closed for @smalltragedy. / jane knocks. jane stands in the hallway with a bright smile, arms and legs unbroken save one long line of stitches moving from elbow to shoulder on the left. an unanticipated deep cut - but jane had escaped a concussion, and had worn an outfit that, if she's being entirely honest, had ended up looking better with a little wear tear and bloodstain around the edges.
she rehearses the conversation she's anticipating in her head as she waits. (this is a very normal thing to do. jane is certain of it). she will try not to stare too long at viktor's roguish good looks (she is allowed to glare, maybe, but even then only for a minute at most), and she will request they return the red flag they lifted from her mailbox, and there will be a round of denial, and then jane will barrel past them and destroy as many things in her wake as she can.
she is viktor's concussed housecat.
no, thinks jane, irritated with her brain for moving along chuck palahniuk lines, or at least for contributing any ownership to viktor. i am jane's concussed housecat.
