Homeathon: Unstable Housing
Jun. 27th, 2013 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeWow, lots of eleventh hour homeathon sponsors! This story comes from Megan's prompt for an Infinity Smashed character's dream home, and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
siliconshaman's request for searching for home when you're not sure what/where it is. It was sponsored by Argenti Aertheri of Manboobz! Happy Homeathon; we are now SOLD OUT!
Unstable Housing
M.D. lives in a carefully sanitized cell. Her every physical need is provided for, and nothing else.
One of her owners sometimes forgets that she's an object. He never smiles, but he tells her to move instead of just picking her up and manipulating her limbs himself, and he looks at her face, her eyes before touching her.
She doesn't know what it means, but it makes her love him, as much as a thing can love a person. The others respect him, and are less inclined to forget her if he's around, so she stays near him, and does whatever he asks of her.
Then one day he's gone. She never finds out why. The pain has no words, and she attacks her skin with her nails and teeth, trying to force the pain out, until they bind her. Never again, she swears to herself. Nobody will ever have such power over her again.
She won't remember much from these days, but she'll remember that promise.
M.D. lives in a nice one-story house in the suburbs, but she's leaving. Her backpack is filled with snacks, paperbacks, and her favorite sweatshirt. She'll leave early, head to school, and never come back.
She only gets the slightest warning, a buzz in her arms, and then the lights come on. She turns and her foster mother is in the doorway.
“You should be sneakier about the food you take.”
M.D. says nothing
“If you're going to run away, go ahead, walk out that door. Nothing I do seems to work, so maybe a taste of your own medicine will.”
M.D. stays frozen, waiting for the catch.
“No catch. You'll be back. You've had adults taking care of you all your life; you can't handle responsibility. What you need is limits, and the world's meaner than I am.” She moves her hand as though brushing away lint. “Go on. If you're lucky, I'll even take you back.”
M.D. stares at her. For a moment, she wavers, but somewhere in the fog of her memory, she remembers a promise.
She walks out the door, and she never comes back.
A block from Vandorsky's place, there's a house that's been up for sale for over a year. The reason it hasn't been bought is the same reason it's known as 'the murder house.' M.D.'s been sleeping there for the past two weeks.
The power, the gas, and the water are all shut off, except for when some poor out-of-towner comes in to see it, but it's dry and safe. She stays in the broom closet next to the back door, so she can make a quick escape when she feels the power come on. (Somehow, she always knows.)
One day, she tells herself, she'll have enough money to own the place. One day, some day. She needs the dream.
Then the realtor comes by in the middle of the night, and M.D. sleeps through the power coming back on. She doesn't wake up until she hears the door open. Luckily for her, it's the front, and she grabs her bag and bolts out the back. She thinks she's safe, but just to be sure, she stays away for a bit.
When she comes back to the murder house and checks under the loose brick, the spare key is gone. She searches everywhere—the floor mat, the flower pots, under the flagstones—but no luck.
M.D. destroys a trash can, adds some scars to her arm, then goes back to Vandorsky to borrow his zines. As she twists paperclips and wraps the ends with electrical tape, she tells herself that this is a learning experience. She's got other beds, other places, other things. Everything will be fine.
...
The redheaded boy has been freaking out for ages. Thus far, M.D. has just let him go, figuring he'll eventually wind down, but she's losing patience.
“Oh god. Oh fuck. We are in a forest. You know, there shouldn't be a forest here? But it's here, and we're in it, and everything's gone. How did we get here? And—and your cat talks. Why does your cat talk?”
“He's not my cat,” M.D. corrects, surveying a potential tree. “He's my case manager.”
“Oh, okay, that makes it all better then--why is he your case manager?”
Dang. The tree's no good. “Ask him.”
But he's back on his original thought-loop. With each iteration, his voice has gotten louder and shriller, and puberty was none too kind to it to begin with. It's starting to grate.
“You know, there could be bears here? I mean, my great-aunt is kind of boring, but when I hoped for some excitement this summer vacation, I was kind of hoping for something like—like a Star Trek marathon on TV, or—or a trip to the art museum, not fucking bears!”
“Relax, will you, milquetoast? There are no bears here.”
“How do you know?”
“The cat told me.”
He tries to shriek, but his voice cracks midway through, and he buries his face in his hands. At least now he's quiet. M.D. continues looking for appropriate trees. There. Those look about right...
As she's testing the branches and making mental measurements, he raises his head to watch. “What are you doing?”
“I think this'll work. Hopefully Bobcat has something, so--”
“Doesn't this upset you?” He shrieks.
She rolls her eyes. “Will you chill? You act like the world's ended. It's summer. We won't even get that cold.”
“Is sleeping outside a normal thing for you? Because it's kind of a big deal for me!”
“Believe me, milquetoast, you'll live.”
He blinks. “This... this is a normal thing for you.”
“You know, your nervous breakdown isn't going anywhere. If you could take a break from it for just a few minutes, you could do something useful and help me wrangle shelter. Your arms are bigger tan mine.”
He doesn't calm down, but at least he helps while he panics.
M.D. is junior healer, and as of today, she officially owns her room.
It's small, underground, and like most homes in Treehouse, it has no independent kitchen or bath facilities. But she paid the last installment this morning, and her official housing contract is now enshrined with the record-keepers.
She looks around the familiar surroundings. The smooth clay walls with their slots of shelving. The herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry. The glass skylight, put in just last month, so the room is filled with sunlight. The fireplace, the grill Biff and Thomas both insisted she put in (though at totally different times). Everything's clean and tidy. She hurls herself into her bed, burrows into the blankets, and beams.
“Mine,” she says.
siliconshaman's request for searching for home when you're not sure what/where it is. It was sponsored by Argenti Aertheri of Manboobz! Happy Homeathon; we are now SOLD OUT!Unstable Housing
M.D. lives in a carefully sanitized cell. Her every physical need is provided for, and nothing else.
One of her owners sometimes forgets that she's an object. He never smiles, but he tells her to move instead of just picking her up and manipulating her limbs himself, and he looks at her face, her eyes before touching her.
She doesn't know what it means, but it makes her love him, as much as a thing can love a person. The others respect him, and are less inclined to forget her if he's around, so she stays near him, and does whatever he asks of her.
Then one day he's gone. She never finds out why. The pain has no words, and she attacks her skin with her nails and teeth, trying to force the pain out, until they bind her. Never again, she swears to herself. Nobody will ever have such power over her again.
She won't remember much from these days, but she'll remember that promise.
…
M.D. lives in a nice one-story house in the suburbs, but she's leaving. Her backpack is filled with snacks, paperbacks, and her favorite sweatshirt. She'll leave early, head to school, and never come back.
She only gets the slightest warning, a buzz in her arms, and then the lights come on. She turns and her foster mother is in the doorway.
“You should be sneakier about the food you take.”
M.D. says nothing
“If you're going to run away, go ahead, walk out that door. Nothing I do seems to work, so maybe a taste of your own medicine will.”
M.D. stays frozen, waiting for the catch.
“No catch. You'll be back. You've had adults taking care of you all your life; you can't handle responsibility. What you need is limits, and the world's meaner than I am.” She moves her hand as though brushing away lint. “Go on. If you're lucky, I'll even take you back.”
M.D. stares at her. For a moment, she wavers, but somewhere in the fog of her memory, she remembers a promise.
She walks out the door, and she never comes back.
…
A block from Vandorsky's place, there's a house that's been up for sale for over a year. The reason it hasn't been bought is the same reason it's known as 'the murder house.' M.D.'s been sleeping there for the past two weeks.
The power, the gas, and the water are all shut off, except for when some poor out-of-towner comes in to see it, but it's dry and safe. She stays in the broom closet next to the back door, so she can make a quick escape when she feels the power come on. (Somehow, she always knows.)
One day, she tells herself, she'll have enough money to own the place. One day, some day. She needs the dream.
Then the realtor comes by in the middle of the night, and M.D. sleeps through the power coming back on. She doesn't wake up until she hears the door open. Luckily for her, it's the front, and she grabs her bag and bolts out the back. She thinks she's safe, but just to be sure, she stays away for a bit.
When she comes back to the murder house and checks under the loose brick, the spare key is gone. She searches everywhere—the floor mat, the flower pots, under the flagstones—but no luck.
M.D. destroys a trash can, adds some scars to her arm, then goes back to Vandorsky to borrow his zines. As she twists paperclips and wraps the ends with electrical tape, she tells herself that this is a learning experience. She's got other beds, other places, other things. Everything will be fine.
...
The redheaded boy has been freaking out for ages. Thus far, M.D. has just let him go, figuring he'll eventually wind down, but she's losing patience.
“Oh god. Oh fuck. We are in a forest. You know, there shouldn't be a forest here? But it's here, and we're in it, and everything's gone. How did we get here? And—and your cat talks. Why does your cat talk?”
“He's not my cat,” M.D. corrects, surveying a potential tree. “He's my case manager.”
“Oh, okay, that makes it all better then--why is he your case manager?”
Dang. The tree's no good. “Ask him.”
But he's back on his original thought-loop. With each iteration, his voice has gotten louder and shriller, and puberty was none too kind to it to begin with. It's starting to grate.
“You know, there could be bears here? I mean, my great-aunt is kind of boring, but when I hoped for some excitement this summer vacation, I was kind of hoping for something like—like a Star Trek marathon on TV, or—or a trip to the art museum, not fucking bears!”
“Relax, will you, milquetoast? There are no bears here.”
“How do you know?”
“The cat told me.”
He tries to shriek, but his voice cracks midway through, and he buries his face in his hands. At least now he's quiet. M.D. continues looking for appropriate trees. There. Those look about right...
As she's testing the branches and making mental measurements, he raises his head to watch. “What are you doing?”
“I think this'll work. Hopefully Bobcat has something, so--”
“Doesn't this upset you?” He shrieks.
She rolls her eyes. “Will you chill? You act like the world's ended. It's summer. We won't even get that cold.”
“Is sleeping outside a normal thing for you? Because it's kind of a big deal for me!”
“Believe me, milquetoast, you'll live.”
He blinks. “This... this is a normal thing for you.”
“You know, your nervous breakdown isn't going anywhere. If you could take a break from it for just a few minutes, you could do something useful and help me wrangle shelter. Your arms are bigger tan mine.”
He doesn't calm down, but at least he helps while he panics.
…
M.D. is junior healer, and as of today, she officially owns her room.
It's small, underground, and like most homes in Treehouse, it has no independent kitchen or bath facilities. But she paid the last installment this morning, and her official housing contract is now enshrined with the record-keepers.
She looks around the familiar surroundings. The smooth clay walls with their slots of shelving. The herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry. The glass skylight, put in just last month, so the room is filled with sunlight. The fireplace, the grill Biff and Thomas both insisted she put in (though at totally different times). Everything's clean and tidy. She hurls herself into her bed, burrows into the blankets, and beams.
“Mine,” she says.
