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party wurmple never sleeps. only dances.
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Bryony wasn’t sure how she managed to will herself to put one foot in front of the other and move forwards. She wasn’t even sure why. Her entire reservoir of strength and mental fortitude had run dry, drained away as soon as she’d snapped back to her senses and realised just how foolhardy her plan of escape had been.

She had been on the back foot the moment she had woken up on the island. She was small and she was weak. She didn’t have the extensive circle of friends like the popular kids did, and she didn’t have any skills that would allow her to survive on her own for more than a few days. She didn’t even know what her weapon was, but knowing her goddamn luck it was something as useless as she was.

And now she had been handed yet another disadvantage and expected to carry it with her. She hadn’t packed any food herself; this had only supposed to have been a daytrip, after all. She had no idea how much the thief had left behind, but it almost certainly wouldn’t be enough for her to sustain herself. And even if she had the ability to do so, she had no idea who the thief was, so she couldn’t try and track them down for some stupid act of ‘revenge’.

Bryony came to a halt just at the water’s edge, sea foam and salt spray washing over her feet and ankles. Water dripped from her pigtails onto her bare arms, running over the scratches on her right and sending small droplets of blood trickling down her bare skin.

“Are my… are my glasses still there? And the rest of my clothes?”

Despite how much she was shivering, Bryony couldn’t see a reason for her to step out of the ocean and onto the sand.


"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