𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Out Of Body

5 months ago

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Why can't you see what I say with my eyes

It's for you that they open, close, and cry

I exist for you, every breath, every sigh

And will continue to till the end of time

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This isn't part of my job.

It was far too late for her to be out on the streets alone. Frankly, it was far too late for her to be awake. She was sure that time had already progressed to the next day, that it was well into the morning. But, too occupied to check a pocket watch or rather, find one, she treaded along the glistening cobble pathways weaving through the town, her form shrouded in a deep green full length hood.

Florence was fully aware that she wasn't where she should be, hence the excessive covering up. She knew a young girl like her had no business being on the streets at this time of night, and it made her feel unsafe. Looking for anything remotely dangerous around each and every corner, and speeding up slightly when she heard footsteps behind her. Perhaps it was paranoia but, better safe than sorry.

She would have been far more terrified if she didn't know where she was going, but fortunately, she did. She knew exactly where she was headed. Exactly where he is.

The boy had disappeared. Having vanished around noon, her day had managed to remain peaceful, probably as a direct result of his absence. His family could care less, opting to send some of the staff to seek him out. As expected, they all returned empty handed. It was only at this point that Florence, begrudgingly, took it upon herself to return the young master to his home.

She wasn't happy about it. My god, was she frustrated, annoyed, anything else that would cause steam to spray from one's ears. It simply wasn't her job. She wasn't responsible for him, required to watch him, making sure he remains out of harms way.

However, as his friend, that duty did fall to her. Why does he have to be so troublesome. That little son of a bitch does nothing all day and then decides to go have a drink, forcing ME to drag him back home.

After having turned 18, Tewkesbury had changed. His attitude towards Florence was colder, and he himself, more distant. He no longer waited for her in the treehouse, leading to quite a few disappointing nights on her part. No more stolen glances in the halls or sly remarks to make her laugh. No more late nights talks about whatever came to mind. He was ignoring her, she could tell, and it made her feel like shit.

Yet, this wasn't the first time he'd disappeared. Just the first time that anyone but her had noticed. She'd watch from her window as he stumbled through the main gate at some ungodly hour, disheveled and drowsy, probably reeking of cheap ale and sweat. That's how she knew where to find him, where'd he would have run off to on a Friday night without a word to anyone, not even her.

And so approaching the glowing entryway of the rowdy street pub, she had no doubts that he was in there, somewhere.

Everything about it was on some level, questionable. The way the smell of strong alcohol punched you in the face as you walked in, only to be further insulted by the door, which somehow managed to hit your backside every time, without fail. The jovial cheers of inebriated men as they pranced around the low room, or slammed their fists against the damp wood of the tables.

The lights were low, just bright enough to make out faces and forms. The women were scantily clad in tight, lacy corsets with nothing overtop and scarily short skirts which hung dangerously low on their exposed hips, much to the pleasure of every male eye.