[Noon is fast approaching, and though Danny doesn’t feel sluggish or tired, he hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch in nearly forty minutes. Not even an inch. His defense is that the television is turned on; channel carefully selected to be something interesting enough that he could conceivably be way into it, but not so much that he actually wants to focus.
It’s a cover for a behavior he’s not even sure he needs to hide. All the same, it’s a thinking morning. He woke up with a crick in his neck, an ache in his side, and a really, really strong urge to revisit a few old addictions.
Almost like it had been in anticipation, he’d bitten his lower lips slightly raw in his sleep.
And while the injuries themselves are minor — nothing he couldn’t get in a fight, or worse — it’s the self-inflicted nature of them that’s put him on edge.
A commercial flashes in his vision for something that might be some kind of juicer. The clock on the wall becomes audible somehow, even over top of the commercial voice-over. There’s a turning of the doorknob a room over that he assumes is Tabby, until he realizes he can hear Tabby moving about in the other room.
Danny is drawn from his cocoon of ambiance, head turning towards the doorway, and the view of the front entrance through it. Expression drawn and curious, he waits.]
Hello? [He’d be the first to die in a horror movie, he’s sure. If he wasn’t the killer, that is.]
[First, Imogen is crazy. She's hearing voices and she swears she remembers her mother telling her she was schizophrenic when she was younger except for the fact that the memory resonates somewhere around eleven years old and she was nine when she moved (a kind kin of a word to what really happened: was ejected -- "was" being the adverb or preverb or verb friend that suggests her parents shoved her past the security checkpoint at the airport).
So she simply stares, hand on the doorknob, taking in before her the furnished living room. The old couch the man lays on is the one that has been here for the past two and a half years where she has found her safe haven. Only it's been turned and there's an old box TV on a shelf across from it, playing what seems as interesting as sitcom reruns.
Second, she closes the door. She doesn't step inside, but instead closes the door. She opens it again like a very deliberate double take just to be sure that she's not, in fact, crazy. --Her mother mentioned schizophrenia to someone.
When he's still laying there, she huffs, hair moving with the breath that suddenly escaped her lips. Was he intruding or was she?] ...Hi. When did you move in? I draw here. [Sure, it's been a few weeks since she's been here, but did someone really move in in the mean time?]
