(no subject)

[no-more-chianti.livejournal.com]

(OOC: Following this bit of Canonpuncture and breakage ...)

Clarice is hunched up in a chair by the fire, still wearing her sundress. She has not changed clothes. She has not slept. She reads her copy of "Silence of the Lambs" with a kind of desperate attention, but every so often she has to set it down.


[Summary: Clarice is broken, broken, broken. Meg and Angua give her practical advice, she confesses some things to Barry, she therapizes talks to Ron about Harry and being fictional, the Opera Ghost serenades her creepily, and Aziraphael is at a loss for advice.]

Comments

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

What precisely did he write about that's upset you so? It's uneasy, being pinned down on page, certainly...

[no-more-chianti.livejournal.com]

"Not the writer," Clarice says. "It was someone I know. Here."

She manages to curl up in even less space than before. "He read all about me-- he saw everything, everything I think and feel and know ... I need help."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Oh. Oh good Heavens, that's awful. I'm so sorry, my dear, but I have no idea what to suggest.

[no-more-chianti.livejournal.com]

She looks at Aziraphael incredulously.

"No idea? But you're an--" She cuts herself off, disgusted. "People say this to you all the time, don't they?"