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โ๏ผจ๏ผก๏ผฒ๏ผฌ๏ผฏ๏ผด๏ผด๏ผฅ แช๏ผก๏ผถ๏ผฅ๏ผฎ๏ผฐ๏ผฏ๏ผฒ๏ผด
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ
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๏ผด๏ผฉ๏ผญ๏ผฅ ๏ผด๏ผฏ ๏ผณ๏ผก๏ผน ๏ผง๏ผฏ๏ผฏ๏ผค๏ผข๏ผน๏ผฅ
โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ
They spent most of the morning, or what Charlotte assumed was of the morning hour as time was meaningless here, tangled up in one another. It was lazy and amative, just studying the feel of the others skin on their own. She swore she could hear the monster in him grow silent as he'd rest his head in the crook of her neck. She was falling so hard and she didn't know what to do with her hands. Did she use them to brace herself? Leave them red and cut and itching afterwards. Did she wrap them around their throats? Choke the life out of this so she didn't have to decide. Did she hold them over his heart? Feel the way it beat in unison with hers. She couldn't make up her mind. She was terrified because she was so profoundly happy. Happiness like this was frightening. The universe only let you be that happy if it was preparing to take something from you...
At last she had found someone to whom she felt she could pour out her soul, but she couldn't make herself take that first step โthose words were so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside her so long. They clawed from her throat. Sharp corners and curves, bloody and raw; but they never quite made it past her lips. Crashed into one another, consumed. Charlotte remained silent. She and Daryl eventually had to force themselves to get dressed, the day slipping away from them both, but Charlotte made sure to sneak glimpses of his figure when his back was turned so she could commit that olive skin to memory. There was an odd finality to breaking their little sleepy spell that she couldn't explain, she couldn't know this might be the first and last time they were ever able to be truly intimate, but the encounter had the feeling of rolling thunder โ the precursor to a storm.
Not a few moments later, after the bed had been made made and the room tidied, there was an ominous knock on the other side of Daryl's door. She wanted to shout, Go away! Leave us in peace! but once more she remained quiet. This decision decided to bite her squarely on the ass. It was Lauren, and she was a harbinger of the inimical. Charlotte attempted to stand-metaphorically of course as they were actually sitting on the sofa- resolute at Daryl's side, giving a unified front, but as soon as Lauren produced that folded paper, her shoulders caved in; stealing the air from her lungs. Her sermon fell on deaf ears after that and a type of tunnel vision stole Charlotte's sight, the bolded print burned in her minds eye all she was able to see. Her father...had given up. Thought her dead. He had to be in agony.
She looked up at Daryl with wide, brown doe eyes brimming with tears. She was a model for diplomatic cool under pressure, but just now the best she could manage was to keep from all out sobbing. Her soul felt like it was being ripped in half. If she left, was permitted to leave, she would never return. This much she was sure of. They'd cry Stockholm syndrome and lock her away if she even attempted rallying for her captors. Never mind that Daryl would be literally risking his very life if he tried to come to her, to see her topside. Any scenario where she went home meant her and Daryl being apart. But then, could she really let her father bury the memory of his daughter? The only person he had left in this world. Could she allow her name to be used as a spearhead against the werewolves, a battle cry, a call to arms against a species over the imagined blood that had been shed? She was beginning to wonder if her Beauty and the Beast parable wasn't something more akin to Romeo and Juliet in it's tragedy. She locked down her emotions, rising out of her seat and wordlessly going over to her purse on the dresser. She paused, fingers fondly sliding over the book inside before she unsheathed it and laid it gently on her pillow as she slung the bag over her shoulder. "If it's my decision, then I'm leaving." She breathed coldly. "I won't be responsible for your death or my father's grief." She finished without explanation.
At last she had found someone to whom she felt she could pour out her soul, but she couldn't make herself take that first step โthose words were so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside her so long. They clawed from her throat. Sharp corners and curves, bloody and raw; but they never quite made it past her lips. Crashed into one another, consumed. Charlotte remained silent. She and Daryl eventually had to force themselves to get dressed, the day slipping away from them both, but Charlotte made sure to sneak glimpses of his figure when his back was turned so she could commit that olive skin to memory. There was an odd finality to breaking their little sleepy spell that she couldn't explain, she couldn't know this might be the first and last time they were ever able to be truly intimate, but the encounter had the feeling of rolling thunder โ the precursor to a storm.
Not a few moments later, after the bed had been made made and the room tidied, there was an ominous knock on the other side of Daryl's door. She wanted to shout, Go away! Leave us in peace! but once more she remained quiet. This decision decided to bite her squarely on the ass. It was Lauren, and she was a harbinger of the inimical. Charlotte attempted to stand-metaphorically of course as they were actually sitting on the sofa- resolute at Daryl's side, giving a unified front, but as soon as Lauren produced that folded paper, her shoulders caved in; stealing the air from her lungs. Her sermon fell on deaf ears after that and a type of tunnel vision stole Charlotte's sight, the bolded print burned in her minds eye all she was able to see. Her father...had given up. Thought her dead. He had to be in agony.
She looked up at Daryl with wide, brown doe eyes brimming with tears. She was a model for diplomatic cool under pressure, but just now the best she could manage was to keep from all out sobbing. Her soul felt like it was being ripped in half. If she left, was permitted to leave, she would never return. This much she was sure of. They'd cry Stockholm syndrome and lock her away if she even attempted rallying for her captors. Never mind that Daryl would be literally risking his very life if he tried to come to her, to see her topside. Any scenario where she went home meant her and Daryl being apart. But then, could she really let her father bury the memory of his daughter? The only person he had left in this world. Could she allow her name to be used as a spearhead against the werewolves, a battle cry, a call to arms against a species over the imagined blood that had been shed? She was beginning to wonder if her Beauty and the Beast parable wasn't something more akin to Romeo and Juliet in it's tragedy. She locked down her emotions, rising out of her seat and wordlessly going over to her purse on the dresser. She paused, fingers fondly sliding over the book inside before she unsheathed it and laid it gently on her pillow as she slung the bag over her shoulder. "If it's my decision, then I'm leaving." She breathed coldly. "I won't be responsible for your death or my father's grief." She finished without explanation.