It takes longer than it should for one so gifted to realize that she’s clawing at her own arms, dark wells of ichor pooling in the lap of what was formerly a white dress. It burns like good scotch, the dark fluid distracting her from the lighter hued one that pools in the pockets of her eyes. The actual scotch she’d been clinging to like a life-raft has long since been forgotten, empty bottle rolled away to quiet obscurity behind the couch.
When Rose laughs it is cold. Bitter. Manic. Trembling digits ease out of the ashen craters they’d made in her flesh, the wounds closing with a lick of black flame as if to remind her of exactly what she is. Who she belongs to.
Like a string, Rose quivers, holding in all the tension of weeks and months until.
Darkness clouds the Seer’s vision, resolve crumbling as she howls until it feels like she’s swallowing glass. Thick, discolored tears fall freely, another wail wracking her frame. Not so haughty without your walls, Rose? Not so witty with your mind scrambled like Sunday morning breakfast?
She screams and whimpers like she’s dying.
Or maybe like she’s already dead.