Gabrielle "Elle" Grayson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
animalqueen) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2016-12-09 12:47 pm
animalqueen) wrote in finalflight2016-12-09 12:47 pm
Entry tags:
psl; [the healing process]
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF ELLE GRAYSON is generally a normal one, with enough variety sprinkled in throughout the week to prevent it from becoming a deadly dull routine. She lives in a flat in London, a charming little one bedroom and two bath, not particularly large, but cozy. It’s a strange fusion of modern and old fashioned, a dichotomy that reflects her own personality quite well.
Every morning, she wakes up and makes a cup of strong coffee. (Black, no sugar.) Her cat, a grey, long-haired, grumpy looking thing, lazes on her bed for longer than she does, only trotting out when he’s ready to be fed. His name is Paladin Leeroy. Sometimes she just calls him Lee.
When coffee and breakfast are a thing of the past, Elle usually hears chirping on her balcony, a structure small but laden with potted plants. She will open the doors, and sometimes, if she’s in a particularly energized mood, will announce, “Your Queen has arrived! Court will now be held,” and the little sparrows will chirp at her, and line up in a row. She’ll feed them birdseed, or bread, if she’s run out. Later, Leeroy will bound out, but she always tells him to leave the birds alone until they’re done eating. He listens. They always fly away before he gets a chance to do any real harm.
Lately, she’s been working part-time at an advertising agency, writing and tweaking copy that slides across her desk. It isn’t the most fulfilling job, but it pays the bills, and that’s what matters. Her real work is her own writing; freelancing for various websites, and poking and prodding at the idea for a book, slowly trying to force life into the narrative. Sometimes inspiration strikes her, and she sits and writes for hours at a time, until her eyes begin to strain, and she has to stop. Other times, she grows tired and can’t seem to string words together at all, and her word document looks a bit like this:
ugh ugh you suck
That always gets deleted at the end, of course.
Crammed in the corner of the living area is an upright piano, white and well-used. Sheet music sits scattered on its stand, and an acoustic guitar rests on the floor next to it. There’s a television, of course, a flat-screen that looks larger than it actually is in her apartment. Connected to it is a Playstation 2, a blu ray player, and little else. On the shelves above, there are books — so many books. Mostly horror and old classics; copies of Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice look particularly worn.
The shelf next to it is stocked with board games. Tabletop and family ones, alike. One in particular is even out of its spot, instead spread out on the little glass coffee table. It looks as if a campaign hasn’t been started yet, though someone’s been flipping through the manual quite recently. Maybe quite frequently.
Her bedroom is small, but the bed is large and roomy. There are pictures of friends and family on the bookshelves in here, and a few on her nightstand. Beyond that, she keeps this part of the flat a little messier than the rest.
GENERALLY, SHE LIVES A RELATIVELY NORMAL LIFE, quiet and cozy. Sometimes living by herself is a bit lonely, and the time difference means that she cannot call her mom and step-dad any time she likes just to hear their voices. But like all things, these emotions pass like any other. Perhaps the only real oddity in her life are the strange surprises she sometimes finds on her balcony. There were a family of raccoons once. A possum. A falcon, who looked lost and confused when she opened the door, turning its head at her, blinking. There were even rats, but they only sniffed the air in her direction, and did little else.
Elle Grayson is just a normal 26 year-old, with a magnetism or two that might be considered abnormal. Perhaps that’s the extent of the oddities in her life. Perhaps this is all she could ever really wish for.
Perhaps she’ll be proven wrong, sooner rather than later.
D I R E C T O R Y;
➤ a reunion
➤ a cat
➤ a novel
➤ an outing
➤ a resolution
➤ a sickness
➤ a home
➤ a boyfriend
➤ a horror
no subject
She had asked earlier, somewhat satirically calling him a hobo; and way to go, now she feels bad about it. Was he really homeless?]
Here, let me help you with that.
[She crouches down, holding out a hand for the first aid supplies she just gave him.]
Is there someone we can call? Someone you know that'll let you crash at their place?
no subject
No. Not like that.
[A beat.]
Sleeping outside isn't disagreeable. Winter makes it harder, but I'd manage.
no subject
What? No. It's literally below freezing every night. You can't just-
[She sighs, shaking her head, then takes a clean cotton swab and uses the rubbing alcohol to wipe away any dried blood first. Her touch is light but direct.]
-sleep outside. I won't let you.
[Saying that like she has a real say in the matter.]
You said you would... "fly away" once you feel better? Then, I guess, just stay here until you recover. [A quick addendum:] As long you promise not to be a creep.
[She's sticking her neck out there, Corvus, just to be nice. Please don't be a psycho.]
no subject
... I'm often unsettling whether I intend to be or not.
[... Is he trying to explain himself? Kind of? It comes up after she asks him not to be a creep.]
But I won't touch you. If you're letting me stay I won't do anything.
no subject
I'm often unsettling whether I intend to be or not.
Well, that's reassuring, she thinks to himself. His last remark, though, gives her some pause before she responds.]
You could have worded that in a more reassuring way, but at least you don't mince your words. You can stay, but you're really going to have to start answering some questions, you know.
[(She will definitely be locking her door for awhile, though, while she's sleeping...)
Elle finishes patching up his wound with the band-aid, leaning back when she's done.]
Good as new.
no subject
[But he lets her apply the band-aid and he looks at it for a while. Then he rolls down the pants to cover it up and he nods at Elle.]
... Thank you.
no subject
...You're welcome.
[But she's going to press the matter, thank you's or no.]
But just so you know, I am listening. You're just telling me things that don't make sense.
no subject
Watch. But don't scream.
[It takes some effort admittedly. He still suffers from not only physical injuries, but from the leftover attack from James, the internal ones that make his insides crawl from just thinking about the experience. But he manages to muster enough energy to make his skin twist, for blackish blue feathers to burst from underneath, making more and more layers...
Until his arm is no longer an arm, but a wing. The wing of a crow.]
1/3
When he lifts his arm, she blinks up at him in confusion. And then it starts to... change, and her eyes widen. Feathers start to sprout from skin, erupting in a black swath across his arm, like something from a dream. Or a nightmare. She wasn't sure which.
And then suddenly that arm is no longer an arm, but a wing. A wing with plumage that looks awfully familiar...]
no subject
done
What the fuck are you?!
no subject
Tired, for one thing.
And not human. Obviously.
no subject
What is happening? What has she even gotten herself into?
And he just tells her that he's tired, after a display like that. Elle can't decide if this guy is just kind of an asshole, or completely oblivious.
Her words, when the finally come, have a sharpness to them. A stubbornness, a sarcasm. But she doesn't move from her spot on the floor, her body not quite unfreezing.]
Yeah, obviously. But what?
no subject
... I don't think there's a name for something like me. I'm usually a crow or a man.
[He begins to shift so that he's laying on his side, back turned to Elle.]
They're the most convenient.
no subject
And then he turns over, his back to her. Is she being shut down? Really?
(The sparrows in her apartment hop around her bookcase, chirping. Leeroy has gone quiet, but refuses to take his gaze off of Corvus. A cold breeze ekes in through the hole in her window.)
Slowly, carefully, she eases herself back up to her feet, her eyes boring holes into the man(?)'s back.]
Whatever you say, Booker DeWitt. [She's sure the dry joke goes right over his head, but it's more for her sake than his. What does she have to rely on in confusing times like these, if not the sound of her own voice?] Still not helpful.
[She crosses her arms, frowning.] So, that's it? Nap time again? [Seriously?]
no subject
[When he says this, his voice sounds almost bitter. Resentful even. But not towards her.]
Sleep is the next best thing. I can't do anything else.
no subject
As a result, she hesitates before offering-] Well... are you hungry? [He had been on her couch for awhile, after all.]
no subject
[A beat.]
But thank you.
Again.
[Of everything he says, the awkwardness, the darkness behind his words, whenever he says his thanks, it's the most genuine thing about him.]
no subject
You're welcome... again. Anyone would have done the same.
[That's probably where she's wrong, though she would like to believe most would do the same as her.]
Get some rest. Use that blanket I gave you. I'll patch up the hole in the balcony doors so you're not too cold before I go to sleep.
[It won't be neat, but it'll get the job done. She doesn't want the winter chill to blow directly on Corvus in the night.
That being said, she leaves him alone for the rest of the night, trying to keep as quiet as possible as she moves around her flat, before finally retiring to bed late.]