Louvre | Just before her performance | @ofhercs
Hate.
It is burning through her shoulders, frustration grinding her teeth together even as she tries to breath out, even as she tries to rationalise it all to herself. She’s been practising for this endlessly, it would be useless to cop out at the last second. To make a final statement of irritation and rebellion when there is no one who would be at her back.
But the flower behind her ear is irritating her skin, so she pulls it out, drops it to the floor, grinds it with her heel, a sharp smile painting her face. She’s tempted to continue, to change from the mockery of an outfit, to her practise clothes, to wipe her face clean of makeup, to try and find some way to corrupt the audio, when she spots Lincoln looking at her.
She looks away, stops grinding her heel to the floor, and kicks the sad collection of plastic petals to the corner, before crossing her arms defensively.
