Third Class ; Dining
As soon as her bare feet touched down upon wood, she panicked.
This was wrong. It was a truth that echoed within her mind and tore at her throat, as fingers curled into claws and she tug, tug, tugged at her hair, the reasons why this was wrong crashing and colliding and getting all tangled up like string. Her dress was long, long, and the hem tripped her as she ran, tears carving trenches in her cheeks and tasting bitter on her tongue when she licked her lips. Like fireworks exploding in tandem she felt things, things she'd never felt before because angels weren't supposed to feel, like statues carved out of marble, and now it was all happening at once and she was on a boat and none of this should have been happening at all. She was good, she was, even if they didn't think so anymore and she'd been cast out, ripped and torn and abandoned like a piece of trash.
Home was up, but her feet blindly led her down, through narrow hallways where the lights flickered over her skin and her sobs seemed impossibly loud to her own ears. She didn't stop until water splashed beneath her feet, until she was wrapped in music that tugged at her soul, which only made her sobs worsen, and she threw herself into a nearby chair without looking up to see if she was alone. Knees drawn up to her chest, her hair spilled over and obscured her face, once bright as spun gold now dull and faded. Once the dress she wore had been pure and untouched but now it was yellowed and stained, the hem damped from ocean water, and it clung to her form almost obscenely. Pale skin was bared and the only indication of what she was, or what she had been, was on her back, where two long, messy scars ran parallel over her shoulder blades, the surrounding flesh bruised black and purple.
Her sobs were strong enough to wrack her entire body, limbs quivering, but soon they lessened, hitched breath and quiet whimpers like delicate glass from salt-stained lips.