turnedtoproust: (precipice: by ?)
It's a frightening thing, if Scripps admits it, that it's taken so long for him to come back around to the idea of higher education with a purpose. It's not that he thinks himself incapable, but the whole notion of taking a few years off had been for career pursuits, not lounging about a strange tropical island watching his life fetter away from him uselessly. Now, though, he's got a Barton catalogue in his hands and he feels a bit paralyzed.

He should be good at this. He ought to take hold of the possibilities and drown himself in education, now that it's available at a better rate than before. Hector would want him to do it. Irwin would want him to question what he's taking and come up with a counter-point essay on the courses.

Neither of them are here, though. So instead, Scripps is going to the best resource he knows and has deliberately set up shop in Grace's flat, sprawled on the couch with a pen in hand and the catalogue above him. "Do you think I need a basic class on the structure and composition of English?" he calls above the sofa to Grace.
turnedtoproust: (on your knees: by snowchimes)


Oct. 14th, 2013 05:08 pm
turnedtoproust: (thank you for coming back: by snowchimes)
No, really, why's this thing so small and I've never seen...this is Scripps, leave an answer, I'll get back to you!
turnedtoproust: (! plot)
This is bad. This is weird. This is utterly beyond the scope of anything that's ever happened to him and yet falls in line with the history of the island he lives on. How fucked up is that? After absconding away from Dakin and the horror involved, Scripps is going to the next safest place he can think of -- Grace. True, he has no idea how she's going to the react to the 'suddenly female' aspect of his day, but he does have high hopes for patience and goodwill.

He licks his lips as he glances down at the ill-fitting pajama trousers and t-shirt he's wearing, shrugging when it's good enough, and knocks lightly on the door. If he wakes the baby, he's sure to never be forgiven, so every knock is gentle as can be.
turnedtoproust: (! plot)
There's absolutely no question over the fact that Scripps is immediately regretting drinking with Dakin into the wee hours of the morning. It's ridiculous, truly, and he ought to be above that. And yet, here he is, lying in bed with a headache to rival those in the world with the most terrible of headaches and he feels awful and off. He vaguely recalls passing out next to Dakin in a drunken stupor of laziness, but now the heat off his body is putting Scripps in an awful mood.

"Would you get off?" Scripps complains, wrinkling his nose when his shirt catches against his elbow, like it's too big or something. "You're hot as anything, arse," he grumbles.
turnedtoproust: (very far away: by ?)
It's not fucking fair.

For all that Scripps has trusted in God through so much of his life, there are aspects of religion that he yet doesn't understand. Key amongst them is the Bible's tendency to tell stories about testing one's faith. If this is the test of his, Scripps may be weaker than he thought. Losing Posner to home had been one thing, but finding out about Hector and now Jimmy? He's exhausted with it all and he doesn't know what to do.

It's why he ends up at Grace's, worn from crying and pacing and cursing and praying. His eyes are rimmed red and he's worn from the tips of his hairs to his toes. He knocks, lightly, and hopes he's not disturbing the baby.
turnedtoproust: (all smiles: by snowchimes)
Scripps should have known that true horrors lurked in their midst. He'd had proof of that in many aspects -- from the fictional roaming amidst them to the truly horrifying number of opportunities the weather gave Dakin to show off -- but the worst nightmare yet came to him in the form of an inconspicuous reel.

Mamma Mia.

Honestly, how was he to ever have known? And now, the horror is before him, presented in such a fashion that he swears he'll never manage to release the image from behind his burned eyelids. There's truly only one possible solution to this travesty, which is to protect the reel and immediately flee to their hut to find Posner. He's out of breath by the time he arrives, but it's entirely worth it.

"Emergency," he says, nodding back in the direction of the Compound. "Trust me, you'll thank me for it." And already, he's begun to think of the myriad of ways in which he can possibly torture Dakin with this. He wonders if it's possible to somehow arrange for screenings of this, hour on the hour, for the next foreseeable month.
turnedtoproust: (all smiles: by snowchimes)
It's beyond belief that he has what he does on tape. Honestly, Scripps believes in God rather fervently, so he should be an expert in having faith in things that don't necessarily exist. Still, unicorns are not something he's counted on being witness to -- especially given that apparently there's some rule about how only virgins are allowed to see them.

He's not sure how proud he ought to be that he's able to see them. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing a person admits. Still, the first time he'd caught a glimpse, he knew he had to do something about it and that's where the video camera came in. The technology advanced, it'd taken Scripps a moment or two to process how to use it, but he's a master of it soon enough, lingering in the trees as he wields the device and runs his fingers through their manes.

An hour later, he has a fairly good video.

Two days later, he's got a picnic, a small carafe of wine (for her), and water (for him), and the video-player in hand as he walks to the stage and knocks lightly on her door, hoping that his sudden surprise is welcome and not a cause to hold it against him.
turnedtoproust: (scripps: by snowchimes)
It's odd to grieve for someone who technically isn't really dead, but here Scripps is with that conundrum in mind. Hector is dead. He keeps saying it to himself over and over, but it never really sinks in. All he's left with is the inherent disbelief because it's not true if he hasn't lived it. Those are the thoughts on his mind as he heavily plays a quiet dirge on the main piano, ignoring any dark looks. He's permitted to have his melancholy, just as everyone else has their turn.

Maybe, somehow, this is God's punishment. He doesn't want to dwell on such a thing, especially given the events of New Years and the guilt of a sin on Scripps' chest. He contemplates the keys of the piano once more, laying down fingers in order to play an enduring chord. Such is music, such is life. It will fill up the world with beauty in temporary measures, but it's never to last -- not permanently.
turnedtoproust: (distanced from truth: by snowchimes)
What does one do when their life comes crumbling down around their shoulders with stunning efficacy? Scripps knows that some building pick up the pieces and start rebuilding. Some lie crushed under the weight of it all, never to move. Scripps, deferring to old habits, turns to God and the church. The hangover had faded on January first, but the guilt and the remorse hadn't. Some small part of him can't help but feel that Hector's death -- or, at least, the timing of the news -- had a direct correlation to Scripps' sins.

He doesn't regret doing it.

Mostly, he regrets the promise he made in the first place, but you can't simply undo something vowed to God so lightly. The lowest circle of hell belongs to the traitors and while Scripps is aware his betrayal is a minor one (and hardly on the scale of Brutus and Cassius), he still feels that unending, all-consuming guilt. As of January second, he begins to spend a good portion of his day in church to ask forgiveness, advice, and pleading with an unseen force to give him lenience because he can't stop thinking about her.
turnedtoproust: (history boys: by snowchimes)
There's a terrible trouble to all this weather. Scripps likes the snow and the bitter cold of it all. He's rather fond of going to St. Paul's for his daily worship -- sitting in pews that are ancient as religion itself -- and it's a thrill to wander about and imagine what history took place in these coal-stained streets. The only problem is that Scripps is a sloppy dresser at the best of times and all his clothes seem to have multipled by four the morning he awoke.

There's bits and bobs and this and that and he's left not knowing where half of it even goes. He's sure he's been a horrible sight to see on the streets with his collars-up and his shirts wrinkled and his boots mismatched, but he's hardly going to save himself from any embarrassment, now is he? He hardly knows where to start.

He's doing what he can. He arrives at the clothes-box and studies it cautiously, waiting for knowledge to be imparted. "If I weren't so afraid of false idols, I might've started to pray to you," he informs the tangible thing.
turnedtoproust: (smug: by ?)
All mail will inevitably reach its home. Your mail will be mine and I will keep it close.


turnedtoproust: (Default)
Donald Scripps

July 2014

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