This room has a door, and the door is securely locked. By a lot of locks, actually. More locks than any sane person puts on a door, spanning the whole right edge, with a few scattered along the top, even on the hinge side. Most of them have simple knobs to turn; a few dangling security chains are clipped in place, and one or two can only be opened by a key. Of course, lucky you, these are all on your side, meaning you’re not trapped here. Right?

Except, locks are meant to keep things out. Slowly, certainly, the knobs are starting to turn, as whoever-- or whatever-- is on the other side of the door makes their way in.


[ooc; all threads treated as different iterations of the dream, feel free to jump on in~ may be sloow but i will backdate until the end of days <3 ilu]

I deal with death on a daily basis. That sounds awfully morbid, but it's true. What I do-- moreso than most doctors, maybe, I'm accustomed to it. We save a lot of people, figure things out at the very last moment; we lose people, too. Sometimes because we can't stop it; sometimes because we're asked to; sometimes due to mistakes, lapses in judgment. You don't get used to it. You get by. Try not to let it happen again. And talking about it doesn't help, not really.

I was a widow before most of my friends even thought about getting married; it wasn't sudden, it wasn't unexpected. I had time to prepare for loss; that didn't make it easier, in the end. You don't get used to it. Even now, what feels like a lifetime, what's certainly a world away, from time to time I'll see a smile that reminds me of his, and it still aches, dull and deep.

At first I thought it wasn't the same, here-- half the people out on the street have died, once or a dozen times, here or at home, and you can hardly tell the difference. It was a strange thought, that maybe what I did didn't matter-- that the stakes had changed and somehow life lost a little value. Things aren't always all right, even when we 'win'... Maybe someone would be better off cold but whole, rather than living on anti-rejection meds, living with a pacemaker or a lost limb. I don't know where you'd draw the line.

Then I was shot.

I wonder sometimes if it'd be easier if I could understand it. If I knew who it was. I know why; it wasn't like I was the only one cursed that day, and I guess that's why I'm still alive. Even so... I think about it more than I like to admit, double-locking the door the moment it's shut. Hearing the echo of footsteps in the hallway.

If nothing else, I understand why it isn't so different, even when people wake up the next morning.

I don't want to-- I don't talk about it, because I shouldn't let a curse have this kind of sway, that much power over the way I feel. It's irrational and stupid, and I should know better. I do know better, but right now I don't have a choice in the matter, I can't stop talking.


[ooc; mostly cursed to talk about her own death here, but also DEATH in general. <3]