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Pippin
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party wurmple never sleeps. only dances.
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
There was an explosion ripping through Bryony’s head, that grew larger with every passing second. Her ears were still ringing, and she felt dizzy even on her hands and knees. The world around her was a complete blur, the dark clouds and total lack of light in the ruined art room making everything even more incomprehensible.

She could barely make out Alice, or Candice. She still had no clue who the shooter was. She thought she heard footsteps but it might have been her own pounding head. She thought she heard a cry, but it could have come from herself. The wind, the tornado, the hurricane, filled every corner of the room, and it felt like the end of the world.

She needed to do something. Anything. She tried to push herself up again, and once again, her stomach revolted. Her scrabbling hands fell upon something on the ground, something heavy, solid. A weapon, finally. As barebones of one as possible, but she couldn’t afford to be picky.

She needed to do something. She needed to start by getting up, and her head felt like it would split open at the mere thought of that. Somehow, with agonising slowness, she pulled herself up, using her weapon as a crutch.

She needed to do something. She needed to do something about the shooter, something to help Alice, something to make sure they all got out of there alive. But her mind was still overwhelmed, noise and pain pounding against her head, and, just like every time she had been overwhelmed before, just like when she had been at the gym so long ago with Alba and Kimiko and Bradley, she froze.

She froze, until it was too late for her actions to have done anything regardless.

She needed to do something. Her mind wasn’t letting her, her thoughts locked on solely to pain and confusion and hoping that Alice was alright and not the hows of making sure that would happen.

So her body took over.

And she ran.

((Bryony Adams continued in A History of Bad Decisions))
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Rain, Rain, Come Again · Art Therapy