let’s just go out and ride
talk about the things we’ve tried

The sun, or what passed for one in the far from sunny city of Port Angeles, had long since set, leaving a crisp cool haze that crept greedily over the streets in its wake. In the city proper, there were still those that bustled along the streets of the downtown, finishing the last to-do's of their shopping trips, or finding their way into restaurants for a late meal, or an early start to a long night of revelry and drinking. Lights flicker and buzz along the cobblestones and sidewalks, their garish yellow and white hues blurred and dimmed by the wilting fog that struggles against the breeze that cuts through jackets and pants with stubborn fingers.

Taxi cabs linger outside the late hour restaurants, and outside the scattered hotels and bed and breakfasts, hoping for a last client before they can return to the warmth of their garages and the call of the nasal-voiced dispatcher. Even, on occasion, the particularly brave sound of the 'ding-ding' of a bicycle's bell might be heard on the streets, as a particularly 'green'-conscientious or money-minded individual cuts across corners and walkways at near breakneck speeds to get all the sooner to their destination, or to the warmth of a hospital bed, depending on their luck.

As the sidewalks become less populace, and the overhead lights as well, strangely enough the numbers of the people that scurry from one destination to the next, or lovers that stroll hand in hand oblivious to the cold that creeps into their love-sotten limbs, become less as well. The fog thickens, towards the outskirts of the city, rolling in slowly thickening waves off of the frigid water that laps hungrily against the sand and pebbles, against the hulls of the boats, and against the thick wooden poles of the docks that stretch out towards where the ferry runs.

Or would run, were it not both freezing and past the hours of operation listed on the rusted and faded sign that is bolted to the chain link fence that surrounds the ticket booth.

Yet even still, with the cold, and the dampness of the fog, the dim lighting of the Port Angeles harbor, and the echoes of movement above and beneath the surface of the water just barely out of reach... the bay is not entirely abandoned.

A single figure, as far as the mortal eye can see, has taken up roost at the junction of dock and sidewalk. The figure is slender, her height not entirely visible, but if to be guessed by the length of the legs curled beneath her, she would hardly be called petite. She has claimed a spot against one of the larger poles that supports the dock and rises up into a light pole that hosts a dim white light -- and while perhaps emitting a weaker stream of light than the others on the dock, is one of the few that is not flickering in tandem with the random gusts of wind.

Reese sits, her back nestled against the pole, her legs tucked under her with her knees half drawn towards her chest, with a slim leather pouch set beside her which is left unzipped and a few smaller pieces of chalk or charcoal scattered beside her, tucked into the seams between the cracks of the dock. A sketchpad is balanced upon her thighs and up bent knees, held in place with her left hand as her right hand moves in rapid, fluttering, but steady movements. Streaks of color and darkness are left behind, as she moves, her gaze almost unfocused as she stares at the image as it unfolds in front of her pale sapphire eyes.

Smudges of charcoal dust and smatterings of colored chalk and oils decorate the fingertips of both hands, the right one from holding the drawing tools, the left from smudging or shadowing as necessary, an occasional streak that lines the denim of her jeans along her thighs, but she seems uncaring or oblivious to the disheveling of her attire by either the elements or her actions.

Steadily, the image unfolds upon the large sketchpad resting on her lap; the bold colors portraying the image of the dock in front of her, washed out by the flickering lamps, the outline of the boats tied to their bays, the weary chain link fence and sign... and within the shadows cast by the flickering lights as the picture unfolds the image of a woman, pale faced and fiery eyed, her pale brown hair whipping around her by the unseen wind, the ghostly images of angel wings unfurling out behind her, one hand raised out as if to beckon Reese into the drawing, to her.

She is quiet, lost in her work, as the images overlap and intertwine, the only sound the scrape of charcoal and chalk against the sketch pad, and the occasional soft whisper of music that escapes from the ear buds that escape from inside her sweater, draped forgotten over her shoulders, the iPod still on play without care as to whether anyone heard its plaintive tunes.

they’ll never get inside
we’ve got too much to hide

let’s just go out and ride
talk about the things we’ve tried

[justify]

There was something... indescribable about the night, about this night, to Reese, though she would not have, still in fact, did not recognize the fact, as she lingered, curled beneath the light post and lost in the drawing that slowly comes to life beneath her fingers. There was a distinct essence of... being caught in a loop, as if this night was set on a cycle, the sounds that drifted throught he air she had all heard before. The scents that drifted through the air, that cloyed at her nostrils and stung her lips, the play of the wind against her hair, her skin, her clothes... A record, the needle stuck, the moment glitching... deja vu, most called it. To her, it was almost a way of life, a mindset, so disconnected from reality she almost always seemed to be, damaged... broken.

She knew something had changed, there had been something in her that had been touched, had been grazed by the figure she had met here, though whether it was for better or worse, she could not tell. Had she been broken, or healed, by the angel that had caressed her features, whose silken voice still echoed in her mind in the moments of silence, whose crimson gaze she could not shake, that she could see in the shadows every time she wasn't looking for them, only to be gone, to vanish before she could find them, when she sought them.

She had spent weeks, locked away in the warehouse she called a home, painting, sketching, trying to exorcise the demons, the images and distorted snapshots that had invaded her mind since her encounter with the angel, images of cloaks, of scarlet eyes, of limbs entangled and glints of ivory canines, streams and rivers of blood... Until at long last, she had exhausted herself, passing out in the middle of the warehouse floor, to wake days later feeling something... almost human, almost like herself, whatever that was to be.

She had showered, then, cleaning herself and making some attempt at organizing the canvases and assessing what she would need before she had placed a call to her parent's attorney and financier. He would see that it was all taken care of, as he always did. He would come in and sweep away the old works, leaving behind him a fresh array of canvas' and paints and sketchpads and oils, fresh clothes and restocking the fridge and freezer and pantry. She wondered, in those rare moments of clarity, what they did with her works, if they looked at them and shunned them, burned them to nothing more than ash and dust, or if they locked them away somewhere, or perhaps even hung them on walls to be sold and auctioned off... She found herself lacking much of a desire for any of the options, those works that she held dearest to herself were forever imprinted in her memory, or inked into her flesh, it was those that she clung to. The others were, like herself, transient.

It had taken her a long moment to grasp the fact that she was not, in fact, still alone on the docks, and she still couldn't determine exactly what it was that had alerted her to his presence. He had been quiet, though not exactly... 'stealthy', more in a way that indicated a quiet sort of interest, rather than direct interference or to cause her harm in some way, he almost had the air that the ones in the white lab coats held when on the other side of the glass... but without the cruelty or iciness in his gaze that theirs often held. No... his were... curious. Wary. Like hers, almost, in so many ways, she mused.

She wasn't sure how long she had remained silent, staring at him, her fingers stilled in their work against the sketchpad, before she came to the sudden realization that she was, in fact, staring, and she took a moment to divert her attention to the rest of the dock to see if they were alone, together, or if there was anyone that would notice should she suddenly start talking to.... herself.

"May I have one?" She questions, finally, her voice soft and clear, carrying easily through the damp air between them, a nod of her chin indicating the cigarette he held that dangled between his fingers. It was not a sure fire way to weed out those that existed solely in her imagination from those that walked and talked and were in fact, part of reality, to interact with them, to touch them... she knew when in the worst of her fits, there were those in her head that she could have sworn touched her, tore at her, hurt her... held her, comforted her... but she felt that she was in a mindset enough of herself for the time being that should he actually offer a cigarette and she should find one offered to her in the next moment that it would be safe enough to assume -- at least for now -- that he was... there. [/justify]

they’ll never get inside
we’ve got too much to hide

let’s just go out and ride
talk about the things we’ve tried

[justify] She watched him, in those moments as he watched her in return, before his long, thin fingers delved into pockets to retrieve the crumpled back of cigarettes to offer out towards her, and she wondered. Wondered what his story was, what it was that brought him to the end of the docks at the edge of a forelorn city, in the middle of a dark and dreary night such as this one. He seemed... young, and yet not, much like she imagined she had looked most of her life, like he carried a weight on his shoulders that no one else would notice, or understand, given the way his shoulders bent inwards, and down, the way his chin tucked in towards his chest... she couldn't tell if it was meant to be defensive, or belligerent, or if it had become simply so ingrained in his stature that it was just... there...

"Thank you." She says, softly, leaning forward from her curled position under the lightpost to extend her fingertips to snag the cigarette from his fingers, a slight and flickering smile of relief when it actually was present, tangible, in her fingers, to be brought up towards her lips and pressed into the corner of her mouth. Her sketchpad was angled, shifted to be set aside for the moment, as she found her way to her feet halfway, crouched now with her weight balanced easily on the tips of her toes, the small of her back leaning against the pole behind her as one chalk and charcoal decorated hand rises, to pull the wayward strands of hair out of her face, scraping it back long enough to be able to lean into the proffered flame and take the series of quick drags necessary to bring the tip of the cigarette to light.

She took that moment, to take a long drag in off of the cancer stick, as her father had once referred to them, to study his features and build in closer proximity. Even amidst the garish and swaying lights of the docks, she could see the elegance hidden in his features, the boldness of his gaze, the set of his jaw, and she could nto help but smile slightly. He would make a beautiful canvas, she mused, as she settled back slightly, letting her spine halfway come to rest against the wooden pole behind her, her hand freeing itself from the loose strands of her hair to brush, almost self consciously, against the most obvious smears of color and ash over her jeans, a half sheepish smile given towards him, as she glances then towards the pieces of art supplies scattered around her as if in way of explanation for her state of mild disarray.

It was then, as he moved to situate himself more comfortably, that she finally registered the presence of his skill, his talent, his passion perhaps, she wondered, as he set aside the guitar case, and she studied the case and the assorted scratches and wounds, stickers and taped-repairs with open curiosity for that moment. Every wound a story, every scar a tale to tell... His voice drew her gaze, then, pulling her study away from the guitar case and once more to him, as she lets out a slow breath that carries with it the grey-tinged breath from the cigarette that now dangled with familiarity from between index and middle finger of her left hand, her right arm shifting to wrap around her stomach as she lingers there, crouched.

His voice was echoed, as they always were, though with less... alacrity and less demanding air than some, whispers in the shadows as half-formed figures spun around him, ghosts and negative image reels that flitted around him. Shouting, or whispering, caressing... She ignored them, as much as she ever could, only a brief flicker of disconcerted glare towards where the furtive images threatened to make themselves more tangible, and focused, instead, upon him, her lips curling into a half angled smile, then.

"They call me Reese." She adds, then, after another lingering silence, and she thought it strange somehow that the silences did not seem... empty. "You can call me Reese, if you like." Another moment's pause, a softer, growing smile. "Or... Clarissa, if you want." She concedes, as her hand rises, the cigarette angled upwards as she lets out a slow breath over the burning end of the cylinder, her gaze following the trails of the ash flecks as they flee beneath the relative gale storm. And then, she is looking back up at him, her thumb nail catching and flicking the remaining ashes to the side, the cigarette at her lips once more, as if she had not had that momentary distraction from the world as a whole.... "Is it safe for you to be here, Adrian? It isn't, usually, you know." The statement is made, rather matter of factly, but the question is offered with a sincere curiosity, and concern, her tone quizzical as she watches him, and the play of light and shadows and wind across his lean and folded form. [/justify]

they’ll never get inside
we’ve got too much to hide

let’s just go out and ride
talk about the things we’ve tried

It was... strange, the way he watched her, the way his eyes slid over pinpoints of her form, taking in pieces of her one at a time as if she were some sort of jigsaw puzzle that he was trying to determine what the picture on the box should be, and the thought caused a smile to drift again over her lips, a wry and somewhat pleased smile, amused at her own private joke as she took another long drag from the pilfered cigarette. He had caught sight of the ink that permeated the skin at her wrists, she could tell, as his head tilts just so to try and decipher them, and as if in reply, her body shifts once more. The cigarette finds its way to the corner of her lips, as her fingers slide to the inside edge of her fingerless gloves, tugging free the buttons at the inside of the wrists, and plucking the worn cotton and leather from her hands, then a moment taken to hook the buttons of one glove into the button hole of the other, and vice versa, to keep them together, and then stuffed haphazardly into a back pocket as she leans forward in her crouched position.

Her hands extend outwards, palms out first to reveal the bold yin symbol on one palm, the ying on the other that would be joined together and complete the symbol if her hands were pressed together and outward, in a pleading gesture, or pressed together in prayer, and then her arms extend a little further, to pull them free of the long sleeves of the shirt, to reveal the script 'engraved' and 'carved' in ink into the wrists. "Do you like them?" She questions, curiously, talking easily around the cigarette tucked into a corner, revealing it as a familiar habit. "I have... many more. I suppose you could say I was a collector, of sorts. Of ink, religions, beliefs... hope." The last word is offered almost faintly, almost shyly, a slightly self-conscious upturn to one corner of her lips before she relaxes, leaning back and pulling her hands back after the moment or two of offering them out for observation. "You would make a beautiful canvas." She admits, then, voicing her thoughts of a moment before, a low laugh trickling from her, for no real reason other than a moment of amusement, her fingers reaching to pluck the cigarette from her lips and to flick the ash to the side away from her sketchpad.

"Oh... you shouldn't worry about me, truthfully." She says, readily, after his echo of her concern and questions, her ready smile flashing gaily on her lips, a sparkle of amusement visible in her bright gaze again, a shake of her head. "No, I have nothing to fear here, I have met my devil at the crossroads, and my angels in the darkness... there's nothing here that would trouble with me, I'm nothing but a broken toy, a marionette with broken strings... I'm not... shiny, and new." These last words come with a drawn out hesitation, as her tongue fought with her lips over the words somehow, the inner edges of her brows furrowing together. She could tell, that they weren't right, that they weren't what she wanted to say, or how she had wanted to say them, and the realization that her thoughts were once again spilling out without clarity caused a moment of disconcert ion, of worry. She did not wish to frighten him, or send him scattering to the wind, as she... always seemed to do. Her frown lingered, still, as her gaze pulled away from him, her fingers drifting towards the sketchpad on the ground beside her, sliding it towards her, some, more in front of her rather than before her, letting her fingertips trail over the shadow-winged creature that her imagination had spilled forth onto the paper. Or was it memory? She shook her head slightly, a shallow breath taken in, as she forced her eyes away from the paper, and back towards Adrian, trying an apologetic expression as best as she could muster.

"I don't... I don't always sound... just right." She says, softly, then, barely a whisper, the smallest rise and fall of a single shoulder, and a faint hearted smile. "I'm not always... myself." She says, then, another slightly wistful smile, a recollection then of a story, the girl in the looking glass, the waistcoated rabbit... was that how she sounded, to them, to all the others who saw the world the right side up? Mad hatters and cheshire cats...

they’ll never get inside
we’ve got too much to hide

let’s just go out and ride
talk about the things we’ve tried

Reese's lips can't help but pull into a soft smile at the compliment offered to the inkwork that decorated her proferred hands and wrists, while the smile only continued to widen slowly at the shift of color that darkened his cheeks at her next words, another soft bubbling laugh escaping to join her easy smile.

Her gaze kept shifting, kept being drawn back to him, something of the way he watched her, she found was drawing the same reaction in her, a flush of color mirroring his that crept over her cheeks, and she could feel the hint of warmth radiating from them, causing her head to duck inward slightly towards her chest, a scrape of teeth to tug at the corner of her lips before he speaks again, and her eyes slide up to watch him. Her head tilted, the stray locks of charcoal dusted brown escaping from behind an ear where they had been thrust earlier in the night, at his next words, and again she found the corner of her lips drifting upwards, slowly.

She could see it, now, the lines of paint upon the canvas, the man's shadowed silhouette, the hand that tore through the chains that bound the faceless girl, the chains falling away and the slow morph, the evidence of the chains becoming ribbons, to flutter in the breeze... her breath stilled in her chest for a moment, her fingers curling in and itching, yearning for the brush, for the paint and canvas, an almost tangible and crushing pressure in her chest as she fought the urge to snatch up her things and flee, to run back and save the image, burn it to paper before it was lost from her thoughts... Another harsh swallow, a ragged breath drawn in as her hands curl inwards, her arms almost stuffed between the bend of her waist, and the upward bend of her knees, curling in slightly around them as if to keep the demons at bay, locked away where they could not act of their own accord.

She blinks, slowly, at his words, trying to recall what it was that he had said, what she had said, that he would be referencing, her gaze shifting up, then, towards the shadows that pulsed and shifted around him. The inner edges of her soft brows furrow, drawn in, the corner of her lips curling downwards, as she frowns at the echo of color, and light, of the crimson and gleaming eyes, the snarling lips, the scarlet that flowed over lips and fingers... ever the scarlet, and crimson, and she could feel her fingers tightening, her hidden knuckles white, as she fought them still as they itched to leap out, and snatch the sketchpad away from his attentions, to tear to a new page, and scribble the images upon them. Nothing new, nothing she hadn't seen, nothing that wasn't scribbled on a hundred fragments of paper, on canvas after canvas in her home, plastering the walls of the warehouse. So much red...

Her shoulders bunched, slowly inwards, as she slowly allowed her fingers to creep out of their temporary prison, crossed arms sliding up, fingertips tugging momentarily, pulling at the neck of her oversized sweater, brushing against the furl of the mismatched wings that wrap around her, as she watches him studying her, and the image, trying to remember, her words, her lips, to move and function at her command. "She was... " A moment's hesitation again, her fingers tightening, curling around the edge of the neck of her sweater, as if she would tear the cumbersome cloth from her, before she forces out her next words. "My angel... an avenging angel, so many... so many faces, drawn in blood..." Her voice tightened, for a moment again, and she could feel her expression mimic the frustration, the sadness. "She saw me, and ... she wanted me, she knew me, broken and taped back together, and she was... she was mine, for a moment. She was here, in the lights and shadows, clad in shadows, pale as moonlight, and she was death, and she called my name.... and then... she was gone, and all I was left with was... was a thousand pictures, images, burnt into me, that were like... like poison, and ecstasy, and I had to exorcise the demons, to banish them to paper and canvas, and paint and pencil, where there were cowls and shadows, teeth and crimson, there..." She says, thrusting a hand in the direction of the sketchpad. "And not..." A moment's hesitation, again, as she blinked away the sudden spring of tears to her eyes, the tightening of her throat, as her hand rises to press to her chest. "Here." She whispers, at last, a slow shudder pulling at her shoulders, and spine, as her gaze turns, unbidden, to him, but past him, beyond him, to the blood-stained shadows that dance behind him.

they’ll never get inside
we’ve got too much to hide

let’s just go out and ride
talk about the things we’ve tried

In those last moments of her tension, as her body curled inwards, protecting the world from her as much as it was shielding herself from the world, in those heartbeats, fingers curling and digging, bright pink crescents left in the now unprotected flesh of her palms... And then, suddenly, there was... A weight. Steady, and gentle, warm against her wind-chapped skin, even through the thin fabric of her oversized and worn sweater. An anchor, not tugging, or pulling, or dragging her towards the harsh grating, raw reality, but simply... there.

Her gaze slid, as she let the images of the painting that had haunted her, captured her, fall away, though she knew it would not be gone for good, that the next time that she came to the brush, and the easel, it would surface, hunger and eager to find its way etched into immortality. His hand, his fingers curling gently around her shoulder, and the realization brought a crooked smile to tug at her pale, peach hued lips. So often, she felt hands, and lips, and the surge of heat, lost in the cloud of her madness, or in the chaos spurned on by the powder that would coat her lips, or the blur, that distinctive lack of focus, or control. So many hands, more faces than she could, would ever be able to recall, and yet... it had been, what, a lifetime? since she had felt just... the gentle hand, the soft comfort, and it brought a melancholy sadness, a wave of grief that she so often drowned, and in the same moment, a quiet pang of selfish happiness.

She watched him, following the play of light, shadow, over his features as he spoke, as he made his admission, his voice low and quiet, but yet there was no edge of condescending distate, or bored agitation concealed in the warmth of it, and it was that that she came to realize, more so than his words, at first. And then, his words caught up with her, registered, as her eyes widened slightly, in both surprise and wonder. To have seen the angels, the demons... if another had seen them, then that ... she had been real, then? The possibility was a double-edged dagger that semed to pierce her side, clinging to that hope, that she had not imagined the beautiful creature that had danced, and played around her, and yet... if she had been real, and not some terrible figment of Reese's psychosis.. then she truly had just vanished, disappearing into the darkness, into the shadows, gone, abandoning her, as they always did.

Her gaze focused, again, latching onto his, turning half towards him as his hand shifted, sliding along her back gently, as she searched his features once more, trying desperately to come to some sort of decision, torn between what she wanted, and the fear of being once more ridiculed, or abandoned, and her throat worked, a harsh swallow, again, as she took in a ragged breath. And then, she was moving, darting, almost birdlike in the rapid snatched, pulling her sketchpad to her swiftly, a scooping, scraping motion to gather up any of the charcoal and chalk fragments that were easily obtainable and dropping them into the zippered pouch, tugged closed, the two thrust under an arm as she shifted, still crouched on her toes, her body curled in. A brush of lips, a flutter of a kiss against his lips, as her other hand dropped, to entangle with his, to wrap around his fingers and tug, to try and pull him to his feet as she rises, a first, and then a second step taken back, impatient and anxious, as she waited to see if he would follow, if he would come. "I want you to see... to see, like I've seen, what I see." She explains, almost breathlessly, her heart racing, fluttering in her chest, in her throat.

they’ll never get inside
we’ve got too much to hide

let’s just go out and ride
talk about the things we’ve tried

The path that she led her leather-clad companion down was winding, tangled, at times perhaps even crossing back on itself as she moved, but never did her steps hesitate, intent upon her goal, upon her destination. Her steps were light, almost flitting over the ground as she moved with a somehow agitated speed, as if fire or demons chased her. Yet she did not look behind her, or around her, never looking at anything other than the shadows in front of her, and occasionally back behind her shoulder to cast him a swift smile as she pulled him in her wake. Through the docks, past the docks and into the old manufacturing section of the city, and cutting east, she pulled him towards a series of old warehouses, most of them chained, padlocked, bound in fences of metal and razorwire, postings of trespassing holding signs of wear and grafitti of passerbys.

Then, cutting in, through a lock that hung open, pulling it off of the chain, and through the meticulously oiled and soundless gate, the weather beaten sign declaring it once to have been a Levi surplus warehouse, she seemed to have at last arrived at her destination. The low buzz of electricity could be heard, faintly, if one listened close enough, and a faint yellow light emerged from beneath the side door which was propped open with a brick. It was through here, again, that she led him, sweeping aside the brick and tugging open the door with practiced ease. Only once they were inside, and past the initial maze of abandoned equipment, a broken forklift and stacks of broken wooden pallets, did she finally release her hold upon his hand.

"Here." She declares, as if it was all that she need say, as she flicked a switch to the side that illuminated the 'empty' half of the warehouse in its overbright and almost garish light.

In the middle of the open section of the warehouse, piles of old sketchpads clustered about, sheets of newly sketched and drawn images fluttering from walls and crates and steel posts, easels holding a few paintings, while others laid on the floor or propped against a wall in various stages of completion and drying. Paint and chalk and ink had flowed, covering canvas and walls, sheets of paper and parchments and cloth alike, the images sprawling, flaring. Charlotte's face, again and again, the face of the man, the one that had been named Thomas, images of hooded figures, and over and over the crimson eyes, the gleaming and perfect features.

The images were everywhere, surrounded the artist's haven, sheets of cloth pinned to the wall holding splashes of crimson, that streaked over shadows of images, nightmarish and distorted, fractured images that she had not been able to grasp in their entirety, but had not been able to fully escpae until their shadowy figments had beeen expunged from her thoughts. Half-started, and then discarded sketched, outlines of images that had begun, and then faded, were strewn about the floor between the random stacks of perfectly placed and organized brushes, cleansers, paints, and charcoal, isles of sanity in her madness.

Cardboard boxes of books, of paints and brushes, sketchpads, canvasses are scattered about the corner that holds the bed, and bags of clothes from second hand shops and designer boutiques alike piled around the room. Of all the things in the room, of all the chaos, there was one shelf, one row of organization, a bookshelf that had been dragged over towards the wall and turned on to its side, made into a long table of sorts; upon it stacks of sketchpads, worn and abused and bedraggled were set one after the other stacked ten high across the surface, and at each corner a picture frame: one the last family picture of she with her family, she a few years younger, her brother with them, the classic 'perfect family' picture, and stuck into the corner of the junction of glass and frame a candid photograph, creased and worn, she and a slight older, and male version of herself, both of them in younger years, teens, perhaps, each holding onto the others hands as they spun round and round in a park, streaks of light and blurs of motion surrounding them, and utter glee and abandon on their faces. The photo on the right was a simple one, him in a Marine Corps uniform, strong and proud, the American flag as the backdrop, and beneath the corner of the frame a handful of letters, well worn and often read by the look and feel of them, and the dried husk of a small clutch of flowers that protruded from one of the envelopes.

The bed was little more than the steel frame and mattress and box springs, though the sheets that covered the mattress were of soft silk, the blankets thick and warm, and a dozen or two pillows of various makes and sizes were scattered across the surface of it amidst pencils and pens, colored markers and torn pieces of paper.

they’ll never get inside
we’ve got too much to hide

let’s just go out and ride
talk about the things we’ve tried

She had wondered, as she dragged him past the boxes, and tools, remnants, echoes of what had lived here before, before she had found it, before it had been 'renovated' to suit her purposes... what he would think, when he saw the paintings, the sketches. Her demons, her angel, shadows of dreams and nightmares that had been so hard to shake in the last week. Two? How long had it been, she wondered, since she had crossed the woman's path, since she had been lost in her mania. She should have called, she should have already told them, her father's lawyer, her father's doctor... all those ones who 'cared' for her, that she had pieces, that she had work for them to deal with. She wondered, briefly, what they did with the canvases, when they took them away.

Did they burn them, did they turn them to dust and ashes on the wind? Did they lock them away in the dark, where things of madness and nightmares lived, belonged? Did they display them upon their walls, as proud parents would stick a child's sketch to the fridge, or put them in studios, to display and sell under some strange pseudonym? The thought made her frown, her brows pullin inwards, together, creating a thin furrow of skin between them, as she stared at the images. She wasn't entirely certain she wanted to share them, or that she should... but perhaps that was what it was meant to be, these things perhaps like all other things, all other nightmares, brought out of shadow and into the light would simply... evaporate. Disappear, prove themselves nothing to fear. Nothing more than shadow, and fears.

This thought comforted her, slightly, though it was perhaps the knowledge, the presence... his, warm and steady beside her, that made her less afraid, less anxious. She watched him, then, letting her thoughts focus on him, studying him as he stared at the pictures, at the images that her hand had worked. Fear, and worry, anger, each in their turn had wound over his eyes that were far too old for his features, his young and wiry build. He carried the world, the shadows of it lingering, wrapping around him, flicker of crimson eyes and streaks of red, of blood left in his wake as he turned in a slow, idle circle to study each of the visions in turn. She wondered, briefly, if he had forgotten that she was here, or how to speak, perhaps, as if the images had stolen his voice, or the cat to have stolen his tongue, and a flicker of a smile danced over her lips at the image that raised to mind.

She moved, just slightly, a few steps towards the area that had been designated more her 'bedroom', the sketchpad she had held clutched in her hand carefully set aside, her pouch of colors, her ipod, each set aside in turn, before she reaches for and tugs free the oversized black and silver sweater, letting its weight slide up, and over her head before it is tossed onto the cot, leaving her in the relatively cool air in her tank top and jeans, but bringing a quiet sigh of relief as the cool air brushed against her skin. She had never much liked the necessity of jackets, and sweaters, even the largest of them seemed constricting, and she knew, logically, it was a subconscious reminder of the times she had spent restrained, to her bed, or within the white cloth of the 'special issue' jackets...

The simple action brought a good number more of her tattoos to view, and she glanced almost shyly towards him, at the realization, curious, as to whether he would notice, or what he would say of the strange assortment, but it seemed obvious that for now his attention was entirely enraptured by the works around him.

When at last, he spoke, she drifted closer again, as he moved, as he stepped closer towards her, and half between her and the closest of the images, the action drawing a mildly quizzical glance from her, but she was quickly distracted again by his questions, his agitation... no, not agitation, apprehension, perhaps... almost tangibly trembling the air around him. "She found me, where you did." She explains, simply. She knew there would be no need to clarify which 'she' she was referring; Charlotte's face was predominant in almost every picture. "She was... I don't know, what. She was beautiful, and strange. Strong, and made of ice, and fire, and marble. She spoke with an angel's voice, and laughed like a sprite, and she was... she was clouded, with shadows, and voices, and whispers. So many shadows," She says, her face pulling, tightening into the beginnings of a frown as she stared, at the paintings that surround her, her shoulders curling inwards, her arms crossing for a moment across her stomach.

"These... they lived there." She said, after a long moment's hesitation, as she drifts towards one of the paintings, of the three figures, the black cowls, the pale skin, the crimson eyes, her hand rising to drift softly, flitting across the surface. "All of them, in her shadows, in her... nightmares. She was terrible, and beautiful, and she promised... " A moment's silence, again, brought about by the swift crack in her voice, at the raw misery in her words that rang violent and desperate in her ears, her fingers curling into inked fists, shoved into opposing elbows. "She promised that she would come for me, again." Stiff, these words, brittle and pained. "But here I am. Alone, and never alone, and... I don't think she's coming."
p.s. outfit here

they’ll never get inside
we’ve got too much to hide