7 Feb 2022, 01:47
four am
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@solo
| ── | Draven's mother had come to visit him. Which wasn't exactly a usual occurrence, considering Rory hadn't sent him as much as a letter since the day she'd packed her bags. But now, there she was, leaning sagely against his doorframe, a paintbrush peaking from between honey blond curls, beaming down at him. "We're going shopping, kiddo!" It was four am in the morning. Draven blinked up at her, taking in the paint splattered outfit and day old mascara, the smudged crimson lipstick and chewed off nails. This. This was his mother. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kick her out and lock the door. He wanted to gently usher her to the bathroom and help untangle the beautiful hair which Iris had once braided flowers into. "Okay," he said. It was the only thing he could muster saying, in the twilight of his bedroom. His sheets were tangled around him, and he was staring up at his mother through a sleepy haze, wanting nothing more than to hurl the heavy candle on his nightstand at her face. But he didn't. Instead he slid out of bed and headed to his closet. "Oh don't be silly," she giggled, fingers latching on to his wrist and stopping him from pulling his night shirt over his head. "You can go as you are, nobody will care." Draven blanched. "But....I-I'll care." Rory peered down at her son contemplatively. "You care too much." 'You don't care enough', Draven wanted to say. But he didn't. Didn't have time, really. Because in the second it took him to try and wrench out of her grip, he found his stomach doing a flip and then tying itself into knots, the ground rushing out from under his feet and sending him to his hands and knees. As soon as they had Appeared in Diagon Alley, Draven pitched forward, nausea grabbing hold of him. Somethings which should have definitely stayed in his stomach found their way up. A small sound came from the back of the boy's throat, whatever blood he still had left in his face disappearing. It was four. Bloody. Am. And they were in the middle of a wizarding town, with rain pit pattering all around them, soaking through his night shirt and sending shivers running down his back. He hated her. He hated her. He hated her. "M-mom," he whimpered. He w h i m p e r e d. continued [x] |
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@solo
ITS STILL RAINING. WHY IS IT STILL RAINING? sta • 13 | eva • 8 | str • 1 | wis • 15 |arc • 7 | acc • 9 |