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
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[Back to his macaron then. He's savoring the last two bites and uses his paw to wipe some stray cream off of his nose. He honestly does not understand that this just makes him look more cute, probably because no one ever called him that ever. Elle did, but so far, he didn't think much of it.
He just thought she was weird.]
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Cream on his nose.
It's the straw that breaks the camel's back.]
Oh my god I'm sorry please don't scratch me remember that I fed you and let you sleep on my couch-
[And she leans over and picks him up, plopping him down in her lap, and strokes his head. Maybe risking his ire? So worth it.]
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He gives her a minute before he speaks up.]
If I turned back into a man, you'd toss me onto the floor, wouldn't you?
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She's pulled out of her reverie when he speaks again.
But Elle, perhaps surprisingly, just laughs. It's a bright sounding thing.]
I would. But you won't do it.
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[True, he's injured and tired, but he could do it if he wanted.]
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I'm calling your bluff. [ ♪ ]
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... You can't pet me all day.
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[And so she does. It's only for a minute or two, and she's smiling lightly when she does.
And when she finishes, she picks him back up, nuzzling his furry little neck with her nose some, then gently puts him back on the couch.]
See, was that so bad?
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... You didn't injure me further.
[nice]
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Come on, admit it. Even grumpy old Leeroy likes being petted like that, and he's the hardest cat in the world to please.
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And then he proceeds to go under the couch where he can't be dragged out. Talk about petty.]
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She thinks to herself that maybe Corvus should have chosen to live with cats instead of crows, because he already kind of acts like one.]
...Okay, then.
[She picks up the box of macaroons from where she left them, on the edge of the couch.]
So I guess you don't want another?
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[Get treated like a cat, you become the cat Corvus.]
One is enough.
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Not if I ate them all first. Then you'd just be left with cat "rations".
[She opens the box, but she only takes one. It's an empty threat on her part, and she bites down lightly on the macaron, keeping it held in her teeth as she walks back to the kitchen counter, setting the box down where she found it initially.]
Anyway, if you have enough energy to give me lip, then you must be feeling a little bit better than yesterday? [-she says, with a macaron in her mouth.]
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... I can't move as freely as I would like. I might just sleep again.
Under here.
[SO THERE]
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Fine. But if you get stuck [because cats always get stuck], meow three times and I'll find a way to scoop you out. Otherwise, just don't turn back into a man while you're down there. You're going to flip my couch over if you do.
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[The point. His head. Over the sun.]
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What a gentleman.
[So, she's just going to go make coffee now.]
Get some sleep, Cor.
[He's "Cor" now. At least he's not "Kitty Corvus" any more.]
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...
Thank you.
For the sweet.
[He's always saying that isn't he? That's a lot of thank yous.]
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You're welcome. [She says again. She's been saying that a lot lately.
The mug of coffee finally meets her lips. And then:] But you don't have to thank me every time.