Post by Ophelia LaFitte on Jan 7, 2018 6:31:00 GMT
Thunder cracked outside the small shop, electricity thrumming in the air as the rain washed out the grey snow that smothered the paved walkways throughout the District. If it didn't let up before the sun dropped behind the forest, the streets would be ice by morning. Winter is Twelve was frigid and deadly. Too many mornings would a civilian wake up to find their partner, their children frozen to the touch. Many evaded the District, leaving it barren and unpopulated for the most part, but the few who couldn't afford the train ticket out of town, the mortgage of a fancy home in Four, the cost of bunking in Thirteen? They suffered. They froze. They fought to see another gloomy day, soot hanging in the air—clinging to their flesh and hidden under their nails. They led lives filled with desperation and determination. As their loved ones dropped under the weight of bombs or the bite of the cold, they prevailed. They had to. The Mayor was making no move to improve the poorest District and most of the civilians couldn't begin to comprehend how to surpass the hurdles in their way.
Tonight, if the rain didn't abate, the obituary would be printed with fresh names. Tonight, people would die because they chose food over warmth—clean water over a heater.
Goosebumps lined her arms like soldiers at the thought, her eyes cast down because she couldn't look out the shop window into the rain. She feared whose faces she would see within the sheets of white, whose cries would echo in the claps of thunder.
"Not too crazy," Ophelia hummed back once she found her voice, gaze snapping up to meet his as he fell into the seat so many had filled before him. Never had she thought the son of the Mayor would enter her shop, but given the circumstances, she wasn't surprised. His mother had passed, his father had a new wife, and he seems to never catch a break—the limelight was brightly cast upon him. It was difficult to not keep up with the politics of Twelve when it was the only thing spoken about. War. The Mayor. The Capitol. Thirteen. It was lighter to speak on those subjects than their dwindling food sources and lack of cleanliness. "You couldn't imagine the kinds of things people assume of me," she teased, tone contradicting the dark path her thoughts had taken, "I see things, but I'm no magician." Her voice was soft, calm in hope that it would slow his anxious heartbeat. She could nearly hear it from where she sat. He was riddled with tension, clearly at unease with being here.
Her shop was neat. Not a thing out of place, nothing to clutter her thinking space. Candles decorated the shelves along the wall, dim as they reached the ends of their wicks. A lone lamp lit the place up otherwise, casting the room in a soft orange glow as the sunlight disappeared behind clouds. The shadows influenced the mood in the room—influenced her thoughts. She feared this session would take a toll on her, a looming feeling of darkness lingering in the corners of her mind.
She knew better than to shake the feeling, but the man was only just beginning to relax that she forced herself to show none of the thoughts plaguing her mind upon her face. Scaring him away before she could even help him wasn't the plan. He needed to cleanse his soul and she was the only one with the means to do so. Ophelia let out a soft laugh at his joke, but she couldn't imagine being in his shoes. Her lifestyle demanded moments alone. The voices in her head got so loud sometimes, she couldn't handle not being allowed to escape them. Luckily, she would never be in his place. She much preferred her life alone and in her own space, she couldn't dream of trading with him.
Ophelia was caught off guard when his hand dwarfed hers, a gasp falling from her lips as electricity danced up her arm. It wasn't uncommon for another's touch to spark something within her, but as his hand lingered in hers, she saw—she saw his life. Highlights, quick and without explanation. A boy in a bed, thunder ringing and static of lightening dancing off his skin, tucked under a woman's arm as his pulse calmed. The fear was cloying, it was drowning her—but anger clutched her wrist and pulled her from the pool of tears. She could feel the rage in his bones as moans echoed in her ears. Her vision was blurred as the sound deafened her. Names. Ones she'd never spoken, but heard countlessly over the past week. The Mayor and his new bride, their names purred as his fists clenched. Infidelity? The disgust pulsing through him confirmed so. Then, quick and rough, sadness consumed her. A woman laid in a bed, frail and grasping onto her last threads of life. His mother. She'd seen her in town, on stages—on her husband's arm before she fell ill. The pure desperation of the memory had her pulling her hand swiftly from his, needing to break the connection before his mind ate hers whole.
Her lashes batted tears from her eyes, the emerald shining bright as she studied his face. For someone who lived in a glass house, his home was riddled with secrets.
"I'm sorry," she stuttered, gaze dropping because she couldn't look him in the eye after learning things so private. She hated to invade him so, but she couldn't help it. She had no choice. "Sometimes touch sets things off within me." Shaking her head and clearing her throat, she looked up in time to catch a hint of his smile, but his blush couldn't be spotted in the dim light. She could only hope the moment hadn't spooked him.
Her eyes widened as he began to speak again, his reasons for coming to her shop finally clear. Ophelia could remember the day they announced her death, that Negan had been out with his father all day. She could only imagine what it would have been like to walk into his mansion only to learn that his mother was gone. At least she'd gotten the chance to say goodbye to her mother—she didn't like to think of the last images of her father her mind had captured. Tentatively, she reached out once more and covered his hand with hers. There was a crackle of static, but she wasn't immobilized with flashes of his life again. "I can help you," she started, eyes seeking out his because she needed him to understand that she spoke the truth, "I can find her and I can give her the message, but it has a price." She'd already done it once today, doing it again so soon could have her in bed all day tomorrow with a splitting headache, but he was desperate—and it was her job to help him.
Tonight, if the rain didn't abate, the obituary would be printed with fresh names. Tonight, people would die because they chose food over warmth—clean water over a heater.
Goosebumps lined her arms like soldiers at the thought, her eyes cast down because she couldn't look out the shop window into the rain. She feared whose faces she would see within the sheets of white, whose cries would echo in the claps of thunder.
"Not too crazy," Ophelia hummed back once she found her voice, gaze snapping up to meet his as he fell into the seat so many had filled before him. Never had she thought the son of the Mayor would enter her shop, but given the circumstances, she wasn't surprised. His mother had passed, his father had a new wife, and he seems to never catch a break—the limelight was brightly cast upon him. It was difficult to not keep up with the politics of Twelve when it was the only thing spoken about. War. The Mayor. The Capitol. Thirteen. It was lighter to speak on those subjects than their dwindling food sources and lack of cleanliness. "You couldn't imagine the kinds of things people assume of me," she teased, tone contradicting the dark path her thoughts had taken, "I see things, but I'm no magician." Her voice was soft, calm in hope that it would slow his anxious heartbeat. She could nearly hear it from where she sat. He was riddled with tension, clearly at unease with being here.
Her shop was neat. Not a thing out of place, nothing to clutter her thinking space. Candles decorated the shelves along the wall, dim as they reached the ends of their wicks. A lone lamp lit the place up otherwise, casting the room in a soft orange glow as the sunlight disappeared behind clouds. The shadows influenced the mood in the room—influenced her thoughts. She feared this session would take a toll on her, a looming feeling of darkness lingering in the corners of her mind.
She knew better than to shake the feeling, but the man was only just beginning to relax that she forced herself to show none of the thoughts plaguing her mind upon her face. Scaring him away before she could even help him wasn't the plan. He needed to cleanse his soul and she was the only one with the means to do so. Ophelia let out a soft laugh at his joke, but she couldn't imagine being in his shoes. Her lifestyle demanded moments alone. The voices in her head got so loud sometimes, she couldn't handle not being allowed to escape them. Luckily, she would never be in his place. She much preferred her life alone and in her own space, she couldn't dream of trading with him.
Ophelia was caught off guard when his hand dwarfed hers, a gasp falling from her lips as electricity danced up her arm. It wasn't uncommon for another's touch to spark something within her, but as his hand lingered in hers, she saw—she saw his life. Highlights, quick and without explanation. A boy in a bed, thunder ringing and static of lightening dancing off his skin, tucked under a woman's arm as his pulse calmed. The fear was cloying, it was drowning her—but anger clutched her wrist and pulled her from the pool of tears. She could feel the rage in his bones as moans echoed in her ears. Her vision was blurred as the sound deafened her. Names. Ones she'd never spoken, but heard countlessly over the past week. The Mayor and his new bride, their names purred as his fists clenched. Infidelity? The disgust pulsing through him confirmed so. Then, quick and rough, sadness consumed her. A woman laid in a bed, frail and grasping onto her last threads of life. His mother. She'd seen her in town, on stages—on her husband's arm before she fell ill. The pure desperation of the memory had her pulling her hand swiftly from his, needing to break the connection before his mind ate hers whole.
Her lashes batted tears from her eyes, the emerald shining bright as she studied his face. For someone who lived in a glass house, his home was riddled with secrets.
"I'm sorry," she stuttered, gaze dropping because she couldn't look him in the eye after learning things so private. She hated to invade him so, but she couldn't help it. She had no choice. "Sometimes touch sets things off within me." Shaking her head and clearing her throat, she looked up in time to catch a hint of his smile, but his blush couldn't be spotted in the dim light. She could only hope the moment hadn't spooked him.
Her eyes widened as he began to speak again, his reasons for coming to her shop finally clear. Ophelia could remember the day they announced her death, that Negan had been out with his father all day. She could only imagine what it would have been like to walk into his mansion only to learn that his mother was gone. At least she'd gotten the chance to say goodbye to her mother—she didn't like to think of the last images of her father her mind had captured. Tentatively, she reached out once more and covered his hand with hers. There was a crackle of static, but she wasn't immobilized with flashes of his life again. "I can help you," she started, eyes seeking out his because she needed him to understand that she spoke the truth, "I can find her and I can give her the message, but it has a price." She'd already done it once today, doing it again so soon could have her in bed all day tomorrow with a splitting headache, but he was desperate—and it was her job to help him.