(Locked to Rachel)
Jean sat at her vanity table, brushing her hair and staring at her reflection in the mirror. So much had happened in the past few days that she didn't even know where to begin. The one thing that had been praying on her mind most lately was thoughts of her daughter. Rachel. The last time she saw her...
She pushed the thought away, trying to ignore it. Worrying would do no good. And God knows she had tried hard enough to find Rachel herself, spent hours sensing for her. When she was completely unable to locate her, she had resigned herself to the waiting, a concept that grated against her natural tendency towards action.
Slamming the brush down on the table's surface, she closed her eyes, fighting back tears. Logan would smell them and want to know what was wrong, and at the moment she wasn't sure if she could put it into words. The desperate need to hold her child in her arms, to make sure that she was alright, to protect her was so strong it was choking Jean. In a random fit of temper, Jean whirled around and threw her hairbrush at the wall with enough force to embed the handle into the dry wall.
Standing up, she walked over to the window, pushed it up to let fresh air into the room, and lit one of the cigarettes from the pack in her pocket. Pick a poison, any one, either way, you're almost done. She thought ironically as she watched the smoke drift on the slight breeze and felt the nicotine burn her throat.
She pushed the thought away, trying to ignore it. Worrying would do no good. And God knows she had tried hard enough to find Rachel herself, spent hours sensing for her. When she was completely unable to locate her, she had resigned herself to the waiting, a concept that grated against her natural tendency towards action.
Slamming the brush down on the table's surface, she closed her eyes, fighting back tears. Logan would smell them and want to know what was wrong, and at the moment she wasn't sure if she could put it into words. The desperate need to hold her child in her arms, to make sure that she was alright, to protect her was so strong it was choking Jean. In a random fit of temper, Jean whirled around and threw her hairbrush at the wall with enough force to embed the handle into the dry wall.
Standing up, she walked over to the window, pushed it up to let fresh air into the room, and lit one of the cigarettes from the pack in her pocket. Pick a poison, any one, either way, you're almost done. She thought ironically as she watched the smoke drift on the slight breeze and felt the nicotine burn her throat.