[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/yHuxoVx.png[/img] [/center] [hr][hr][center][color=a2d9ce]𝕄: 𝕊𝕖𝕡𝕥. 𝟙𝟜, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘 / / 𝕎𝕚𝕤𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕕, 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕪𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕕 / / 𝕋𝕠𝕨𝕟 / / ~𝟚3𝟘𝟘 [/color][hr][hr] [hider=Wake][youtube]v=7fpI2PPRAM4[/youtube][/hider][/center] Rushing back into the cold, empty hospital room, Callan made a beeline for the bathroom. Thick tears rolled off her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away, spurred further by the creeping feeling that if she sank any lower, Misery would take advantage. She had to stop. Had to stop thinking about it. Throwing open the shower curtain and stepping inside, Callan found the blue notch by the nozzle and spun it to full blast. The freezing cold water made her gasp and flinch, but she forced herself to stay. She tried to focus on the unpleasantness of the cold, running her hands over the goosebumps on her arms as they appeared. She had to move on. No more moping around. Letting things like that get to her… it wouldn’t help. She’d do better next time. She would. She had to. Callan peeled the sopping wet clothes from her body—grimacing through chattering teeth and broken sobs as the old, congealed blood sent red streaks racing down the drain. She started scrubbing. The impromptu hand washing turned out to be more frustrating than she thought it would be. She had to be gentle to make sure she didn’t tear her only set of clothes into shreds, but they needed a good amount of force to get somewhat clean. The water ran red for a while. A grim reminder of how much blood she’d lost today. It was disturbing…. Callan set her jaw and rang out the clothes, hanging them over the towel rack. Had to move on. Couldn’t afford to keep thinking about it. No more breakdowns. She hurriedly set to work on her hair, dumping the entirety of the small sample-sized shampoo/conditioner bottle into her palm. Think. Think about something else. Anything else. [hider=Aquamarine Origins pt 1] “[color=f7976a]Oh, come here, baby! Look at this! Come over here and look at the TV![/color]” Gramma Webb had turned 84 that day. It would be the last time they got a chance to celebrate it at her house. Second slice of cake in hand, Callan rushed back into the living room to see what all the fuss was about. Her grandmother’s eyes were glued to the screen as her aunt laughed and pointed, shaking her head incredulously, “[color=f7976a]She likes that girl’s hair.[/color]” Callan recognized the commercial as one that played often, but this seemed to be Gram’s first time seeing it. It was an advertisement for the upcoming Color Run that year. The spokesperson was a girl with long, billowing dark teal hair. “[color=f7976a]Isn’t that beautiful, Cal?[/color]” Gram smiled. Callan agreed through a mouthful of cake. The color was nice, but definitely not her favorite. Definitely not something she’d ever pull off anyway. “[color=f7976a]I’m gonna go just a little bit lighter than that,[/color]” the old woman boasted, drawing a good deal of laughter from the other family members. “[color=f7976a]What? That color has our names written all over it! Ain’t that right, babygirl?[/color]” [color=a2d9ce]“Sure, Gram,[/color]” Callan smiled. Gram pulled her into a tight, one-armed hug as she took a seat beside her. “[color=f7976a]See? This is why she’s my favorite grandbaby! The rest o’ you fools aren’t invited to my next party![/color]” It became something of a running joke after that. Gram had been so enamored by the color of that girl’s hair in the commercial that day that every holiday after, “Why isn’t your hair green yet, Gram?” became everyone’s go to remark when they wanted to tease. Gram had always been a good humored lady, but even then, Callan could tell that every time she said she wanted to dye her hair, there was a hint of seriousness in her tone. The way her eyes lit up with an endearing passion every time the commercial came on or she talked about it… even now, she could remember how her face looked. Never a hair out of place in Callan's eyes. Her warm smile could cure any bad mood. Her laugh was infectious. And she'd always been so deceivingly cunning. It never made sense to her-- why she favored her so much. She'd never really felt like she deserved it, so she did her best. Ten months later, Gramma Webb fell ill. It was meant to be a surprise. [/hider] It took almost an hour of tireless blow drying, but Callan finally managed to get her clothes dry enough to wear. It felt good to finally slip into the warmed fabric, even if it didn’t feel as clean as it could be. Exhausted, she finally crawled into bed, curling up beneath the blanket as she kept her mind occupied with such memories until sleep finally whisked her away. If only it’d taken her somewhere more pleasant. The broken city of Wisford surrounded her once again, vacant of all the corpses she’d seen. Harsh gusts of wind kicked up dirt and made everything seem partially lost in a haze, but she could still make out the form of a small person in the distance. She called out to them, asking if they needed help, but her voice seemed lost in the harsh breeze. It didn’t take too many steps for her to realize who it was. Blonde hair. Honey gold eyes. And a sharp, deranged bend to her neck. Callan stared as if she was seeing it for the first time. Horror suddenly gave way to sheer terror as the broken body tried to sit up. Head rolling to the side at an impossible angle, Callan backed up rapidly as the girl looked up at her, lips moving soundlessly. “I’m sorry,” Callan whispered pleadingly. Backing away, she felt herself bump into someone. Someone several inches taller. Spinning around, Callan recognized the auburn hair in an instant. The girl turned a piercing gaze towards her for a moment before glancing down at Callan’s hand. Callan followed her line of sight and gasped. Her fingertips were being blown away like sand. Panic overcame her as the flesh and bone kept crumbling away. “[color=a2d9ce]Stop,[/color]” she gasped again. “[color=a2d9ce]Stop…! STOP![/color]” Zoe smiled and walked away, but Callan barely saw as she dropped to her knees and grabbed at her shortening stump of an arm, trying to keep everything in place. Keep it together. She couldn’t leave yet. She had to stay here. There were still people that needed her. She could help. She could! Suddenly remembering that her arm had only been taken from the elbow down, she tried to find some solace in knowing it would stop. But then it didn’t. The hand trying to keep the pieces together began to rot away as well. Eating straight through her pants, a large portion of her leg was starting to fall away. She opened her mouth to scream before suddenly waking up to find herself drenched in cold sweat. Callan sat up and ran her hands over her face-- massaging her eyes and trying again to forget. [hider=Aquamarine Originas pt 2] "[color=f7976a]Oh, Callan. It's beautiful.[/color]" Gramma's voice was weak as she ran a shaky hand over the freshly dyed curls. "[color=a2d9ce]We'll take you in when you get out,[/color]" Callan grinned desperately from her seat at the bedside, "[color=a2d9ce]Then we'll be matching![/color]" Gramma laughed, "[color=f7976a]Bless your heart, babygirl. Thank you so much. You didn't have to do that for an old crone's birthday.[/color]" There had been a sadness to it even Callan couldn't ignore. "[color=a2d9ce]I had to! They stopped playing your favorite commercial![/color]" Another weak laugh, barely audible through the dryness of her throat. "[color=f7976a]You're a good girl, Cal.... Don't you ever change for nobody.[/color]" Those were kinds of things Gramma had started saying before she died. Corny feel-good statements that Callan loved and knew she meant, but, at the same, hated. She didn't want to believe that her time was so close at hand. It'd been too hard to think about then, but it was easier to recall now. Especially in lieu of other things.... [/hider] She didn't fall asleep again that night.