i keep a record of the wreckage of my life

[impressionism]

Who: Hennessy
What: Event, Spoonce-chasing, and Misc threads.
When: March
Where: Around Thorne
Warnings: Hennessy is nearly always some degree of passively suicidal and copes with alcohol more than she ought to; will tag specific others if they come up but feel free to lmk if you don't want threads to touch on those two at all.

[ Prompts in comments; feel free to request a custom one via PM or speaksincolor. ]

Comments

1. With friends like these who needs sleep? [open]

[impressionism]

On the first night, Hennessy goes to sleep like usual and wakes up in a blind panic, gasping, disoriented, cursing out everything in her general vicinity and -- holding a perfectly harmless object that she'd snatched out of her dream in her desperation not to bring back the Lace or another one of her girls.

It's a paintbrush. One of her mother's; one that had been left covered in dried flecks of blue from one of J.H. Hennessy's final works. Not one of her better ones, if Hennessy recalls right, but it doesn't matter. She's never been able to see it before; it's always been the other thing. But this time it wasn't.

She runs out into the room looking for anyone with which to share her triumph, wielding the paintbrush like the sword she often carries, holding it aloft as though it's the answer to everything that's ever gone wrong in her life.

Later, in the early hours of the morning, she's a bit nonplussed to find that the brush won't actually hold paint at all -- at least, not of the normal kind. If she touches it to any surface at all, it leaves a wash of blues from light to dark, and a scatter of glitter like starlight. It's what her sword would do if it had literally been turned into a paintbrush, but she can't do anything terribly interesting with it, like paint holes in people. Still, it's a vast improvement from her usual unassisted default. And who knows, maybe she can make something interesting with it.

Maybe you find her on the second day, in which she's managed to dream a small lamp that she immediately throws out her own window before it can project the fucking Lace onto any of the walls. It's a minature version of the one in her mother's studio. This time she was the one that was different. She'd been larger than the rest of the dream; she'd been looking down on it from what she thought was distance until she realized. She plucked up the lamp and ran, intending to smash the thing to bits before she woke up.

By the third day she's resumed carrying around the little device that looks like a modern-day smartphone, except the only function it has is one -- it chimes an alarm every twenty minutes, whether she's asleep or awake. A few more days of this and she's starting to look fairly irate. Maybe you even catch her as she's dropping off to sleep in a chair somewhere, unintended. She won't take kindly to being awakened, but she's likely to be secretly grateful all the same. With Ronan's magic and her own going haywire, sleep has suddenly become too risky a proposition to endure.