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pagans( this tornado loves you )
The last few weeks have been unexpectedly difficult. It isn't as if Alana's never lost someone before, and under much less pleasant circumstances. It isn't even as if she saw Will every day or even every week. She made a point of spending time with him, less cautious about being alone together than previously, though almost always in public anyway, but his constancy didn't always require his physical presence. Going days without seeing him is hard now in a way it wasn't before. She knows why, understands the logic, but that doesn't make it easier.
It's her work that keeps her steady, helping her patients cope with their own problems. If she can't fix her own, at least she can guide them and do some good. Her friends help, too. She doesn't have many, but there's solace in knowing those few still remain.
Don's one of those she's likeliest to call up just to hang out with. Being close to Hannibal helps, but it hurts, too; there's too much shared grief, and that can sting as much as comfort. Sometimes being around someone who knows about but doesn't feel her loss is more of a balm. They make plans to go out again this week, though she doesn't know yet what they'll do with the night. As often as not, they just end up in a bar, talking, but something like a movie, a reprieve from her own mind, might be more welcome tonight.
He doesn't come out, though. She waits outside his building where they were supposed to meet, sends a text after ten minutes. After fifteen, she heads inside. The number isn't disconnected, but it isn't like Don not to respond or to be this late, and she can't shake the panic that comes over her, the fear that this is about to be another blow to the chest for her, that she'll arrive at his door, unlocked, apartment empty. The elevator makes it way to the third floor at a pace so obscenely slow she wishes she'd taken the stairs. Bursting through the doors before they're finished opening, she hurries down the hall to knock at his door. "Don?" She sucks in a deep breath, voice dropping to a hush. "Please, please, please..."
It's her work that keeps her steady, helping her patients cope with their own problems. If she can't fix her own, at least she can guide them and do some good. Her friends help, too. She doesn't have many, but there's solace in knowing those few still remain.
Don's one of those she's likeliest to call up just to hang out with. Being close to Hannibal helps, but it hurts, too; there's too much shared grief, and that can sting as much as comfort. Sometimes being around someone who knows about but doesn't feel her loss is more of a balm. They make plans to go out again this week, though she doesn't know yet what they'll do with the night. As often as not, they just end up in a bar, talking, but something like a movie, a reprieve from her own mind, might be more welcome tonight.
He doesn't come out, though. She waits outside his building where they were supposed to meet, sends a text after ten minutes. After fifteen, she heads inside. The number isn't disconnected, but it isn't like Don not to respond or to be this late, and she can't shake the panic that comes over her, the fear that this is about to be another blow to the chest for her, that she'll arrive at his door, unlocked, apartment empty. The elevator makes it way to the third floor at a pace so obscenely slow she wishes she'd taken the stairs. Bursting through the doors before they're finished opening, she hurries down the hall to knock at his door. "Don?" She sucks in a deep breath, voice dropping to a hush. "Please, please, please..."
(no subject)
May. 31st, 2014 07:06 pmMost of the bars in Darrow are either on the rougher or the rowdier side of things, not really Alana's scene. There's a pub not too far from the news station, though. It makes for a convenient place to meet up with Don sometimes. They could always go for coffee, sure, but she prefers this: a chance to unwind over drinks and vent about their weeks in a slightly more grown-up setting without it feeling like an inadvertent date.
She doesn't have that many friends, truth be told. She has colleagues, peers. There's Will, of course, but there are invisible limits on what they can talk about. Hannibal is a different matter entirely.
"I'm thinking of getting a dog."
She doesn't have that many friends, truth be told. She has colleagues, peers. There's Will, of course, but there are invisible limits on what they can talk about. Hannibal is a different matter entirely.
"I'm thinking of getting a dog."
(no subject)
Sep. 3rd, 2013 03:15 amThe longer Alana remains in Darrow, the easier it becomes to believe that this is real, concrete, and that it will stay this way for some time. She tries to strike a balance between accepting her situation, adapting to it, and becoming too complacent in it. But if she's going to stay here, then she isn't going to let her days pass her by as she waits to get home either.
It doesn't take long for her to figure out what she needs to do here to get back to work. The office she rents isn't nearly as impressive as Hannibal's or anything like what she had back home, but it serves her purposes for the moment. She can think about getting something better once she's actually making an income the source of which she knows, rather than some bizarre, anonymous monthly deposit. Besides, without her work, she feels aimless, and it's unsettling. Perhaps down the line she'll offer her services as a consultant to the local police, but for the moment, the idea of going into private practice and leaving it at that is refreshing.
It isn't long either before she begins to find clients. Her next appointment is a little later in the day, a young girl she understands is an unusual case, though she has very little in the way of details. Stepping out into the small waiting room, she smiles. "Clementine? I'm Dr. Bloom. Come on in."
It doesn't take long for her to figure out what she needs to do here to get back to work. The office she rents isn't nearly as impressive as Hannibal's or anything like what she had back home, but it serves her purposes for the moment. She can think about getting something better once she's actually making an income the source of which she knows, rather than some bizarre, anonymous monthly deposit. Besides, without her work, she feels aimless, and it's unsettling. Perhaps down the line she'll offer her services as a consultant to the local police, but for the moment, the idea of going into private practice and leaving it at that is refreshing.
It isn't long either before she begins to find clients. Her next appointment is a little later in the day, a young girl she understands is an unusual case, though she has very little in the way of details. Stepping out into the small waiting room, she smiles. "Clementine? I'm Dr. Bloom. Come on in."
[communication] phone
Aug. 9th, 2013 06:51 pmYou've reached the voicemail of Dr. Alana Bloom, psychiatrist and licensed MFT. If this is a medical emergency, please hang up and call 911. Otherwise, leave a message after the beep, and I'll be sure to call you back as soon as possible.
The sound of the shot cracks across the silence, jerking Alana's head up from the pages in front of her. It takes a few moments for her to make out anything at all through the window, the light off the glass reflecting her own image back to her, until she steps closer. Then what she sees are two bodies slumped on the snow.
( Cut for length. )
( Cut for length. )