#echostarter

“This.. this isn’t fair.... I don’t understand. This was supposed to be safe...” Amaya mumbled to herself as she so aimlessly tracked the shelves, dried blood on the floor where her feet paced. She stayed making sure every book was in order. A gash still in her leg, she was mortified, and she knew the only way she wouldn’t rage out was her only home. She wouldn’t hurt the books. Even though they were flammable. She kept her mind busy, ignoring her wounds and the yells outside. When in reality, she was terrified that something else was happening. That this was not the end. 

He didn’t do this very often --- visit his family’s graves, that is. It was hard enough to wake up every day knowing they were irrevocably gone; coming to visit them was even harder. It was a sense of permanence he wasn’t comfortable with, didn’t want to deal with, but he knew --- he knew he had to, at least once every other month, in order to settle his conscience. 

Benjamin helped Father Charles with the church’s upkeep every day --- he felt this was the only way to earn his keep, after all, being paid what he did for working at a church -- and at this hour of the morning, hardly anyone showed up to St. Jude’s: it was almost always quiet and empty, a peaceful place to sit and relax, and if there was someone here, they’d be praying quietly at the end of a pew, but the sight was rare; so rare, in fact, that hearing the church’s doors opening while he was scrubbing away at one of the pews made him jump -- he turned to look at the person walking in and laughed nervously at his own reaction. “Oh, hi,” he greeted, nodding. “I didn’t -- sorry, I don’t usually expect people to show up this early in the morning,” he explained. “On a weekday, that is.”

With a small sigh and another step, Alexander turned the corner -- a walk at this time of night was almost like habit; he gave Claire some space in their home, wandered off, thought about things he ought not to be thinking about: thought about his parents, and his brother, and what they meant to him, what they’d be doing now, if they’d survived. A walk at this time of night was ritual, and it was a ritual that helped him stay sane, and the route he took around town was usually almost always empty -- so he was surprised to see someone standing a couple of feet away, looking slightly lost. Raising an eyebrow, he approached the other person carefully, as to not startle them, then said, “Are you lost?” in the kindest tone he could muster, a small, almost amused smile settling on his lips.

Gale was sitting at the bar, quietly eating his burger before his shift started. People kept coming over to ask a question or to order something and Gale was slowly losing his patience. Do I need a fucking sign? I’m going to stab the next person who comes near me. He turned snappy with every customer that came around to ask for a drink or a menu. He still had fifteen minutes before his shift started and he’s going to milk those fifteen minutes for all they’re worth. He was just licking his fingers clean of grease when he saw someone walk up to him on his peripheral. 

Saturday nights were always busy nights at Seamore’s, and this one was no exception. Half of the town seemed to be clamoring in and out at a constant rate, but Adriana had no trouble keeping up. Short, curt, and semi-sweet, she was able to efficiently wait tables while also finding time to primp occasionally in the reflective windows. However, although she was busy, she had also noticed the lone figure standing outside the bar for the last hour, and she was getting curious as to who it was and what they were waiting for.

Eugh. Samantha had made the mistake of catching a glimpse of herself in a passing mirror -- today was not a good hair day, and, in normal fashion, she’d decided to stick with an up-do to try to remedy the fact, but then: rain. Humidity. She’d decided she looked like a rejected prop from a horror film. In an attempt to avoid the public eye and hide her shame, she made her way into the grocery store, closing her umbrella in the process and shaking it dry. She hardly ever visited the grocery store -- they sold her crops, why would she need to? -- so she could not, for the life of her, remember where the cookie aisle was. And, considering she’d decided to go out without her contact lenses, the signs were of little help.