Like blotting paper for details, parasitic, she stole in the glare of all the noticeable particulars. Some might seem immaterial, but could be integral. She stored what she could in the vivid burial vault of her mind. Now, she was no Sherlock fucking Holmes, but she figured it was safe to assume that whoever had done this didn’t give a shit about being subtle. What a dick. Or, maybe even dicks. Who knew? Who the fuck just leaves someone like this?
The gashes were confusing; some old, some new, some a combination of both. There was a slither of nausea in her, not because of the sight of this (trust us, she’s seen things) but because she was imagining being human and how frail it felt and how fearful she used to be, despite acting like she had a soul of metal. It’s why she’d begged Percy to take her with him. She knew had she stayed perched in that withering brothel, her death would’ve been slow, excruciating. Perhaps not like this one, not with things on the outside. Something inside. Something uglier.
“Well,” she said, uncrossing her arms and slithering her palm into that itty bitty purse of hers to extract her bejeweled and tasseled phone like a silver tooth. “There goes our night.” beep, boop, beep, and she phoned Sheriff Amadeus to mosey on over to this fucked up party to take a peep.