( Walk in moonlight through the woods, call some witches come. Saunter down a dark alley with a stolen credit card and a bad idea. Call a friend. Evenings are rife'n'riotous with terrible choices, but it's the midday church hours, still. And her eyes burn, and the roll-round of her shoulder's blanched pallor, untarnished. The knife's an afterthought, paperweight in her pocket.

These are the pretty words. And now the truth: hard, unrelenting, she peels away the weapon between thumb and forefinger; looks at it, down. Looks away. There's every corner her gaze might snag on, and then there's this thing in hand, at once private insurance and blunt disconnect. Huh. Still here.

The grass is too green, artificially curated, slithering with the breeze. Her toes curl in and out, and stretches at long last, cat-light and lanky, blade still extending her palm. )

Weeeeeeeeell... ( Shit... ) It's a bad neighbourhood, isn't it?

( Between the mansion, the pride, the privilege and the extortionately heritage accessories. Can't trust this crowd. )