House of cards, you fall hard
Aniki is by the lake, reading under a streetlight as the day winds down. Her expression is... well. She doesn't look like she's enjoying herself. Eventually, just before true dark, she closes the brown-covered book in her hands and sets it on her lap. She stares up at the bugs bouncing off of the edges of the light, going from silhouette to halo as they frenzy back and forth.
That lasts about ten minutes. Silence, staring, blank face. The water slaps against the barriers blocking it from the soil of the park. Aniki drags herself to her feet and faces the lake, gripping the book in on hand.
And then she throws it, a yell bursting out of her. The book spins drunkenly, its pages flapping and fluttering as it cartwheels through the air and lands in the water with an unsatisfying splash.
She stands there, watching the paperback soak lower into the lake until it gets too heavy to stay afloat and disappears.
There's another book on the ground, this one blue, a hardback. She lunges at it, as though she's going to send it spinning out to join its counterpart, or kick it over the edge and out of her way. Instead she just stops next to it, shaking a little. From nowhere, there's a sword in her hand. From nowhere, objects start appearing--pillows, mismatched shoes, glasses, notebooks. As they rain down around her she hacks them to bits, lunging and twisting and stabbing until sweat runs into her eyes and what looks like a tornado-struck refugee camp spreads out on the ground around her.
She looks down at her weapon and starts laughing, a furious, humorless sound.
Someone has not taken meeting her fictional self very well.
That lasts about ten minutes. Silence, staring, blank face. The water slaps against the barriers blocking it from the soil of the park. Aniki drags herself to her feet and faces the lake, gripping the book in on hand.
And then she throws it, a yell bursting out of her. The book spins drunkenly, its pages flapping and fluttering as it cartwheels through the air and lands in the water with an unsatisfying splash.
She stands there, watching the paperback soak lower into the lake until it gets too heavy to stay afloat and disappears.
There's another book on the ground, this one blue, a hardback. She lunges at it, as though she's going to send it spinning out to join its counterpart, or kick it over the edge and out of her way. Instead she just stops next to it, shaking a little. From nowhere, there's a sword in her hand. From nowhere, objects start appearing--pillows, mismatched shoes, glasses, notebooks. As they rain down around her she hacks them to bits, lunging and twisting and stabbing until sweat runs into her eyes and what looks like a tornado-struck refugee camp spreads out on the ground around her.
She looks down at her weapon and starts laughing, a furious, humorless sound.
Someone has not taken meeting her fictional self very well.