Nikki (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
five_steps_back) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2012-02-02 08:02 am
five_steps_back) wrote in rainbowfic2012-02-02 08:02 am
Entry tags:
Tyrian Purple 6, Alice Blue 12, wit Reimaging, Acrylic, and Feathers
Name: Nikki
Colors: Tyrian Purple 6 (the lying oracle), Alice Blue 12 (if everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does)
Styles and Supplies: Reimaging (Unwell), Acrylic (controversy), Feathers ("I'm not going to apologize.")
Rating:PG-13
Word Count: 531
Story: Phase; the title of this piece is 'A Little Unwell.'
Summary: Angie's not crazy.
Notes: Warnings for ableism. Takes place in February 2013.
"Spit it out, midget," he muttered, tired of Sarah fidgeting in her seat while they ate supper. Well. Sarah ate supper. Angie drank.
Sarah very noticeably stalled by taking forever to chew whatever was in her mouth. She set her fork down and placed her hands in her lap, and Angie would bet that she was wringing her hands. He didn't know what she was going to say. The last thing he expected was, "I think you might have bipolar disorder."
"I'm not crazy," he flatly answered.
Sarah shook her head, and looked at him in some pleading way he didn't understand. "I'm not saying you are, I'm just-" She motioned to a few of the books she had brought home, that were sitting on what Angie guessed he would call a coffee table. "I read a lot about this, and the symptoms, and it fits you, it does." Sarah barely hesitated. Angie still heard it. "But there are doctors you can see, and medicine-"
"I'm not crazy!"
Sarah's expression fell to somewhere between sad and angry, and her voice matched. "Do you think you're sane, Angie?"
He didn't know who he hated more at that moment; Sarah or himself. He didn't think he'd be able to keep himself from yelling, so his nearly muttered, "Why the fuck are you even bringing this up, Sarah?"
"I want you to get help."
"You're the one that told me to find you whenever I needed you!" Angie said in a rush, deciding to not give a fuck after all about raising his voice.
"And I obviously can't do a fucking thing to help you!" Sarah screamed back. "You've broken things of mine, and stolen things of mine, and burned things of mine, and you still expect me to want to help you when you show up drunk and manic and-"
"You little shit." He was surprised the beer bottle in his hand hadn't shattered yet for how tight his grip was. "I took care of you for ten fucking years, and you can't think of a reason to fucking help me?"
Sarah's answering shriek of anger was shrill enough to make him wince. "YOU LEFT ME THERE! You left me there, Angie, with them and all of a sudden I had to learn how to do everything on my own. So, no. I can't think of a reason to help you, especially with everything you've done to me after that! Taking money, and burning my sketchbooks, and--!" Sarah suddenly cut herself off, and looked down at her lap.
They could have heard a pin drop. He knew what she would have said, without her saying it or looking at him. He didn't know who he hated more at that moment, Sarah or himself, and it was a burning, bitter feeling at the back of his throat that kept him from saying anything. He only glared at her, and she tiredly stared back.
"I love you, Angie." He almost choked on a laugh. "But I'm sick of enabling all of your bullshit. You either need to get help, or get used to not having me around."
He didn't answer her. He just left.
Colors: Tyrian Purple 6 (the lying oracle), Alice Blue 12 (if everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does)
Styles and Supplies: Reimaging (Unwell), Acrylic (controversy), Feathers ("I'm not going to apologize.")
Rating:PG-13
Word Count: 531
Story: Phase; the title of this piece is 'A Little Unwell.'
Summary: Angie's not crazy.
Notes: Warnings for ableism. Takes place in February 2013.
"Spit it out, midget," he muttered, tired of Sarah fidgeting in her seat while they ate supper. Well. Sarah ate supper. Angie drank.
Sarah very noticeably stalled by taking forever to chew whatever was in her mouth. She set her fork down and placed her hands in her lap, and Angie would bet that she was wringing her hands. He didn't know what she was going to say. The last thing he expected was, "I think you might have bipolar disorder."
"I'm not crazy," he flatly answered.
Sarah shook her head, and looked at him in some pleading way he didn't understand. "I'm not saying you are, I'm just-" She motioned to a few of the books she had brought home, that were sitting on what Angie guessed he would call a coffee table. "I read a lot about this, and the symptoms, and it fits you, it does." Sarah barely hesitated. Angie still heard it. "But there are doctors you can see, and medicine-"
"I'm not crazy!"
Sarah's expression fell to somewhere between sad and angry, and her voice matched. "Do you think you're sane, Angie?"
He didn't know who he hated more at that moment; Sarah or himself. He didn't think he'd be able to keep himself from yelling, so his nearly muttered, "Why the fuck are you even bringing this up, Sarah?"
"I want you to get help."
"You're the one that told me to find you whenever I needed you!" Angie said in a rush, deciding to not give a fuck after all about raising his voice.
"And I obviously can't do a fucking thing to help you!" Sarah screamed back. "You've broken things of mine, and stolen things of mine, and burned things of mine, and you still expect me to want to help you when you show up drunk and manic and-"
"You little shit." He was surprised the beer bottle in his hand hadn't shattered yet for how tight his grip was. "I took care of you for ten fucking years, and you can't think of a reason to fucking help me?"
Sarah's answering shriek of anger was shrill enough to make him wince. "YOU LEFT ME THERE! You left me there, Angie, with them and all of a sudden I had to learn how to do everything on my own. So, no. I can't think of a reason to help you, especially with everything you've done to me after that! Taking money, and burning my sketchbooks, and--!" Sarah suddenly cut herself off, and looked down at her lap.
They could have heard a pin drop. He knew what she would have said, without her saying it or looking at him. He didn't know who he hated more at that moment, Sarah or himself, and it was a burning, bitter feeling at the back of his throat that kept him from saying anything. He only glared at her, and she tiredly stared back.
"I love you, Angie." He almost choked on a laugh. "But I'm sick of enabling all of your bullshit. You either need to get help, or get used to not having me around."
He didn't answer her. He just left.
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