It's been a difficult transitional period. That's the sort of thing people say when something is absolutely, horrendously fucked, but thinking about it that way would only create further problems.
So it's been a difficult transitional period. Some of the discoveries she's made have been the sort of thing that once upon a time would have had her crouched in the corner of a room huffing into a paper bag. (Which she has done a few times, but that's neither here or there.) But that had been before the first difficult transitional period, and she's discovered (as usual) that she has a reserve of steel in her sufficient to tackle the challenge.
Even if today, the challenge is not dropping the mug of tea she just finished making for herself when there's a knock on the front door. She freezes in the kitchen, her heart tripping over itself all the way down her ribcage, and when hot tea sloshes over her fingers and dampens the hems of her over large sweater she curses fiercely and slams the mug on the countertop with the sort of force that always makes people concerned she's going to break something.
Someone else will answer it. She knows that perfectly well. One of the strangers here (some with the faces of her friends) will pop right off to get it, or leave it to one of John's awful skeletons. She knows she isn't supposed to. Something about the risk of it all, with her and her fragile and rather sad little human body.
But there are no footsteps on the stairs or in the hallway. The dreadful girls don't drag themselves out of wherever they might be moping. John doesn't pop his head around a corner. The other two don't slink out of hiding or bend down by the kitchen window to assure her of her staying put, snug and secure.
There's another knock. She pushes her glasses up her nose.
The front door opens shortly after. A short woman with a messy bun pulling back her pale peach coloured hair peers up at the visitor, her equally pale blue eyes made wide and bright by her wire frame glasses.
"Hello?" She says, with a briskness just shy of perfunctory. "How can I help you?"
apollonia the first
So it's been a difficult transitional period. Some of the discoveries she's made have been the sort of thing that once upon a time would have had her crouched in the corner of a room huffing into a paper bag. (Which she has done a few times, but that's neither here or there.) But that had been before the first difficult transitional period, and she's discovered (as usual) that she has a reserve of steel in her sufficient to tackle the challenge.
Even if today, the challenge is not dropping the mug of tea she just finished making for herself when there's a knock on the front door. She freezes in the kitchen, her heart tripping over itself all the way down her ribcage, and when hot tea sloshes over her fingers and dampens the hems of her over large sweater she curses fiercely and slams the mug on the countertop with the sort of force that always makes people concerned she's going to break something.
Someone else will answer it. She knows that perfectly well. One of the strangers here (some with the faces of her friends) will pop right off to get it, or leave it to one of John's awful skeletons. She knows she isn't supposed to. Something about the risk of it all, with her and her fragile and rather sad little human body.
But there are no footsteps on the stairs or in the hallway. The dreadful girls don't drag themselves out of wherever they might be moping. John doesn't pop his head around a corner. The other two don't slink out of hiding or bend down by the kitchen window to assure her of her staying put, snug and secure.
There's another knock. She pushes her glasses up her nose.
The front door opens shortly after. A short woman with a messy bun pulling back her pale peach coloured hair peers up at the visitor, her equally pale blue eyes made wide and bright by her wire frame glasses.
"Hello?" She says, with a briskness just shy of perfunctory. "How can I help you?"