(no subject)

Brittle as a sunbaked straw, polished and politic surface smile showing mazework evidence of strain, she's too cushioned to break, too swaddled to feel the faint chill or notice the curious looks. It's clear all her stressors are internal things; one wonders just how long it's been since that distracted gaze saw anything outside of her. She crosses the street absentmindedly, each step an act of faith; like the sea, the traffic parts for her, and she carries around herself that almost-tangible blanket of isolation. Ask her where she's going, and the response would be a small and infinitely cool lifting of the corners of her mouth. The voice would be devoid of humour, though, and no-one asks the question because the answer's all too clear. She passes out of sight, and people turn away, grateful to be glad again; she's taken the slight pall with her, the day is brighter where she's been, and one can't help but feel a little warmth toward her - a warmth she'll never feel, or need, as those measured steps take her onward. Hellbound.