Agnes Nitt

Agnes stares hard at her reflection in Suzi's bathroom mirror.

"How could you think that was funny? It was mean and hurtful!"

The reflection doesn't actually change, but Perdita's in Agnes' head enough to make it appear so to the witch.

I can't help it if they have no sense of humor. It was true, though! All you two have ever done in a bed is sleep!

"That isn't the point! You just don't say things like that. I really like this guy. And he likes me! And he isn't with me because he made some... stupid oath that he would be!"

It took some nerve, some beer, and eventually, Perdita threatening to do it for her, but Agnes finally went through the door to Tim's bedroom.

"The Door's working again," she said without preamble. "It's time for me to go home."

"Okay, so I'll see you when you get back." He didn't understand.

Agnes shook her head. "I may not be back. Ever."

"Bar doesn't work like that."

"How Bar does and doesn't work is a matter of much debate. I could come back what seems like tomorrow, only now I'm an old woman with a coven of my own. Or I could come back in three years, but it's only been a day for me. Or I may never find my way back again."

Tim frowned. "You'll be back. I know you will."

"Maybe so. But I can't just leave with things between us the way they are."

"What do you mean, 'the way they are'? Things are fine, aren't they?"

"More than fine," Agnes hastened to say. "Wonderful, actually. But that's what I mean. If I'm going away, and I don't know if I'll be back, I can't expect you to just wait for me."

"You're... breaking up with me?"

She shrugged. "If you want to call it that. I love you, and I always will. But I have to know that you're free." He started to speak, but she stepped forward and pressed her fingers to his lips. "I release you from your oath."

"It won't work, you know," he murmured from behind her touch. "I didn't say it to bind me, I said it because I meant it."

"I know you did, my love. And now, given time, you will be able to mean it just as much to someone else. Someone who won't leave you."

Agnes replaced her fingers with her lips, kissing him gently. Then, before the welling tears could escape her eyes, she turned around and purposefully strode back through the door into Milliways.

Agnes is asleep, for now. Suzi's been giving her Transfer whenever she wakes up, just to keep the pain at bay. But it takes so much energy for Agnes to magic the selyn into something usable, so she usually falls right back to sleep.

The Sime has stepped out for the moment, probably to have something to eat or spend time with Whistler. If Agnes were awake, she wouldn't mind. If she had to sit with a dying her, she'd want to be somewhere else, too.

The Transfers haven't fixed the problem, haven't even slowed it down. It's just to make her comfortable at this point.

Shouldn't be much longer now.

[OOC:

Yes, I know the tofu plot was supposed to be crack. And no, what is happening to Agnes is decidedly not. I'm not milking this for attention or trying to make light of eating disorders or anything of the sort. On the contrary, I am attempting to treat the matter with the utmost respect.

The fact of the matter is that with Agnes already eating healthy, there was a reasonable expectation that she would wind up with a tofu dish and therefore succumb to the yupnesia. I felt it hypocritical of me to ignore this plot when such an expectation existed. The idea of her tending toward anorexia as a result grew out of several of her character flaws that line up with the more common symptoms of such eating disorders. Combined with the new yuppie outlook, it seemed reasonable to me that her attitude would naturally wind that way, especially when blocking Perdita out of her mind.

This is something that is going to have a profound effect on Agnes, and I don't intend to just sweep it under the rug when the plot resolves. She is going to be dealing with this for some time to come. I point this out because I don't want anyone to think that this is a whim for me or that I'm going to be careless or heartless in my treatment.

I apologize if I'm setting off triggers for those of you that I know have struggled/are struggling with these kinds of things. My wife is a recovering anorexic as well, and she has promised to kick my ass if I treat the matter with anything but honesty and respect. All I can suggest is that if it is truly difficult for you, you will probably want to avoid Agnes' threads for the next little while.

I'm not trying to start any trouble, and given the recent unpleasantness, I felt it best that I try and explain a little more of my intentions right up front rather than risk any misunderstandings.]

She's as pretty as she thinks is possible for her. Her hair is less stringy than usual, her face not splotchy or shiny, and her clothes neither too baggy nor too tight.

It's the best she can hope for.

So, with a deep breath, she uses the key Jack gave her to open the door into his world.

Hopefully, he hasn't forgotten her.

[after this]

Agnes doesn't remember how she got back to her room. Obviously, she must have walked there, but she might as well have magically teleported for all that she recalls it. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

It seems only a moment, but the sun is high before she wakes on Sunday. In fact, that's what wakes her -- the sun beating through her eyelids like a sledgehammer. Even pulling the covers over her head doesn't abate the pounding.

Which is the oddest thing. She's never had a hangover before. Not even when she sat half the night at the bar drinking those 'kill-the-pain' -- or whatever they were called -- one right after the other. She'd gotten up the next morning without a trace of a headache and didn't give it a second thought. And last night, she barely had one glass of wine. Right? She only remembers the one, but then, most of the night sort of became a blur.

Keeping her eyes closed seems to blot out the worst of the pain, so Agnes does so, fishing the hairbrush out of the bedside drawer. She doesn't need to see to know that her hair is tangled and knotted, nor does she need to see to get them out, so eyes closed works all around. While she sits on the side of the bed and works the tangles out, she catches herself humming. The tune is (Carmen) something she doesn't remember ever hearing, but if she focuses on the melody, she can almost catch the libretto buzzing in the back of her mind as well. Agnes frowns. She's never been unable to recall words or music before. She must really not have been paying attention while it was playing. Wherever it was playing.

Brushing finished, she gropes for the drawer to replace the brush. Three tries net her only empty air, so she forces her eyes open a crack to locate the nightstand. It's only then that something about the brush catches her eye. Among the dark bristles, something bright seems to glisten, caught by the sun through the window. When Agnes turns the brush to look, other light strands are highlighted by the sunlight. It takes some work, but eventually she's able to catch one of them and pull it out. A long, blonde hair -- several of them, in fact -- had worked its way into her brush.

"What kind of a burglar would come into my room, take nothing, and use my hairbrush," she wonders aloud, still not over the novelty of knowing she won't receive an answer. Unfortunately, in this case, she would rather have liked one. Because the obvious one was not something she wanted to entertain.

Almost against her will, her head begins to turn toward the mirror over the dresser. Her eyes won't believe it right away. They blink several times involuntarily. But every time they open, the reflection remains the same.

Her face. Blonde hair. Patchy near the top of her head, where the black can still be seen in the roots, but for the most part, blonde. Agnes slowly lifts a hand to it, pulling it through her fingers and looking down at what she can see.

Only then do the events of the previous evening come flooding back to her.

(No, it isn't safe anywhere.)
(I think you would make a lovely blonde.)
(You're going to have roots showing.)
(I would hate for you to get sick and vomit all over my couch.)

She makes it just inside the bathroom door before she falls to her knees, retching.

As much as Agnes wants to fling herself onto the bed when she gets into the room, Perdita is still in control and considers such a gesture to be needlessly overdramatic. Instead, she calmly undresses and slips into the nightdress she found in the closet before climbing under the sheets.

If I give the body back, are you going to cry again?

Yes. No sense lying about it.

Then I'll wait. You were awfully silly down there. It wasn't your fault, and you apologized anyway.

I always do that. You know that. It wasn't entirely not my fault either. I made the choice to go with him.

Without full knowledge of what you were getting into. And with me egging you on. Don't try that with me, Nitt.

Agnes sighs. I just wish--

Careful your words, witch.

He should have told me that first.

Did you actually think he was your one true love?

No!

Would it have been any less of a lie if he'd told you before?

No, I suppose not. He lied about his name. He's obviously seeing Molly as more than a casual thing, too, despite what he says.

So it wouldn't have made any difference in your decision!

But it might have hurt less!

Perdita laughs. And because she has control of the body, the sound barks out of her lips, shattering the silence. "I know you better than that. You know yourself better."

Are you going to tell me I deserve better?

"We both know how much I think you deserve. Just sleep now, Agnes. It will help."

A subtle shift.

"Okay."