Becky Albright 🌀
Send me a number 1 thru 50 for a word that I’ll use to write either a headcanon, drabble, or starter. Send 🌀 for a random number instead.
🌀 — from the number generator on google: 11 — heartbeat
She'll never forget it; Doctor Niedelman telling her parents that while cardiac disorders and abnormalities weren't usually a complication from scoliosis, but there was an increase in risk factor, and they needed to monitor it closely until surgery.
A lot of long, frightening words for an oft-pummelled kid to be sure, even if one of the myriad reasons for the target on her back was her bookishness, but decades on, Becky Albright still instinctively seeks out a heartbeat.
Call it force of habit; two fragile fingers, pressed lightly to the left of her breastbone, became as much a ritual for her as any of the stretches she was instructed to practice, as apples and honey come every autumn, as blasting music in her ears or burying her nose in a book to drown out jeers and stares and turns of phrase that painted her either as an incompetent, a freak, or a broken doll.
Becky remembers them as she does the words to songs on her well-worn cassettes; how mom's was always fluttering, and how dad's, steady and far too slow, before the day it stopped altogether.
She remembers the humiliated pounding that rocked her small frame and echoed in her ears during unending minutes when she gripped her cane tight as she could and simply weathered the patronizing 'concerns' of the useless witch they called an academic advisor at Gotham University —
"You know, law school isn't for everyone. If you have these...challenges, you may want to consider a more relaxed—"
She'll never forget how the toxin caused it to ram into her chest — how melting faces undulated before coagulation into hand after hand after maggot-fingered hand that pointed at her, that covered her mouth with the intent to suffocate, that dragged her down, down, down, pinned her in place and all she could hear was laughter, kids' laughter, and every cruel thing at once slurring together and dripping off those faces —
twistedbodyfreakfuckingingerkidlawschoolisnotforeveryonelousyuglycrybabyhunchbackdirtystupidpleasenotonourteamwhywouldanyoneinviteherdumbcri—
And Becky will equally never forget how slow her heart seemed in the hospital, the steady beeping of the monitor a reassurance, no matter how feeble and tremulous it felt in her chest. You are here. You are here. You are here. You never went away.
And neither did your demons.
But the heartbeat that's become the most familiar to Becky — she might even dare to call it her favourite — was the one that beat a furious staccato beneath the hollows of raddled collarbones, heavy enough to crack the pronounced ribs upon which she tended to precariously pillow her head when all was said and done.
Tapered fingers might tangle in her russet curls if she so allowed them, but they could not draw her from the intoxicating rhythms of her monster's pounding heart.
If she was fool enough to close her eyes in his presence — and oft, she did, in the interest of living up to plucky Becky, even when uttered as a taunt — she might imagine a dance. Some mystic rite, as ancient and unknowable as fear itself, a dizzying spin in accordance to his rhythms; to the drifting of clouds over the moon just outside her window. This heartbeat calls her to the dance, as hypnotic as a song, as promising of danger as an undertow.
Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum — Be-cky, Be-cky, Be-cky.
She laughs against his bare skin.
"Now, what could possibly be so funny?" Jonathan asks lazily, peering down his hooked nose at her with the closest he ever gets to indulgence.
With none of the terrified trepidation of the first time he came back to her by moonlight, so fresh from Arkham she could practically feel the damp and cold herself, Becky speaks up.
"Your heartbeat," she says. "It's going wild."
He clears his throat. "Yes, well, that's to be expected —"
Becky interrupts her Scarecrow, and doesn't even bother hiding her wicked grin.
"—when you're frightened?"
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This made me grin
I've been playing in the Cronor custom world for The Sims 3. It's a fantastic dystopian world that's very well made, with some incredible attention to detail and texturing - and I've had a blast levelling up a career that I don't usually bother with (the Bot Arena career). My Sim is living in The Wastelands area (in the home known as 'Ventiduct' which has subway grates throughout, that hiss up steam and dry leaves now and then), but he's doing pretty well for himself. And nearby to where he lives, is the local comic store and general hangout, which is called...
Pix and Papers xD
I know, I know; it's a tenuous connection at best with Mr Riffs, but it made me grin anyway.
If you play Sims 3, this world is a must-have download. The name of that place just gave me an additional burst of happy xD
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