Encounterlogs
Yasmins Odd Encounter Sr Rachel
One chilly morning, Yasmin finds herself irked by the limitations of a supernatural cleanse as she tires of tasteless food and diminished senses. Resigning herself to bed under blankets with nothing but her phone for company, the tranquility of her elegant pink-hued bedroom is disrupted by faint sounds and a giggling child. An eerie encounter unfolds as inanimate objects begin to move - a chandelier tinkles, feathers from her pillow swirl in a blizzard without a whisper of wind, caused by the presence of a girlish figure. Yasmin's experience escalates from horror film cliché to a real nightmare. Gripped by fear, she hesitantly interacts with the intruder, praying silently for protection as a heartrending transformation occurs before her. The child, once innocent in appearance, morphs into something grotesque, presenting a dreadful plea for love.
The supernatural ordeal draws to a dreaded climax as Yasmin, defenseless and entranced by the creature's imploring eyes, finds herself in immediate peril. Despite her paralyzing fear, she musters the courage to attempt resistance, fumbling with a knife she had dropped in her terror. Her efforts provoke a reaction; the creature appears momentarily thwarted, enough so that she ceases her disquieting song. Yasmin's keen survival instincts lead her to administer a desperate cut to the beast's appendage, disrupting the nightmarish scene. Abruptly, peace returns as daylight floods back into the room, leaving Yasmin to grapple with the remnants of terror, momentarily unsure if what transpired was but a horrific hallucination - though the lingering echo of a giggle through the static of a television suggests otherwise.
Meanwhile, on a serene Sunday, Tabitha attempts to find solace in her morning routine until her attention is snatched away by a frantic, ragged boy dealing desperately with a suspicious bag. Alarmed and empathetic, she ventures out of the safety and comfort of her café to confront the potential danger housed within the alley where the disturbed youth struggles. Her instincts and observations lead her to the grim realization that this boy may have found himself in the throes of a horrific experience – possibly the result of a grisly, monstrous transformation. After a tense interaction, where she offers food and the possibility of assistance, the boy's panic only escalates, eventually sending him fleeing. Tabitha, left with the consequences and her phone in hand, makes a decision to involve the authorities while considering if a friend might answer the mystifying questions left by the boy's abrupt departure.
(Yasmin's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sun Dec 31 2023]
In a Pristine and Elegant Master's Bedroom
The decor in this bedroom, based on a modern theme with the red and white colour combination reflects efficiency in structure and oozes stylish convenience. Red is a dominant colour here, and white helps to enhance its brightness. The subtle interior design of this room with the stunning wooden cabinet, and chandelier displays breathable comfort. The cushions and bedspreads are in different shades of pink, ranging from pale pink to bright, glamorous pink. Even the sheer curtains have glimpses of pink in them that allow abundant daylight to stream into the room. The entire room is so pristine, and the beauty of the design can enamour and unquestionably stands out with its elegance and cool vibes matching the simple furniture and evokes comfort. There is a perfect meld of elements in this compelling setting.
It is morning, about 18F(-7C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target encounters a mysterious child who has wandered into town. The child does not speak and exhibits strange behaviors, such as moving objects without touching them. It's up to your target to figure out where the child has come from and what kind of supernatural entity they might be dealing with.)
Barely a quarter into the first day of the cleanse, and Yasmin is already tired of it. Her nose feels stuffy, her eyes feel less sharp, and what is even the point of being supernatural if your ears can't pick up the neighbors down the corridor arguing over the bills again? She exhales a long sigh, pushing the remaining half of her tasteless-seeming spring rolls away from herself and taking a long sip of her carrot-orange juice before that, too, goes half-finished onto her bedside table, a precarious perch from which it hopefully won't get knocked off. More restlessness it is.
Yasmin curls back up in bed, beneath the blankets in search of warmth - she's not sleepy in the least, but neither does she want to go out when she's feeling so /off/ - and she reaches for her phone, starting to scroll through it. MyHaven, then the Hand app, just to see if there's anything that needs catching up on, then whatever social media may next catch her eye - FaceBook for now, it seems, feed mostly filled with posts from family, some pictures, some motivational quotes. No new messages.
The morning sun paints the sky in soft pastels, filtered warm and pink through the sheer curtains in Yasmin's bedroom. The streets outside have yielded to utter quiet. It means that when a faint shuffling noise reaches from the room beyond, it's pronounced. A wedge of shadow dances across the gap between the door and the ground, here, and then not here.
Silence.
A giggle, high-pitched, girlish.
The chandelier clinks. The air is utterly stale, the window closed, and no draft coming from outdoors.
The morning sun paints the sky in soft pastels, filtered warm and pink through the sheer curtains in Yasmin's bedroom. The parking lot and the streets further beyond have yielded to utter quiet. It means that when a faint shuffling noise reaches from the room beyond, it's pronounced. A wedge of shadow dances across the gap between the door and the ground, here, and then not here.
Silence.
A giggle, high-pitched, girlish.
The chandelier clinks. The air is utterly stale, the window closed, and no draft coming from outdoors.
It has been a relatively quiet morning - too quiet, considering the current dullness of her senses - and the giggle that sounds in the silence may as well be deafening. Yasmin emerges from the cocoon of blankets and warm limbs and sleeping kittens with a curious look - did that come from outside? She braves letting her bare feet touch the cold floor so she can peer out at the exceptional view of the parking lot she's privy to. A sweeping glance across the empty lot, and then the sheer fabric of her curtains falls back into place. Back to her bed she goes. Surely she would have heard the door if there was anyone in her apartment.
Surely.
Nothing outside. It's empty. Entirely empty, in fact. There are no parked cars, no people loitering.
There's a sudden tearing sound - fabric ripping at the seams. Downy feathers peek out from inside Yasmin's pillow. One floats outward and up, as if - again - carried by wind. Another follows. Then, every feather en masse, swirling around the room in a blizzard. Rainbows twirl across the bedspread, the cushions, the door.
There's that giggle again. The floorboards creak as little feet - they must be little, for their step is quick and light - rush across. A shadow passes across the door crack again.
Oh, this is exactly like every horror movie Yasmin has ever seen. Seen, and learned nothing practical from. She jumps at the sudden tearing of feathers, even if there's no noise that escapes her apart from a sharp, startled gasp, and reaches into her bedside drawer. Her hand comes out with with her knife, small but trusty, hilt clasped between both of her palms where she stands between the circling blizzard of feathers, feet frozen in place.
She spies the shadow from the corner of her eyes this time. Knife in hand, Yasmin slowly steps over to the door - no creaky floorboards, she knows where all the creaky ones are - and slides down along the wall by its side until she's seated upon the floor, not daring to pull the door open. Quietly, there's a prayer that finds her lips, murmured beneath her breath in a hushed, barely-audible whisper, verses of protection. Maybe she doesn't have her superhuman senses to rely on, and the coldness of the surroundings is felt direly, from the lack of her inner fire, but she still has /this/:
Yasmin prays.
A voice, sweet, pure, and high, lilts through the air, to Yasmin's ears.
"La, la, la sa ne jucam."
"Cu prietenii, totul e minunat."
"La, la, la sa fim fericiti."
"Impreuna cantam, mereu zambim."
This is no language that Yasmin knows, but she might recognize the rhythm and drag of consonants to be Eastern European.
Somehow, the kittens continue slumber, as does Tomas. They haven't moved, save for the rise and fall of their chests, one after another.
Every feather drops, all at once. The door creaks open with a keening whine, to reveal a little girl, bedraggled, and without shoes. Her dress is an ugly brown, its weave comparable to that of burlap. The dark fall of her hair obscures her left eye; the right is round - big, brown, and full of innocence. Her cheeks are rounded, carrying a tint so strong it reminds of rouge. She's pale. Skinny.
A voice, sweet, pure, and high, lilts through the air, to Yasmin's ears.
"La, la, la sa ne jucam."
"Cu prietenii, totul e minunat."
"La, la, la sa fim fericiti."
"Impreuna cantam, mereu zambim."
This is no language that Yasmin knows, but she might recognize the rhythm and drag of consonants to be Eastern European.
Somehow, the kittens continue slumber, as does Tomas. They haven't moved, save for the rise and fall of their chests, one after another.
Every feather drops, all at once. She doesn't need to open the door. It creaks open with a keening whine to reveal a little girl, bedraggled, and without shoes. Her dress is an ugly brown, its weave comparable to that of burlap. The dark fall of her hair obscures her left eye; the right is round - big, brown, and full of innocence. Her cheeks are rounded, carrying a tint so strong it reminds of rouge. She's pale. Skinny.
To say Yasmin stiffens when the door starts creaking open would be an understatement - does her door usually creak like that? Surely she'd have oiled the hinges ages ago if that was the case. She doesn't stiffen, though; she turns almost to stone, forgetting to breathe entirely in the grip of the sheer terror that takes over her, the only bit of movement the shifting of her eyes towards the now-open door, and, oh no. She's made eye contact. This never goes well. Not in any movie of any franchise has anyone ever made eye contact with the creepy demon child singing a lullaby and come out of it unscathed. Never mind that she's kind of cute and not /really/ that creepy at all. She knows how to make an entrance.
Yasmin's fingers tighten around her knife, though it goes unused, clasped close to her chest - surely she can't stab a child. She can barely bring herself to stab adults. Just remembering how to breathe, there's a slow, deep inhale - and then, quiet and slow, "H-hello. Are you lost?" Should Yasmin even be acknowledging her? Maybe this is how she dooms herself, by talking to the creepy child she's supposed to ignore to let her move on, or something.
The song abruptly cuts off the second the girl comes into view.
A giggle effervesces from her throat. Her mouth stays closed, curved into a tiny, secretive smile.
She's so small. So frail. Bare-handed, with not a single weapon on her person. When Yasmin poses her question, she shakes her head rapidly, the tendrils of her hair cast adrift, wild.
Did Yasmin step forward? The room feels like it's shrinking, the child closer and closer and closer. She's only a few paces away.
Up close, her skin is almost translucent, the blue of her veins so dark as to nearly be black. She lifts her face, imploring. Both eyes are revealed, now, and in them there is an odd, reddish cast.
She lifts her arms up, high and straight. Carry me, they say. Love me.
Yasmin's hands shake where they're clasped around the hilt of her knife, her knuckles entirely white and her eyes fixed upon the child as though to look away - or blink, even - would be the gravest mistake one could make. Yasmin certainly did not step forward. She's going to stay on the ground next to the door, huddled up, trying to curl up into the smallest of balls she can, thank you very much. And Yasmin can curl up very small indeed, considering her size.
That gesture, though. That gesture Yasmin is familiar with. She dares to blink now, mouth opening, and then closing again with a click.
"Are you looking for your mama?" comes the next question, hushed. She doesn't move in to carry the child. That probably isn't a bad idea, to get the child so close to her throat. That's how people get their throats ripped out.
Yasmin meant that probably IS a bad idea.
Yasmin denies her. Her arms continue to be lofted high. There is no movement, but for motes of dust traveling in the light.
The girl's face becomes ashen and grey, so minimally, so slowly, that at first she only appears crestfallen. Then, flesh begins to slough off, like wallpaper peeling from an old and dilapidated house. The once-plump cheeks become haggard, her cheekbones jutting out. Where once her body was thin, now it is skeletal, the blood, the flesh, the fat all gone, as if evaporated into thin air.
Her spindly fingers clench once. Twice. Love me, they beg again.
Her lips dry, worms in arid air, dead upon the sidewalk. And then, something snakes from between them. It's thin, a grotesque purple, veined and pulsing. It terminates in a serrated maw, revealing rows of needle-like protrusions.
If this was a girl, she is no more.
Alas, she's going to have to try a little bit harder to not turn into a creature out of nightmares if she wants any of Yasmin's love. If she was looking for Yasmin's horror instead, she'll be sated plenty. There's a scream that's stuck in her throat, unable to find its way out - she would need air in her lungs to scream, after all.
Yasmin's eyes find the specks of flesh and skin that drift across her vision as they evaporate into thin air. The knife clatters against the floor, falling from her grasp - what's thin steel going to do against bone and... whatever else she's made of, to keep standing as a mere skeleton, none of the functions that should be keeping her /alive/ there? Yasmin rises slowly to her feet, back against the wall, so very slow upon her wobbly knees until she's stood. Then, she lifts her hand towards the child, palm up. She's not going to carry her. But she can... hold her hand, for a start. Just one hand.
"Please don't bite anyone," Yasmin whispers. Pleads.
The girl folds her hand within Yasmin's. She feels wrong -- not human at all. Her now-mottled skin is brittle, like old parchment. The hold she has, though, is ironclad. It would take immense strength to pull away.
Slowly, the proboscis leaves the confines of her mouth. It's long, endless, like the scarves that clowns pull from their mouths. With sinuous movement, it weaves through the air, possessing muscle enough that it supports its own weight fully. There is a short, brief pause.
And then...
it strikes at Yasmin's neck with force. There is a searing pain as skin breaks and tissue tears. There is the awful sound of rending fiber, which no doubt will leave behind raw, pink, and exposed flesh. Not a drop of blood spills. The proboscis swells, engorging, sectioned, as it drains.
This was a bad idea. It doesn't take longer than a second to figure that one out, when the small, skeletal hand in Yasmin's grip turns ironclad. There's a hitching of Yasmin's breath, a widening of her eyes in horror when the proboscis extends and extends into the air, a scream not meant to be when it strikes, deep, harsh, searing, stifling it before it even erupts free of her throat.
She tries to pull away, wildly yanking at her arm in the child's hand. Her knife - why the fuck did she drop her knife? Fucking idiot. It's on the ground, close to her feet. She can reach it with her feet, surely. As the pain lances through her, her vision turning woozy from the sudden drop of blood pressure, she blindly tries to get a grip of the handle between her toes. Assuming that works - assuming she doesn't cut her foot, or her free hand in the process of transferring that over, there's only one thing left to do: stab it right into the proboscis, and try to cut it right off. It's not stabbing a helpless child if the helpless child in question is trying to suck her dry.
Yasmin's knife makes contact. The proboscis is tough and rubbery, requiring friction and a surface to stabilize against, if cutting is to succeed. All she manages to do is provide a glancing cut. It's enough, at least, to disrupt the girl's attention -- and she is, again, something akin to a girl.
Enough blood has been taken for sustenance, perhaps. Her hand feels warmer. Her face has the chubby, cherubic cheeks it did, just a short time ago. Yasmin cut a child. She blinks long-lashed eyes, the proboscis wriggling back into her mouth, and fully disappeared. Yasmin's screaming confuses. She tilts her head so that it nearly meets her shoulder, at a sharp, inhuman ninety-degree angle.
From the open door of the bedroom, rainbows fervently dance once more, so quickly, and so brightly, that they begin a blinding, white light in Yasmin's vision.
When sight resumes, there is nothing there. The horror is ended.
Utter peace again. The morning is sunny and beautiful. Birds chirp.
But -- many feet away, the TV emits black-and-white static. From the speakers:
"Acum e timpul sa visam."
"La povesti si la lucruri minunate."
"Cu inimile pline de bucurie."
"Sa ne odihnim si sa fim fericiti."
A giggle, faraway.
(Your target encounters a newly made werewolf who doesn't know what they are or what they've done shortly after the full moon.
)
A quiet Sunday morning sees Tabitha curled up onto a couch with some tea and her phone. She occasionally sends out a message, her face that of someone despondent, a normally smiling face darkened by emotions she's likely suppressed for some time. The woman takes a sip of her tea. There is another swipe of her phone against the screen, and it appears she's looking at some photographs on her phone, including those of her with two much, much older people. Parents by the shared features.
The morning hours are lovely even in this season here on the Bay. The air is cold and crisp but the sun comes up over the horizon with a wonderous sunrise on display and it's a tough sell to be so morose on a morning as beautiful as this one. But such things are never to last in the small township of Haven. Her recollection and mulling of emotions and thoughts will be suddenly intruded upon for out of the corner of her eye she'll spy something through the window here at Starbucks: The sight of a disheveled-looking young man. A boy really, by his size and glimpsed features but more importantly Tabitha spies him dragging something into the darker corners of the alleyways here in town and looking rather frantic about it.
Tabitha lifts her attention away from her phone, turning the screen to pitch with a slow exhale through her nose. She watches this young man through the window, chewing on her lower inner lip a moment as she considers the man's appearance and more importantly, what it is he may be dragging. She sips her tea, staring really. While most of her empathic nature may be hidden away somewhere, there is a human inkling of it still. Her morose features turn to concern.
There's a sure shortage of good common sense in this world, but not with Tabitha. She takes the time to study the situation before merely getting up to go offer some assistance. From this distance, she can discern a few things. Firstly, the boy can't be more than eighteen or nineteen years old. He's dressed in ratty, torn clothing that barey covers him here in the winter season giving him the sense of a homeless person. The thing he's dragging. It's .. a garbage bag. Yard trimmings .. yeah it could be yard trimmings or a bag of garbage from some random homeless kid but that's probably a stretch. A closer look before they maange to slip out of sight into the alleyway says the bag is longer than it is stuffed wide. Something about five and half feet long is in that bag.
Common sense is clearly in Tabitha's favor as she continues to study the young fellow. The suspicious container in which he's frantically dragging toward a dumpster, rather than suspiciously dragging away and digging into is focused further upon. Then the young man's face. "Jesus Mary Mother of Christ," she utters, scrubbing at her face like she's trying to scrub off all those cute little freckles of hers. She rises. God to give her strength, and heads southward toward the barisa to make an order of some kind of bakery good. A mumble to herself, "Going to get yourself killed..."
And the boy and his 'garbage' disappear down further into the alley and for now, out of Tabitha's sight. There's no telling for sure what's got that young man in a clear sense of panic but certainly the redhead can make some guesses of her own. The barista will fill her order as requested, taking the usual amount of time. Too long to be considered expedient and not long enough to truly make Tabitha anxious, unless of course she's trying to catch up to that young man before she potentially loses track of him.
Those feelings seem to prickle at the sixth sense of Tabitha. The recollection of those eyes, the way her friends have described their own feelings and experiences? It could be the same here now, this panicked boy trying desparately to figure out what to do with perhaps a body he doesn't remember killing. But in today's science-filled world? He can't just LEAVE it around, can he? No, those memories seem to ring true to the sight she's only just left behind her and that definitely rings true. She can't be certain, but her gut and her heart FEEL as though she's onto something there.
It occurs to Tabitha that there's not much chance of that, at present. He's not in any shape to be turning feral if it IS something like what she thinks, and she's probably got a few years of experience on the kid otherwise. That much at least, thankfully isn't much of a safety concern for her today of all days.
Tabitha pushes the door to the Starbucks open, a brown bag with the Starbucks mermaid printed on it holding a lemon bread, maybe for an inticement for the boy to stop. Outside, she breathes in what is fresh air, before she rounds the alley corner. "Hey!" she calls out.
Stepping into the mouth of the alley, Tabitha can see a little further down it's length. It's daylight so there's not much in the way of shadows deep enough to really obscure a person's vision thankfully. A half-block down into the alley there's the boy alright. A ripped up flannet t-shirt and a pair of jeans that's barely held together at this point. Toes poking out of a pair of shoes, it looks like he grabbed the clothes out of the same dumpster he's struggling to lift that garbage bag up into now. He's not quite strong enough to lift the dead weight of whatever's inside, and then the redheaded woman's voice is startling him. He jumps nearly right out of his skin. "Oh!! Oh, uh .. I'm just throwing away some trash, okay! I'm not squatting or whatever leave me alone!" Defensive, panicked. If it's the ruse of a vicious killer in waiting it's a damn good ruse.
has heard that, or similar, before, and so, Tabitha, perfectly perfect and perfectly content for a time to remain where she is, stays put. She smiles a little, but its not her usual one, it is mixed with the moroseness of previous, and unsurity. Her mouth, the saliva dried, opens. Closes. "I -- I didn't think you were," she lies. Her gaze draws to the bag, squinting at it. "I saw you from the window..." She gestures to the Starbucks window. Her nose crinkles, but its not likely out of cuteness that she does. She has taken a step deeper into alley, likely to be accosted by a scent. The scent of rot. She pauses, her tingles telling her its likely wise. "I got you stomething," she offers to him.
The woman finds her instincts once again correct. Closer, it's not just the various bits of trash in the alley but even in cold weather it's not hard to tell that the garbage in that bag is RIPE. The kid is skittish and looking fearfully at Tabitha as he's all but caught red-handed and the decision going on behind his eyes is clear for her to watch in real-time. He's warring against the potential for help or food against the certainty of being caught with the dead body. He remains frozen for a long time before he finally takes a really slow step forward in a kind of crouch that puts him in front of the bag and obscuring it from Tabitha's view. "What?" A cautious question, the boy still ready to bolt at a moment's notice one way or the other.
Tabitha covers her mouth and nose with a hand. That scent. It's not just garbage, things Starbucks has thrown out after the night's closure. There's at least a week's worth of decomp going on and swirling in that bag. She takes a step back, her opposite hand holding out the Starbucks bag, hand shaking. "I'll just -- I'll leave it here." She kneels to put the food down, safe in its brown paper bag packaging. "This -- this was a bad idea..." is what her eyes are saying. She tries to keep a good few feet away from the food, and more toward the alley entrance, where the daylight still shines cooly.
It's with almost animalistic motions that the boy shuffles forward in that crouch to snatch the bag once Tabitha is sufficiently backed up away from it. For her, the entrance of the alleyway offers both sparse rays of sunshine as well as fresher air that flows through the main streets of the town rather than the alley and further away from that BAG. Opening the brown sack suspiciously, the kid notes lemon bar and he knows what that is because he's all but cramming the thing into his mouth wholesaler and trying to chew it down as he backs up a pace. "Wha-da-nt?" He calls to the woman, through a mouth full of cake and crumbs.
"Are you ..." Tabitha starts to ask. No, of course he's not okay. Look at the guy. The scramble, it makes her scoot herself back a little further, a quick step even, though not on par with any supernatural, when supernatural are -- just that. "Do you need help?" she asks, then. Though this help likely has nothing to do with the bag that lays in a seeping bulk of sludgy body.
A question that brings a long patch of silence from the young boy. His dirty fingernails are scratching along an arm as he's all but crouching in front of the dumpster there ... "I can't lift the bag into the dumpster" he finally says after his mouth isn't full of lemon bar any longer. He sound sullen and suspicious but Tabitha hasn't run off by now .. "I didn't ... I just need to get it in there so it goes away. Like this dream" He's watching and waiting now looking for any signs that Tabitha might betray him or move to turn him in or do anything really but help him with feverish, feral eyes that are constantly glancing behind him and past her toward the main street beyond. Maybe he's thinking he can just leave it here now, and force Tabitha to deal with it.
There is abject horror at the boy's suggesting that Tabitha help lift that bag. She shakes her head a few times, rapid. "I'm --- not touching that," is said, with unwavering sureness of that. "You didn't mean to ---" she sorta tries to prompt the boy along. She closes herself off a bit by crossing her arms about her bosom, looking as much ready to bolt as the boy should he try to get closer and, god forbid, touch her. "Sorry to say, ah...." She tries to get moisture back in her mouth. "This isn't a dream."
"Jeez .." SRDeacon says sullenly still. He's narrowing his eyes at Tabitha then he just huddles down in front of the dumpster and puts his back to it right there in the filth. Arms wrap about his knees as he glances side-long at that garbage bag. "It has to be" he mutters with a shake of his head back and forth back and forth. "I didn't do it .. I just ... I just woke up. I'm hungry ... Listen just .. just go away. I'll get it in there myself and and and I'll tell people you saw if you say anything!"
He shuffles back, and tries to bare his teeth at Tabitha ... but it's kind of a pathetic sight with nothing behind it.
The boy's mannerisms and demeanor seem younger than they should be, given his age.
Tabitha brings her phone out, a glance behind her to the daylight, where people mill about, who probably look as morose as her. "Of course you didn't do it," she says, not buying that sale. "I think you need to talk to someone though. Who can help you. Like. I think I know who." She looks to the boy and his bared teeth, flat, unthreatening. At least for now. Despite, it does give her a pause. "His name's Antwon. I think he'll --- maybe --- know what to do." His name's not up on her contacts. The name is "Savannah". She doesn't tap anything into the phone, giving the boy another once over.
As Tabitha moves to even take out her cell phone, that's a big ole red flag for the kid here. He almost seems interested that flash of hope that runs across his face when she mentions maybe knowing someone who can help him but then he's scrambling up to his feet and true to his own thoughts he scrambles off down the alley in the other direction and thankfully not toward Tabitha. Young and confused, no doubt the recent cleanse has left this young man unable to truly determine what's happened to him or why he's woken up near a body night a week before. Has he been skulking out this entire time? Or is it only the cleanse that brought him out of his wolfen form? Who's to say but it seems to Tabitha that it might be a good idea after all, to mention this young boy to her friend. Just in case. In the meantime, contacting her names in the deputies department she'll make the usual 'anonymous' tip in on the body here in the alley and all that's left is for her to get out of dodge before actual cops show up. Still, that boy has only questions but at least one partial act of kindness may change his fate.
OOC: Thank you for participating, I'm sorry the prompt wasn't a little easier to make interestingf for the cleanse but the other one would've been worse! Thank you for putting up with it and let me know if you need a summons when you head down!
Tabitha seems very grateful that the boy has taken off the other direction of her, texting now, both to 911 for that tip. And then to whom she said she would.
The supernatural ordeal draws to a dreaded climax as Yasmin, defenseless and entranced by the creature's imploring eyes, finds herself in immediate peril. Despite her paralyzing fear, she musters the courage to attempt resistance, fumbling with a knife she had dropped in her terror. Her efforts provoke a reaction; the creature appears momentarily thwarted, enough so that she ceases her disquieting song. Yasmin's keen survival instincts lead her to administer a desperate cut to the beast's appendage, disrupting the nightmarish scene. Abruptly, peace returns as daylight floods back into the room, leaving Yasmin to grapple with the remnants of terror, momentarily unsure if what transpired was but a horrific hallucination - though the lingering echo of a giggle through the static of a television suggests otherwise.
Meanwhile, on a serene Sunday, Tabitha attempts to find solace in her morning routine until her attention is snatched away by a frantic, ragged boy dealing desperately with a suspicious bag. Alarmed and empathetic, she ventures out of the safety and comfort of her café to confront the potential danger housed within the alley where the disturbed youth struggles. Her instincts and observations lead her to the grim realization that this boy may have found himself in the throes of a horrific experience – possibly the result of a grisly, monstrous transformation. After a tense interaction, where she offers food and the possibility of assistance, the boy's panic only escalates, eventually sending him fleeing. Tabitha, left with the consequences and her phone in hand, makes a decision to involve the authorities while considering if a friend might answer the mystifying questions left by the boy's abrupt departure.
(Yasmin's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sun Dec 31 2023]
In a Pristine and Elegant Master's Bedroom
The decor in this bedroom, based on a modern theme with the red and white colour combination reflects efficiency in structure and oozes stylish convenience. Red is a dominant colour here, and white helps to enhance its brightness. The subtle interior design of this room with the stunning wooden cabinet, and chandelier displays breathable comfort. The cushions and bedspreads are in different shades of pink, ranging from pale pink to bright, glamorous pink. Even the sheer curtains have glimpses of pink in them that allow abundant daylight to stream into the room. The entire room is so pristine, and the beauty of the design can enamour and unquestionably stands out with its elegance and cool vibes matching the simple furniture and evokes comfort. There is a perfect meld of elements in this compelling setting.
It is morning, about 18F(-7C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target encounters a mysterious child who has wandered into town. The child does not speak and exhibits strange behaviors, such as moving objects without touching them. It's up to your target to figure out where the child has come from and what kind of supernatural entity they might be dealing with.)
Barely a quarter into the first day of the cleanse, and Yasmin is already tired of it. Her nose feels stuffy, her eyes feel less sharp, and what is even the point of being supernatural if your ears can't pick up the neighbors down the corridor arguing over the bills again? She exhales a long sigh, pushing the remaining half of her tasteless-seeming spring rolls away from herself and taking a long sip of her carrot-orange juice before that, too, goes half-finished onto her bedside table, a precarious perch from which it hopefully won't get knocked off. More restlessness it is.
Yasmin curls back up in bed, beneath the blankets in search of warmth - she's not sleepy in the least, but neither does she want to go out when she's feeling so /off/ - and she reaches for her phone, starting to scroll through it. MyHaven, then the Hand app, just to see if there's anything that needs catching up on, then whatever social media may next catch her eye - FaceBook for now, it seems, feed mostly filled with posts from family, some pictures, some motivational quotes. No new messages.
The morning sun paints the sky in soft pastels, filtered warm and pink through the sheer curtains in Yasmin's bedroom. The streets outside have yielded to utter quiet. It means that when a faint shuffling noise reaches from the room beyond, it's pronounced. A wedge of shadow dances across the gap between the door and the ground, here, and then not here.
Silence.
A giggle, high-pitched, girlish.
The chandelier clinks. The air is utterly stale, the window closed, and no draft coming from outdoors.
The morning sun paints the sky in soft pastels, filtered warm and pink through the sheer curtains in Yasmin's bedroom. The parking lot and the streets further beyond have yielded to utter quiet. It means that when a faint shuffling noise reaches from the room beyond, it's pronounced. A wedge of shadow dances across the gap between the door and the ground, here, and then not here.
Silence.
A giggle, high-pitched, girlish.
The chandelier clinks. The air is utterly stale, the window closed, and no draft coming from outdoors.
It has been a relatively quiet morning - too quiet, considering the current dullness of her senses - and the giggle that sounds in the silence may as well be deafening. Yasmin emerges from the cocoon of blankets and warm limbs and sleeping kittens with a curious look - did that come from outside? She braves letting her bare feet touch the cold floor so she can peer out at the exceptional view of the parking lot she's privy to. A sweeping glance across the empty lot, and then the sheer fabric of her curtains falls back into place. Back to her bed she goes. Surely she would have heard the door if there was anyone in her apartment.
Surely.
Nothing outside. It's empty. Entirely empty, in fact. There are no parked cars, no people loitering.
There's a sudden tearing sound - fabric ripping at the seams. Downy feathers peek out from inside Yasmin's pillow. One floats outward and up, as if - again - carried by wind. Another follows. Then, every feather en masse, swirling around the room in a blizzard. Rainbows twirl across the bedspread, the cushions, the door.
There's that giggle again. The floorboards creak as little feet - they must be little, for their step is quick and light - rush across. A shadow passes across the door crack again.
Oh, this is exactly like every horror movie Yasmin has ever seen. Seen, and learned nothing practical from. She jumps at the sudden tearing of feathers, even if there's no noise that escapes her apart from a sharp, startled gasp, and reaches into her bedside drawer. Her hand comes out with with her knife, small but trusty, hilt clasped between both of her palms where she stands between the circling blizzard of feathers, feet frozen in place.
She spies the shadow from the corner of her eyes this time. Knife in hand, Yasmin slowly steps over to the door - no creaky floorboards, she knows where all the creaky ones are - and slides down along the wall by its side until she's seated upon the floor, not daring to pull the door open. Quietly, there's a prayer that finds her lips, murmured beneath her breath in a hushed, barely-audible whisper, verses of protection. Maybe she doesn't have her superhuman senses to rely on, and the coldness of the surroundings is felt direly, from the lack of her inner fire, but she still has /this/:
Yasmin prays.
A voice, sweet, pure, and high, lilts through the air, to Yasmin's ears.
"La, la, la sa ne jucam."
"Cu prietenii, totul e minunat."
"La, la, la sa fim fericiti."
"Impreuna cantam, mereu zambim."
This is no language that Yasmin knows, but she might recognize the rhythm and drag of consonants to be Eastern European.
Somehow, the kittens continue slumber, as does Tomas. They haven't moved, save for the rise and fall of their chests, one after another.
Every feather drops, all at once. The door creaks open with a keening whine, to reveal a little girl, bedraggled, and without shoes. Her dress is an ugly brown, its weave comparable to that of burlap. The dark fall of her hair obscures her left eye; the right is round - big, brown, and full of innocence. Her cheeks are rounded, carrying a tint so strong it reminds of rouge. She's pale. Skinny.
A voice, sweet, pure, and high, lilts through the air, to Yasmin's ears.
"La, la, la sa ne jucam."
"Cu prietenii, totul e minunat."
"La, la, la sa fim fericiti."
"Impreuna cantam, mereu zambim."
This is no language that Yasmin knows, but she might recognize the rhythm and drag of consonants to be Eastern European.
Somehow, the kittens continue slumber, as does Tomas. They haven't moved, save for the rise and fall of their chests, one after another.
Every feather drops, all at once. She doesn't need to open the door. It creaks open with a keening whine to reveal a little girl, bedraggled, and without shoes. Her dress is an ugly brown, its weave comparable to that of burlap. The dark fall of her hair obscures her left eye; the right is round - big, brown, and full of innocence. Her cheeks are rounded, carrying a tint so strong it reminds of rouge. She's pale. Skinny.
To say Yasmin stiffens when the door starts creaking open would be an understatement - does her door usually creak like that? Surely she'd have oiled the hinges ages ago if that was the case. She doesn't stiffen, though; she turns almost to stone, forgetting to breathe entirely in the grip of the sheer terror that takes over her, the only bit of movement the shifting of her eyes towards the now-open door, and, oh no. She's made eye contact. This never goes well. Not in any movie of any franchise has anyone ever made eye contact with the creepy demon child singing a lullaby and come out of it unscathed. Never mind that she's kind of cute and not /really/ that creepy at all. She knows how to make an entrance.
Yasmin's fingers tighten around her knife, though it goes unused, clasped close to her chest - surely she can't stab a child. She can barely bring herself to stab adults. Just remembering how to breathe, there's a slow, deep inhale - and then, quiet and slow, "H-hello. Are you lost?" Should Yasmin even be acknowledging her? Maybe this is how she dooms herself, by talking to the creepy child she's supposed to ignore to let her move on, or something.
The song abruptly cuts off the second the girl comes into view.
A giggle effervesces from her throat. Her mouth stays closed, curved into a tiny, secretive smile.
She's so small. So frail. Bare-handed, with not a single weapon on her person. When Yasmin poses her question, she shakes her head rapidly, the tendrils of her hair cast adrift, wild.
Did Yasmin step forward? The room feels like it's shrinking, the child closer and closer and closer. She's only a few paces away.
Up close, her skin is almost translucent, the blue of her veins so dark as to nearly be black. She lifts her face, imploring. Both eyes are revealed, now, and in them there is an odd, reddish cast.
She lifts her arms up, high and straight. Carry me, they say. Love me.
Yasmin's hands shake where they're clasped around the hilt of her knife, her knuckles entirely white and her eyes fixed upon the child as though to look away - or blink, even - would be the gravest mistake one could make. Yasmin certainly did not step forward. She's going to stay on the ground next to the door, huddled up, trying to curl up into the smallest of balls she can, thank you very much. And Yasmin can curl up very small indeed, considering her size.
That gesture, though. That gesture Yasmin is familiar with. She dares to blink now, mouth opening, and then closing again with a click.
"Are you looking for your mama?" comes the next question, hushed. She doesn't move in to carry the child. That probably isn't a bad idea, to get the child so close to her throat. That's how people get their throats ripped out.
Yasmin meant that probably IS a bad idea.
Yasmin denies her. Her arms continue to be lofted high. There is no movement, but for motes of dust traveling in the light.
The girl's face becomes ashen and grey, so minimally, so slowly, that at first she only appears crestfallen. Then, flesh begins to slough off, like wallpaper peeling from an old and dilapidated house. The once-plump cheeks become haggard, her cheekbones jutting out. Where once her body was thin, now it is skeletal, the blood, the flesh, the fat all gone, as if evaporated into thin air.
Her spindly fingers clench once. Twice. Love me, they beg again.
Her lips dry, worms in arid air, dead upon the sidewalk. And then, something snakes from between them. It's thin, a grotesque purple, veined and pulsing. It terminates in a serrated maw, revealing rows of needle-like protrusions.
If this was a girl, she is no more.
Alas, she's going to have to try a little bit harder to not turn into a creature out of nightmares if she wants any of Yasmin's love. If she was looking for Yasmin's horror instead, she'll be sated plenty. There's a scream that's stuck in her throat, unable to find its way out - she would need air in her lungs to scream, after all.
Yasmin's eyes find the specks of flesh and skin that drift across her vision as they evaporate into thin air. The knife clatters against the floor, falling from her grasp - what's thin steel going to do against bone and... whatever else she's made of, to keep standing as a mere skeleton, none of the functions that should be keeping her /alive/ there? Yasmin rises slowly to her feet, back against the wall, so very slow upon her wobbly knees until she's stood. Then, she lifts her hand towards the child, palm up. She's not going to carry her. But she can... hold her hand, for a start. Just one hand.
"Please don't bite anyone," Yasmin whispers. Pleads.
The girl folds her hand within Yasmin's. She feels wrong -- not human at all. Her now-mottled skin is brittle, like old parchment. The hold she has, though, is ironclad. It would take immense strength to pull away.
Slowly, the proboscis leaves the confines of her mouth. It's long, endless, like the scarves that clowns pull from their mouths. With sinuous movement, it weaves through the air, possessing muscle enough that it supports its own weight fully. There is a short, brief pause.
And then...
it strikes at Yasmin's neck with force. There is a searing pain as skin breaks and tissue tears. There is the awful sound of rending fiber, which no doubt will leave behind raw, pink, and exposed flesh. Not a drop of blood spills. The proboscis swells, engorging, sectioned, as it drains.
This was a bad idea. It doesn't take longer than a second to figure that one out, when the small, skeletal hand in Yasmin's grip turns ironclad. There's a hitching of Yasmin's breath, a widening of her eyes in horror when the proboscis extends and extends into the air, a scream not meant to be when it strikes, deep, harsh, searing, stifling it before it even erupts free of her throat.
She tries to pull away, wildly yanking at her arm in the child's hand. Her knife - why the fuck did she drop her knife? Fucking idiot. It's on the ground, close to her feet. She can reach it with her feet, surely. As the pain lances through her, her vision turning woozy from the sudden drop of blood pressure, she blindly tries to get a grip of the handle between her toes. Assuming that works - assuming she doesn't cut her foot, or her free hand in the process of transferring that over, there's only one thing left to do: stab it right into the proboscis, and try to cut it right off. It's not stabbing a helpless child if the helpless child in question is trying to suck her dry.
Yasmin's knife makes contact. The proboscis is tough and rubbery, requiring friction and a surface to stabilize against, if cutting is to succeed. All she manages to do is provide a glancing cut. It's enough, at least, to disrupt the girl's attention -- and she is, again, something akin to a girl.
Enough blood has been taken for sustenance, perhaps. Her hand feels warmer. Her face has the chubby, cherubic cheeks it did, just a short time ago. Yasmin cut a child. She blinks long-lashed eyes, the proboscis wriggling back into her mouth, and fully disappeared. Yasmin's screaming confuses. She tilts her head so that it nearly meets her shoulder, at a sharp, inhuman ninety-degree angle.
From the open door of the bedroom, rainbows fervently dance once more, so quickly, and so brightly, that they begin a blinding, white light in Yasmin's vision.
When sight resumes, there is nothing there. The horror is ended.
Utter peace again. The morning is sunny and beautiful. Birds chirp.
But -- many feet away, the TV emits black-and-white static. From the speakers:
"Acum e timpul sa visam."
"La povesti si la lucruri minunate."
"Cu inimile pline de bucurie."
"Sa ne odihnim si sa fim fericiti."
A giggle, faraway.
(Your target encounters a newly made werewolf who doesn't know what they are or what they've done shortly after the full moon.
)
A quiet Sunday morning sees Tabitha curled up onto a couch with some tea and her phone. She occasionally sends out a message, her face that of someone despondent, a normally smiling face darkened by emotions she's likely suppressed for some time. The woman takes a sip of her tea. There is another swipe of her phone against the screen, and it appears she's looking at some photographs on her phone, including those of her with two much, much older people. Parents by the shared features.
The morning hours are lovely even in this season here on the Bay. The air is cold and crisp but the sun comes up over the horizon with a wonderous sunrise on display and it's a tough sell to be so morose on a morning as beautiful as this one. But such things are never to last in the small township of Haven. Her recollection and mulling of emotions and thoughts will be suddenly intruded upon for out of the corner of her eye she'll spy something through the window here at Starbucks: The sight of a disheveled-looking young man. A boy really, by his size and glimpsed features but more importantly Tabitha spies him dragging something into the darker corners of the alleyways here in town and looking rather frantic about it.
Tabitha lifts her attention away from her phone, turning the screen to pitch with a slow exhale through her nose. She watches this young man through the window, chewing on her lower inner lip a moment as she considers the man's appearance and more importantly, what it is he may be dragging. She sips her tea, staring really. While most of her empathic nature may be hidden away somewhere, there is a human inkling of it still. Her morose features turn to concern.
There's a sure shortage of good common sense in this world, but not with Tabitha. She takes the time to study the situation before merely getting up to go offer some assistance. From this distance, she can discern a few things. Firstly, the boy can't be more than eighteen or nineteen years old. He's dressed in ratty, torn clothing that barey covers him here in the winter season giving him the sense of a homeless person. The thing he's dragging. It's .. a garbage bag. Yard trimmings .. yeah it could be yard trimmings or a bag of garbage from some random homeless kid but that's probably a stretch. A closer look before they maange to slip out of sight into the alleyway says the bag is longer than it is stuffed wide. Something about five and half feet long is in that bag.
Common sense is clearly in Tabitha's favor as she continues to study the young fellow. The suspicious container in which he's frantically dragging toward a dumpster, rather than suspiciously dragging away and digging into is focused further upon. Then the young man's face. "Jesus Mary Mother of Christ," she utters, scrubbing at her face like she's trying to scrub off all those cute little freckles of hers. She rises. God to give her strength, and heads southward toward the barisa to make an order of some kind of bakery good. A mumble to herself, "Going to get yourself killed..."
And the boy and his 'garbage' disappear down further into the alley and for now, out of Tabitha's sight. There's no telling for sure what's got that young man in a clear sense of panic but certainly the redhead can make some guesses of her own. The barista will fill her order as requested, taking the usual amount of time. Too long to be considered expedient and not long enough to truly make Tabitha anxious, unless of course she's trying to catch up to that young man before she potentially loses track of him.
Those feelings seem to prickle at the sixth sense of Tabitha. The recollection of those eyes, the way her friends have described their own feelings and experiences? It could be the same here now, this panicked boy trying desparately to figure out what to do with perhaps a body he doesn't remember killing. But in today's science-filled world? He can't just LEAVE it around, can he? No, those memories seem to ring true to the sight she's only just left behind her and that definitely rings true. She can't be certain, but her gut and her heart FEEL as though she's onto something there.
It occurs to Tabitha that there's not much chance of that, at present. He's not in any shape to be turning feral if it IS something like what she thinks, and she's probably got a few years of experience on the kid otherwise. That much at least, thankfully isn't much of a safety concern for her today of all days.
Tabitha pushes the door to the Starbucks open, a brown bag with the Starbucks mermaid printed on it holding a lemon bread, maybe for an inticement for the boy to stop. Outside, she breathes in what is fresh air, before she rounds the alley corner. "Hey!" she calls out.
Stepping into the mouth of the alley, Tabitha can see a little further down it's length. It's daylight so there's not much in the way of shadows deep enough to really obscure a person's vision thankfully. A half-block down into the alley there's the boy alright. A ripped up flannet t-shirt and a pair of jeans that's barely held together at this point. Toes poking out of a pair of shoes, it looks like he grabbed the clothes out of the same dumpster he's struggling to lift that garbage bag up into now. He's not quite strong enough to lift the dead weight of whatever's inside, and then the redheaded woman's voice is startling him. He jumps nearly right out of his skin. "Oh!! Oh, uh .. I'm just throwing away some trash, okay! I'm not squatting or whatever leave me alone!" Defensive, panicked. If it's the ruse of a vicious killer in waiting it's a damn good ruse.
has heard that, or similar, before, and so, Tabitha, perfectly perfect and perfectly content for a time to remain where she is, stays put. She smiles a little, but its not her usual one, it is mixed with the moroseness of previous, and unsurity. Her mouth, the saliva dried, opens. Closes. "I -- I didn't think you were," she lies. Her gaze draws to the bag, squinting at it. "I saw you from the window..." She gestures to the Starbucks window. Her nose crinkles, but its not likely out of cuteness that she does. She has taken a step deeper into alley, likely to be accosted by a scent. The scent of rot. She pauses, her tingles telling her its likely wise. "I got you stomething," she offers to him.
The woman finds her instincts once again correct. Closer, it's not just the various bits of trash in the alley but even in cold weather it's not hard to tell that the garbage in that bag is RIPE. The kid is skittish and looking fearfully at Tabitha as he's all but caught red-handed and the decision going on behind his eyes is clear for her to watch in real-time. He's warring against the potential for help or food against the certainty of being caught with the dead body. He remains frozen for a long time before he finally takes a really slow step forward in a kind of crouch that puts him in front of the bag and obscuring it from Tabitha's view. "What?" A cautious question, the boy still ready to bolt at a moment's notice one way or the other.
Tabitha covers her mouth and nose with a hand. That scent. It's not just garbage, things Starbucks has thrown out after the night's closure. There's at least a week's worth of decomp going on and swirling in that bag. She takes a step back, her opposite hand holding out the Starbucks bag, hand shaking. "I'll just -- I'll leave it here." She kneels to put the food down, safe in its brown paper bag packaging. "This -- this was a bad idea..." is what her eyes are saying. She tries to keep a good few feet away from the food, and more toward the alley entrance, where the daylight still shines cooly.
It's with almost animalistic motions that the boy shuffles forward in that crouch to snatch the bag once Tabitha is sufficiently backed up away from it. For her, the entrance of the alleyway offers both sparse rays of sunshine as well as fresher air that flows through the main streets of the town rather than the alley and further away from that BAG. Opening the brown sack suspiciously, the kid notes lemon bar and he knows what that is because he's all but cramming the thing into his mouth wholesaler and trying to chew it down as he backs up a pace. "Wha-da-nt?" He calls to the woman, through a mouth full of cake and crumbs.
"Are you ..." Tabitha starts to ask. No, of course he's not okay. Look at the guy. The scramble, it makes her scoot herself back a little further, a quick step even, though not on par with any supernatural, when supernatural are -- just that. "Do you need help?" she asks, then. Though this help likely has nothing to do with the bag that lays in a seeping bulk of sludgy body.
A question that brings a long patch of silence from the young boy. His dirty fingernails are scratching along an arm as he's all but crouching in front of the dumpster there ... "I can't lift the bag into the dumpster" he finally says after his mouth isn't full of lemon bar any longer. He sound sullen and suspicious but Tabitha hasn't run off by now .. "I didn't ... I just need to get it in there so it goes away. Like this dream" He's watching and waiting now looking for any signs that Tabitha might betray him or move to turn him in or do anything really but help him with feverish, feral eyes that are constantly glancing behind him and past her toward the main street beyond. Maybe he's thinking he can just leave it here now, and force Tabitha to deal with it.
There is abject horror at the boy's suggesting that Tabitha help lift that bag. She shakes her head a few times, rapid. "I'm --- not touching that," is said, with unwavering sureness of that. "You didn't mean to ---" she sorta tries to prompt the boy along. She closes herself off a bit by crossing her arms about her bosom, looking as much ready to bolt as the boy should he try to get closer and, god forbid, touch her. "Sorry to say, ah...." She tries to get moisture back in her mouth. "This isn't a dream."
"Jeez .." SRDeacon says sullenly still. He's narrowing his eyes at Tabitha then he just huddles down in front of the dumpster and puts his back to it right there in the filth. Arms wrap about his knees as he glances side-long at that garbage bag. "It has to be" he mutters with a shake of his head back and forth back and forth. "I didn't do it .. I just ... I just woke up. I'm hungry ... Listen just .. just go away. I'll get it in there myself and and and I'll tell people you saw if you say anything!"
He shuffles back, and tries to bare his teeth at Tabitha ... but it's kind of a pathetic sight with nothing behind it.
The boy's mannerisms and demeanor seem younger than they should be, given his age.
Tabitha brings her phone out, a glance behind her to the daylight, where people mill about, who probably look as morose as her. "Of course you didn't do it," she says, not buying that sale. "I think you need to talk to someone though. Who can help you. Like. I think I know who." She looks to the boy and his bared teeth, flat, unthreatening. At least for now. Despite, it does give her a pause. "His name's Antwon. I think he'll --- maybe --- know what to do." His name's not up on her contacts. The name is "Savannah". She doesn't tap anything into the phone, giving the boy another once over.
As Tabitha moves to even take out her cell phone, that's a big ole red flag for the kid here. He almost seems interested that flash of hope that runs across his face when she mentions maybe knowing someone who can help him but then he's scrambling up to his feet and true to his own thoughts he scrambles off down the alley in the other direction and thankfully not toward Tabitha. Young and confused, no doubt the recent cleanse has left this young man unable to truly determine what's happened to him or why he's woken up near a body night a week before. Has he been skulking out this entire time? Or is it only the cleanse that brought him out of his wolfen form? Who's to say but it seems to Tabitha that it might be a good idea after all, to mention this young boy to her friend. Just in case. In the meantime, contacting her names in the deputies department she'll make the usual 'anonymous' tip in on the body here in the alley and all that's left is for her to get out of dodge before actual cops show up. Still, that boy has only questions but at least one partial act of kindness may change his fate.
OOC: Thank you for participating, I'm sorry the prompt wasn't a little easier to make interestingf for the cleanse but the other one would've been worse! Thank you for putting up with it and let me know if you need a summons when you head down!
Tabitha seems very grateful that the boy has taken off the other direction of her, texting now, both to 911 for that tip. And then to whom she said she would.