Cece could understand the need to fidget. In fact, her entire body felt foreign when she was forced to stand still, like she was now. If they were to have a show down, Cece would sooner make her cheeks bleed from biting them for restraint than crack and play with the frays of her sweater. She had years of practice, the days of any person caught fidgeting being told they have ‘Cecelia syndrome’ have not been forgotten.
She stared, unblinking, until finally raising one eyebrow and giving a deliberate look of disbelief. What a pretentious twit. It’s cerise? “Yes, and my hair is flaxen, not blonde,” she shot back, utter disdain dripping from her tone. Maybe she had been right all along to be defensive when she first appeared. “And just, what, exactly is up with that scarf, anyway? Shorts, sleeveless, and a scarf. Are you deliberately trying for the shock factor?” She practically tsked. Celia may not be dressed appropriately for the season, but at least it all matched. “At least make an effort to be more subtle about it. Pink hair, mismatched clothes, fuck-all attitude. Jesus. You’re like a walking, talking cliche,”
She was insulted–even if she wasn’t actually painting an image–but truly she couldn’t deny how perfect that split second was. Cece did paint, had been since way back when all she had were her fingers as brushes, but it was more of something to do on sleepless nights. Not an obsession, like the one she had with writing. Maybe a picture with an angry pink blur wouldn’t be so bad. But that was a different matter. She’d think about that later. She tried to pause before she replied. Tried to reason with herself that no, she wasn’t calling her stupid, she had no idea who she was and that she was merely trying to rile her up.
“I hardly believe there’s an issue with the vernacular I’m using. Are you as shallow as your attire suggests, and can’t wrap your dye-posioned brain that you and we might have two different definitions?” She put on the same lilt the girl had used, blinking her eyes and tilting her head to the side when she was done.
Feet positioning into a defensive stance. Eyes gleaming from a hazel hue to the sickly honey colour of the wolf’s as she glared back at the girl. In the back of her vision, she could see that night flashing back before her.
Damp, the smell wafting from the floorboards and lingering in her clothes for days after.
Blood, crimson and warm against her hands as she reached out to push herself up from the ground. Pain, her flesh feeling like it was melting away from her body when the plant met her skin, that sensation crawling all the way up the left side of her neck and eventually in her hands too when she had tried to push the vampire away.
Her skin twinged now as if the mere memory of being burnt could bring back the pain itself. Phantom pain full of screams in her ears that she couldn’t block out and suddenly she found herself on the concrete with her palms clamped over her ears and her eyes squeezed shut. Was that screaming? Was that her? Was she making that dreadful sound that seemed to ring out across the terrain, past the buildings and into the stretch of green that was shielded by the town and the mass of man-made buildings.
Echoing.
Hurting.
All the way through her arms, up her neck and right down through the rest of her body. Everywhere ached a pain that she was now far too familiar with. It ebbed through her veins, pulsating with her heart beat and into every finger and capillary. Like a virus, it just kept coming back and every time this had happened, she hadn’t been able to stop it. Behind closed eyelids, her irises slipped back to their normal colour. A sheen of sweat covered her skin, one hand reaching down towards the ground as if to check if this world was still real. Her heart felt heavy in her chest, her breathing just as so– Were her cheeks wet?
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