#colekent

I’m gong to find Cole, yeah? The words were still fresh in the front of her mind, a side effect of the treat from down below still pawing and pressing at her head. She didn’t quite want to leave Silas there, didn’t feel right just disappearing on him but the expression on Dom’s face after the whole ordeal said that it was better he be there than she. Some part of her heart ached to see Lasky just punch it out of there, to leave Dom surrounded in glass shards and something else shattered, but Ren was far too aware that their host wasn’t even visible in his own house. Upstairs, maybe, but Ren didn’t know where that was, and over the glass she tread so softly as to not disturb Dom and her reverie. If she was not careful she would get lost in the Kent McMansion, and once she passed the places she deemed as familiar (the table of her proffered goods, out of the kitchen, for example) she only strayed in the unknown for a moment before even that overwhelmed her.

Ren was unsure what lead her outside. Maybe it was the comparisons between them -- if everything went strange at a houseparty for her she would escape out there too. Maybe it was the desire for nicotine, a break from the unusual inside of the house, a desire for fresh air. She traced after Lasky, well after, to the front door and once she made it out she dug around her things for her smokes, her lighter. With the first hard drag after all of the motions she stilled by the door, scanning the property.

To be honest

Psst: Three things I’ve always wanted to tell you.

A+ trouble maker. Probably favorite partner in crime of those I’ve met in Heffes.

High appreciation of the use of sarcasm. Most people are just bitchy with it.

I think the aforementioned two sums it up. We keep our relationship pretty curt.

Pasttime: Three hobbies I have.

Spoiling my cat.

Sleeping all day.

Things were always a little weird between the group of them, a shifting dynamic with them.  They weren't supposed to work and—depending on your opinion—that's why they worked so well, or badly.  Nights between the five of them turned sour, even if there wasn't tree branches going up in flames.  Truth be told, they would be better as just neighbors, stuck in the hierarchy Westwood cared about more than anything.  But they weren't, and Samson wasn't going to complain about it.  He fit in with them more than he did with anyone else on the west coast, his father included.  Things were always off between them because they kept true to whatever impulses they held, long before a trip to the cemetery.  And the beauty of it, was that each of them could forget whatever they heard.

Halfway to drunk, Samson remembered the night in the cemetery more clearly than the service Sunday morning, a sermon he hadn't paid attention to.  His fingers tangled in his lap, a sleepy haze still in his mind.  The feeling stayed for most of Sunday, hadn't completely left him yet.  There were secrets shared, and Samson didn't even have to tell his.  Things got quiet, weird, after Cole's and it was too hard to forget right away.  He didn't know anyone with wrists like that—a conjured image of his hands falling off backwards whenever he thought about it.  He'd been around the house once, twice, thinking about it in the corner of his mind.  Samson didn't get it—simply didn't understand it—, wanted to ask Cole about it, even knowing he wouldn't get a real answer.