![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Another week or two, and she'll be out of her wheelchair and on crutches. Even that seems like an impossibly long stretch of time, but she's already made it a month and a half, and Kat figures she can make it just a little longer. This process was never going to be an easy one, so it's no surprise that isn't. Hell, it was hard enough the first time she was injured, and that was before she had a shattered kneecap — a comminuted patellar fracture, her doctors would say, but she knows what that really means. There are pins and wires and screws holding her knee together, and just starting to put weight on her leg again, currently encased in a full-length cast, is going to be a long, arduous process.
She'll walk again, but probably never quite the same. Dancing is out of the goddamn question. She tries not to think too long or hard about that, except that it's inescapable, many of her afternoons spent holed up in the bedroom she's claimed as her own in her mother's apartment, watching videos of Darrow's ballet company on the internet. That could have been her, if she'd shown up here just minutes before. There was still every chance that her career was shot to hell, but even just that sliver of hope had been enough.
Now she's unmoored, left to try to figure out what the hell to do with her life when the one thing she ever planned on is out of reach.
When she isn't shut up inside, she wanders, trying to get a feel for the city that's going to be her home now. Her arms get tired easily, but she is, at least, a little more familiar with it than she used to be, and she knows to avoid the pseudo-IHOP that also houses a pool, so it's progress. Still, it seems like she comes across something new every time she comes out. A little café with its awning dubbing it Un Chat Gris is one such place, the cats in the window not surprising, given the name, the idea of it also serving food a little more so. At least it's not as odd as pancakes by a swimming pool. She'd pass by, but someone is leaving and offers to hold the door for her, so she decides to hell with it, and smiles and nods before making her way in through the vestibule.
Kat looks around curiously once she's inside, taking everything in, smiling when she catches sight of a girl who looks about her own age, maybe just a little younger, behind the counter. "Hi," she says, summoning up what warmth she can. "How does... this work? I don't think I've seen anything like it before."
She'll walk again, but probably never quite the same. Dancing is out of the goddamn question. She tries not to think too long or hard about that, except that it's inescapable, many of her afternoons spent holed up in the bedroom she's claimed as her own in her mother's apartment, watching videos of Darrow's ballet company on the internet. That could have been her, if she'd shown up here just minutes before. There was still every chance that her career was shot to hell, but even just that sliver of hope had been enough.
Now she's unmoored, left to try to figure out what the hell to do with her life when the one thing she ever planned on is out of reach.
When she isn't shut up inside, she wanders, trying to get a feel for the city that's going to be her home now. Her arms get tired easily, but she is, at least, a little more familiar with it than she used to be, and she knows to avoid the pseudo-IHOP that also houses a pool, so it's progress. Still, it seems like she comes across something new every time she comes out. A little café with its awning dubbing it Un Chat Gris is one such place, the cats in the window not surprising, given the name, the idea of it also serving food a little more so. At least it's not as odd as pancakes by a swimming pool. She'd pass by, but someone is leaving and offers to hold the door for her, so she decides to hell with it, and smiles and nods before making her way in through the vestibule.
Kat looks around curiously once she's inside, taking everything in, smiling when she catches sight of a girl who looks about her own age, maybe just a little younger, behind the counter. "Hi," she says, summoning up what warmth she can. "How does... this work? I don't think I've seen anything like it before."