What a repressed, gargoyle little bitch, she thinks, when no twin-scream pares out toward the chemical giggling of the stellar firmament (a graze of projection here, surely). There are alternating pain-levels assigned to those pointed memories of hers, mostly, things she’s forcefully crammed down of her sordid, slasher movie pastlife. She shrugs the bony mounds of her birdboned shoulders, whatever. She’s just as air tight in some places, just as leak proof. The end of her newly extracted cigarette is lit with an unseen force of her will, palpitates, pales with her inhale, darkens.
In the united dark of this abyssal, isolated area, she lifts an ankle in those ridiculous heels not meant for such terrain, embracing herself tightly with her own arms. She kitten-squeaks, congratulating herself on that immaculate, bloodcurdling shriek.
Softened by a halo of misty, muted light, she says, “I’ve been here for a mystery date once. A game of Clue. It was Me and Hazel in the library, with the wrench. And we were going to do a spell for help, but thankfully, we didn’t need one. You’re going to have to meet Hazel. Didn’t Cordelia tell you about that whole fucking debacle?”