AURELIA
and my hands aren't clean
maybe they never will be
maybe they never will be
Eventually, eventually Aurelia manages to wash herself free of Rigby's dried, sticking blood. The shower doesn't last long though, not the type to let herself have that full breakdown, too afraid of it.
Signs of blood still remain smeared on her pile of clothes and across the cloak that sits idly downstairs, upon the counter. Thick tension also remains in her composure, which never settles on any one emotion but one thing is constant; a deeply-furrowed frown.
In a sudden pang, she empathizes strongly with the sentiments Sunjata expressed to her; it's better for everyone if she just... stays away. But she also doesn't really want to leave, she couldn't.
She moves to drape one of Milo's shirts over her head, pulling it on with a sigh. She couldn't tell you why she chose one of his instead of her own; she does it without really thinking too hard on it, letting it billow out below the underwear she's pulled on and leaving out any notion of pants because honestly... fuck pants?
So she finds a seat by a window, pushing it open and pulling up a chair. A cool breeze from outside drifts across her bare, scarred legs. She crosses her feet up on the window pane, trying [and failing] to ease into the view of the skyline.
Puffy bags lay heavy under her eyes as she stares out, listening to the drum of life outside the window, smoke drifting from another cigarette. Even though her lungs are blackened by it and her body aches with a sick feeling, she doesn't put it out. Each slow drag is the only thing clearing her head when every thought is so unkind.
Signs of blood still remain smeared on her pile of clothes and across the cloak that sits idly downstairs, upon the counter. Thick tension also remains in her composure, which never settles on any one emotion but one thing is constant; a deeply-furrowed frown.
In a sudden pang, she empathizes strongly with the sentiments Sunjata expressed to her; it's better for everyone if she just... stays away. But she also doesn't really want to leave, she couldn't.
She moves to drape one of Milo's shirts over her head, pulling it on with a sigh. She couldn't tell you why she chose one of his instead of her own; she does it without really thinking too hard on it, letting it billow out below the underwear she's pulled on and leaving out any notion of pants because honestly... fuck pants?
So she finds a seat by a window, pushing it open and pulling up a chair. A cool breeze from outside drifts across her bare, scarred legs. She crosses her feet up on the window pane, trying [and failing] to ease into the view of the skyline.
Puffy bags lay heavy under her eyes as she stares out, listening to the drum of life outside the window, smoke drifting from another cigarette. Even though her lungs are blackened by it and her body aches with a sick feeling, she doesn't put it out. Each slow drag is the only thing clearing her head when every thought is so unkind.
but they can still carry you home
when you're ready to sleep
when you're ready to sleep
