samuraiprosecutor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
samuraiprosecutor) wrote2008-01-27 09:20 pm
samuraiprosecutor) wrote2008-01-27 09:20 pm
[RL 11: Sensory Hallucinations - Edgeworth only]
Edgeworth had done his best to shove it from his mind, but the worry persisted throughout the day, just as the scents did.
By that afternoon he had thoroughly searched his office...and his car, his apartment, his entire wardrobe. He felt ridiculous, and couldn't shake the nagging feeling that someone, somewhere, was observing (and most likely laughing) as he worked himself into a (carefully controlled and entirely methodical) frenzy. Nothing had come of his hunt, however, and as he'd turned on the shower and stepped into his tub he'd been forced to relinquish his grip on that particular hope.
No environmental cause. No waning in the symptoms. The almond scent was still as fresh, the ammonia still as acrid as when it began Friday. His vision had been affected Saturday, movement appearing from the corner of his eye, a shape in grey, black, or pale white that wasn't there whenever he turned. Nothing wrong with his eyes, obviously, or the shapes would move with them as he did. Nothing wrong with his nose, either. No cause he could determine except...
His conversation with Cuddy had only confirmed it. The symptoms had appeared suddenly and were progressing quickly. He was intimately familiar with PTSD's link to hallucinations, but nowhere in the normal formula of his episodes had ammonia or almond ever played a part, especially not in such a lingering, subtle way.
He leaned his head back, letting the water (just this side of too hot, as always) soak into his hair as he lathered body wash on a rag. Soft as the rag was it was still rough with pressure, as he scrubbed determinedly at his skin as if he might finally succeed in ridding himself of the scent.
'Friday,' he thought, as the last of the blue-white foam swirled down the drain and the lathering of his shampoo enveloped him in a faint coconut scent. 'The Emerson trial starts Tuesday, I need to complete my preparations. I won't have time before Friday, but I'll...make an appointment. Friday shouldn't be too late.'
He rinsed, worked conditioner through his hair, rinsed again; turned off the water and stepped out into the now-familiar almond and ammonia mix. It was strong, suddenly, enough to tickle his gag reflex and make him wrinkle his nose in disgust as he toweled off. Wrapping the towel securely around his waist he stepped torward the sink, hand already raised to open the medicine cabinet.
Cold struck him. Not a breeze, not a draft, a chill that sank into his skin in moments, forcing a violent shudder down his spine and raising bumps across his exposed skin. He turned to the door, expecting to see it hanging open (though he knew he'd closed it, he always closed it against Sigi wandering in).
He wasn't alone. A man stood there, scowling, glaring fixedly at him, and Edgeworth could swear in that instant his heart stilled. A step back - eyes wide and mouth hanging open - and there was no rug behind him, only tile slick and hard. The world twisted: the man continuing to stare as Miles fell, the two sickening cracks that only registered dully on Miles' ears, fixated as he was on those intense, dark eyes.
When he awoke he was alone. The pounding of his heart was matched only by the throbbing pain in his body, in his everything, emanating outward from the back of his skull. For a moment he couldn't lift his head, and when he did it swam wildly, forcing him to drop it again. He spent a dazed five minutes on the floor of his bathroom, shutting his eyes against nausea and the blinding white of his ceiling. Finally, he felt ready to try again. Gingerly he lifted his head and was gratified to find the nausea didn't increase. He managed, with some difficulty, to roll to the left then braced himself with both hands on the floor, preparing to push himself up.
He just barely managed to choke back the scream that welled up in his throat. He fell hard on his side, clutching his right arm desperately against his chest and blinking away the moisture at the corners of his eyes. Miles allowed himself another few minutes to recover (minutes in which he glared at the bloodstain coating his rug, inwardly grumbled over having to buy a new one, and tested the welt growing on the back of his head, wet with more blood) and finally managed to grasp the side of the tub and carefully drag himself to his feet.
A cab would be required - obviously he couldn't drive in this condition, and he wasn't about to call an ambulance for something so trivial - and he'd have to be wary of his arm as he dressed. He glared at his unkempt hair in the mirror, wiped a tiny smear of blood off his cheek, and determinedly ignored the feeling of ice still lining his stomach. 'It seems Friday might be too late.'
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OOC:
Re: OOC:
So now you have to do the same with von Karma. XD And OMG I'm having WAY too much fun with drugged*Edgey.))
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