paradisa

I don't get you. One day the castle's full of shit, and the next we're tapping along into the holiday season?

[She didn't miss a Thanksgiving, not really. Even if the months were slightly skewed, she still had them. Last year it was at home, with her sister, when the world was still right-side-up. This year it was here, with people she never should have met.

In the heat of the moment, maybe the return to normalcy was reinvigorating, uplifting, all those bullshit words people fed her when she was still safe behind Crawford's barrier. But in the end, all it lifts is her bitterness back to the surface.

There's a pause. It's not like the castle has thrown anything at them that's any worse than she's already seen. It's the dichotomy that's making her head spin. She's either committed or she's not, this halfway stuff is exhausting.

Her pen loops on the page, not bothering to disguise her handwriting.]

Who exactly are we supposed to be thanking?

scaler

Alright. Time for us to have a talk.

[She doesn't pay terribly close attention to the journal most days. She scans it, pipes up when she feels like it, but talking to people through a book like it's old-school video chat is a bit more than her patience can tolerate.]

So it's been-- eh, round it up to two months. And hey, I'd seen my fair share of weird shit even before I made it here, there's not a lot you can do to surprise me these days.

But is this how it usually goes? Something dramatic happens, you band together to fight it off, the dead come back, and then business as usual?

Not saying it's a bad strategy. [Though she also wouldn't necessarily call it a 'strategy.'] Just want to make sure so I can make my own plans.

[There's a whisper of books being shut in the background. She's stacking them in her backpack, tucking them out of sight.]

Also, is this library supposed to be organized? Because I'm sure not seeing it.

scaler

[Molly has found the journal.

'Calm' is not a good word for it. Neither is 'relaxed,' or 'adjusted,' or 'accepting,' but she is very good at putting on all four. Keeping her head is what keeps her alive.

She's gotten acquainted with the important bits: the magic, the wishes, the losses, the indefinite stay, the familiar faces. Also the really important bit: walkers. That is, lack thereof. Allegedly.

None of it seems real -- but then, options are limited.

She presses a crease into the corner of the journal's page with her thumbnail. The first thing it picks up is a mutter half to herself.]

Feet first, I guess.

[Then, louder:]

So, hey. Ain't I supposed to get a gift basket? That's what luxury places like this do, right? What kind of welcome wagon is this?

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January 2015

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