gooseberryhigh | (no subject)

WHO: Rosemary Stoker
WHAT: Rosy goes for a run, has a very minor breakdown, don’t worry about it.
WHEN: Friday, October 20, stupid early in the morning.
WHERE: The shortcut between Jay Trail and the Sorting Cave.
WARNINGS: Bust out the swear jar. Also, implied violence against trees. Keep Stokers out of the woods. :(((

Rosy’s breaths are measured and even as she runs, her feet pounding the dirt in a steady rhythm. She doesn’t listen to music on the trails, but she counts her footfalls, a constant “one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight” running through her head and filling up the spaces where her angry, creeping thoughts would usually linger.

It’s an extra-long run this morning. She had started early, before curfew even lifted, knowing that the odds of a prefect getting anything more than a mild tsking for exercising too early were slim. Even that was usually enough to keep her indoors until at least 6:30, but she was too wired, she had too much tense energy that needed to be scattered before she snapped and punched a Ribbonfin herself. The introspective mood her interaction with Brother had left her in was gone, and with it, her ability to get more than an hour and a half of frustrated sleep.

She turns onto the well-worn shortcut between the Jay Trail and the Sorting Cave, despite her regular rants and reminders for everyone to stay on the main trails. It’s not like this is some game trail winding into the deep woods, it’s just a small shortcut, one that takes her away from any other morning joggers she might encounter. One-two-three-four, she recites in her head, a count for each time her foot hits the ground, for each little puff of dirt that covers her sneakers. Five-six-seven–

– fuck. She stumbles on a pinecone in the middle of the path, her breath hitches, falls over itself, her rhythm thrown off. Fuck fuck fuck. Rosy slows, stops, stands there in the middle of the woods. Her heart hammers in her chest, but with her count disrupted even her pulse feels unsteady now. She breathes deep, hands on her knees, and tries to even out before starting over. But she's exhausted, she's edgy, and without her mantra, without the simple, repeating counts of eight, those dark thoughts start to slither out of their corners.

“Goddammit Rosemary,” she snarls between clenched teeth. Keep an eye out, Rosemary. Keep yourself under control, Rosemary. If you just worked harder, if you just pushed yourself more, you wouldn’t have to resort to stupid tricks to keep yourself from being so pissed off all the time.

She knows it’s not her own voice she hears in her head, no matter how much it sounds like her. It’s her mother or her father, it’s the feelings of inadequacy instilled so deeply in her that they don’t even have to point out her failings anymore; she’ll do it all herself, and she’ll do it better than they ever could.

But she can’t help it. That voice that hisses in her ear and tells her she should be better, she’s the oldest, she’s the responsible one, she should be able to keep a handle on her brothers and her friends and her schoolwork, it never goes away. It only rests, it only hides when she’s too busy to berate herself. Or, of course, when she wins, and she holds that physical proof of her control over her so-called limitations in her own two hands.

“God fucking dammit, Rosemary,” she chokes out again, and she doesn’t even notice that her fists are balled up, her nails digging into the palms of her hand. Her breathing is steady now, but she isn’t, because that anger is still there. It’s always there, just under the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to boil over and burn everyone around her with her hypocrisy. What the fuck gave her the right to be so goddamn superior about how well she controlled her temper when all she was really doing was fucking LYING to herself?

“Shut up, Rosemary,” she says, getting louder in an attempt to drown out her own pervasive self-deprecation. “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.” And it isn’t until she looks down at her hand that she realizes why it hurts, why the tree trunk in front of her has a smudge of red, as blood bubbles out from two of her knuckles. With her luck, they’ll scar, which will never escape her mother’s notice. Over Christmas, she’ll take her to get a manicure, and tell the manicurist not to do anything to call too much attention to those mangled hands of hers. And Rosy will clench her teeth, close her eyes, and count, until those dark places are filled up.

But she can’t do that now, she’s too deep, too far gone. Rosy sinks to her knees in the dirt, tries to breathe through these sobs that are threatening to take over. She’s so tired of living her life for other people, of trying to be everything that everyone else expects, wants, needs her to be, without even knowing who and what she wants to be. She can’t be the perfect daughter, sister, prefect, student, she can’t take care of everyone and herself. But she has to. They rely on her. If she’s not there to stop Sy from caving in someone’s face, or Ennis from running off into the woods any time a ghost needs excusing, or to make sure Chloe’s up for her morning class and no one's drowning in their responsibilities or their classes, or if she’s not there to save them all from being kidnapped, who will be?

Seated on the ground, Rosy doubles over, puts her head in her hands and forces herself to breathe. One-two-three-four, just get your shit together, Rosemary. Five-six-seven-eight, patch up those walls, put those emotions back where they belong. You’re the strong one, you don’t have the luxury of breaking down. You don’t get to be happy or well taken care of, and that’s not the fault of anyone here. If you were better, maybe you could manage it, if you were more likeable people might be inclined to offer a hand or ask how you were doing, but... One-two-three-four. Deep breaths, no tears. Five-six-seven-eight.

Rosy sits up straight again. Her face is blotchy and red, but her breathing is even. There are no more tears. She wipes her face with her sleeve, careful not to smear the blood from her knuckles on her forehead, and pulls herself up to a standing position. It’s time to get back to her run, so she can get back to her cabin before breakfast. Chloe has to TA for junior Aesthetic Magic this morning and someone has to make sure she doesn’t oversleep, she needs to make sure everyone’s packed for the camping trip and see if anyone needs last minute notes for their Transfiguration quiz. She has to take care of everyone.

Adjusting her frazzled ponytail, Rosy starts to jog again. Her feet pound out a steady rhythm, and a count of “one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight” runs through her head the whole way back.