𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨; 𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳

werewolves and petrol stations

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Camden never had much in common with her mother. If Camden sat quietly in the corner, unnoticed with her hands folded neatly in her lap and eyes examining the scenes around her, her mother was laughing loudly in the center, voice echoing, with all eyes glued to her movements. If Camden thought something was wrong, her mother thought it was right. If Camden locked her jaw shut and bit down on her words as harshly as she did her tongue, her mother rampaged and screamed and let her voice rattle the foundations of their home.

Sometimes it seemed that her mother was able to get along with everyone she ever met, except her own daughter. Neighbors got sweet greetings and sweet small talk and Camden got disinterested replies and long, judgmental stares.  Her brother got endless praise, and she got spitting criticism. Camden would feel like a stubborn weed amongst a bed of roses, unwanted and disruptive but growing nonetheless.

She always took after her father when it came to her temperament, her preferences, her tastes, and Camden got on with him much better, anyway. While her mother and brother would make their rounds among the town, chatting and gossiping and impressing people with their suspiciously perfect loaves of homemade bread and bunches of bright, green herbs, Camden stayed with her father. He would regale her with tales of what lies beyond the woods of their little town, would talk about how he met her mother, how he found out she was a witch, would recall the stories of his parents, and of their parents as well. Sometimes they would sit in silence, or play card games, or listen to the radio until Lachlan and her mother arrived back home once more, demanding full and rapt attention.

And for her whole life, it seemed that the only thing Camden ever inherited from her mother, was her face.

There has never been a moment Camden has looked in the mirror and not seen her mother. Deep set eyes that are dark like wet soil. Cheeks that almost look hollowed out. A pointed chin, a straight nose, a wide forehead, all coated with faint, sporadic freckles. Straight, flat hair that's darker in the winter, but light like bales of hay in the summer.  A bored, disinterested expression.

It's how she looks all the time, face flat and downturned. It's how her mother looked whenever she wasn't forcing a big, bright smile on her face.

Camden knows that expression on her mother's face so well that she can see herself wearing it now. She can see how her lips sit in a firm, flat line, how her eyes are lazily half-lidded, almost narrowed but not quite committed enough. She knows exactly what she looks like as she stares down that fucker that broke into her house as he paces frantically in front of her now.

"No," Camden says for the sixth time, arms crossed over her chest as she leans against the hood of her car, Bear sat protectively by her side. Dusk is starting to settle. She wants to get out of here.

But the posh boy with his posh accent and that stupid little posh face is standing in front of her, raging, waving his hands about like he's trying to summon up some sort of power of persuasion. He's not very good at it. "I am stranded here because of you!" he cries out, sounding so desperate and frustrated that Camden almost feels bad for him. But it's also sort of funny, to see him with his neck red and eyes desperate. So she doesn't really feel that bad.

Her face remains impassive, her posture firm. "You're stranded here because you broke into my house," she reminds him in an even tone, unsure of how he forgot.

"I'm sorry," he drawls, looking at her with narrowed eyes and not really sounding that sorry. "I don't think it's unreasonable for me to have assumed that no one would still be living there, considering it has burnt to the ground!"