let me pick your brain, girl.
and tell me how they got that pretty little face on that pretty little frame.
and tell me how they got that pretty little face on that pretty little frame.
Her mother was going to kill her.
He had been told to stay put. They had crossed the border and she had been told clear as day… to stay put. There was a dangerous voice deep inside her that didn’t listen. She never listened to a thing her mother had to say. She knew it was wrong… She knew she had to listen.
She just never did.
Her mother was just so different. She never understood, never took the time to try and see things from her child’s perspective. The scent of ice that had been around the trees when she had been growing up. It was almost a frost that came through, the little girl with a demon in her eye had known that somewhere out there, there was someone she had to meet. She had heard the brustling that night… and hushed voices. She had almost come out to say hello. To be nosey. Instead, she had gone the opposite way.
To where the trees got thicker. More…everything. And Reagan had spent the remainder of that night searching up and down for her little dip-dyed smoke baby, giving her the lecture of a lifetime after she finally found her safe, having dug a hole to smoke out some foxes who were hiding in their holes.
Mother always did call Ceara her problem child.
That was probably what Ceara meant. (It doesn’t matter that that is not what it means. To Ceara, her own meaning was enough.)
And so, Reagans child endeavored to be the problem child that the Grey Lady always said she was. But this time she’d really done it. They’d finally gone somewhere new… after months of begging and pleading, and she’d up and gotten lost. Somewhere that was covered in smoke. Like her. The sense of belonging was heady, and though she did not know what any of it meant, she unequivocally knew that she was lost.
Her mother was going to kill her.
RIP Ceara, we barely knew ye.
ceara
offspring x reagan, smoke healing & fire negation