Twisted Slough my life is a play, is a play

tagged for ref

so fast it had happened and then she was gone, gone, and hadn't witchbaby sworn against that very thing? oh but, she hadn't meant to, she would never have (but how would @Kinkajuú know, an ugly little voice reminds her, you broke a promise and she doesn't owe you now baby).

the guilty-red starlet is used to being all alone but only by choice and the robbery of warmth at her side sits on her heavily. the flash of her grin is gone, pink eyes less bright - though who here would know the difference? she thinks of her dear brother forever doomed to chasing her restless heels (sorry, dear weetzie, but it was for her), thinks of kinkajuú and how soft and cracked she'd been already and how desperately witch had wanted to be the one to hold her together. oh, it doesn't do at all, and she knows enough to call a spade a spade here; witch would have never demanded reciprocity but it's all gone to hell.

and anyway where is she now? the hinterlands around her have turned as ugly as her heart, and though the coy has never been prone to fear she feels something cold and eerie in her now, tears prickling her pretty pink eyes. "oh, oh," she breathes anxiously, pressing her delicate shape against the smooth black bark of a willow. perhaps it is a good place to feel sorry for herself, but laying down to die just isn't in her character motivations, and so she nervously slinks forth, an odd spot of red in the darkness:  head bowed in soft prayer that she might not be alone, just this once, just this once.