annie wheaton is trapped inside her own mind (trappedinatower) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-01-02 22:49:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | angel, annie wheaton |
Who: Annie Wheaton and Angel
What: With her, you never can tell.
When: 7PM
Where: The garden in the back of the hotel
Rating: TBD
Status: In Progress
Considering the number of people staying at the base of operations for Angel Investigations, the hotel was relatively quiet. The typical commentary coming from Cordelia about most anything and everything wasn't present. The occasional arguments from Zuko and Katara weren't taking place. Even the sounds of Oz' guitar all the way up in his room couldn't be heard.
Were the clock in the lobby working, it would have been chiming that it was officially seven at night. It wasn't, though. In fact, there wasn't a single sound at all.
Except the soft music of Glen Miller coming from the garden.
Sitting on the ground, near the fountain that had only just recently surged to life of what most would think was its own accord, sat Annie. She was sitting Indian-style, her hair hanging evenly over her shoulders and her stuffed rabbit resting in her lap. In front of her was a pad of paper and a box of crayons. Her expression was carefully neutral, the only sign she was even paying attention to what she was currently drawing being the slight furrowing of her brow.
Closer inspection would reveal the drawing to be one of a tall building standing proud amidst rubble and destruction. There was a dark cloud over the top of the building and a stick figure in the very top window made with black crayon. One of his hands, however, was red.
A bee buzzed merrily by the girl's head and continued past the fountain, to the back of the garden and the flowers that grew there. They had been dead, mere days earlier, but now they were in full bloom and as colorful and bursting with life as was possible. They, too, seemed to have returned of their own accord.
All-in-all, it was a picture of serene normalcy. The light splash of the water as it poured into the fountain, a pleasing floral aroma that could be smelled clear into the lobby, and a teenage girl lost in her own little world of artistry. Completely normal on the surface and to anyone who might be casually strolling past. A closer look, however, showed one startling contrast to such a belief.
After all, it just wasn't normal for the sound of Glen Miller to be coming from the flowers. A speaker nestled within the foliage, perhaps, but not the actual flowers themselves.
Yet that was precisely the case and Annie, as with everything else taking place in the garden since her arrival at the hotel, was solely the one to blame.