Post by Cassidy Grant on Jul 12, 2008 0:30:14 GMT
Cass is not homesick. It is not yet possible for her to be homesick when her entire family was just here less than four hours ago. Her mother had just been here, less than a foot away from where she’s standing now taking her aside with a suspiciously teary glint that Cass had kindly indulged with a hug (not shared, not at all, really) in her eye, while her brothers, complaining loudly the whole time, hauled her stuff up to her room. “Man, Cass, your roommate is going to hate you.” Colin had informed her, about three feet from where she’s standing now, leaning against the side of the Institute’s front steps. “You have more shit than I thought humanly possible.” That had, of course, earned him a disdainful look and a stomp-off exit as she’d gone to boss Adam and James around about handling her boxes carefully until her father had gotten exasperated with the bickering and sent them all back out to “help their mother” who was panicking over the return directions she was sure she’d map quested wrong now that they were out here. I can not wait for them to just leave, Cass had thought and then, suddenly, they had been leaving, she’d been hugging and shoving at her brothers, whining at her mom not to make a scene, “yes-sir-ing” to her dad’s lectures before they’d all piled back into the van, rented U-haul rattling behind, and been gone.
That had been about three and a half hours ago. Her paper work was taken care of, her guitar was tuned, her room was as unpacked as it ever would be (not very), her roommate doesn’t seem to be around, and she is definitely not homesick. This is shit. This is total shit, Cass folds her arms and rocks back and forth for a moment or two on the balls of her feet. Action. That’s what’s needed here, something to do. But what the hell do you do at mutant hi—oh. Oh. A grin spreads across her face and, without pausing to think much about it, she lopes across the drive to a patch of soft grass, concentrating, as she moves, on the feeling she’s come to associate with how it is to split off into her astral body. It’s hard to describe but the closest she’s been able to come, embarrassingly, is to that part in Peter Pan where Peter’s shadow has come loose and Wendy has to stitch it back to his body. It’s like suddenly, precisely, exactly, with no room for philosophical discourse, feeling the difference between your mind and your body, becoming aware of all the places where they’re connected, and then realizing you can cut those ties one by one.
As she reaches the patch of grass Cass’ body collapses, completely limp, mid-stride, like a puppet with its strings cut landing in a tangle of limbs. She overtakes it, running (or seeming to run anyway, if you look too close it’s more like a very good impression of running) too fast to be entirely real to a tree a few feet away where she whirls around to look back at herself, branches and leaves drifting and blowing eerily through her hazy astral form. That’s the first time I’ve ever done that outside, where anyone could see me, she thinks and laughs, already sizing up the lawn and wondering if she would be able to do a cartwheel without supporting herself on solid ground, completely oblivious to the prospect that she might be attracting an audience with this little display.
That had been about three and a half hours ago. Her paper work was taken care of, her guitar was tuned, her room was as unpacked as it ever would be (not very), her roommate doesn’t seem to be around, and she is definitely not homesick. This is shit. This is total shit, Cass folds her arms and rocks back and forth for a moment or two on the balls of her feet. Action. That’s what’s needed here, something to do. But what the hell do you do at mutant hi—oh. Oh. A grin spreads across her face and, without pausing to think much about it, she lopes across the drive to a patch of soft grass, concentrating, as she moves, on the feeling she’s come to associate with how it is to split off into her astral body. It’s hard to describe but the closest she’s been able to come, embarrassingly, is to that part in Peter Pan where Peter’s shadow has come loose and Wendy has to stitch it back to his body. It’s like suddenly, precisely, exactly, with no room for philosophical discourse, feeling the difference between your mind and your body, becoming aware of all the places where they’re connected, and then realizing you can cut those ties one by one.
As she reaches the patch of grass Cass’ body collapses, completely limp, mid-stride, like a puppet with its strings cut landing in a tangle of limbs. She overtakes it, running (or seeming to run anyway, if you look too close it’s more like a very good impression of running) too fast to be entirely real to a tree a few feet away where she whirls around to look back at herself, branches and leaves drifting and blowing eerily through her hazy astral form. That’s the first time I’ve ever done that outside, where anyone could see me, she thinks and laughs, already sizing up the lawn and wondering if she would be able to do a cartwheel without supporting herself on solid ground, completely oblivious to the prospect that she might be attracting an audience with this little display.
