Katina Choovanski

When the phone rang, Katchoo nearly smashed it for having the audacity to wake her. Clocky sympathized with the phone, which was saved by virtue of Katchoo's fist missing and sending it skidding off the nightstand and onto the bed instead, where it bounced off her forehead.

"Ow! Sonofa --" she started to growl when she saw the caller ID and snapped the slider open, all thoughts of being relieved about being herself again on hold. "Hello?"

The woman on the other end of the line spoke in a soft French-Canadian accent. "This is Sister Jordan at Saint Mary's Hospice in Toronto. I'm looking for Katina Choovanski."

Shit. "Yeah, this is she," Katchoo answered with none of her usual gruffness, and fell silent, listening to what the woman had to say. The details of it weren't important the way the strangled sob Katchoo let out in response was. "Okay. I understand," she said, her fist half jammed into her mouth to keep from crying. "Okay. Please tell her I'm on my way. I'll be there as soon as I can."

She snapped the phone shut and rolled over long enough to let out a muffled, frustrated yell into her pillow, then got up to throw on some clothes and pull the suitcase, already packed, from its place under the bed behind the pile of empty liquor bottles. She'd told Arthur she'd try to tell Francine the truth, just yesterday. Hard to do that now, wherever the hell Francine had gone after their fight (over not telling the truth, funny, that) last night, and now this. Thanks, universe, best timing ever.

Katchoo ripped a page out of her sketchbook and started to scribble a ( quick note: )

Tossing the note onto Francine's bed, she headed out the door, already on the phone and mentally cursing out hold music.

[OOC: Establishy. NFI unless the roomie wants to react to the note.]

Katchoo didn't even wait to get out of bed, most mornings, before the smoking started. Today wasn't any different, since today more than anything she just wanted to stay there. She'd have loved to pretend the last few days hadn't happened, but she'd hit maximum denial capacity apparently.

So, denial not an option, she lay staring up at the ceiling, not giving a damn about the ashes drifting to the floor from the cigarette dangling from her hand and severely annoyed that she did still give a damn about a couple of other things. The sketchbook she'd had on Thursday lay open on the nightstand and was now completely filled up with drawings, some of them rough renderings and others more thoroughly fleshed out and shaded, all of them looking a lot like Francine.

[OOC: Post is for sooooooomebody.]