Something Wicked This Way Comes


delia2_icon.gif s_eve_icon.gif sibyl2_icon.gif

Scene Title Something Wicked This Way Comes
Synopsis After a dreamwalker pulls unwilling participants into her nightmare, the favor is returned.
Date February 26, 2018

In Dreams

Somewhere in between the spaces that are known as here and there, a place in between exists. Right now, buildings pieced together from broken glass jut out of the waste like scars seen on wizard children in movies. They fill the horizon with serrated edges and after the scream of a missile one will topple, crushing everything in its shadow.

The horizon is familiar though and the combination of glass towers resemble the horizon of Staten Island. There is a distinct lack of vegetation, no growth here. The only evidence that there ever was is the odd tumble weed that blows through, dead and brown like the dust that covers the ground.

This place used to be Eltingville and she comes here often enough. In real life, it has never been as dead as it is at this moment. Delia sits with her back against a wall, in an alley off the main boulevard. Both of her hands are wrapped around the hilt of a pistol and her breathing is coming rapid and shallow. She has a finger on the trigger and the gun itself isn't pointed out but in. She isn't alone though, she can feel life like pinpoints in her consciousness. These may have been accidents because they both feel unfamiliar.

Just out of reach, barely able to be heard.. whispers proceed the booted feet of Eve Mas as she climbs out of a window above and not to far from where Delia is crouched and lands in the alley in a crouch herself, messy black hair frames her face. Her eyes that milk white color, they almost match the white of her dress were it not for the blood, dirt and grime that covers it.

Light gray eyes land on Delia and she tilts her head. “Ah Dreamwalker! Are we on an adventure this night?” The two have had meetings before, in dreams. Though Eve had not seen Delia for some time. “It sounds like we need,”

The seer pulls a rather large handgun out from beneath her dress. “More fire power.”

The other consciousness that Delia has sucked into her dream like soap suds down a psychic drain is a little less enthused about this development. Bare feet carry Sibyl out of the darkness at the rear of the alley and into view. Hundreds of little gray moths cling to the girl’s hair and settle on the milky skin of her pale shoulders. She’s wearing a nightgown of some kind, the sort of dowdy cotton sack that’s mass-produced and worn by people who don’t have any other clothes of her own.

The standard issue at Saint Margaret's School for Girls, in other words.

Cuts criss-cross her long, bare legs and her arms, which she holds drawn in and close to her body, for either warmth or for comfort. The wounds aren’t fresh; every visible nick and scratch has already scabbed over, but is still in the process of healing, crusty and pink at the edges.

Her breathing comes short and fast.

Where—?” she asks.

Hesitantly, Delia pulls the barrel of the gun out from under her chin. There’s the guilty look of a dog that knows its done something wrong washed across her features. Being of two minds such as this makes cries for help such as these illicit a specific response that she can never expect. “I— “ she has no words to answer the seer especially now that she’s seen the handgun.

The squeal of another missile sounds its warning and Delia leaps into action. Like a sprinter off a starter block, she’s on her feet and running at Eve. “Get down!!” The dreamwalker shouts as she tackles the other woman, both landing at the feet of the teenaged girl. “…Don’t you know we’re at war? We need to hide.”

The explosion is close enough that the concussive blast sends all three jolting to the other side of the alley. Then the building it hits begins to lean, pieces of it smashing too close to where they are.

Delia’s movements cause Eve to raise her eyebrows. “Darling, that's not the way.” Not at all. The appearance of Sibyl makes Eve’s head tilt to the side. Taking in her appearance, “Even in dreams you like this island.” She says softly and gets ready to answer the Where? and then there is the sound of another missile and she is being tackled by the dreamwalker.


As they fall to the ground at the feet of Sibyl she looks up at the girl, “Watch o-” and then leaping to her feet as she's pushes the teen out of the way of some fallen debris.

Eve’s palms slam into Sibyl’s chest and send her staggering backwards. Stone shatters into a thousand tiny pieces when a piece of rubble strikes the ground where she’d been standing a moment before, but rather than bounce and skitter away, the fragments explode into more of the little gray moths and float up into the air like sentient, fluttering flakes of newly-burned ash.

The girl spills out into the street, hitting the ground with enough force to bulldoze the breath from her lungs and leave her reeling. Her small hands group at the pavement, arms shaky and uncoordinated as she drags herself back up to her feet.

Now she is bleeding. Her knobby knees and palms have gone raw and red, fragments of broken glass and other detritus embedded in her skin from the fall. A low, keening noise rises up from the back of her throat and abruptly dies there, cut off by the roar of another, more distant explosion.

She wipes her hands on the front of her nightgown, leaving ruddy prints flecked with grit and smudges of motor oil she picked up somewhere along the way. Her head tips back and she looks up at the sky.

Help!” she’s bleating like a lost lamb. “Where are you!

The building topples, setting off a chain of destruction. The glass pillars knock into each other and fall like a row of dominoes, sending minute fragments into the air all around them. The dreamwalker curls into a fetal position as the alley suddenly collapses and she is showered in tiny shards.

Now the young girl is calling for help and that sends Delia into a panic. Afraid of the attention that will be directed their way, she scrambles to a stand and races into the road. “We need to hide,” she stresses the urgency of their situation through not only word but a terrified look in her eye that is more akin to a frightened dog than a person.

Grabbing Sibyl’s bleeding hand, she starts dragging her down the street and toward the nearest shelter. “We need to hide!” she repeats over her shoulder to Eve, “there should be more buildings up ahead, hurry!” Because the scream of yet another missile is getting louder in all of their ears, right at this very moment.


Eve screams as Sibyl tumbles into the street, she hears her calling for someone but is she asking for them? The seer’s eyes grow wide as the buildings fall around them her. Her head looking from side to side in a frantic manner sending her raven colored locks flying.

As Delia grabs at Sibyl’s hand Eve hurries behind them not wanting to get caught in the destruction being rained around them. Her milk white eyes wide as she leaps, closing the distance between she and the pair.

“Buildings might not be enough dreamwalker!” She tried to shout over the roar of missiles. Her eyes go to Sibyl, the young girl looks horrible and beautiful with the grey moths. The whispers in the back of her mind grow louder as she stares before she is snapped out of it by debris crashing near her feet. This place is falling apart.

Sibyl strains against Delia’s grasp. Her feet grind and skip over the broken street, struggling to dig in heels and provide her with the anchor she needs to break free and rabbit off in the opposite direction. She’s too small, too weak, but most important of all: this isn’t her dream. All she can do is twist and thrash, a minnow at the end of a psychic fishing line.

Tears carve wet paths down her cheeks and gather in the corners of her open mouth as her screams increase in both volume and intensity. “Let go of me! Let go! You don’t understand!”
She takes a swing at the dreamwalker with her free arm but her fist glances harmlessly off Delia’s shoulder and back. “He won’t be able to find me if we’re hiding!”

The dreamwalker drags the girl, and by extension Eve, toward a shelter built of corrugated cardboard. The size of it looks as though it could have held a refrigerator at one time. Windows, a door, and a garden of flowers are drawn in colorful wax crayon over its surface, looking very much like a child’s hideaway from years gone by. With a touch, Delia opens the door and in a moment all three are transported inside a young girl’s bedroom. A girl with a fancy for unicorns, puppies, and kittens.

Crayon drawings practically wallpaper the entire room and against the far wall is a canopied single bed smothered with plush toys of all animal variety. It is there that the redhead breathes a sigh of relief and finally lets the teen go. “We’re safe in here,” she says in a lowered tone, as to not call attention, “they can’t find us in here.” Then again, maybe the person that Sibyl is looking for won’t be able to find her either.

With another touch, the door to the outside shattered world is cut off and sealed.

Finally, she turns to Eve with raised brow and asks in a more normal tone, “Is this enough?”

As the world around them shifts dramatically Eve whirls around to face Delia after uttering a, “AH!” She blinks and then stares at Delia. “Well she,” pointing to the young girl with them. “Gotta find him! Or he's gotta find him. I didn't know! No metaphors.” Does she mean Druncle?

The seer puts her hands behind her back, the room is pristine and nice while Eve still looks like she's in the middle of a battle zone.

“Who is he?” She turns her head towards the young smart ass. Eyebrow raising, her milk white eyes a quite unsettling sight in this ‘safe’ space.

Sibyl sinks to the floor of the bedroom. She smears at the tears sticking to her face with the backs of her hands in between tiny, hiccuping sobs. The moths tangled in her hair have abandoned her to alight on other surfaces instead — a plush pegasus with deep iris-colored wings, the bed’s drooping canopy, a nightstand.

She draws her legs into her chest and rests her chin on her knees in an effort to center herself that only sort of works. Her energy bleeds into the surroundings she shares with Delia and Eve, desaturating pinks and creating shadows where there weren’t any before. Corners warp and straight lines no longer go from one point to another without bending. The sound of spring rain drums gently against a glass window.

“I— have to go,” she whispers at the end of a short, wet snuffle. “I have to leave. Please.

Before either Delia or Eve can respond, something on the other side of the bedroom wall hammers a fist against it with enough force to make the pane in the window shake and moths to scatter. Sibyl flinches.

The fuck you think will happen if you try to escape?” an unseen voice leers, a little too thick and slurry to sound as menacing as the speaker probably intends. If Eve and Delia don’t recognize it right away, they will when a wave of whiskey breath and tobacco smoke washes over them. “You want out? I’ll throw you out the fucking window! Maybe we’ll see if you can fucking fly!

It’s Epstein.

It’s a voice she’s only ever heard across a room or down the hall. The Dreamwalker is puzzled for the longest moment as she tries to piece together every clue she has to the male voice on the other side of the wall. Then she slides her gaze to Sibyl.

“Is that who you want to find you? That guy?” She knows that he worked with Nick, that Nick left her and Benji in some other future to be with him. Those non-memories flood back. Wrinkling her nose in disdain, she touches the wall where the sounds are coming from. It wavers and then turns transparent with white edges, like a dream sequence in an old black and white movie or television show.

“I can find him, if you’re looking for him… if you want help. If you want to hide, I can make him go away.”


Just like the last name on the ID card that Sibyl has on her person in the waking world. Eve’s eyebrows raise and she crouches near to Sibyl casting a curious gaze toward the wall and Avi behind it. “Is Druncle really your father?” Her eyes look over the young girl and she sighs, “If you want..” the dark haired woman looks over to Delia and then back to Sibyl.

“Should we go to him? He sounds awfully Druncle-like.” But there's this nagging sense at the back of Eve’s mind. She had been apart of the combined efforts of a dream manipulator and her ability before. It was.. always quite weird and that's saying a lot. But usually in her dreams, you had to follow the sound. Follow the danger, follow the sound.

And Aviators is the loudest thing around currently.

Sibyl raises a trembling hand and waves it across the wall. The screen changes. Delia and Eve are looking into a different bedroom, now, one with low ceilings and worn wooden floors in dire need of restoration. A frayed oriental carpet in muted emerald and blue tones lends the space some much-needed character and warmth. There’s a piano, too — an ordinary little spinnet with narrow keys and a bench covered in a sheepskin throw. Judging from the enormous size and placement of the solitary window, she’s chosen to show them an attic somewhere in New York City; through the warped glass, the jagged outline of Manhattan stands between them and an endless, twinkling sea of dark water.

A fine layer of dust covers everything, from the bookshelves built into the walls to the squat bed in the corner, goose down comforter discarded in a hastily pile.

No one has lived there for some time.

“It’s my fault he’s gone,” Sibyl says. She licks tears off her mouth. “I didn’t listen.”

Delia’s gaze slides to Eve as she makes a what do we do? face. They’ve left her nightmare for the safety of the fridgefort, now the fridgefort has a window to the teen’s nightmare, or daymare, whichever it is.

There’s pain there, that’s for sure. Sibyl is cut up, scuffed, and scabbed over, and even though the healing has started, this sort is bound to leave scars. “Good parents never leave their kids,” she says in a grim tone, looking through the window toward the empty apartment. The blanket of dust causes an unsettled feeling inside of her and she reaches out to place a hand on the teen’s shoulder. Squeezing it slightly for comfort.

“If you want him back, I can get him. We can get him.”

Eve looks at the window curiously and ventures forward to peer inside, the piano gets her attention first and then the rest of the room. “What did you do to Avi Sibyl?” The questions is direct and quiet, Eve knew the girl was trouble but so was she. Sister Seers.

Reaching forward for Sibyl’s dirty hand a dark shadow slides from the wall and settles over the woman’s skin materializing into a black robe, cowl up over her face.

“Shall we go there?”

“N-No.” Sibyl stammers, but the resolve in her voice is strong. She twitches away from Eve’s touch. A moth brushes the older woman’s cheek instead, and creeps along the curve of her jaw beneath the cowl. Wings quiver against skin.

What did you do to Avi? sounds like an accusation. The girl’s jaw sets. She judders in a sharp breath and focuses on maintaining the tension in her mouth so she doesn’t start crying again. “I— hurt people. They go away or they. They.” Die, is the unspoken implication. “This is better.”

Which means that Epstein isn’t what she’s looking for.

“I need to get away,” she tells Delia, turning her watery eyes on her. “Find my anchor. The furnace. My warm place.”

What Sibyl gets from Delia is a worried look and a slight shake of the head, “Alone is never better, kid.” Her words sound like they come from a place of pain, from outside the fridgefort and in that mess of shattered glass. “And if you hurt people out there…” she waves a hand toward the window, where the furniture is covered in a blanket of dust and time, “…then maybe it’s better to meet them in here.” Then she points to the floor.

That’s the last thing that Sibyl sees, because Delia raises her hand and snaps her fingers close to the girl’s ear. “Wake up now,” she says quietly and then the teenager is gone.

Turning to Eve, Delia raises her eyebrows. “So… Seer..” there’s a smile playing at her features as the glint of mischief comes to her eye. “What do you think about playing detective? Think we have enough to make a kid happy?”

The seer blinks as Sibyl is dismissed. Eve tilts her head and cackles lightly. “Smart Ass will not be happy. Or..” maybe she will. The things she said echo in Eve’s head. She shakes it and looks over at Delia.

Taking her hand with a wide grin she shrugs, “Only way to know is to hop on in.”

Then the seer is running with Delia into the window, leaping through it. “A warning,”

She yells as she charges forward and through the painting landing on the other side. “You have seen my mind hmm? Sister Seer’s is probably just as wonky, careful!”

Sibyl’s attic bedroom smells like mothballs. There’s that same lingering scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke, too; although she might not actively be looking for Epstein anymore, the girl’s former guardian is never very far from her mind.

Plastered to the attic’s walls are crudely-drawn maps of Liberty Island, but also the greater New York Area in general, both inside the Safe Zone and the surrounding areas, with the very notable exception of Manhattan. The girl’s handwrittten notes in the margins are painstakingly tidy and consist of a sequence of dates and times, going back as far as last August and ending in November.

A radiator tick-tick-ticks beneath the window. It’s cold enough in the attic for both women to see their own breath, which condenses in the air and produces a wispy fog that doesn’t dissipate like it should.

Delia takes a deep breath inward and lets it out very slowly. She narrows her eyes a little, given the so far nature of the girl she feels a strong enough need. With a sideways glance to Eve, Delia is gone. In her place, a fat moth flitters and weaves about in the cold air, its brown wings sporting two brightly colored blue dots. Its body, in the right light, is the color of rust.

Come on, the voice inside Eve’s head speaks, it’s the dreamwalker’s voice, loud and clear. Then she begins flitting toward the window and fluttering up the pane and down again, looking for an exit. There’s a moon outside, and she needs to get it.

As Eve takes in the room she pokes at a Grey moth softly with a smile. “They are beautiful aren't they?” Leaning forward with her finger on her chin she walks forward quickly to the maps. She pours over them as Delia runs to the window. Pale hands run over the maps as she takes the time to peer over the details. Being able to retain a few details maybe before Delia is speaking in her head.

“Hey! Just talk- she looks over her shoulder and closes her mouth. Oh hi. Sheepish wave.

Do you think the answer is outside? She needs her furnace. Nonetheless she is following after Delia. Are they really going out into the world. Eve walks slowly before dashing back and unpinning a map from the wall. Look! Even though she's clutching it in her hands tightly.

Delia’s itsy-bitsy moth feet touch the window and the world shifts. It isn’t that Sibyl has become aware of them, not exactly, but the rippling sensation that passes through the room is a little like a reflexive response, an animal rolling over in its sleep when its body decides that it’s been on one position for too long.

The floor is abruptly where the ceiling should be, and both Delia and Eve are tumbling down, down, down—

Time compresses. It feels like they should be falling indefinitely; this abyss appears to have no bottom until suddenly it does. When Delia lands on Eve’s shoulder, the first thing she notices is that the seer has changed. Gone is the tall, raven-haired with wild eyes and the devil’s smile; she’s been replaced by a smaller version of herself dressed in various shades and textures of gray, hair pinned up into a neat little bun at the top of her head.

Her clothes look like a hodgepodge of muted hand-me-downs assembled into what passes for a school uniform: knit cardigan buttoned over a cotton dress that cuts off at the knees, paired with scuffed leather shoes in black and striped socks that don’t quite reach the middle of her calf.

She is eleven years old again.

They’re in an office. Polished wood floors gleam in the early morning light. A stained-glass window casts the room in colorful hues across the full spectrum of the rainbow and illuminates Jesus’ suffering on a faux-gold crucifix mounted above the office’s only desk. There might be the temptation to go through the desk’s drawers, but before the thought has the chance to form in either of their minds, someone seizes Eve by the wrist.

“How many times have I told you that this office is off-limits?” demands an older woman in a nun’s stark black-and-white habit. She drags Eve across the room to the closet and thrusts the girl inside, slamming the door behind her to punctuate her point. A key turns in the lock, and through the razor-thin gap between the closet door and the frame, Eve and Delia see her cross back to the desk and heft up an old rotary-style phone of its edge.

Her fingers set to dialing.

The wake as the pair rush by causes Delia’s wings to falter and she tumbles through the air until she finds a wall to settle against and then she begins the slow crawl upward, unable to stop herself. She needs to be at the top, even better if it was in that corner. As the nun dials the number, Delia finds a place between the wall and the ceiling to rest, then all of her attention is directed there.

Just wait, she cautions Eve, let’s see what she’s doing.

There’s no need to bother the young dreamer right now. They’re in her mind and Delia learned from Dema, long ago, to be respectful and only take what dreamers want to give.

Looking down at her hands Eve blinks eyes wide but before she can properly scream she is thrown into the closet, door locked. She's scared, her lip starts to quiver as she bangs on the door. Getting ready to scream before Delia’s voice swims into her head.

Her eyes are wide but on tiptoes she goes to the gap and presses her eye to it. Determined to remain calm though seeing how small she is, frightened her a lot. Her eyebrows raise as the nun makes a phone call.

The nun cradles the receiver between her chin and shoulder, drumming the backs of her knuckles in a quick, impatient roll against the desk’s heavy oak surface.

“Hello?” she asks in response to a tinny voice on the other end of the line. “Yes— Yes. This is Sister Antonella from Saint Margaret’s School. I’m looking for— ” A glance at a gleaming yellow post-it note tacked to the desk. “Lieutenant Frederic Graves?”

Another pause. “Oh, good. I was given your name by our patrolman and told to call if any of our girls exhibited— ehm. We aren’t equipped to handle SLC-expressive children once they’ve manifested. One of our students has recently— I’m not quite sure what to say, really.” She looks back at the closet door. “Other than that it’s quickly becoming a problem in light of… well, you know.”

Do you know that name? Delia asks Eve as she flutters along the crease toward the corner. It seems like a safer place than the spot she’s in. Plus it just looks nicer than where she is right now. The sound she makes as she moves is a cross between a hum and a flap of wings. The curse of being a fat moth instead of a tiny grey one. Once she hits her desired spot, she’s still not satisfied. So she turns her body in a ninety degree angle and begins to walk down the corner that joins the walls. She’s trying to get closer to the desk, more specifically, that piece of bright yellow paper.

She creeps behind a crucifix attached to the wall and waits for a moment, flicking her antenna up and down, for no other reason than the fact that she can. Being a moth is new and different. Crawling out again, the crucifix makes a click as it falls back against the painted surface, startling Delia to flight. Her wings move at a frantic pace as she weaves and bobs through the air, trying to get somewhere safer than just out in the open. Being crushed by the angry nun doesn’t seem like a fun time to her, so after making a circle around her head, Delia drops to the floor and scuttles under the desk.

…No. The tiny Eve thinks out at the moth. Her lips press into a tight line as the nun speaks. Smooshing her face to the gap trying to get a clearer look. She braces herself against the door frame as she slides down to the floor. This.. must be.. she's not sure. Someone has manifested a troublesome ability.

The back of her neck prickles as she listens to what the older woman is saying. School for girls.. we are in a memory? They are after all in Sibyl’s head. Eve opens her eyes wide as she stares inside. Her gift is a curse, curse of a gift. Whichever.

Sister Antonella’s eyes snap toward the now-crooked crucifix. She steps away from the desk, stretching the phone’s spiral cord taut, and readjusts it with great reverence and care as the man on the other end of the line chatters shortly at her.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I see.” She twirls the cord around her finger, beginning to grow impatient with Lieutenant Graves’ cavalier tone. “No, I— I wouldn’t call it violent, necessarily. Just very un-Christian. There’s a darkness inside, I think— ”

Her eyes roll toward the ceiling. “Clairvoyance of some variety. Yes, that sounds right. You remember.”

The closer to the desk Delia ventures, the better she’s able to see the post-it note, which has the name Frederic Graves scrawled across it in Sister Antonella’s elegant black cursive, followed by a seven digit phone number and no area code below.

“I only reached out to you because I thought it might be of some use,” the nun finishes. “She’s very good at poking her nose in other people’s business, and I was under the impression that this is something your people do.”

In dreams, Delia is much better able to retain spoken names than numbers or letters. When she can make them out at all, they are distorted and strange, as though she’s trying to read Greek or Chinese on the outside. So she relays the number through her link with Eve as best as possible and commits the name, as much as she can, to memory. Do you think you can remember that? there’s a dubious quality to her voice, as though she doubts the fact that the Seer is all there. This is definitely a memory of some kind. Then she repeats the name three times to herself in a chant, Frederickgravesfrederickgravesfredergicgraves.

Poor thing, sympathy for Sibyl pores out from Delia and when she’s finished crawling to the bookcase, she slips between a bible and a dictionary to wait. I think you’re going to have to brace yourself for a whipping or something. I don’t remember the nuns in movies being too kind. Except in the case of The Sound of Music, which this is really is not.

Oh yes Dreamy I remember everything from my dreams now. If this were 2011 then she would be in trouble maybe. Eve’s eyes widen as she listens to what the nun is saying. They used her… for her sight. She is a girl now how long ago could this be? The seer drums her fingers on the wall gently one by one, Frederic, she knows him too. Sibyl has too.

The seer tries to get more comfortable as she listens through the door, dirt from the door scuffing her face up.

This nunnery isn't very nunny. Trading off SLC-Expressives for… profit.. or?

The sound of fingers on the inside wall of the closet has Sister Antonella’s eyes thinning to slits. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she says. “We’ll see you in the morning.” She replaces the receiver on the phone’s cradle and trades it for a leather switch she keeps propped up against the side of the desk.

The soles of her flats whisper across wood as she winds her way around the desk, cruising toward the closet like a prim black shark. Her other hand reaches for the closet door, then stops with her fingers in a light hover above the handle.

She turns, slowly, to face the moth hiding in the bookcase. Their world shifts again, but this time both Delia and Eve sense that it’s because the psychic whose memory they’re trespassing in has become aware of their presence.

The floorboard under Sister Antonella’s foot creaks.

Delia and Eve understand what she meant when she referred to the darkness inside the girl; it creeps into the memory through the stained class window, and gathers in each of the room’s corners as an invisible but pervasive feeling of anger and dread. Eve is no longer trapped alone in the closet, but when she looks — there’s nobody else there.

Get out of my head,” snarls Sister Antonella, or maybe it’s Sibyl. Lips peel back over her teeth. She throws open the closet door, raises her switch above Eve’s head in a swift, merciless arc, and then—

Delia wakes up.

Her entire bed and pillow are soaked in sweat. The dreamwalker runs a hand through her hair and gets her fingers tangled in the long red curls before ripping her hand away. Slowly, she gets up and pads to the kitchen in her bare feet. The floor stings her soles, it’s so cold, and she can see her breath in the air. Staring out the window, she put a kettle under the tap and fills it, the morning is grey and dark.

After the kettle squeals, she pours some of it into a cup. She doesn’t have a tea bag or coffee grounds to stir into it, so she drinks it as is… not caring about the calcium scales that float around loose inside.

A gasp feels the Oracle Room as Eve sits up suddenly. “Did she..” a hand claps to her cheek and she looks shocked momentarily. She must have fallen asleep downstairs here again. It had become a little bit of a habit as of late.

Stretching her arms out she closes her eyes and yawns, raven hair disheveled. Rising to her feet she toes around the pillows and blankets on the floor to nab at a unfinished spliff. Lighting the thing she switches one of the fans on before plopping back on the pillows on the floor. She crosses her legs as she lays back, satin nightgown rising up as she blows out a ring of smoke that is blown away by the fan in the corner.

“Far out.”

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