(Untitled)

[q_in_training]

"Hello?"

"Cindy? It's Mom. I'm afraid I've got some bad news, honey."

It could have been worse. Her great-aunt was old, pretty much never seen outside of occasional birthday and Christmas cards, and -- the small, uncharitable spike from junior year that still needles her in the side every so often -- it's not like she was Mac's real great-aunt

Comments

[neptune_npcs]

Cue the Greek chorus.

Or maybe it's a simple fade-in. Maybe it's not. It's the rare person who can remember how it all starts, in dreams; mostly everything seems in medias res.

The res in question: a corsage, of the wrist persuasion, on a table. It's a little wilted around the edges.

[q_in_training]

Mac leans against the edge of the table, the corner of it digging into her hip. A long-sleeved shirt, a skirt -- it's not really a dress, what she's wearing, but she calls it that anyway.

Her Converse shoes squeak.

Frowning, she pushes herself an inch higher so she can sit on the table, reaching for the corsage.

[neptune_npcs]

It rots as soon as she touches it.

Somebody's humming.

[q_in_training]

It's like she can't pull her hand away fast enough, but she does anyway, gasping and pushing herself back to standing.

One step backward. Two.

(Squeak, squeak. It's the loudest thing in the room, until -- )

She freezes when she hears it; and, after precisely three and three-quarters seconds, turns to where she thinks it's coming from.