She gave into the inevitable and reached out. A touch and she was in a kitchen, small and sparse, but filled with warmth—from the oven, from her mom, from just being. Then she was taller, sitting at the table, staring at a loaf of bread that had long turned cold. She turned away and the next time she looked it was covered in mold. She couldn’t bring herself to eat it though. Then she was walking into the prison for the first time, hands shaking, but she was there. And then there were days, so many days, after that, filled with laundry and being useful. Some of those days she was scared, but she was being useful to someone, and sometimes she pretended that she knew what it was to fall in love.
Then there was the day when hide and turned into hours in a dryer drum, waiting for the unknown to become safe.
And the month after that and the first friendships she had had in a long time, the first time in a long time she cared not because she wanted to be useful but because she simply cared.
The fight, the papers, the pens, a broken jaw, a casino, fog, undying, the hospital, blood.
She saw all of this and everything that was caught in between. She couldn’t flinch even though she wanted to, but eventually it all became easy and she was ready and she-
She wasn’t herself. She was something else entirely, something beautiful, powerful, more than. She was everything that had been consumed, collected, gathered, made, and they were what once was and what would be—
But they were missing something, incomplete.
The memories, they weren’t all there and—
Where was her body? She needed it. Where was it? There was terror now, terror in the lack of having what she had always known. She did not give in easy as she might have in the past. Her searching, her wish, could not make it appear. So she used what little influence she had to fashion a new one, and she felt, for a sick moment, as if a god.
Not quite though, because she was not that powerful. This form, this vessel, whatever this was, was not perfectly hers, not perfectly hers to control. She stumbled forward, still searching, needing what was hers and to not be a thief or a stranger in her own… skin. There was a sudden feeling of familiarity and she struggled forward as quickly as she could, searching for the glimpse of her face that she was sure she had seen.
But it was not hers and it took her a moment to realize that this was the creature she had smacked with her fishing rod. She reached out—he had helped her even if she had been scared of him. He had saved her even when she had not wanted to be saved. She felt guilty for her fighting him for she now knew what he had done for her.
She reached out brushing vine against vine and she knows that even though, for now, she feels different, separate, individual, that she is a part of them. They part for her and she is gentle, as gentle as she could be when she wasn’t herself. She gathered the creature in her not-arms and took him from his encasement. She carried him as best as she could away, away, away, even as she fell away the farther they went. She was barely holding on when she saw the exit at the base of the stairs, but she held on anyways and brought him to those waiting—they were his allies and she was glad that he could escape even though she would not.
She was glad for him.
OOC
Character's name: Greta Dean
Character's faction: Prison
Character's journal link: Here
Character's survival stats: View
BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF MY CHARACTER Tall, bony, middle-aged with graying hair. She doesn't cut a particularly interesting or powerful figure. Her face is lined and soft. Her eye unremarkable. Soft spoken, dutiful, and obedient. She takes orders and takes them well.
