Logs:Revolution Respite

Revolution Respite
Dramatis Personae Kitty, Sarah	2020-10-16 "I wish I could actually do something. When things start to go bad."
Location <NYC> VL 203 {Bakehaus} - East Village
The soothing light gray walls and the light hardwood floors make the small, two bedroom apartment look bigger than it is. The front door opens to the kitchen and eating area, the most furnished area at the moment. A bright blue range stands out in the kitchen. A square wooden table, just big enough for four chairs and room to eat is squeezed into a corner. A sunflower cookie jar sits on the countertop, next to a metal canister full of various, colorful utensils. The cabinets are filled with a similar mish-mash of dishes, glasses, and cookware. Here and there, taped the walls, are collections of colorful drawings on sketchbook paper. Flowers, bees, and birds in this group, various people in another, sketches of buildings and landscapes in a third, and so on. At the back of the room, a hallway continues to the left. Two doors are on the left of the hallway, the first leading to a small but nice bathroom, tiled in white and black. The second door leads to the smaller of the two bedrooms, which belongs to Sarah. The door at the very end of the hall leads to Angie and Rayne's room. Inside Sarah’s bedroom, the furniture is sparse. Her mattress and box spring, covered with soft and loose bedding, rest on the floor against the wall. A single rolling rack holding a colorful array of clothes stands opposite, the small closet occupied by a school desk turned drawing table. The walls are plastered in drawings, blossoming out from the closet like paper kudzu. It’s between these three points—bed, clothes rack, closet, back to the bed and around again—that Sarah paces barefoot, flinching every time a siren outside draws closer or the roar of angry voices ascends. Her hair is wet and pushed back from her face, dripping now and then onto the floor or the shoulders of her pajama top. She wears soft blue and purple tie-dyed cotton pants, a matching long-sleeved top with a happily dozing caticorn on the front; a garbage bag in the corner holds her tear-gassed clothes. When Kitty appears in the doorway, it's in Sarah's clothes - the black tee-shirt with the cooking supplies captioned "CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON" fits shockingly well, the sweatpants a little tight around her waist. In her hand, a black garbage bag, heavy with her own clothes, drops next to her . The bath towel is wrapped around her hair, but she pulled it off and folds it as she leans against the door frame. "Thank you," she says, her voice hoarse. Sarah spooks a bit when Kitty appears, hands raising in front of her. Awkwardly turns the defensive movement into crossing her arms, hands cupped around her elbows. She nods in answer, speaking a moment later with a voice just as rough. “Of course.” There’s a hesitant moment where she rocks on her feet before the next words spill out of her in a flood. “Are you okay? Do you need anything? I have water, or. Coffee. Can make some food.” "Water would be good. wouldn't say no to a snack." Kitty sets the towel down gingerly on the floor, damp curls spilling over her shoulders as she sits on a corner of the bed. On the back of her arm there are some bruises forming, some cuts on her hands already scabbed over. "When you said you were a Care Bear, I really thought there would be less." One arm flails. "Tear gas. I guess." Her eyes close for a second. "Fuck." A sharp, short laugh escapes Sarah, fingers pressing afterward to her lips. “Sorry. It’s not funny,” she whispers, shaking her head. “That’s how it should be.” She drops her hand to Kitty’s shoulder, squeezes quickly. “Thank you. For getting us out. I don’t know how...” She trails off, biting her lip. “Thank you.” She leaves the room for only a moment, footsteps soft in the hallway. When she returns it is with a cup of water, blue stars and yellow moons printed on the outside, and a small container of roasted chickpeas. Both are handed to Kitty with a frail attempt at a smile. She lowers herself to sit on the bed after, back pressing against the wall and knees folding to her chest. Outside, a siren accompanied by the rumble of a motorcycle engine approaches, passes, fades. “I wish I could actually do something. When things start to go bad,” she murmurs, staring at the opposite wall and beyond it. Kitty doesn't answer, just reaches a hand over to squeeze Sarah's hand on her shoulder. While Sarah's gone, she shifts, sitting up on the bed proper, back propped up against the wall. The chickpeas end up on her lap when Sarah comes back, the water held tightly in her hands. "You did do something, though." Kitty says, eyes drifting over to Sarah. "Nu, what happens at a protest if everyone is passing out from low blood sugar?" A shrug. "More impactful than some of those boys yelling tonight, for sure." It’s Sarah’s turn to keep from answering. Slowly, she leans into Kitty’s shoulder, reaches out a hand. Hesitates before gently pulling one of Kitty’s away from the cup, twining their fingers together to squeeze tight. Her eyes do the same, muffled sob choking from her throat while a tear rolls down her cheek. Her far hand meets Sarah's, fingers interlocking in a vise-like grip. Her near arm goes up and over, wrapping around Sarah's shoulders. She is solid, solid as she can be, as they sit there, listening to the sirens in the early morning.