feathers aflame | {sampson/roxanne}

roxanne

" it's clear that
s o m e o n e ' s gotta go. "

Emerald eyes and pale skin were hidden in the night, the moon a good camouflage for the girl that did not want to be found. The only indications that she was there at all were the small clouds of breath that appeared now that the world was going cold again. She liked the winter, liked the rush that the chilled wind's grasp sent down her spine, the heavy coats she wore to keep herself warm. She found herself appreciating the burn she felt when she inhaled her poison, even looking forward to using it again sometime soon.

But part of her would always feel terrible about her habits.

Growing up, she despised drugs, like all children did. She swore to her friends that she would never stoop so low just to experience some high that truly would only bring her lower in the end. Bette and Dustyn were probably still in that viewpoint, probably saw her as scum of the district since, somehow, everyone knew just what Roxanne Decker was up to.

It had all started when Holden left. He disappeared and left all of his friends with the mystery of his absence. Dustyn and Bette did what they always did and relied on each other, and Roxanne was all alone, cold, somewhat broken. She had not planned on taking such a ride on the wild side, but when her new crowd told her it was the cool thing to do, she did it. She would have done anything to appease them. She had already lost one too many friends in her short lifetime.

She would not lie and say it was all bad. Things seemed easier when she smoked. It was like all of her troubles and doubts faded to mere ideas, or bitter thoughts that were easily overlooked in the onslaught of laughter and joy. Even if it was only for a short while, drugs made Roxanne feel alive, and that was something she could not-- no, something she would not give up.

She was experiencing that life then, hidden in the shadows. She didn't bother to think about the feathers from the once pure wings she had, how one went up in flames with each drag of the mock cigarette. (She did not really care.)

Then there was a noise.

In the years of practice, Roxanne had become something of an expert from hiding her activities. In an instinct, the foul-smelling thing was under her foot and her hands tucked safely away in her pocket. "Are you... doing drugs?" She accused, peering at the shadowy figure that appeared. "Because it stinks here. Really badly."