Jul 20, 2019 23:52:52 GMT -6
Post by Esialeth Rose on Jul 20, 2019 23:52:52 GMT -6
For the first time in seven months, Esialeth Rose jerks awake.
She has no time to survey her surroundings before she stumbles blindly to a bathroom, guided more on instinct and touch than on sight—for even if it was day, she is not convinced that her mind would not play hallucinations for her to see after months of deathly-silent sleep.
The sickly-sweet taste of summer lingers in the air; nothing like the the crisp, bitter cold that she had just been getting used to.
When Esialeth Rose finds her way to the bathroom, she clutches the porcelain countertop like a lifeline, stares into her own burning gold eyes for half a breath before she heaves into the sink.
The first time is vomit, sharp and pungent. The second is bile, sour and burning. The third—and the fourth, and the fifth—is blood, water and steel and heat.
Esialeth Rose meets her reflection again. Carelessly wipes liquid dark as cherries from the edge of her once full, perfect lips; now, they are pale and chapped—frowning, she smears her bloody hand across her lips. They color once more, but in a wild, frenzied sort of way, as if she was just now realizing that she had spent her entire life biding her time, waiting for a sign that would never come.
She cleans herself in the exotic clawfoot tub reserved for faculty, wiping away months upon years of pent-up energy. Rakes a brush through her silver-grey hair. Dresses like a mercenary—a mix of style and stealth, of comfort and adventure. Steals a practice sword from the training grounds, one last time.
Esialeth Rose is gone by morning.
She has no time to survey her surroundings before she stumbles blindly to a bathroom, guided more on instinct and touch than on sight—for even if it was day, she is not convinced that her mind would not play hallucinations for her to see after months of deathly-silent sleep.
The sickly-sweet taste of summer lingers in the air; nothing like the the crisp, bitter cold that she had just been getting used to.
When Esialeth Rose finds her way to the bathroom, she clutches the porcelain countertop like a lifeline, stares into her own burning gold eyes for half a breath before she heaves into the sink.
The first time is vomit, sharp and pungent. The second is bile, sour and burning. The third—and the fourth, and the fifth—is blood, water and steel and heat.
Esialeth Rose meets her reflection again. Carelessly wipes liquid dark as cherries from the edge of her once full, perfect lips; now, they are pale and chapped—frowning, she smears her bloody hand across her lips. They color once more, but in a wild, frenzied sort of way, as if she was just now realizing that she had spent her entire life biding her time, waiting for a sign that would never come.
She cleans herself in the exotic clawfoot tub reserved for faculty, wiping away months upon years of pent-up energy. Rakes a brush through her silver-grey hair. Dresses like a mercenary—a mix of style and stealth, of comfort and adventure. Steals a practice sword from the training grounds, one last time.
Esialeth Rose is gone by morning.
