Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟴𝟴 mother's daughter

𝙇𝙓𝙓𝙓𝙑𝙄𝙄𝙄.
MOTHER'S DAUGHTER

──────

tw for drug use
please take care! if you're not comfy w topics of
drug use etc feel free to skip this one out. don't worry.
your readership is not and never will be more important
than your mental and physical health!

oh and tw for new york bark too

✧

NEW YORK

HOW COULD SUCH a little thing cause so much anguish?

That was the thought that settled in her mind as she stared at it. 

It balanced on her palm, smooth, unassuming and perfectly lethal. 

It was smaller when it was in her hand, she felt like a giant or a child playing with miniature toys. Such a tiny little pill, one that she could roll between her thumb and forefinger, imagining the feeling that it would evoke through her body.

 It was blue in colour, she supposed that it almost looked like a candy. If she thought about it hard enough, she could imagine being a kid again, eating raspberry sours from a bag and smearing blue powder across her clothes until Bizzy Forbes was almost brought to a scowl. 

Sure, it wouldn't taste too great and it wouldn't be sweet nor sour, but it would be sweet to her for a little while.

She crushed it against the restroom countertop with the back of a store loyalty card.

In the process, her eyes flickered upwards to meet her own in the mirror, seeing the reflection that calmly went through each step as if it was ingrained in her brain. 

She glanced at herself in fractures, seeing a woman who, beneath the makeup and the hair, was exhausted beyond wits end, desperate for something to make her feel connected to herself again.

 Somewhere at the bottom of those slightly bloodshot eyes, she saw that same girl, the one who had raced around the streets of suburban Connecticut with a passion and grit for life, a hunger to make something of herself and do something worth noticing. 

That same girl was horrifically dissatisfied with what she was about to do––

She stooped against the countertop.

When she straightened, she was obsessively checking her hair, trying to pick out any visible flaw in her appearance. 

She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand, inhaling hard until she felt her mood pick up. She dusted the powder that lingered, briefly chuckling over the fact that it did, indeed, make her look like a kid who had been eating too many raspberry sours. 

(For a moment, she felt the same sort of secrecy she'd felt then, hiding in bushes away from the eyes of her mother, scoffing them all before dinner.) 

The face that met her, again, was still marked with tiredness, with exhaustion that bruised easily under each eye. 

But there was something new there, a new fire that was pushed forwards by the help of something so little and obscure.

She looked more like her mother than she did herself. 

Beth was not particularly the name that came to mind when she stared at her own reflection. This woman was a picture of socialite fantasy, of hair pulled back too tight and lipstick painted too thick.