coffee ripples as her hands shake; a tiny quake runs through her before she masters herself, taking a breath and then a gulp of coffee, concentrating on keeping her hands steady. Outside, the sun sinks steadily westward, clouds evaporating and reforming, flooding the yard and woods with the clear translucent light of dusk; sparks of fireflies blink on the porch, frogs croak in the pond down the road. Somewhere in the dim damp summer night Merlotte's is open and the regulars are beginning to wander in, drawn like moths to the yellow-lit windows, searching out companionship for a few hours. It's all so normal out there in the wide world and yet here she sits, hunted, a gun near to hand, the fall of dark meaning the surety of open warfare. If Gran could see this, she would be heartbroken, and Sookie can't help thinking that maybe it's some kind of blessing she didn't live to see her house this way, her granddaughter caught in a net of trouble that keeps sending out more and more sinewy ropes and from which she can't seem to rip free.
When is it all going to be over?
Somewhere, a board creaks, a long quiet whine that shivers across the back of her neck. Standing, moving slow, she takes the shotgun, satin-smooth stock firm and unyielding and strangely reassuring against her palm, and listens (and listens) but hears no one. This isn't like being hunted by Rene; the wolves will announce themselves with thin howls, with rushing breaths and the scrabble of claws on floorboards, but the wolves haven't yet arrived. Dusk hasn't quite given way to full dark, but she's careful anyhow, stepping as quietly as she can towards the hallway and the front door, and blinks as she finds herself in a bright room that was surely never part of her own house.
The first thing she notices is that the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees: goosebumps prickle across her arms and belly as the cool air meets the thin sheen of sweat on her skin brought on by the Louisiana heat and humidity that has so strangely vanished; the second that the air is still with the sort of insulated quiet that comes from being inside a large building. The peepers have ceased their chirping, the hum of insects has cut off as if on cue.
Lowering the shotgun, she gives a curious, cursory glance to the computer which hums nearby, then turns her attention, every sense painfully focused, to the wooden door leading out. Her footfalls are as quiet as she can make them, but the room into which the door opens is nothing more than a lobby, holding nothing more than an elegantly fashioned desk, similar to the one she'd seen at the hotel in Dallas. Out of the corner of her eye she can see elevators, numbers lit and flickering, while to the other side she notes more doors, hears some faint background noise. The door swings shut behind her and she has an instant of consternation before her instincts take over, thankfully shutting out panic. All the adrenaline from the last few weeks and the knowledge that the wolves are coming for her floods her system - she's strung tight, her body singing like a taut wire and trembling with reaction.
What is this?
A glimmer from the desk catches her eye; leaning over it, she looks at the screen set into the wood with lifted eyebrows. Almost delicately, she sets the palm of her free hand on the cool glass, and jumps back in surprise when it begins to glow at her touch, forming words.
WELCOME TO OUTPOST 12, SOOKIE STACKHOUSE.
Still, she's shaken, and that scares her even more than the threat of absolute and inescapable violence breaking over her head like a wave. Jason's shotgun is heavy, unwieldy in her hands and she, awkward, swings it to her shoulder a few times, trying to get a feel for the heavy arc through the air. After the fourth try, she think that she might have it. Regardless, it's as smooth as she's going to get, and when she stops, there's some time left still to calm her nervous fingers -- it's doubtful the wolves will come before full dark.
That leaves an hour or so for her to be alone with her thoughts and the aching vacuum in her heart which had until now been filled by Bill. There's no one to call -- Alcide is miles away and getting further with every turn over of his truck's rusty engine, and Lord only knows where Sam is -- not that she'd have the right to call even if she found him. Jason had stormed out and she's too afraid of what he might have done, too determined not to hear more bad news to seek him out. She is irrevocably alone, sitting silent at the kitchen table with the blank album on one side of her hands, the shotgun to the other. Even knowing that Bill will come if she's in danger is no comfort; she no longer knows if she wants him nearby, protecting her or not.
For something to do, she gets up and washes the dishes from lunch, makes a pot of coffee, cradles the steaming mug in her hands instead of drinking. She thinks of Russell's threats, the veneer of charm he wears which can't hide the barbarism beneath; Tara's fear; the frightening energy as the Were pack shifted, stirring the sawdust on the floor of the club with blunt paws scratching and heavy breath heaving. She thinks of Bill. He's always been there, since the day they met -- a shadow at the back of her mind -- but now her thoughts of him are dark, full of fear and suspicion. He almost killed her, yet he says he loves her. Was he working with Russell? Why would he keep a file on her?
I don't know how to begin forgiving you.
Her mouth quivers, the coffee ripples as her hands shake; a tiny quake runs through her before she masters herself, taking a breath and then a gulp of coffee, concentrating on keeping her hands steady. Outside, the sun sinks steadily westward, clouds evaporating and reforming, flooding the yard and woods with the clear translucent light of dusk; sparks of fireflies blink on the porch, frogs croak in the pond down the road. Somewhere in the dim damp summer night Merlotte's is open and the regulars are beginning to wander in, drawn like moths to the yellow-lit windows, searching out companionship for a few hours. It's all so normal out there in the wide world and yet here she sits, hunted, a gun near to hand, the fall of dark meaning the surety of open warfare. If Gran could see this, she would be heartbroken, and Sookie can't help thinking that maybe it's some kind of blessing she didn't live to see her house this way, her granddaughter caught in a net of trouble that keeps sending out more and more sinewy ropes and from which she can't seem to rip free.
When is it all going to be over?
Somewhere, a board creaks, a long quiet whine that shivers across the back of her neck. Standing, moving slow, she takes the shotgun, satin-smooth stock firm and unyielding and strangely reassuring against her palm, and listens (and listens) but hears no one. This isn't like being hunted by Rene; the wolves will announce themselves with thin howls, with rushing breaths and the scrabble of claws on floorboards, but the wolves haven't yet arrived. Dusk hasn't quite given way to full dark, but she's careful anyhow, stepping as quietly as she can towards the hallway and the front door, and blinks as she finds herself in a bright room that was surely never part of her own house.
The first thing she notices is that the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees: goosebumps prickle across her arms and belly as the cool air meets the thin sheen of sweat on her skin brought on by the Louisiana heat and humidity that has so strangely vanished; the second that the air is still with the sort of insulated quiet that comes from being inside a large building. The peepers have ceased their chirping, the hum of insects has cut off as if on cue.
Lowering the shotgun, she gives a curious, cursory glance to the computer which hums nearby, then turns her attention, every sense painfully focused, to the wooden door leading out. Her footfalls are as quiet as she can make them, but the room into which the door opens is nothing more than a lobby, holding nothing more than an elegantly fashioned desk, similar to the one she'd seen at the hotel in Dallas. Out of the corner of her eye she can see elevators, numbers lit and flickering, while to the other side she notes more doors, hears some faint background noise. The door swings shut behind her and she has an instant of consternation before her instincts take over, thankfully shutting out panic. All the adrenaline from the last few weeks and the knowledge that the wolves are coming for her floods her system - she's strung tight, her body singing like a taut wire and trembling with reaction.
What is this?
A glimmer from the desk catches her eye; leaning over it, she looks at the screen set into the wood with lifted eyebrows. Almost delicately, she sets the palm of her free hand on the cool glass, and jumps back in surprise when it begins to glow at her touch, forming words.
WELCOME TO OUTPOST 12, SOOKIE STACKHOUSE.