Drizzle fragmenting around sallow lampposts, too warm out even after dark. Some kitschy ghost tour with a girl stuffed into a corset, wondering why they’d even gone. They’d paid already, they’d see it though. It was after at least a gallon of absinthe and laughing about somebody being broken on the wheel in jackson square. She remembers these things inside of herself, doesn’t mention them. Hoards these memories of Zo as if they’re all hers, keeps them from letting the frayed, uglier memories out…
… like her cloying dollface when she was dead.
.. or her blank, college-ruled, crumpled lovenote face when she saw that she was alive, again.
“First of all,” she began, “The fucking guy that I was supposed to help Hazel get rid of, like, in a non-jail-ey way, was magically deathless. There’s no other way to put the fact that magic couldn’t kill him. We tried for hours. He was trapping her in some weird situation of starving and not being able to leave, like Mr. Rochesters wife in Jane Eyre, except even SHE had food and a maid. Then, we had to bring the stupid body here and try to summon help. But I guess he was already here. Following so far?”