A flashy cyclone of neon light. Puffs of white, choking smoke. Faces in androgynous masks with smooth plastic cheeks and black holes for eyes. It's like a magic show, but the only thing that vanishes is my memory of the show itself. Where it all was, I couldn't tell you. By the cold waters of the sound? In an underground parking garage? The abandoned floor of an old meat packing warehouse? Yes, yes, and yes. Or no, no, and no. It was all a smudge of blurred faces and drunken conversation. I do remember music, boisterous clusters of deep bass and sirens that screamed in the air like demons. In a sweaty herd, I hopped and laughed and smiled and danced to the howls of the underworld and it went on, and on, and on, until the music stopped, the lights faded into black, and I was no longer with the herd, but alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Just me.
Alone.
I feel like I'm drowning sometimes.
Watching the rays of white sunlight that managed to pass my curtain's defense, I wondered how I alone I truly was. I wondered if there was anyone else in the world who could feel my particular brand of solidarity, another wanderer looking for a breathing mirror.
It was like my stomach was full of sand. Heavy. Sickening. I threw up five minutes after getting out of my bed, and seeing myself in my toilet's murky reflection, I saw that I was worse for wear. The saddening familiarity in my appearance, the messy hair, the black rimmed eyes, the glitter that stuck to my skin like flour, in it I saw that I had transformed into the Ada who lost control again and scuttled about Seattle like a vampire. She enjoys having multiple nightclub stamps up her arm and frolicking with strangers. Nothing sexual, I praised. Dark Ada at least has that much class to only tease other vampires then keep on walking. I dry heaved a few times, stripped my clothes, and sat in a cold shower for forty-five minutes. After thanking God for another survived fall off the deep end, I got my shit together and prepared for the rest of my long afternoon.
I am a well-respected psychiatrist after all. Let's not forget that detail.
With that detail, I am burdened though, you see, with a strange reputation. It's heavy, made heavier still when I am amongst other psychiatrists who like to study the world of child psychopathology like I do. Minor or not, the abnormal mind is a fascinating web fastened stubbornly by the results of bad parenting, unresolved trauma, biological disposition, or a conglomeration of all three. I am burdened by the strange reputation of being able to walk on such tricky webs, to talk to the ones trapped inside them and have them talk back. My first client, the "golden boy" as some would label him, has lasted 'til adulthood without causing too much incident to those around him. Since he turned eighteen, an event that many were despairingly surprised at, my popularity amongst my academic community has prospered. In a way, he was my first success. That's what those in psychiatric circles would say, as if he was some untamed animal broken by the norms of society. As if he was made a creature worthy of posing on the podium of modern man, his mind remolded into something else. I'd say, however, despite the optimism of my colleagues, that it was too early for such celebrations. Who knew what the future held? We are shaped by so much and by so little these days.
And temptation has a funny, cruel way of lasting a lifetime.
"Put those over there, by the ottoman," I said, my finger pointing to the spot on the hardwood floor of my living room.
Blaine did as he was told, setting a large box full of filing folders beside four more just like it.
"Jesus, how many more do you have?"
"Only about three more boxes, I think," I answered while my eyes skirted over an old case summary in my hands.
The young man griped on his way back to my attic, his foot falls echoing distantly from somewhere upstairs. Bro, who was lazily sprawled out beside me, perked up at watching Blaine leave the room and immediately followed him to the second level.
As my first, and unethically chosen favorite client, Blaine Darling singlehandedly chiseled in stone my mission statement. The heir to a thriving fishing industry, he certainly had the means to do great things with his life, to stretch his fingers out into the world and gain tremendously from whatever he managed to pull back. That has been our goal anyway, to find use in the world for Blaine. I made it an objective of mine, to make sure that's all his eyes could see. They would fall not on those who tried to get in the way of that desire, but on what he could achieve. It was lofty, but so far it was doable. So far, so good, as they say.
"Considering," began an inquisitive voice from the base of my narrow staircase, "that it is 2015, maybe you should implement some form of computerized filing system?"
"I might," I said. "One day. But then the question is, what use would you be to me afterwards?"
A pair of romantic eyes stared down at me, humored, dark, and enchanting. He was handsome with cherry lips and a tuft of James Dean hair, a real heartbreaker amongst my other teenage clients who would all mention his looks and charm one way or another. Standing there in a pair of designer jeans and a red v-neck sweater, I didn't see the athletic, four point GPA show pony that others idolized. He was simply Blaine to me. Another troubled young adult in need of my help.
"What are you going to do with all this paper then?" he asked as he sat down on the floor across from me. Bro curled up next to him, earning a small massage behind the ears by Blaine's hand.
"Just a little brush up is all. Some of my school notes are in here. Speaking of which, what colleges are you looking at?"
A long exhale poured from Blaine following my question. I turned my attention away from my summary to look at him.
"My mother," Blaine said in a tired tone, "believes that I should look into business courses at Washington University. That or get a law degree somewhere else."
My head slowly nodded while I said, "Okay. And what do you want to do?"
Blaine looked off towards the ceiling, a thoughtful gesture. We've been working on those for years, overt nonverbal messages. They humanized him.
"Neither," he stated. "I want to do neither. I don't want to go into college as a business major or have anything to do with law."
"Because?"
"Because that would mean that I am to fill in the boots of my father and die in the fishing business, in a big wood office with a bunch of wrinkled old worms squirming at my feet for guidance and blah blah blah."
"Being a business or law major doesn't necessarily leave you with that option alone."
The look I received from Blaine was not a pleasant one. Doubt. Sardonic doubt. To be honest, I didn't fully believe in my words either.
"Please," he said. "My father would never allow it any other way, and Mother would simply nod her head and go along with whatever crap he thought best, per usual. Which means, unfortunately for me, that I'd be like the fish on the butcher's slab in one of our warehouses. Laid down and gutted. Fillet. Makes me pissed just thinking about it."
"Then," I said, redirecting my eyes back to the papers in my hands. "Let's talk about something else. Do you like the idea of Washington University? I mean, other than your parents' opinion?"
A short laugh past his lips, but it wasn't friendly. Short. Unnatural.
"Not if I want to be murdered."
I immediately looked back up at him, eyes widened and lips parted. Blaine read me wrong.
"Come on, you watch the news, right?" he asked. "That kid they found a few days ago? Dead in the middle of campus?"
A flash. Fast and bright. The young man's face, the one from my lecture. His smug smile as he ran from me in the university parking lot, it flashed in my mind like his camera did.
Had. Like his camera had.
"I forgot about that," I muttered.
"Don't know how you could. People won't stop talking about it. Some kids from my school were scouting Wash. U that night when the guy's body was found. They said that he was displayed there in the fountain, the main one in the middle of campus. Posed. Something dramatic, artistic."
As Blaine looked on in awe at remembering the boy's death, I stared down at my hands in silence. Ever since I saw the story on the news, I've made a point to try not to think about the college student. I failed, clearly. The previous night's events were a testament of that. For some reason, I was bothered by the tragedy in a way that surpassed the general shock of it all. I'm not entirely sure why I became so unsettled by it, and the conversation I was having didn't make me feel any better.
"Hey," prompted Blaine, his voice low and stern. "I think someone's here."
I looked at Blaine's face and followed his eyes towards the front windows of my home. A moment later, I heard a loud knock at my door, and before I could do a thing Blaine was standing and already approaching the source of the sound.
"Blaine-" I started to call, but he had already unlocked the deadbolt and proceeded to greet whomever it was on the other side.
"Hello, gentlemen," I heard him say in a cordial, albeit cold tone. "Can I help you?"
"Good afternoon," answered a man's voice. "Is this the residence of Ada Ives? Doctor Ada Ives?"
"And whom may I ask is requesting her?"
My eyes rolled as I rose from the floor and started towards the door.
"I'm Ada Ives," I said over Blaine's shoulder, my eyes peeking past him to make out the strangers on my porch.
There were two, both male. One wore a Seattle P.D. uniform while the other was dressed plainly in a navy button-up shirt tucked into brown slacks, a dark brown filing folder held at his hip. Now him, the man in simple clothing, I recognized him immediately.
"Dr. Ives," said the second man in a gentle voice. "My name is Will Graham. I'm assisting the FBI on an investigation, and would like to have a word with you if you have time."
"Thank you, Mr. Graham," replied Blaine in my place. "But if you don't mind, please let her see your credentials first."
I didn't need to directly see Blaine's face to know that he was leery of them. His posture, the ice in his voice carefully sugarcoated in a thin layer of manners. They were his trademarks. I should know. They took a long time to construct.
"And you are?" asked the officer.
My guests were starkly different from one another. The policeman, he was unimportant to me. I decided that he was of no special interest from that point on during their visit. Will Graham, however, was a different story. I've heard about him through the psychology grapevine, about what he's done and can do with his "empathy" disorder or whatever they settled on when it came to how his mind ticked. Gossip said that he had an eye for picking apart those around him, noting concisely on their behaviors and in a way understanding the abnormalities in the untypical mind of society's less empathic. He was doing it then. I saw his eyes dissecting Blaine, not rudely, but with enough directness to bother me. It was a quick thing, but a second or two was too long to study any client of mine without permission.
"Please, gentlemen," I interjected before Blaine had the opportunity to answer. "Your credentials."
Despite the weird tension, both men revealed to me their cards and information. Satisfied, I nudged Blaine to the side to allow them inside my home.
"I have time to answer whatever questions you have," I told them. "However, I must ask that you wait in the waiting room. I need some quick privacy with my client."
I led the men to a small study with a red leather couch before leading Blaine to my backdoor. We were welcomed by the cool winds of the distant waters the moment we stepped outside.
"They came just in time," I said as Blaine and I strolled around the yard to the front of my house. "Our time together had just run out."
Our steps landed on soaked smooth stones, the rain from the night before still evident on my lawn. My home was perched near the sound, a pleasant view of the glistening waters always granted to me through my windows. I thought of it as a better place to conduct therapy for my clients than an office room. Calmer. Less clinical. Home.
"Lucky them," said Blaine. "You know, Dr. A., now that I am no longer seventeen, then that means that I'm too old to receive your services."
"Yep. That's one of the privileges of becoming a full-fledged adult. But what is it that you're really trying to say, Blaine?"
"Well, you know what I'm really trying to say is that I'm begging you to remain as my psychiatrist, Dr. Ives. I don't want to change therapists."
"We made an agreement remember?" I said. "When you first came to see me?"
"That shouldn't count. I was…unpleasant back then."
"So you remember our agreement?" I pressed.
"Yes, I remember that conversation, but now I want to table it."
Stopping by the curb where his motorcycle rested, I gave Blaine an exasperated look.
"You can't table it, Blaine. You know that. I'm sorry."
"It's your choice who you see, Dr. A. No one else's."
"I know, but I prefer to see only minors, not adults, and there's a reason for that."
"Which is?"
"I don't need to say."
"But I want to know-"
"Sorry."
The way he glowered at me. I will never forget it. Those coals in his skull, they flourished with invisible fire. His stare was so heated that I swore I would combust at any moment. With all that I had in me, I stood my ground. I did not relent.
"Fine," he at last breathed as he strode languidly towards his motorcycle. "I'll be back on Friday to help you with the rest of the files. And I'll have you know that my mother has already started setting up my first appointment with my new psychiatrist."
As he was shrugging his leather jacket over his shoulders, I offered the most sincere smile I could give him. He refused to look at me, finding more comfort in the gravel at his feet.
"I'm sure things will go well if you let him get to know who you really are," I said kindly. "Give him a chance."
"Who I really am is of little consequence to those who are paid to find out," he muttered.
"I'm paid."
"You're different though. You believe in me."
Maybe I was still hung over. Maybe I was still exhausted. Too emotional. Sensitive. Whatever it was pressed me to go against all propriety and at hearing Blaine's voice waver during his last words, I stepped down from my place on the curb and reached out towards my client. With both arms, I held Blaine close to me. We stood together with his still form and face turned to the earth, a hurricane of emotion churning in those romantic eyes of his. He offered nothing to my embrace, as expected. No return of strong arms. No words. I might have imagined it, but I thought I did feel Blaine lean slightly nearer to me. I took it as it was, a slight relent, a crack in the façade.
Instantly after I let Blaine go, we turned our separate ways without another word. I walked up to my house. His motorcycle growled to life and he was gone.
Part of me wondered if my two guests had witnessed my moment with Blaine, mostly because I feared that they would be curious about him. Certainly they understood the rules of confidentiality, I thought as I crossed the front door of my home. I knew they did. Still, I can never help but feel protective of them, my clients. My little fish in the sea.
"I apologize," said Will Graham as I set before the men three cups of fresh coffee. Under the table I caught him rubbing the top of my dog's head. Bro was in heaven.
"For?"
"For interrupting. I didn't realize that you were with a client."
A light smile pulled at my lips.
"It's alright," I replied. "How could you? Besides, he is both client and intern. You were only interrupting his intern work, nothing too psychiatric."
The man silently nodded at my words, taking his time as he sipped his coffee. The funny thing was that I had just finished rereading his essay on the pitfalls of psychic driving the other day. To see the man in the flesh idly drinking coffee in my kitchen was definitely unexpected.
One thing I noticed most about Will Graham were his eyes. His eyes always looked so sad to me. In photographs they puddled on his face, a mix of sober blue and gray like the muted clouds of a Seattle rain storm. They were just as blue in person, too, but they carried a deeper level of sadness as he stared at me from across my table. The windows to his soul were weathered.
I noticed also the stitching of his shirt. Nice, not too expensive but made to look the professional part. He needed to shave. Something on his finger. Yes, a wedding ring. Clean, shining.
"Client and intern," said Graham, pulling me from my quick observation. "That sounds complicated."
"It is. Sometimes. Tell me, what brings you to my home this afternoon?"
At my directness, Graham gently set his coffee cup down, his eyes then settling somewhere on my face as he parted his lips to speak.
"Are you aware, Dr. Ives, that there was a student's body found on the Washington University campus this past week?"
"I am."
"The student was Thomas Himes. He sat in your lecture that day. Do you remember him?"
Graham laid the folder on the table. From it he took out a large photograph, the one from the news broadcast. Those glasses. Smiling youthful eyes.
"Yes, I do," I answered. "He was very curious."
"The other attendees of your lecture stated that he was forward with his inquiries about your family."
"Forward," I repeated with a smile that I knew failed to reach my eyes. "That's a much better word for what I would call him."
"Did anything strike you as strange during your lecture that afternoon? Did anyone stand out other than Thomas Himes?"
"Um, not that I can recall? There were a lot of people there, varying ages. Some were professors. Students, obviously. But, to be honest, my focus was mainly on what I had to say."
"That's understandable."
It was my turn to drink my coffee, to ponder in my head a question or two. They went back and forth, but finally managed to come out.
"If you don't mind me saying, Mr. Graham, you have the reputation of popping up where serial killers tend to be involved. Is that what the FBI thinks? That a serial murderer is responsible for this boy's death?"
A pause. Short and quiet. One could almost feel the silence.
"The method," started Graham with his stare gazing past me, "that this killer went about in ending Thomas Himes's life was not the typical crime of passion or by any means an accident. There was thought put into how his victim would be found."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Didn't I?" he countered.
A pause. Pointed. There was some weight to it.
"Do you have pictures of the crime scene?" I asked.
His melancholy eyes instantly locked with mine before looking down at the folder. Reopening it, I watched as Will Graham began sifting through the paperwork inside it, searching for a particular page. At last, he found what he wanted, his hand sliding the paper over so that I could have a better look.
"It is graphic, Dr. Ives," I was warned as I took in what was printed before me.
In the center of Washington University's Drumheller Fountain, a beautiful installment to the school's property, I saw a pale form standing in the shallow waters. The form belonged to Thomas Himes and he was not standing according to his own volition. Not that he had any by that point, shirtless and propped up by a metal construct that held his lifeless corpse in place. His head was lolled back as far as it could go, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Hands, too, were held in place and pressed against his chest, surrounding something short and metal that pierced halfway through his body. Thick blood ran down his abdomen in a heavy river, staining his sopped jeans. Looking closer at his face, I saw another chilling detail.
"What's wrong with his eyes?" I asked Graham, my brow furrowing as I stared harder at the image.
"He has no eyes," he said quietly. "We believe that the killer took them."
My sight flickered to meet Graham's.
"Took them? For what?"
A subtle change took over Will Graham. I had to think twice afterwards, but I know that I did see the man swallow and his focus sharpened based on how a taint of anger seemed to grace his jawline.
"Trophies," he finally answered. "At this point, the eyes are considered to be trophies that the killer took for himself."
"What's that in his chest?"
Another page was slid across the table from the folder. On it I saw an arrow, dark and made of what looked like to be cast iron. It was tagged and on a metal examination table, blood still staining the middle of its body.
"Wow," was all that I was able to say.
I mean, what else could I say to such a macabre scene? Graham was right. This was laughably not a crime of passion. No, this, whatever it was that I was looking at, certainly took planning and thought, a sick amount. Whoever killed the student, he was intelligent. He was some kind of evil.
"The FBI doesn't know yet if this is the work of a serial killer," he continued. "But the local authorities contacted us and this design is similar to a killer's that we are investigating."
"Wow," I repeated dumbly as I slid the pictures away from me. "Well, let me know if I can help in any way. I'll be glad to."
Seeing that I had answered all that the men asked of me, the visit came to a close and we rose from our chairs.
"Thank you for your time, Dr. Ives," said Graham as I escorted the men to the door. "I doubt we'll be bothering you with any more questions."
"Let's hope not," I replied with a polite smile.
Thankfully, he smiled meekly back at me.
"I understand," began Graham with a tiny bit of hesitation, "that the FBI hasn't been too kind towards you."
"Because of my family or because of my stance on child psychopathology?"
"Both reasons, I imagine."
"They are, and were, only doing their job," I said indifferently. "And I was doing the work of a sister and someone who cares for the misunderstood, Mr. Graham. Nothing more than that."
"Well, if anyone understands the way in which the FBI conducts their work, I do. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me. You wouldn't mind if I leave my card with you? In case you can recall anything else?"
I said that I didn't mind at all and placed the card in my back pocket. While waving the two men on their way, part of me couldn't help but feel relieved. Another trial was survived. I made it another hour. First my morning recovery from oblivion, then the FBI, and after checking the clock on my wall, I sighed and realized that the third and final trial awaited me, probably the toughest one of them all: cocktail hour with my sister.
Believe it or not, I love my sister. I do. I really do. True, I wanted to punch her lights out when she gave me an earful about her son Andy, her job, her husband, or how single I still was, but deep down she was my lovable sister. Mitzy had that gooey sweetness about her that drew in friends left and right. Since middle school, boys adored her bright smile and go-getter attitude, living in that rare sweet spot of being adored by both men and women without gaining spite from the latter. She was always the prize that men fought for, always the girl who had friends in several of the popular social circles in high school. Mitzy was a ray of fucking sunshine. She was America's sweetheart sister, and I loved her dearly.
I mean, I had to have for being willing to stick to our plans that we made a week ago. My body still felt like complete hell, sore and exhausted, but I curled my hair anyway. I must have cared for her in some amount to get dolled up in my little black dress, high heels, and blood red lipstick. I had to love her to walk down the street at night towards our favorite bar scene, an area that was already thriving like a bee hive. When I finally reached the corner where we typically met up at, to my annoyance my beloved sister was nowhere to be seen.
Late. She was late, late, late, late, late.
After standing around for what felt like forever, my patience grew thin. Bitterly, I pulled out my cell phone and blindly started to turn up the sidewalk. Right as I was, my body immediately jostled hard into another person. My balance knocked, I started to stumble. If not for a man's firm hands steadying my arm and waist, I might have fallen hard on to the pavement.
"I apologize," the person said in my ear, his breath hot against my cheek. Peppermint. I smelt peppermint. "Are you alright?"
"I, I think so," I mumbled as the stranger stood me upright. My hands were still gripping his arms, the firmness of taught muscle felt under my palms. Raising my eyes to meet his, my whole body immediately felt warmer. My arms dropped.
"It's you again," I breathed.
"And it is you," replied Dr. Lecter, giving me a smile in return that fully lit his sensual amber eyes. "Out on a night on the town, I see."
His eyes regarded my appearance appreciatively, and I did the same to him. Standing with me on the street corner with a paper bag in hand modeled a man in a black blazer and black collared shirt tucked into dark wash jeans. His shoes were, naturally, a smooth black leather that matched the rest of his chic attire. Staring up at his handsome face, I saw that something significant had changed since our last run in.
"You got a haircut," I blurted.
Dr. Lecter's eyes widened for a second before his fingers ran through his shortened locks. I smiled at his mild vulnerability.
"Yes, I had one today. I thought that it was finally time to try something new," he said. "I'm surprised you even noticed."
The man somehow managed to double his sex appeal in one act alone. Gone were the long wisps of silvery-brown bangs, his hair more boyish and styled forward. His comment was laughable. How could I not notice?
"I tend to notice the little things here and there. It looks great," I said. "Where are you headed?"
"Thank you, and I was headed back home, actually. I'm only out to pick up a bottle of wine. However, if you don't mind me admitting, I'm very glad that I chose to do so tonight."
"Why is that?"
"It gave me the opportunity to run into you yet again, Miss Ada."
At his words, a swell of shyness bubbled in my chest, but before I could say anything, anything at all, I caught a glimpse of Mitzy heading down the street in our direction.
Without explanation, I grabbed Dr. Lecter's hand and proceeded to drag him to the side of the sidewalk against the brick wall of a bar, immersing ourselves in as much shadow as possible. From there I watched my sister glance around the area, her eyes actively searching for me.
"Are we hiding from someone?"
We were standing close to one another in between other groups of night idlers. The sting of cigarette smoke coupled in the air with the sweet smell of his breath. I smiled at the thin confusion that touched his tone.
"Yes, yes we are," I answered while watching the street life. "No one too terrible. Just my sister."
"I see."
A hushed laugh left my mouth.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Mitzy just gets weird when she sees me talking to men."
"How so?"
Someone bumped me from behind and I had to take a small step closer. Our bodies grazed accidently, but I didn't mind.
"She becomes a private investigator," I said. "Only worse. Maybe obsessive investigator is more accurate."
"And you think that hiding me from her is the best way to extinguish her overbearing curiosity?"
At his words, I frowned and turned away from my puzzled sister to gaze up at my hostage. It had been a long time since I felt so small, but standing there beneath Lecter's questioning gaze, his body leaning against the brick and partly shielding me from Mitzy's view, a humbling sense of inadequacy swarmed me. My idiocy was sinking in by that point, the realization of how childish I was being in front of Dr. Lecter hitting home. However immature I was proving to be in that moment, Dr. Lecter didn't appear annoyed or put off by my behavior. Instead I would say that he was getting a real kick out of this. He was smiling again, the amusement touching his eyes as he looked down at me and then peered out from the shadows to stare at Mitzy.
"What is the worst thing your sister will do upon seeing us standing together?" he mused.
"She will probably eat us."
I saw those nice lips of his lift into a smirk.
"That would be an interesting turn of events for me," he said.
"That or berate us with a scary smile and heavy assumptions about our relationship," I added.
"Ah, so she's that type of sibling."
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"Well then," he started in a more confident voice. My eyes returned to the man's attractive face and saw that he was staring down at me with a mischievous look in his eyes, a certain deviousness that I wasn't sure I liked yet. "Let us say hello."
Confused by what he meant, I felt a tug at my hand. The hand that, to my surprise, was still attached to Dr. Lecter's. He pulled me from our safe haven and to the spot on the sidewalk beside my sister, but before she turned around and saw us, I instantly let go of him. I caught his disapproving look just as my sister's eyes widened at seeing me.
"There you are!" she exclaimed, giving me a tight hug. "I thought you forgot or something. I was just about to call you."
"Nope. I remembered-"
"Who is this?"
And, there it was. Inevitable. The classic shimmer in Mitzy's eyes that was lethal to my own sense of social safety. Her nosey curiosity.
"Hello," greeted Dr. Lecter warmly. "My name is Hannibal. It is nice to meet you."
They shook hands, though Mitzy to my inner horror was looking dreamily at me when they did.
"It is so nice to meet you, Hannibal," she told him, this time giving Dr. Lecter her full attention. "I'm Ada's older sister Mitzy, as you probably already know. Now, how do you two know each other?"
And, there it was again. Her cutting directness. Quick to the chase. A family trait.
"Through chance," answered Dr. Lecter. "Multiple chances. I'm afraid that your sister is trying to get rid of me, yet continues to fail."
"Well, thank God for that! She and I usually have drinks after work once a week, but I think that we can make an exception this time and include you if you'd like to join us?"
"Oh," I said in mock disappointment. "He said that he was on-"
"I would love to," said Dr. Lecter, his genuine smile gracing his mouth again.
Like a flame to gasoline, his words ignited Mitzy's full-fledged sister mode. She nearly exploded with joy.
"Great! Let's head on up then!" cheered my sister with the biggest smile spreading from ear to ear. I tried my best, but there was no physical way that I could mirror her. She took me as I was, the three of us weaving through the crowd to The Depot Lounge, the sensation of his touch still ghosting my palm.
Please review!
This one took a long time to finish, mainly because I started twice, getting half way through before deciding that I didn't like what I created, and starting over again.
Thanks for reading, TCR.