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party wurmple never sleeps. only dances.
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There were people talking around Bryony, their voices muffled and far away, trapped behind the layer of ice that she must have become frozen in. Her gaze was solidified too, staring down at her hand, unable to look away or even blink. Her palm was coated in blood, the colour shockingly vibrant against her pale skin, droplets rolling down the side of her hand and falling to the ground, and beginning to trickle down her wrist.

She registered the pain, God knows she could barely feel anything but the brutal sting in her hand, but her body was refusing to react to it. Everything that film and video games and TV had taught her was that she was supposed to be writhing in agony now, grasping her wrist and screaming in pain.

Instead, she sat there, stunned, trembling in her frozen tomb.

She heard Alice’s muffled order to raise her hand, and, dumbstruck, she did so, with hesitant, jerky motions. She caught a glimpse of Alice’s leg, still coated in blood, and her brain rebooted itself momentarily. What was she doing here, sitting back and doing nothing? She needed to help Alice! She needed to help save her injured friend and-

She twisted her hand, and a bolt of pain shot through her arm, feeling like she’d just been shot again. Bryony let out a short cry of distress again. She was feeling lightheaded. She felt like she was going to be sick, but there was nothing in her stomach for that.

She could feel the familiar warmth of tears streaking down her cheeks, leaving marks behind to match the warm trails of blood flowing down her arm. Her mouth cracked open, and her voice spoke out, miles away from her body.

“Am I… Am I gonna be… okay?”


"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