Re: [Dahlia's trailer.]
[Face pushed into Wren's shoulder, Dahlia just sobbed dryly for a while. The touch to her back made her tense up, and yet--she was so afraid of affection, but so starved for it, all at once. Like a feral cat, she bit and lashed out, pulling back to stare at this stranger--who dared to offer her kindness and a call for help--when she didn't deserve it. No, she'd been stupid, right? Stupid to ever trust anyone, and stupid to think everything would ever be okay.]
Nnhthere ain't-- [Frustrated noise. Shouting, hoarsely.] --there fuckin' ain't NO ONE! 'Kay? Juss. Nobody. [Dahlia glared at the other woman like a petulant teenager. Her eyes were wet, her nose running slightly--all much needed, honestly, with her body still trying to drink by wringing out a dry washcloth at the moment. A name to call still pushed to the front of her mind and her anger abruptly turned inward, on herself, for being so fucking desperate to forgive someone who had hurt her, who had fucked around with shit they didn't understand. Just because there was no one else. And after what had driven her to drinking away her weekend, she doubted there would ever be anyone ever again. Whatever. Fine. She didn't want the fucking help, anyway.
Then the burst bottomed out, her expression sagging, suddenly tired, so tired. Too defeated to be afraid anymore. She just wanted to be left alone, to her torrid love affair with sleep, hoping the exhaustion and the whiskey would be enough to keep the nightmares at bay.] Juss--bed. 'Kay. Wanna. Shh--sleep.
[Those shadows had promised violence for Dahlia. They spoke of a tiger that paced madly around her cage, her prison shaped like this town. The animal, drunk and vicious and bloodthirsty, sought out uglier and uglier promises of relief, making shaky truces with herself every night that always broke before the next day. Her knuckles would all burst open. She'd drink until she was shaking and sick. She'd claw away all the ink on her arms, looking for any vein where the needle would still fit.
So many futures ended with her on the streets of the Capital again. So many full of destruction and pain. So many of them that promised she'd die by her own anger, young and alone. Every path was tainted by a sterile smell, like hospitals and their white walls, that made her wake, screaming, in the middle of the night.
And--buried beneath everything, Wren was shown one path that didn't fit with the rest, so much that it seemed almost like an accident: there was Dahlia, leaning against another woman with a shock of white for hair, a gesture so soft and intimate and trusting for someone whose future otherwise swirled around her like a bloody maelstrom. Even in the serene eye of the storm, though, something still loomed behind the two. Intangible yet felt, as a blur of a thing, trapped between existence and unexistence. Even without form, it stalked, and even without eyes, it was aware. And, stuck in every time and no time all at once, it looked up, directly at Wren.]