(no subject)
Maybe it was wandering around in the middle of Scotlandy autumn wearing a tiny angel costume, or not washing her hands enough, or spending too much time lost in Arashmaharr's freaking void, but Ava is definitely coming down with something. She's chilly and her hands are on fire and she's feeling waaay more homicidal than usual. A little bit of R&R seems in order.
From her bed, where she is curled up miserably with a blanket and mug of cooling tea, Ava can see the moon outside, spinning like a gleaming white coin-- a little lopsided, maybe. She feels the familiar ache in the pit of her stomach and shifts to see if it will go away.
B's gonna fucking pay for this, man. Leaving her alone. All 'cause she's freaked-- jealous, maybe. Everybody is.
"Dude," Ava mutters, "now would be a great time to get a grip."
She flops back against her pillow, helpfully propped up against the headboard, and coughs again. As if it weren't bad enough to be growing a fucking tail.
A glower into the darkness.
"Okay, fuck this," she spits, and launches herself out of bed.
She's going mental stuck in here-- time for a night on the town. Maybe she'll run into B ... or maybe her pwecious Saaaam.
She's getting kinda hungry, anyway.
Ginger throws the wardrobe open and dizzily rifles through-- boring, boring, preppy, boring. What the fuck happened to all her clothes?
She finally finds something that's not irredeemably stupid and slips into it, and doesn't turn the lights off before slamming the door insouciantly in her wake.
Fuck what's supposedly wrong with her, and fuck being sick.
Time to have a little fun.
From her bed, where she is curled up miserably with a blanket and mug of cooling tea, Ava can see the moon outside, spinning like a gleaming white coin-- a little lopsided, maybe. She feels the familiar ache in the pit of her stomach and shifts to see if it will go away.
B's gonna fucking pay for this, man. Leaving her alone. All 'cause she's freaked-- jealous, maybe. Everybody is.
"Dude," Ava mutters, "now would be a great time to get a grip."
She flops back against her pillow, helpfully propped up against the headboard, and coughs again. As if it weren't bad enough to be growing a fucking tail.
A glower into the darkness.
"Okay, fuck this," she spits, and launches herself out of bed.
She's going mental stuck in here-- time for a night on the town. Maybe she'll run into B ... or maybe her pwecious Saaaam.
She's getting kinda hungry, anyway.
Ginger throws the wardrobe open and dizzily rifles through-- boring, boring, preppy, boring. What the fuck happened to all her clothes?
She finally finds something that's not irredeemably stupid and slips into it, and doesn't turn the lights off before slamming the door insouciantly in her wake.
Fuck what's supposedly wrong with her, and fuck being sick.
Time to have a little fun.