ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Stronger

Vignette - Stronger
Dramatis Personae Steve	2016-01-15 "Oh, gosh."
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Third Floor - Lower East Side
The stairs and the elevator here unload people onto opposing sides of a balcony, a wide sweep of space overlooking the stories below. Above the roof skylight pours light down through all three floors of the building, while looking down there is a straight view past the second floor balcony and down to the entrance foyer. The rooms here wrap themselves around the central balcony, with rooms for music practice and arts and crafts taking up one stretch of hallway, while sleeping quarters for visitors dot the rest. Up here there are not two but three single-user gender-neutral bathrooms, near the sleeping quarters; like the basement bathrooms, these have shower stalls in them. Two sides of the balcony hold an entrance into the large climbing-maze that leads down through the center of the house, for those who think the stairs or elevator is too prosaic. It's early morning, well before sunrise, but Steve is up without the aid of an alarm. He trudges out of his room a bit sleepily, wearing a flannel bathrobe in many-colored paint-splatter patterns and black sweatpants. When he closes the door behind him, the handle twists right off of it with a loud ripping crunch. He stares down at the whole chunk of knob, lock assemblage, and wood in his hand. Blinks incredulously. Bends down to eye the ragged hole in the door it used to occupy. Tries very briefly to fit it back /into/ said hole, but the splintered wood just won't cooperate. Finally, unsure of what to do with this mess, he just swings the door open again and props it in place with its own severed lock. Entering he bathroom, he closes the door with infinite care. Shrugs out of his robe and unwraps the white bandage on his forearm. The gauze underneath is...pretty much clean, and the wounds they had covered gone, only faintly visible as red marks on his pale skin. He marvels at this for a moment before unraveling the bandages from his torso, as well -- the only visible evidence of injury there are a few scabs over the horrific mess of gashes that B's teeth had left on his lower chest. He nods to his own reflection. Picks up his toothbrush and turns on the faucet to wet it. When he twists the handle to turn the water off again, it /also/ breaks off in his hand. The look he gives /this/ broken handle is more of a 'come /on/' expression. He brushes his teeth probably faster than he needs to and puts the brush back. Pulls his robe back on. /Eyes/ the bathroom door suspiciously. Closes his hand around the doorknob. Twists it /so very/ gently. Success! The door opens. The knob stays attached to it. Then he makes the mistake of holding /onto/ the knob as he exits. The shaft of the knob bends but does not break, nor does it rip out of the door itself this time. But the frame creaks and moans as the screws holding the door to it are yanked free. For a comically long moment, the almost-detached door sways back and forth, held up by Steve's hand on the doorknob and a single stubborn screen at the bottom hinge. Then that last screw gives way and the door swings downward by the knob, going horizontal only briefly before its momentum carries it back up like a pendulum on the other side -- and smashing right into the opposite wall. The crash is thunderous in the enclosed space and leaves a sharp, triangular imprint in the drywall. "Oh, gosh," he whispers, not moving as if for fear of destroying something else. "He wasn't kidding."