We're No Heroes

Chapter Two - Vines

Tully was lonely in his house, yes, but it was his. He could walk around naked if he wanted to (though he wouldn't dream of it) and burn furniture just because it was there and he could. It was crushingly lonely and quiet at times, but at least he could do what he wanted. He doubted that Charlie would care about anything he did, though. She was surprisingly apathetic. He could walk up to her absolutely doused in blood, and she would probably greet him with a "'Sup?" and ask if he needed any help getting rid of the body. still. i want my house back.

Her appearance improved immensely during her stay. No longer sleeping in trees and empty streets, the twigs had vanished from her hair and her usual outfit bore jeans, a sweatshirt, a tie, and dark sneakers that she had stolen from some department store. Her mess of necklaces still remained tangled around her neck. She regularly made trips to various supermarkets and bulk goods stores for food and supplies. Charlie was sarcastic, kind, homicidal, and absolutely was going to be the reason he would become an alcoholic.

this dick is going to stay for two more days and then i'm throwing her out, he thought crossly, as Charlie appeared in the kitchen with bags full of canned food and bottled water.

Two days, he promised himself every morning for three months. Two days and she'll leave.

Charlie was reclining on a molding sofa when she felt it. She was stretched out like a cat in the sun; her leg was hanging off the edge, her arm draped lazily over her eyes and the other flung over the armrest. She was just beginning to drift to sleep, plans of visiting the library and its kindly inhabitants forming in her mind... when a sharp pinch jerked her awake.

I find it difficult to explain to you, dearest reader, just what she felt. To her, the vines that followed her were like arms or legs; they responded to her thoughts just as quickly, she felt pain as they were injured, so it was only natural for her to consider them limbs. She might've felt a twinge in her middle, as one would when they're so very upset that they feel physically unwell. Or perhaps she felt it in her brain, like a dull ache.  A burning sensation in her right hand. A cramp in her left. I, as she also, cannot tell you exactly where, only that she did feel it.

She did not move at first; indeed, she was far too comfortable to care if it had only happened once. Her arm hadn't even moved from her eyes before she decided a vine had torn itself on a nail that happened to jut out a little extra somewhere, and she resumed her thoughts on Jane Eyre peacefully.

burnt oatmeal is disgusting. how does someone even burn oatmeal? just bake it like bread? who would put oatmeal in the oven though it doesn't make any-- MOTHERFUCKING HELL I'M GOING TO BEAT THEM TO DEATH WITH THIRTEEN BABY ARMS WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THE VINES

Her face now drawn into a glare, both by the slight pain and the inconvenience of moving, she threw herself off the couch and silently stepped out of the room and down the hall.

She took a bright green headband and gathered her mop of frizzy hair in it to keep it away from her ears. She shut her eyes tightly and did a quick mental search of everywhere in the house that could be broken in from versus everywhere the vines blocked. Another prick, as if she had stepped on the sharp crushed dreams of a recently graduated high-school student, and she sucked a breath through her teeth.

Something made her swivel her head to face the door.

Charlie padded down the hall to the balcony that traced the floor above the main hall that providing ample space for any person or persons to stare disdainfully, upturned nose and all, down at someone at the door when they weren't looking. She pulled back the curtains and basked in the warm sunlight for a moment, before peering through the window.