Jan. 20th, 2007

It's getting

(oH iS iT GeTtInG KiTtEn ToLd YoU So)

worse.

All of it. The things she's heard, best she can.

She doesn't mean herself. (She doesn't mean just herself; she's getting worse, and she knows it.

The walls are still walls.

She can't phase.

It's been too many days since that wasn't true.)

Everything outside, and it's--

She doesn't know what will happen. Something will.

She can't risk betting what anymore.

There's a letter. She wrote it carefully, and thinks it's not what she'd write if she were--if she were better than she is (it's not crazy, but it's not, if she's honest, as in control as she used to be; there's bloodstains on the wall that no one tries to get off) but it's what she writes anyway.

And seals, carefully, and then, to the air, "Uncle?"

He's there, bleached and white and it makes her smile.

A little, anyway.

It's harder than it used to be, and she thinks for a minute she sees something unpleasant in his eyes.

It's not directed at her.

"I need a favor."

resume

Kate Pryde | Shadowcat

July 2016

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