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party wurmple never sleeps. only dances.
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As Bryony trudged slowly back to shore, the reality of her situation really began to sink in. She was standing in thigh deep, freezing cold water, dressed in just a short-sleeved t-shirt and panties. She was shivering uncontrollably now, alternating between wrapping her arms around her sodden body in a vain attempt to stay warm and having to throw them out to the sides in order to stay balanced whenever a wave splashed against the back of her legs. She could hardly see a foot in front of herself without her glasses; the girl on the shore was nothing but a vague and blurry human shape, and everything beyond her was merely formless blobs of colour.

It occurred to Bryony that she was damn lucky that the girl had been willing to help her out. For anyone else, finding a deranged girl wading out into the ocean by herself would have been like seeing a deer walk directly into their crosshairs.

The thought made Bryony freeze up entirely, her leg jolting to a stop and sending up a spray of water. She choked back a sob, tears flowing freely now, and dug her fingernails into her arms tightly.

“Oh god…”

Bryony brought her hand up to her mouth, trying to clean off the blood she’d drawn. The girl had turned away now, and Bryony’s heart leapt to her mouth as she realised that she was running in the direction of her bag, yelling about something that Bryony really didn’t think she wanted to know about.

“What’s… What’s happening? What’s going on?” she called out anyway, her bile fascination getting the better of her.

If her gut instinct was right, she might have been better of taking her chances in the ocean.


"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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Morphogenetic Fear · Shoreline