MINGLE - Post-Op(era) Recovery

[pumpkinhollow]

On this night we drink to the death of Sorrow.

After the Fall of Efrain With the Prince of Sorrow's Song dead and gone, the opera dissipates, spitting its victims out on the summit of Crane's Ridge where the Dance of Celestine was held some months before. It's getting late, and there is no one yet in town to run the train. Some will brave the trip home simply for the sake of collapsing into their own beds and achieving some sense of normalcy. Others will do so with the hope of returning with help. But many others will simply say "fuck it" and camp out on the mountain, still fitted with extra firewood from the festival and the means to build temporary structures in nearby storage sheds. The journey down will be safer in the morning, and there's solidarity to be had in a cool spring night spent under the stars.

Oh, look, there's even some non-perishable food and wine from the Dance. Combined with what can be hunted or foraged, as well as snacks and drinks stolen from the concession stand, there's plenty to go around. This might even be a little bit fun! Anyone up for another game of Never Have I Ever? Maybe a little Truth or Dare? Or perhaps you just want to chat and unwind with your friends. Whatever the case may be, have fun. This is your time. After darkness, there is a dawn. At the death of Sorrow, there is joy.

Comments

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia draws a sharp breath through her nose, and lets it out slowly. "Hell," she says very quietly, and then "I'm sorry. I'm glad you don't have to deal with that here."

cw discussion of medical violence/abuse

[lovethyneighb_or]

"Thank you."

Another pause. Another attempt to figure out what to say. "Whatever needs saying" is... all of it, honestly. He's got to pick and choose what's most important to get out of his head first, rush them out the door before he's inevitably shut up. Not to discredit Zivia or her generosity, it's just... there's simply too much for any one person to handle in a conversation.

(Nevermind the man who lived it.)

"It feels..."

He stares through the table, leaning on an elbow with his chin resting on his hand. Casually, carefully distant.

"It feels like a burning. I don't know if it's like fire, or the heated sting of thawing from feeling cold too quickly--I was always cold there, you see--but it's like draining. Scorching out the inside of a house. Keep the shell, destroy all of the, the pain, lethargy, and personhood, all the... it isn't just your head, either. At... well, I can't speak for actual... actual use cases. But what they did, you feel it in your whole body--it's fire. It's frozen. You feel the burn, but you don't feel the pain. You... you seize, I think. That's why they strap you down for it. You can imagine my memory of this is imperfect." A brief hand wave. "The humming. I remember the hum of the machine."

A pause.

"I don't know how long this in particular went on for. I... I believe they promised a three-week treatment. I cannot remember if that was truly the case or not. I remember going to them repeatedly about it. I was insistent that they'd lost track. I had been there for too long. But their records and the dates, what they showed me... I don't know. And afterwards, when I was released to my cottage, I don't remember much of anything, except that I... I don't know. There were worried people. I couldn't cook or dress myself for a time, I believe. This period comes to me in faint images. They're more feeling than visual."

He inhales. "We were all forced to use numbers instead of names. I strongly believe that if I hadn't hidden mine in coded writing, I would have forgotten it completely."

[tehilim127_1]

"Numbers instead of names," she murmurs, looking down at her hands clasped around her teacup. "Hence ... Forty-Eight, or whatever Powell was calling himself. You wouldn't think --"

She cuts herself off. "I'm sorry. I don't ... know if you want my feelings on any of this."

[lovethyneighb_or]

"Fifty-Eight."

(Is it instinct, is it honesty, is it reflex, who knows.)

"I... I think I would. I want to hear... anything, from someone outside of that place, who is sane. Number 2 certainly was not, and everyone who was sane knew that they couldn't afford to be."

[tehilim127_1]

"All right." And she takes a long breath, and focuses on keeping her hands lightly closed around the teacup, on the feeling of smooth warmed china under her fingers, and does her best to speak calmly and evenly.

"I'm finding myself exceedingly angry on your behalf," she says to the tabletop. "What you're describing is a, a profound violation. A series of them. Harm under a pretense of ... responsible authority. I don't think swearing would help anything right now so I'm trying really hard not to."

She looks up at him. "Is there anything specific you'd like an outside perspective on?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

He stares at the table in thought.

"There is an answer, I'm sure. But there is so much that I have mentioned and even more that I haven't, that I find myself at a loss of what to pick first. I suppose we can go with 'anything that comes to mind' for now."

A thoughtful beat. "Well. Ah. Back at the opera, I had realized something. I'm well aware that the Village in its entirety was one massive violation of privacy and... self, in general, I suppose. But when... when you'd mentioned the opera as another one specifically, I'd... I knew that, but I hadn't... realized, that, that my privacy being exposed did not mean that it was now forfeit. I'd turned myself belly-up. Like I had to confess. I was ready to. I still am, if I'm being honest. I don't know why I did that. I prefer to think that I wouldn't have, before."