[sup][h1][color=black]Tiffany Graves [/color]
[color=8F2845]Tiffany Graves[/color][/h1][/sup][right][indent][i]The Spooky[/i]
Harm: 0
Luck: 0[/indent][/right][hr]
[color=darkgray][sup]Carry-On Motel: Room 149[/sup]

The motel room felt claustrophobic, as if the walls themselves ebbed and flowed based on an internal heartbeat deep within its crevices. For all anyone knew, the motel itself was a living, breathing organism that fed on the unwashed masses that entered the front door with the jingling bell that promised some sort of mirth despite all evidence to the contrary. The man at the front desk, the one who had one hand on the desk to sign guests in and the other hidden not-so-discreetly underneath the counter towards his lap that fed the imagination of anyone who dared look him in the eye. The keys behind him, moving ever so slightly in the wind that smelled of discarded dreams and a lit cinnamon candle as if that would hide the motel's sins.

Tiffany had slept in much worse conditions (when she slept at all, which, admittedly, was few and far between evenings). She didn't like the way the motel clerk looked at her and ensured both locks on her door were engaged, as well as a chair placed under the knob (since she didn't trust the locks that looked like they wouldn't stop a whisper, let alone an intruder).

As she sat on the bed as the words overtook her brain, she wondered why she had come here. It wasn't as if she held roots anywhere else. It wasn't like she would be missed if the ever-present shadows that haunted her peripheral finally took her to its home. Any semblance of connection she held was either obliterated or damaged beyond recognition. And any that did hold was only hanging on by the slimmest of threads. She was sure she had an aunt somewhere or a cousin thereabouts who, during the middle of dinner when they weren't cursing their fucking rotten luck to be living in "dead end" nowhere while they worked their 9 to 5 and patted their back they didn't take the paper cutter on their desk to Rebecca in reception's arteries whenever she popped her bubble gum would ask "hey, I wonder what happened to Tiffany. You know, Tiffany? Used to be cute as a button until her mother was killed in that fire and her father took her to some priest or other because he believed his daughter was.....what did he say....oh right 'Satan incarnate'".

As if on cue, whenever Lucifer was brought up, the slow buzz in her head was silenced as she heard the whispers creeping around the corner. The words played around with tone and intonation as if it was presenting in front of a college class and needed to add drama to ensure they at least received a B for their efforts (participation counts for 20% of your grade, fucking monsters).

And then, the vision.

Not the first she had ever received, though they never got less disruptive. She felt herself rattle and shake as she saw the images vividly. The destruction. The carnage. The blood (always blood). A girl, perhaps the core of what the voices were talking about. Could be the missing girl she saw on one of the posters that was hung up haphazardly as if the barest of efforts to ensure she was found safely and, if not, at least intact could not be met by the man at the gas station and rang her up for the stale coffee she wanted while he stared at her chest.

As the vision ended, she paused to calm down (or at least stop rattling the bed lest her neighbors assume she is carrying on with more than she intended). Tiffany finally opened her eyes and regretted it as the color of the motel room's walls would make anyone contemplate taking their own life, as it would only improve the decor to find a rotting corpse on the stained carpet.

She swore inwardly, knowing that the vision she saw was to happen unless she stepped in to put a stop to it. Just another apocalyptic event that required her services. It was almost comical how much 'cosmic good' she did, and yet she never felt she earned her place in heaven because what sort of god or god-like entity would put her through all of this shit?

Tiffany walked towards the dresser, which held few possessions that any would-be thief would second-guess taking because dear Christ what person lived like this, and why weren't [i]they[/i] the ones doing petty crime, and grabbed the small bottle of whiskey she bought with her coffee and took a swig. It would be empty by the day's end, but at least it burned in her throat by her own hand.

Grabbing her supplies, she went to the bathroom mirror and checked herself. Soulless eyes, dark circles, hair that she was proud of on a good day, and wanted to shave off on all of the bad. She could feel the pulse in her temples as she wanted to smash the mirror to break up the image of a woman who maybe had her life together, if only to show the cracks she felt inwardly.

Once she was satisfied she would not take a broken shard to her wrists, she left and entered the motel hallway. Tonight was going to be a fucking horrible night.

Why break tradition?[/color]