#;wthread

     “No -- “ she fakes a half-smile and sighs, before adjusting her glasses. “No that’s not how it works.” Windsor addresses, glancing down at her hands covered in a pair of classy half-leather gloves. “I can’t just...I’m not psychic -- at least that’s not what I call it. Sometimes I just know things but it mostly occurs when there’s skin to skin contact or I touch something directly... sometimes I see things that I don’t want to see.” she finishes with a shrug, and a sip of water. “Any other questions?” 

   The motel had been full of buzz -- Summer, of course. The bar is full of adventurers from around the world, those who seek a new experience -- she’s met Australians, Brits, plenty of people from Europe and surrounding countries, all whom venture to the seemingly quaint waterside of Portland, Oregon. It’s always been odd to her, of all the places they could venture to, they choose Bridgetown, USA.       However extended the crowd, Windsor could see a striking figure across the way, bright eyes settling across the way as he makes his way to the front. Jakob goes straight to work, explaining the rules of vacancy, takes payment and hands over the key to the new stranger. Seemingly captivated, Windsor strides over and places a guitar pick from her gloved hand, beside Jakob’s fist. “It’s almost time for mic check.” Windy explains. Jakob nods, gives a gentle thank you and makes his exit, leaving Winsdor to more or less survey and examine the newcomer. 

     Windsor had been alerted to a bunch of random bits of noise coming from the stage, after they’d already conducted the sound check. Rather than her boss double check on things, of course she’d put it upon herself to see what all the commotion was about. She awaited a long while, whilst Matt went about his random act. He was almost adorable. If it didn’t annoy her that he’d messed with the settings after she’d so diligently gotten them to her perfect specifications. She glances over at one of the monitors and tilts her head playfully, before with a gentle whisk of her heeled boot, she uncoils and unplugs one of the speakers, nullifying the system with an annoying buzz that was sure to catch his attention. “What -- you think this is some kind of playground?” she scolds like a mother. 

         “No no no-- stop it! Stop! Don’t you pretend for a single second that you have any inking to what it’s like in my head! You have no idea -- the---the things that I’ve seen and can’t unsee -- you have NO idea! It--it --it goes beyond me! I know and I see things that aren’t mine... and I don’t -- know how to make it stop, I don’t know how to help!” 

     As much as Windy wanted to remember how she’d gotten there -- she didn’t. This is a byproduct of what happens when she forgets to wear her damn gloves, her senses become overwhelming, memories that aren’t hers become all she can see and feel... there’s history here... an evil. Bright blue irises with flecks of gold settle upon the wall in front of her, partly teary. Extended fingertips slip from the rough surface and land at her side. She takes a step backward, and another...then another, before she gasps shrilly, bumping into something - or -- someone, rather.            “What the fuck--!” she starts, quick to sharply jerk away, prepared for anything at this point, even to attack if need be.

     She hadn’t meant to fall asleep near her pillar of chosen novels, but there she was, like a little girl secured in her dream fort. Slowly she flutters her long lashes and takes a deep breath, sitting up, popping her neck and adjusting in her seat. It’s sad, she feels safer here, among fictional and historical friends than she does at home -- the midst of her own father... The only reason he’d found solace in such a small town was because of his temper. His wrong-doing may be minimal here, one can hope. Still, she’d rather bury herself in another book. Another life. 

     She is far from a team player, nor a people person in general. Gloved hands remain slightly entangled as she surveys the menu in front of her. She bites at her bottom lip, legs fidgeting -- she’s beyond anxious and can’t seem to get her mind to concentrate or focus. ‘Focus, Windy...Focus!’ she commands herself mentally. But, not even the gloves are protecting her from whatever EVIL plagues this place. Bright gaze suddenly darts about and Windsor does her very best to keep the voices from overcrowding her head, but it’s POUNDING. She feels a nasty migraine coming along.       Rather than remain in her seat and allow it to flow through her, she can’t take it any longer -- with a jolt she arises and darts for the doorway barreling her way onto the street with a gasp and a slight sigh of relief...  what. the ... fuck??