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Post by Alonna Swanson on Sept 21, 2013 15:00:09 GMT -5
Two days after the Wyoming incident...
She stared at the wall, at the window, at the worn, old-fashioned quilt over the sagging bed. Anything to avoid looking into that dusty mirror over the dresser, or at her own hands, or her legs (it was strange, the things you noticed. She could tell the differences between the length of her fingers, the freckle by her right thumb that hadn't been there before. Even the shape of these legs - slightly shorter, slightly wider than her own long, willowy-thin limbs - was enough to make her feel like fainting again. Her hair was pulled back in a bun tight enough to make her head ache so she wouldn't have to risk seeing the dark strands where there'd once been vibrant blonde.
But even that wasn't enough. So many little things, things you wouldn't even expect, screamed wrong wrong through her brain until she felt sick from it.
When she clenched her teeth, the wrong ones ground together. When she licked her lips they felt thinner, drier. Her eyes had more trouble focusing, like they'd spent months just staring blankly into space and had forgotten how. Her shoulders naturally slouched now, something that had been drilled out of her since early childhood.
It was all wrong. She was wrong. She squeezed her eyes closed, and tried to shut out the world.
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Post by Molly Rourke on Sept 21, 2013 23:40:17 GMT -5
Three days after the Wyoming incident...
Molly had the gun apart and was halfway through wiping down the magazine before she realized she'd done this twice already. Growling softly, she pushed herself to her feet and started to pace down the long hall toward the bedroom where the girl was staying, before turning and stalking back to the main room.
The girl was a disaster. Whatever those people had done back in Wyoming ("Everyone's dead, a demon, I just escaped..."), it had wound her up royally. She barely moved, she barely spoke, she flinched and reacted strangely to the simplest things. And she seemed frozen stiff by the sight of her own skin.
There was nothing wrong with her Molly could explain. She'd tried every test under the sun when she'd first picked the girl up: run silver along her skin, and iron. Poured holy water across her hand. Tried saying God's name just to be double sure, she had mentioned a demon after all, and checked for signs of sulfur or ritual marks across her skin. She'd found a few things: strange cuts that made out words or parts of words but didn't explain what'd happened to her for crap, and a circular brand mark that might've been some sorta witchcraft or might've just been another masochistic mark like the cuts were.
She'd seen the remnants of this demonic... thing. After she'd gotten the girl back to her car she'd gone back into the mansion and seen what was going on in there. What she'd helped happen? Maybe. She hadn't done more'n slow down the wolf and her friends and she still couldn't see how that was a bad thing, but she'd talked to those people from the mansion, known they were up to something, and hadn't cared to look into it. Whatever'd happened (almost happened?) to the girl, that was on Molly's head as much as anyone.
She picked up the gun, slammed the magazine back into the grip, and pulled out the next giant book on symbology.
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