strange ghosts — wbci. [ clue ]
Jul 9, 2019 2:09:08 GMT -5
Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on Jul 9, 2019 2:09:08 GMT -5
—
Whitney feels invisible.
Somewhere in the back of her head, she knows that it's not a fair emotion, knows that there is work to be done and answers to be had, questions to be asked and ugly truths to be uncovered. She knows. She knows; she knows; she knows.
But she had known her sister was dying when she ran away to this house, had she not?
And she hasn't changed so much.
Not really.
Not in a way that would matter.
It's a strange feeling, not exactly new, but not one that she's intimately familiar with either. It's a feeling that she's been running away from her entire life, this feeling of being in the shadows, of not knowing what to do or what to say or what step to take next. It's one that she doesn't quite know what to make sense of, and somewhere along the way the team had split up, broken off like snapped branches and created groups that make no sense. At least, not teams that make any sense to Whitney. She thinks that maybe that's just her being selfish, feeling her own pain and refusing to make it into something beautiful, into something that can be understood and processed, but she can't help it. Her motley group pushes open the door, and all Whitney wants to do is turn right back around.
The scene of the crime.
Whitney's stomach rolls.
She can feel Death, lingering right there at the tip of her fingers once again. She had thought that she had outrun it when she left Margot behind, had thought that maybe she wouldn't have to watch anything fall into Death's hands. It had been the worst thing she'd ever done, leaving Margot behind. She should have known that Death would follow her here anyways. All I want is Poppy, she thinks, and for one moment she's there, whispering her name and letting Whitney thread her own fingers through hers, but then in the blink of an eye Blaine is at her side and Poppy is walking away. In the back of her head, she knows that it's for the best, knows rationally that this way Whitney can keep an eye on Coralie.
She shakes her head, swallows, and steps over the threshold.
"I'll start with the desk," she says, stepping past the very chair she had sat in not 24 hours earlier and said that Coralie ought to be sent home, bags in hand. "Someone should probably try and jimmy the lock on that file cabinet, too."
Somewhere in the back of her head, she knows that it's not a fair emotion, knows that there is work to be done and answers to be had, questions to be asked and ugly truths to be uncovered. She knows. She knows; she knows; she knows.
But she had known her sister was dying when she ran away to this house, had she not?
And she hasn't changed so much.
Not really.
Not in a way that would matter.
It's a strange feeling, not exactly new, but not one that she's intimately familiar with either. It's a feeling that she's been running away from her entire life, this feeling of being in the shadows, of not knowing what to do or what to say or what step to take next. It's one that she doesn't quite know what to make sense of, and somewhere along the way the team had split up, broken off like snapped branches and created groups that make no sense. At least, not teams that make any sense to Whitney. She thinks that maybe that's just her being selfish, feeling her own pain and refusing to make it into something beautiful, into something that can be understood and processed, but she can't help it. Her motley group pushes open the door, and all Whitney wants to do is turn right back around.
The scene of the crime.
Whitney's stomach rolls.
She can feel Death, lingering right there at the tip of her fingers once again. She had thought that she had outrun it when she left Margot behind, had thought that maybe she wouldn't have to watch anything fall into Death's hands. It had been the worst thing she'd ever done, leaving Margot behind. She should have known that Death would follow her here anyways. All I want is Poppy, she thinks, and for one moment she's there, whispering her name and letting Whitney thread her own fingers through hers, but then in the blink of an eye Blaine is at her side and Poppy is walking away. In the back of her head, she knows that it's for the best, knows rationally that this way Whitney can keep an eye on Coralie.
She shakes her head, swallows, and steps over the threshold.
"I'll start with the desk," she says, stepping past the very chair she had sat in not 24 hours earlier and said that Coralie ought to be sent home, bags in hand. "Someone should probably try and jimmy the lock on that file cabinet, too."
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