Finlay remained silent, sobered by the fact that his friends and family were now killers-- Even though he knew his mother had killed before. "I'll be there in a couple minutes." He said gruffly, before jerking the phone from his face and clicking the hangup button without another word.
He pocketed his phone, quickly finding Peterson's and Scorch's leashes and hooking them up, scrambling out the white door with a certain purpose in Finlay's step.
He paused for a second on the porch, not exactly bouncing with joy to enter the cold rain again, but still found himself jogging down the sidewalk within a matter of a few moments.
Bleddyn sighed and let her phone drop from her fingers.
One more person to crowd this joint.
She reluctantly forced her attention to the clean clothes resting a couple feet from her. After squirming into her own livable undergarments, she hauled herself to her feet and worked her way into the pants. That proved the biggest hassle, with the damaged tendons of her bad leg shooting agonizing resistance every time she went to move her leg to an odd angle. Despite the impossibly tight neckline, pulling the sweater over her head seemed effortless in contrast.
Fully dressed, she stood there for an indefinite while; when she wasn’t shivering, she was itching. The last time she’d worn something like this had to have been in elementary or even beyond.
Sweaters just…they force you to appear…I don’t know…older? And..conformational?
After a bit, Bleddyn approached a shelf adorned with various beautifying components. She reached for a convenient hairbrush and mindlessly ran it through her soggy mop, the matted inequities loosening way too easily.
Maybe it’s ‘cuz I didn’t wash the conditioner out. Hmmm.
After having gotten plenty lost in her hazy mind again, she set the brush back down and hesitantly approached the mirror.
It wasn’t fogged now, but she wished it was.
A sullen freckled face stared back at her with watery blue eyes, no trace of neutralizing dirt or blood anywhere in the mirror’s range of view. Her refurbished hair hung submissively from her shoulders and somehow complimented the sweater’s sly scheme of maturity; and the repulsive way the turtleneck’s gentle gray encouraged her eyes to be infuriatingly noticeable…
All of it had her wishing a rogue scarlet rivulet would stream down from her scalp to flaw the uncomfortable façade of flawlessness.
I look way too…nice.