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party wurmple never sleeps. only dances.
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((Bryony Adams continued from Can You Hear Me Calling Out?))

An unfamiliar figure looked up at Bryony Adams from the surface of a shallow puddle.

The figure had its hair down, an untidy mess framing its face, all tangled and dirty from not being washed for days. It held two dark green hair bobbles, clenched tightly in its hands. Its clothing was crumpled and wrinkled, so obviously slept in, and there were little holes and cuts in its hoody where it had been caught on branches and debris. It reached up to adjust its dust-coated glasses, obscuring the bags under her eyes, the scuffs of mud on her cheeks, and streaks of tears cutting through them.

This figure couldn’t be Bryony Adams. There was no way it could be. The real Bryony Adams was too shy and reserved and quiet to get herself dirty. The real Bryony Adams would have broken down and sobbed and begged to be let free from this nightmare. The real Bryony Adams would have heard the endless familiar names on the announcements and given up all hope there and then.

The real Bryony Adams should have died days ago.

And yet, the real Bryony Adams stared down at the puddle, before stepping through it, the figure disappearing into droplets and ripples.

It was early morning. The sun had only just come up, a faint light breaking through the leaves of the great willow tree in the centre of the garden. Like Alice, Bryony had been unable to sleep soundly. Memories of the past few days circled around and around in her head, and the longer she stayed still, the louder and more vivid they got. Images of Bradley, and Bridgette, and Bernadette, Danya’s words of the killers and the killed, horrible thoughts of what had happened to them in their final moments. She had woken up moments ago, breathing heavily, coated in cold sweat. It was a simple logic that had caused her to head for the gardens. They had briefly looked around it when they’d first made it to the chapel yesterday, and even with the weeds and moss and tangling vines threatening to overthrow the other plants that lived there, it still looked serene and calm. A place for her to clear her head.

It felt, sometimes, like everything was fighting against her. And yet, here she was, still standing.

The grass rustled as Bryony slowly made her way through the garden. It felt cool, beneath the shade of the tree, a pleasant coolness as opposed to the quiet and still cold of the chapel. If she could, she would have wanted to stay here for as long as possible. Safe, amongst the plants and tree roots. Out of sight. Out of danger.

After a couple of minutes wandering, Bryony caught sight of Alice, sitting on a stone bench, staring intently down at the ground. Bryony’s face lit up when she saw her, and she picked the pace up, heading towards her friend.

There was another body on the ground in front of her, and Bryony involuntarily let out a small gasp.


"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
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Tea Party with Death at Dawn · Crematorium Gardens