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[color=ffccaa][h2]GRACE SANO[/h2][/color][sub][color=ffccaa]Location:[/color] Sano Residence
[color=ffccaa]Interacting with:[/color] M̧o̧͞͡t ̷́͘h͢e͟͢r̶?̡̀͝?͟ ҉F͞at͡h̵̢ e̴r̡̀͡?̢͏[/sub]
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Ever since the Barracuda Virus forcibly vacated her home of all life but her own, Grace had avoided sleeping in bed like a normal person in place of passing out on a blanket she spread on the floor of her room. For her part, there was never a particular reason for this; she simply no longer felt comfortable laying on the bed she slept, studied, and cried in for God knows how long. In truth, a great many things that her parents had bought to fill up their home had since become eyesores for Grace, painful reminders of a time that once had been and never would be. This perhaps explained why she chose to auction most of such things, resulting in a relatively empty penthouse. Spacious, lavish, yet unwelcoming. Cold.

Inside and out, hollow was the existence of Grace Sano.

Waking up in shambles, she looked at the clock-[i]did waking up on time even matter to her anymore?[/i]-and drudged towards the bathroom. Her image upon the mirror was the next thing she laid eyes on. Grace looked at a naked miserable mess of a woman. Her bleached blonde hair was all over the place. A face of pure contempt reflected on the mirror, contempt at the weak mind that let her fall into such disarray. Sighing, she opened the door to the shower and walked in, turning on the water. These were one of the few pleasures she allowed herself to indulge.

Her body ready for reality, Grace exited the bathroom and went to find clothes for herself. She picked out a white sweater splattered with paint (it was plain white when she had bought it) and a pastel pink skirt. Her footwear would be nothing more than pink slippers, the bunny-eared variant. Simple yet undeniably cute, just the way she liked it. The routine called for more painting until noon further approached, but Grace had a bad feeling about today, and when she made way to the easel, she could clearly see why. Where there once had been a painting of the New York skyline now stood an abstract jumble of red and purple. 

Stranger still, it moved.

Shimmering and twisting like an unnatural kaleidoscope, her eyes grew dizzy the more she attempted to make sense of it, but just as she brought herself to look away, the chaos gave way to two distinct shapes. Clearly human silhouettes, one male and the other female. At first, they were no more indiscernible than the chaos before them, but soon enough, Grace's eyes would widen in horror at what they showed themselves to be: images of her deceased parents.

The fact that she did not recoil and fall surprised her, but that also meant that she was still subject to this nightmarish...vision. There was absolutely no way this was real. She must still be dreaming, but then what was that shower...? Everything else before this felt as real as life can be...

So caught in her thoughts was Grace that she didn't realize that the images had become closer in the canvas, their unnaturally haggard faces now for her to see in much greater clarity, not that she ever asked for it. They reminded her of the notoriously morbid Black Paintings of Francisco Goya, imagery that invoked dread and sorrow. Except the fact that these images moved and appeared on their own invoked fear much more than anything else. The eldritch painting continued to shift and turn, now words forming above the heads of her parents, words Grace thought she had left behind when they were buried. [i]"You failed us." "Worthless child." "Dead girl walking."[/i] The more she looked at the twisted letters, the worse the message they conveyed until finally they became but two words.

[i]"Join us."[/i]

At once, Grace felt a gripping sensation on her left wrist. Furthering the nightmare, the gruesome image of what was supposed to be her mother escaped the realm of the canvas and reached out for her daughter. The line between imagery and reality began to blur in her frantic eyes and desperately, she grabbed one of the larger paintbrushes sitting in a can of red paint and slashed at the canvas like she was holding a sword. And then she swiped again. And again. And again until she could see nothing of her parents in that accursed canvas. By her own hand, Grace had returned to safe, grim reality, the eldritch painting nowhere to be found. It did, however, leave behind a better work than what she had left at night, the colors blending better for a more pleasing controlled chaos of paint.

Sadly, Grace was too shaken to appreciate what was in front of her, her heartbeat racing and panic still brewing in her mind. Finally, she fell and gripped at her hair as she confronted the gravity of what just happened. She was hallucinating. Her psyche was taking turn after turn for the worse. She had thought that she could be a better person when left to her own devices and now look at her. A daydreaming madwoman with no income and no relations. She screamed, but if a girl screamed and not a soul was around to hear it...

Did she ever make a sound?