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[isawallflower]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, CHEERYCHERRY. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 019.46.820.17 *** CHEERYCHERRY has joined 019.46.820.17 <CHEERYCHERRY> It's Riley! <CHEERYCHERRY> Please leave a message! <CHEERYCHERRY> Please be someone with their priorities sorted out properly!

main: CheeryCherry
anonymous: panthera, aed
retired: gflynn (anon)

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[isawallflower]

[ At the start of this, Riley thought she could do it. She thought, whatever nonsense this month can't be worse than the last one. Or the last. Or the last. The network, connected to everyone's thoughts? Okay. She can do this. She reads like everything on it anyway. This will be fine.

This has not been fine.

This has been so far from fine.

By the vernal equinox, she's frayed at the edges and worn thin. She's thinking in songs to keep from spilling herself everywhere, everything she tries so hard to squeeze down bursting out like a jack-in-the-box. All that she is right now is that, the desperation to be controlled. Even if the words engraved on her Nattenfest necklace weren't forgotten—funny, that, since she wears it often, after deducing who it was from, the handwriting, it's the handwriting she most recognized, but never confirmed, just quietly hoped—

Even if. She's hardly able to even think about her upcoming birthday. Be strong, & wait for spring means nothing to her right now, especially when she doesn't feel particularly strong at all.

She's called out of every work environment, with special apology to the orphanage. It feels like she's shirking her duties, something that probably showed up along with all her other stray scraps of self-loathing, but truly, it's all she could do. How could she show her face to anyone right now, especially all those kids? Not when it feels like she's going to snap like a rubber band, twisted up so many times it's lost its shape.

So it's very late when she actually stumbles out of her apartment. Most of the day she spent trying to kill all her thoughts, too exhausted to rise—but now she wants to fly. She needs to fly. She'll just slip down the hallway, head up to the roof, and maybe all that will broadcast out are thoughts of the sky, and how free it feels. Maybe that's acceptable, maybe that is something she's allowed to—

She almost trips over the package. Not addressed, on the outside, but just sitting there. Usually careful claws snag on the paper as she retrieves it, and that's what leads her to open it in what almost feels like a fugue state, not asking Cairo (talk to me, talk to me, no it's too much right now everything is too much) if she was expecting something.

And it's in that fugue state that she reads the note. That its words wrap around her addled mind and soothe it.

That her shaking hands open the box, and she drinks in her gift.

A Witch.




The knock at Beatrice's door isn't frantic. Isn't panicked. But it is, somewhat, urgent. Riley stands there in the very outfit she's been given, dress train mixed with feathers, hat not quite on right, bow a little uneven but there, waiting, waiting, thoughts buzzing a wistful and childish request: See me. ]

[devilsproof]

[There are some minor changes to the exterior of Beatrice's apartment, ones that will be visible even to one who hasn't visited before but frequents the 38-8. After all, the hole made by her throwing her double straight through the wall was pretty conspicuous. It's on the mend now, however; boards have been nailed up over the worst of it, and it's being rebuild from the edges in. The look will always be rough, but there's motion to the damage now, some kind of progress being made.]

[The concept of a future is something Beatrice has been reintroduced to.]

[The door has been replaced. It was scuffed, damaged, knob wrenched half off its track. The new door is a deep burgundy that doesn't quite match the first floor hall's decor. The paint still smells new. When Beatrice opens the door, looking tired but warm and satisfied, the room behind her is mostly bare, but tidy. No more mess detritus on the floor.]

[When she sees Riley, she beams.]

Ah. Look at you . . . [Look at her. Heart aching, Beatrice reaches out and straightens Riley's hat, takes her chin in her hand and looks at her, right in the eye, smile gone crooked.] Perfect.

Tell me. What do you think? How do you feel?