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party wurmple never sleeps. only dances.
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((Bryony Adams continued from 1ИS∅MИ1∀))

She had run out of playing cards.

The only food she had left was a stale crust of bread and less than a quarter of a water bottle.

Even with her hoody on and her arms wrapped around herself, she was still shivering uncontrollably, wind whistling through the shattered window, broken branches dragged along the ground by unseen hands, catching on faded and tattered watercolour paintings.

Bryony’s situation couldn’t have been much worse, and so she tried desperately to focus on that, because the alternative was for the announcement to play over and over again in her mind.

She, like Alice, was huddled on one of the few stools that weren’t broken or rotted, facing the window and the great tree that had ploughed through it and what little of the island she could see beyond that. Her eyes bored through everything, seeing nothing, barely moving aside from her shivering. She didn’t care what she looked at. Just so long as it wasn’t Alice or Candice. She was too hollow to cry now, but she was certain that would change if she caught their eye.

For all intents and purposes, they had failed. They had totally failed at everything they’d set out to do. They hadn’t found Alba. They hadn’t found anyone aside from Candice. They hadn’t even managed to find a weapon. Worst of all, they’d lost someone, someone very close to Bryony. They’d lost her, without even so much as a goodbye or the realisation that she was dead until it was too late, or…

Bryony felt the familiar burning pinpricks in the corners of her eyes, and quickly swivelled round on the stool, trying to find something else to look at. Her vision fell on the easel standing next to her, a half finished charcoal sketch hanging on it at a crooked angle. She recognised the tower in the centre of the picture, cliffs looming behind it, even with the bell itself missing from it.

It wasn’t a very good sketch, in all honesty. The linework was shaky and there were smudges all over the paper.

Bryony desperately wished she had the chance to draw something that bad. But there were no pencils lying around. No charcoal, no paint, no pens, no crayons. Not even any chalk. The terrorists hadn’t left anything to chance.

She sniffed. Just once. Then turned back to face the window as the rain started to roll in.


"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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Rain, Rain, Come Again · Art Therapy