1: Theresa Palmer.
In the dream, you are blind. Colors are everywhere, you just can't see. But you can smell. You smell delicious apple pie, and then a blueberry scone, and sometimes burnt toast, and marshmallow, fresh cookies , bubblegum, gasoline, limes, salt, sour, pungent smells that hurt your nose, and sometimes sugary sweet that makes you want to indulge in that particular object.
In your dream, you are Terezi. You have pointy black hair, pointy horns, pointy triangular red shades (that smell like apples and candy), and carry a pointed walking cane. You wear black mostly, except for red boots, and a turquoise libra symbol on your shirt. You love scalemates, and justice. In fact, it's what you live for!
And when you wake up, your name is Theresa. You are wearing short pajama shorts that show all of your scars, and a tank top, which show even more. Your birthday is October 1st, making you a libra, which you love, because Terezi represents that zodiac. Your sight is 20/20, and the first think you see is your curly red hair all over your face. You brush it away, to see your popcorn ceiling.
You peel your blankets off, and shiver slightly. Breathing heavily in through your nose, you wish you could smell colors, but you just end up smelling...what is that, again? Oh, now it comes to you. Right. You smell NOTHING. Because for some reason, you were born without the ability to smell.
You step out of bed, and head to your bathroom. You rip out just a bit more of your hair. Nope. No tops of beautiful candy corn horns coming through. Your skin doesn't hurt. Are you that dysfunctional? You don't have your horns yet? You're thirteen! They should be coming in! You drop the hair angrily, and stomp over to your dresser, where you keep your razor blades. A few moments later, you hold your wrist ovver the sink, and slice deeply.
Red.
Red red red.
No.
You do NOT approve of this. Not ONE BIT. Your blood is supposed to be teal. Not this color. Not his color. Your friend, Caleb, has this color of blood. Not you. Momentarily, you wonder if he has sprouted signs of horns. But your anger takes over again, and your wrist becomes more open, and there is no red, and your last thought is that there is so much red, and not enough teal.
2: Natalie Leighton
Your name is Natalie Leighton. You're a college student. You act a little young for your age. You love cats. Maybe a bit too much. You buy all the cat merchandise you can find. Who cares if it's expensive? You're getting your kitten needs fufilled, and no one should care. It's your money. Your life.
Your life.
Speaking of that.
You're in the process of fucking it up.
You make sure to clean up though. And you learned to apply your makeup to look like you weren't even doing anything. You hide the bags behind the toilet. You make sure everything is exactly how you left it. You hope.
You now rise to your feet, and pull open your medicine cabinet. Your small fingers wrap around a few eyeliner pencils, brushes, and conceler. That is concealer, right? Who cares anymore.
You apply everything. The hopefully-concealer first. And then the eyeliner. Mascara. More eyeliner.
Eyeliner.
Eyeliner on your cheeks.
Kitty whiskers.
Adorable!
More whiskers.
Scratches. The pencil has dulled.
It pokes at your cheeks.
