Post by Shelby on Nov 5, 2016 1:57:35 GMT
It hurt to remember it. It hurt to let the memories resurface in her mind after a year of trying to forget about it. She could feel the hard tip of the gun pressing into her back, the shots that rang out around her, the blood that spilled on the floor right next to her. A gun pointed in the mouth. A leg with a hole in it, dripping blood and filling the air with a metallic tang. Laughter rang out, clothes splattered. Shit. No, no!
Chardonnay's heart was beating in her chest, her hands starting to shake from the anxiety. This was supposed to be long gone from her memory; why was it still there, haunting her, keeping her from sleep? And to think that they had only just started back up, right as she came back to school, right as August hit and classes were beginning. She hated it. She hated how helpless she still felt; she hated that she still remembered those people who held them up and took them as hostages. God, she had never seen so many guns at once, and certainly none pointing at her. She tried to tell herself that this shouldn't bother her, that she should no longer be afraid, but she couldn't help it! What if they got out of jail and they came back for her, or someone else who had been held up? As far as she knew, everyone else was still attending the school. They could come after them, ask them for more things, or set some sort or revenge on them.
She slammed the roller down harder on the pasta dough than she had intended. This was the only way that she could calm down, being in the kitchen with food, the things she had control over. It was supposed to be relaxing, standing in the kitchen by herself, keeping herself busy by making pasta for her creamy mozzarella sun dried tomato, basil spinach tortellini dish, but it wasn't working. No matter how hard she rolled the dough or cut up the ingredients she was still left with an irritating sense of frustration and unease. "Fuck," she muttered, rolling the roller along the dough. She moved it back and forth, her eyes squinting, her hands and arms, even a little bit of the apron she wore, were splattered with flour, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her arms were beginning to burn from the exertion of making the pasta, but it felt good. It was actually a bit of a distraction until she realized that she'd rolled the dough out too thinly.
"Fuck!" Se muttered again. She balled the dough up and squished it together, her hands molding into it, her teeth gritting together. She threw more flower on the item as she slammed it back on the table and set back to rolling it.
Chardonnay's heart was beating in her chest, her hands starting to shake from the anxiety. This was supposed to be long gone from her memory; why was it still there, haunting her, keeping her from sleep? And to think that they had only just started back up, right as she came back to school, right as August hit and classes were beginning. She hated it. She hated how helpless she still felt; she hated that she still remembered those people who held them up and took them as hostages. God, she had never seen so many guns at once, and certainly none pointing at her. She tried to tell herself that this shouldn't bother her, that she should no longer be afraid, but she couldn't help it! What if they got out of jail and they came back for her, or someone else who had been held up? As far as she knew, everyone else was still attending the school. They could come after them, ask them for more things, or set some sort or revenge on them.
She slammed the roller down harder on the pasta dough than she had intended. This was the only way that she could calm down, being in the kitchen with food, the things she had control over. It was supposed to be relaxing, standing in the kitchen by herself, keeping herself busy by making pasta for her creamy mozzarella sun dried tomato, basil spinach tortellini dish, but it wasn't working. No matter how hard she rolled the dough or cut up the ingredients she was still left with an irritating sense of frustration and unease. "Fuck," she muttered, rolling the roller along the dough. She moved it back and forth, her eyes squinting, her hands and arms, even a little bit of the apron she wore, were splattered with flour, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her arms were beginning to burn from the exertion of making the pasta, but it felt good. It was actually a bit of a distraction until she realized that she'd rolled the dough out too thinly.
"Fuck!" Se muttered again. She balled the dough up and squished it together, her hands molding into it, her teeth gritting together. She threw more flower on the item as she slammed it back on the table and set back to rolling it.
