charlotte montgomery doesn’t cry. she doesn’t cry, even as she wipes her cheeks in silence for the thousandth time and her leg bounces up and down in clear nervousness. but charlotte montgomery doesn’t cry. she doesn’t --can’t-- feel the fear, the sheer terror, at the mere possibility of losing her person, her lifeline. if one loses their lifeline, logically, one’s just dead. what would it be like to be dead while still breathing? while still having a beating heart, a pulse, a life? the thought makes for new tears to spring out, rolling down her cheeks. somehow, her makeup’s intact, but not the same can be said about her hair, slightly messier from the hours spent fidgeting with it, trying to find a semblance of safety and calm in the smell of her shampoo.
she looks around, looks lost, watches the doctors come and go, that don’t look at them. they’ve stopped looking at them hours ago. wordlessly, she sighs softly, the air shakily escaping her as she leans back on the rather uncomfortable hospital chair, the waiting room awfully white, awfully sad. a tragedy waiting to happen.
there are many things out of place, too, like the wiltering flowers that smell like overly-sweet putrefaction, and the absence of two. she hates to think two, when she’s supposed to be the master of uncaring, unforgiving coldness, when she was the one that chose... it doesn’t matter, not now and not ever. there’s not a single smile around, not even a phony one, a fake one, because there are no cameras, there’s not gossip in a waiting room. it’s nearly religious, the silence that reigns over, only the murmuring of the lightbulbs above and different hushed conversations here and there. no hype, just mass-quiet. at least jess is beside her. just as wordlessly --when was the last time she’s spoken a word? the limo?-- charlotte leans her temple down on her best friend’s shoulder, trying to keep herself from (gag reflex) crying.
@jessknightly
