Little Goat Mountain I never trust a narcissist

Rancid mouthfeel is now warm against her head and face as strong shadowy arms wrap around her. Athalia does not like this.
Her eyes bug wide as saucers, the white sclera peeling, before her lip curls in a hideous display of laughably gummy mouth; teeth only just starting to erupt. Go away says her warning; stop staring at me—
Brother descends upon her with the wrath of a thousand firelight suns, or at least that is how it felt to her. He tumbles messily in search of a direly unwanted tussle, and yet little Athalia does not defend herself, does not shove, kick, bite; she merely freezes. Cold as stone, images of little red sparks warping into her mind's eye. Brother strikes. Brother wrestles. Was this normal?
Sniffling, she then rolls onto her side like an opossum, legs stuck out in front of her. Too much, too much happening! Maybe this will get the clamoring to stop; make the suffocating warmth of body heat and trickle of saliva that now covers her face go away.