[Center][h1][color=Wheat]Cynthia Markov[/color][/h1]

[img]https://media0.giphy.com/media/VBPiFzFd2EtmU/giphy.gif[/img]
[i][SUB][SUP]Seattle, Washington | 9:00 a.m. |[/SUP][/SUB][/i][/Center]

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[I]The gore was immense, but it didn't leave the slimy feeling on the surface of Cynthia's skin. No, that was the aftereffect of the hooded figure’s gaze. It turned to them all, and though Cynthia couldn't make out its face, she knew it was watching their reactions with a sick fascination.[/I]

Cynthia screeched as she woke, something that was so unlike her. Her head slammed against her headboard as she shot up from her vulnerable position, and she groaned as it began to throb. She reached out blindly, her fingers splayed out on the varnished surface of her bedside table until she groped a small pill bottle. She pulled it towards her face, her chest still heaving as if she had just run a marathon. It was her pain medication, a bottle she had acquired after being sent to the hospital. She shook the opaque white tub, little pain relievers rattling around on the inside, making their presence known. 

She tugged her knees up to her chest, staring down the bottle as if it could stare back. It offered her dreamless sleep...but she had work. She could call in sick, again, but she had a case and that was top priority. For now, at least. She slammed the pill bottle back down into its place, beneath her silver lamp. She looked down at her tangled, grey sheets, that were soiled with sweat. Groaning, Cynthia kicked them off of the bed, and into a pile on the floor. Already, her morning routine had been thwarted. There would be no crisply made bed to come home to, she would have to sleep on a bare mattress until her covers were clean. She felt defeated, and disgusting. The film of its haunting gaze clogged her every pore, suffocating her without ever needing to block her airway. She craved cleanliness. 

She pushed onwards, stabilizing herself against an oaken bedpost before shuffling forward and into her bathroom. The stand-up shower awaited her, and she deviated from her usual routine yet again by cranking on the hot water without bothering to touch the cold knob. Steam quickly bathed the room in dense plumes, latching onto the mirrors and other surfaces in the form of condensation. Cynthia derobed without hesitation, clothes melting against the floor before she stepped into the water and shut out the thunderstorm of negativity that prodded against every fiber of her being. 

The water pelted her skin, turning pert, tanned flesh a muted pink upon contact. She tried to close her eyes and relax under the constant assault of the fiery rivulets, but every time she did, the girl's head was being split open as if a fabric ripper was plucking apart the seams of her flesh, her jaw locked in a roar of agony. It didn't take long before she died, thick blood that looked more like mucky motor oil in the harsh lighting spilling out from the crevice that had once formed the beautiful bone structure of her. 

Cynthia's eyes shot open as she retched, dry heaving on an empty stomach. She scrubbed away at her skin until it was red from irritation, then scrubbed some more. Ever so slowly, she wiped away that non-existent film, until she could convince herself that it had just been a dream. That these nightmares that had been plaguing her -and that the people alongside her- were works of fiction. She fled the shower just as weary as she had been before, but with a slightly better coping mechanism. 

The rest of her routine was by the book. She shimmied into a [url=https://images.express.com/is/image/expressfashion/0093_07667750_0058_40_fb?cache=on&wid=960&fmt=jpeg&qlt=85,1&resmode=sharp2&op_usm=1,1,5,0&defaultImage=Photo-Coming-Soon]pencil skirt and blazer, with a striped thermal[/url] being her pop of color for the day. She followed that up immediately with a cup of hot tea, and a perfectly poached egg -one of the recipes she had learned from the television during her sick leave- accompanied by a slice of toast. It was habitual, it was normal. It was perfect in every sense of the word, and yet, she couldn't help how off putting the serenity was. It settled in the pit of her gut, to be analyzed and thought over later. Finishing breakfast, she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, it's heft appealing. Before departing her home, she slipped her cellphone into the pocket of her blazer, exiting the quiet household without any fanfare.

And off to work she went, a compliant young lawyer with a case to solve or, more than likely, paperwork to do. Ignoring the prospect of boredom, she turned up her gullwing’s stereo and blasted a playlist full of hip hop and classical music. An idiotic mixture to some, but a heavenly soundtrack to Cynthia. By the time she pulled into her reserved parking space, the hypnotic pulses of hip hop beats, and the mourningful tremors of the classics had done plenty to put her in a state of calm. She didn't forget her nightmare, but she had dutifully filed it away in her mind, like all the other unwanted or unuseful information. 

Hopping out of her car, she hustled onto the elevator, wishing her co-workers and other pleasant strangers well. Up she went, until she came to her floor. There, she settled behind her desk, and attacked the pile of paperwork that was waiting for her. 

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It wasn't until later, as she stopped by the small coffee area to top off her glass of herbal tea, that she heard the news. 

[Url=https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/supernatural/images/9/92/Kara_Royster_1.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20170505020218]Jessica[/Url], her co-worker, was filling her thermos halfway with black coffee, before diluting it with creamer and sugar. “[b]Did you hear about the murder in Philly?[/b]”

Cynthia stared at her blankly, not allowing the shock to register in her eyes. Links began to form in the back of her mind, but she smashed through them before their foundations could solidify. [Color=wheat]“I'm afraid not,”[/color] She admitted, having reduced her time on the television significantly. [Color=wheat]“Is it really relevant? Philadelphia is quite a ways away. Why are they broadcasting it nationally?”[/color]

Jessica shrugged, as if she was also baffled by this. “[B]I don't have a clue, all I know is that the cause of her death was bizarre, and that she worked at a coffee shop near the Academy of Natural Sciences.[/B]”

And just like that, the floodgates were opened. The information poured into the forefront of Cynthia's thoughts at a dizzying pace. That was where her mystery woman had worked, that was where she had been walking to her home from. Her apron had still been tied up around her waist, the coffee shop's logo printed primly on the fabric. Her lips were a flat line, her brows crinkling to display the beginnings of wrinkles from this repeated reaction. Her nails suddenly itched, and she ached to chew them off to the bed. 

It hadn't been a dream, the murder had truly happened, and she had been a witness. But how could she tell the police? How could she describe what she saw without them thinking she was insane? She scrubbed at the watermarks left behind on the countertop from co-workers who hadn't bothered to clean up their mess, for once thankful that she had slobs for partners. It gave her something to do, until the itch subsided. She turned, and Jessica was still there, looking at her with concern etched into the curve of her lips. “[B]Are you alright, Cynthia?[/B]”

Cynthia breathed out through her nose, finality escaping just as her breath had. [Color=wheat]“I just thought I felt another headache coming on,”[/color] She lied, knowing full well that she was more physically fit than ever and that the headache had likely been a one time incident. [Color=wheat]“I'm going to be in my office, knock if you need anything.”[/Color] She smiled, grabbing her mug and managing to stay surefooted until she entered her office and the blinds were shut. 

Then, she cracked. 

It hadn't been a dream, the exact situation that had haunted her dreamscape occurred in real life, and she had seen it all, but couldn't fabricate a face for the man or woman who had done it even if she tried. She was totally useless, and hundreds of miles away. All she could do was think on it, on the unpleasant circumstances. On the soul-crushing face the woman made before she died. Maybe even the fact that the woman's murderer could pick them all out so clearly, even though they hadn't truly been there. Or...she could work, and keep those thoughts at bay until she went home. How pleasant. How convenient. 

So, she sipped her tea, opening up a thick file. And she hated herself as she wrote, and carried on.