Della and OPEN Della had spent most of her afternoon with Sim, who in a short time meticulously transformed the fae into a shimmering-zombie-undead version of an ice princess. Her makeup was an unreal amalgam of glam (1, 2) and decay (1, 2), and like Sim had promised, she was barely recognizable beneath it all. Her bleach blonde wig had been carefully placed, auburn hair nowhere in sight, and the to-the-side french braid draped over her shoulder. He had also dashd her shoulders and arms with bloodied frosty sparkles, as if she'd frozen to death.
It was as if Princess Elsa were Carrie at the Prom with terminal frost-bite from head to toe, her blue gown torn and tattered by Della's own hand with scissors, drenched and splashed with red paint for blood. Della rarely did Halloween with anything less than fervent zeal and craftiness. She'd chopped the tattered skirt of the gown to about just past the knee, so that she could easily dance.
She played hop skotch on the brightly colored tiles leading up to the entrance, humming to herself. Halloween was a day and especially a night where Della Kheelan felt truly alive, glee ricocheting through her on a very cellular level. Every year, she came to dance, dance, dance, until security or a friend or maybe her roommate dragged her out.
In one hand she had a chocolate bar, half eaten, and in the other, her inhaler. She tucked the inhaler in the elbow-length fingerless gloves she wore as she moved the curtains aside, momentarily glancing over her shoulder to check if Sim or anyone was just behind, then turning her attention fast as eyes went big at the onslaught of neon light. Her costume and makeup and painted pale skin seemed to glimmer even more in the black lights.
She finished off her chocolate bar and ended up moving straight toward the dance floor, no hesitation.