❝ And that's Marlowe - better known as Mar...❞
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𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐞. You rarely catch her without sand-covered skin and dark locks winded up from saltwater. Born and raised on the island, with a house that radiates...
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𝐇ot water touches her forehead. The millions of droplets graze her closed eyelids, part at the sides of her nose, and flow down her chin. They run down the rest of her body, struggling through the stubborn layer of mud.
The girl drags both hands along her soaked scalp. They continue down to the back of her neck. Pauses. Stretches the muscles, head lolling from side to side. Then back around to her face, rubbing it clean of the dirt.
Despite the argument with her parents, common sense still told her to stay the night at the Château. She could only imagine her mother's face if she'd stepped through the door covered head to toe in wet soil and smelly sewer water.
Although John B's staying with the Camerons, the old fishing shack is still there if any of them need a place to stay. This time, JJ and Pope had decided to come back with her, neither wishing to face their fathers.
She spends a further twenty minutes in the shower, washing and scrubbing every inch of her skin. Luckily for her, and much to her surprise, a couple of bottles containing soap and shampoo were left in the corner, providing a much-needed change of fragrance.
Once out of the steaming water, she dries off with a clean towel.
The perk of hanging around this place as often as she does is always having sets of spear clothes for emergencies. Due to this, she'd managed to locate one of her softest, dark blue cotton shorts. She'd also taken it upon herself to lend one of the many college sweaters laying about, telling herself she would give it back — eventually.
Blue meets blue. She glances at her complexion in the mirror, satisfied with the absence of dirt that was once hiding her features. Although pleased with the result, she can't help but linger at the uncovered shades around her eye.
It's beginning to shrivel from a hard black to a slightly softer, greenish color. It doesn't hurt as much anymore either; she undoubtingly feels that it's there, yet it doesn't send waves of sharp pain at every minor eye movement anymore. It's healing.
While entering the living room, she brings her poorly-dried, still-damp hair behind her ears.
"Hey, what do you think about this?" Pope's voice is very calm, exposing the tiredness overtaking his body as well.
