InsaneJournal

Who: Rosalie
What: Memory log
Where: Penthouse floor
When: Before her daily babysitting shift
Warnings: Not currently

Rosalie was ambling slowly up the stairs for her shift at Daniel's, hand dragging the rail, thinking about death. She had seen people die. Some abstractly, gone up in smoke and screams, lost to a shadowy power that had just wanted to see the world burn. Most deaths were closer though, twisted into a long dark night that she could barely remember. Sometimes she would wake up crying, with nothing but a vague face in a dim room (or rarely, an emergency room) that was much too still. Occasionally, she remembered things about the people: their names, or how long she had known them, or what exactly did them in. But the memories were always shrouded in a think grey haze, an impassible veil that kept her from remembering.

The frigid sister. She hadn't liked Theresa. Ever. Theresa had had structured morals and an attitude towards Rosalie that reminded her of Grand-mère. And there was the shared history with Luca, which she really didn't want to remember. Rosalie recalled hearing that the man who had committed suicide had been living in 1006. So all of that heartbreak over a pretty boy in self denial who vanished when anyone got close enough to touch.

Moving down the hall with the penthouses, Rosalie didn’t turn up the stairs to the roof, but instead approached the window at the end and looking out at the steel expanse of the city. Leaning her forehead against the cold glass, she didn't think, and she didn't cry, and she didn't remember.