Her inquisitive eyes sought out the half hidden moon, oh-so shy to human eyes, content to duck behind washed out gray clouds. Her gaze did not leave it until clouds slowly covered it like a security blanket for a insecure child, finding interest in the city lights blocking out the stars, the pollution mucking up her clear view of the sky.
She sighs. Such annoying things. Such frivolous things. Yet, they cloud my mind like a depressing rain, she thinks lazily, carding her hand through her messy, disheveled, boyishly short hair, messing it up even further. She swings her messenger bag absentmindedly, content to just lob it into the distance and retrieve it, only to have something to do.
Besides, it's full of math homework. It's not important.
Eyeing her bag contemplatively, she rears her arm back ready to throw it when a shrill shriek pierces the sky and makes her stumble.
Straightening quickly, her body twists to the direction of the scream and though every instinct in her body is screaming for her to turn around and run home, she's too bored to do that and runs in the direction of the scream instead. She hates boredom with a passion.
The ground meets her feet with familiarity, the slapping of each step a beautiful rhythm in which she composed without a care. A look of utter interest covers her face as she practically flounces around corner after corner, her interest borderlining maniacal as the screams get louder and her objective gets closer and with it, her dread and apprehension.
It's not like she enjoys seeing people in pain, (well much) she just need a proper boredom lifter, watching a murder would do that wouldn't it.
Her instincts are screaming bloody mary the Symphony deux to her irritation and she found it harder to actually continue walk with her entire being against her current actions. If she was a philosophical girl, she'd say her soul is screaming in fear and horror. It disturbs her as her body had never had such a terrifying reaction to anyone or anything, which gives her pause.
Why did she think anything, surely an animal couldn't be causing such bone-chilling fear, all of it not hers.
Non-human...
The word flashes through her mind with the finesse of a jackhammer and she skids to a stop, blinking worriedly. Can't that woman do that without causing her a headache? Seriously, what is wrong with her?
Raising her left foot to take another step, her heart frenzies in her chest and she hesitates. Steeling herself she finds herself experiencing a strange sense of vertigo, before the world shuttered and her foot hit the floor, just not in the direction she wanted. Her feet began traveling back home and she would have screamed in frustration had her mouth functioned properly. Thrown in the back seat of her own body, she grits her teeth and glares angrily.
Most people would call her schizophrenic, but she knew better. That damn woman that is controlling her body was her. The past her. The woman explained that much to her before clamming up tighter than an oyster on pearl day. And for some reason, she didn't want to see the murder happen in person, which she usually does just to alleviate her boredom, which peaked her interest.
If it frayed the nerves of her motherhen, the urge to poke and prod came upon her. A slow grin crawls over her face promising nothing but hell, her anger leaking out of her quickly in favor of curiosity.
Her anger is as good as gone, but now she's extremely curious and if her past self refused to answer her questions, she'd just have to find answers herself. Even if it's talking to a murderer.
Gaining control once her body entered the homely haven that is her home, she flops onto a soothing dark green, cushioned armchair, laying across it lazily. Eyes glinting, she took in the glittering flames of the rather old-fashioned fireplace, pleased with the still burning flames, she had believed they extinguished over her time gone, pleasantly surprised they live. The soft cream walls accent the royal blue carpet, giving off an overall soothing effect, her living room sparsely decorated with deep green and blue furniture, pictures displayed above fireplace of random things she snapped a pic of.
Relaxing, she stretches her arms out, mewling cattishly as her back cracks, turning into a sound of relief.
Her past self mutters to herself and she grins mischievously, rolling on her stomach. Neh neh, older version of me. Why didn't you want me to witness this murder?
No reason. I believe it is time for you to outgrow this strange habit. She cocks her head, if that ain't a diversion then she doesn't know what is.
Really? Why now? Did something happen that made you feel this way? She peruses, glittering eyes staring at the ceiling as she twirled a strand of her hair idly. It would have been more beneficial attempting to remove this habit of mine when I was younger. It would have worked easier if you ask me.
I chose now, it doesn't matter why! Her past self snaps irately, bemusing her.
Of course it matters. I want answers which you are perfectly delegated to give. After all, we wouldn't want a repeat of tonight's performance, correct?
Her past self falls silent, disbelief almost tangible. Are you blackmailing me!?
She scratches her cheek right under her eye, humming sweetly, too sweet. Of course I am. Ten years has past since I realized you've began to withhold info from me. Essential info linking towards a few of my inexplicable behavioral patterns and phobias. I'm afraid of cages for godsake, birdcages! Who's afraid of birdcages!?
I am under no such delegation! There is nothing to explain!
Humming even louder because she knew her past self hated when she did (apparently it echoes in her head), she goes over her admission, dissecting it. Hm, denial, desperation, anger, and a mix of fear, all in one.
You know the advantages of having the voice of your past self in head is that you come to understand them on a wholy different level. She muses, you are very troubled.
Naive girl, you do not understand what horror is to befall us if you continue along these dangerous lines of thought. Your ignorance keeps you impervious to Him. Her past self stresses and she blinks in confusion.
Did you take that from Percy Jackson? I swear I read something along the lines about his ignorance keeping the monsters from finding him. She snorts, kicking the air. Her past self doesn't reply and she huffs, oh well. She'll just have to try again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that until she gets her answers.
Rising, she swings herself upright, stomping her feet down with more force than needed. Pouting and getting off the chair, slowly walking down the hallway of her two-room apartment. She opens the door to her room, eyes lazily roaming over the length of her near barren room, the floor buried under pillows and the window shut tightly. She waddles through her pillow floor with grace of a teen who has done it before, kicking up flurries of slate gray pillows of varying shapes and sizes, heading to the bathroom.
Her bathroom is small, comfortable and to her liking. Black tiling for the floor, a muted green for the walls, and purple bathing supplies. Stripping herself while walking and tossing the clothes into a purple clothes basket, she turns on the water allowing the hot to flow and steps in. It beats down on her chilled skin with a fevor, which is welcomed to her shaken frame.
Having her body's movement ripped away from her so suddenly stresses her out, physically and mentally. It jerks her around like a rocket fighting a magnetic field. A headache throbs into existence as her muscles quiver and a groan escapes her lips. Legs giving out, she massages her temples wondering how to prevent herself from being controlled.
"Damn."
I wonder if other teenage girls have to go through this?
