๐บ๐ฎ๐ฒอ๐นอ๐น๐ฒ.
@Reacherum
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๏ธ ๏ธ ๏ธ ๏ธ ๏ธ ๏ธ ๏ธ ๏ธ โ, ๐บ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐๐๐ฟ, ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ฃ๐๐๐.
e33 rp potrayal. | i: c4an0123
Joined October 2020
Fingers fiddling, mending. Trying to create something, anything.
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๏ผใill reply the rest of plot tomorrow, (crack fingers) heres to hoping im actually writing
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๏ผใokkkkkay i may have gone overboard with the starter
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chimes. Despite everything, despite the mess that she currently is. Her mind barks to stop, her mouth spills fighting the instinct. It parts, and, โโฆWho?โ ๏ผใ@echoedessence.
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something; feathers of a shirt that doesnโt seem out of place. Black hair, eyes blueโbordering silver. A scar that marks the face resembles cracked paint rather than actual wound. She stills, heart beating loudly as if exposed. He shouldnโt be here, her mind somehow
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who it might be. Her shoulders tense, the skin peeling off on the floor and revealing dark ink that drips on the floor. Her feet stumble, her hand trying again for the tool. Footsteps both familiar and unfamiliar enters her periphery, shoes that are awfully reminiscent of
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her trace. Her brush moves, remembering something about essence not verisimilitude, and the door cracks open. Her brush slips from her fingers, somehow a panic that is far too prevalent claiming her and telling her that none shall see her as such. Regardless of
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Her eyes searches the unkempt room, staring at the brush that previously fell on the ground. Her hand touches the handle, feeling its weight as she feels her fingers that automatically holds it in a way that doesnโt feelโamateurish. She takes ahold of it, beginning
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eyes remaining on the reflection. It couldnโt be her. Is it her? Perhaps? If it is her, thenโshe can fix it, she thinks. This routine feels more like a muscle memory, of a doll-maker fixing its broken toys before shipping them off for the day. She knows she had done this before.
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the reflection of someone whom she doesnโt recognize. Is thatโฆ her? Neat, well-dressed, like a porcelain doll that stands out oddly in a room. The reflectionโs hair are white, the face young but gaunt and the shoulders looks like this world weighed on it. She stills,
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brush she doesnโt remember holding. A mirror stood before her, revealing blue skies that taints the eyes and skin breaking away from her face; all the things that reminds her that she suddenly she doesnโt remember what to do. She stares at a reflection, fingers tracing against
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the uneven dripping, or the clearly need of fixing faucetโwhat bothers her is the fact sheโs able to hear it clearly, as if the faucet is right next to her. It drips again, and she could feel the liquid against her skin. Dripping, falling away like the small
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She doesnโt think sheโs supposed to hear that, considering where sheโs standing now. It drips, thrice, with an uneven tempo. It drips, once, and drips again after five seconds. It drips the third time precisely two seconds after the second one. It doesnโt bother her,
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/ suffering? :D
[ Girl what. What are you up to. ]
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/ aku baru mau kirim starter so i guess thats technically right
[ Ini dia the reason why we're all suffering. ]
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/ baru buka sedap banget ya
@echoedessence [ I think one of the reasons why Verso is so tragic is how he knows he's doomed, we all know he's doomed, and there's literally no way out for him except death; no amount of love (who do they even love, him orโ?) can save him from his hatred of life. Please sedate me. ]
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