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There's glue on Vampy's hands, and it makes her cringe. The goop is between her fingers, and sticky, and it's vaguely dry so it reminds her of things she doesn't want to think about. She suppresses a gag, and forces her bile back.
Everything's fine, she reminds herself, staring at the shitty project in front of her. She isn't impressed with her work, but it's something. Wood she'd scavenged from the burnt hallway and cleaned until it no longer smelt of soot gleamed, put together in a small little crate. Two thinner pieces of wood were bolted down, holding up the curtains she'd simply torn from her bedsheets and sewn until it didn't look like it was once bloodied.
She's worked very hard, she tells herself. Vampy knows it's a lie. She knows she'd rushed it.
Vampy drags a hand down her face, sighing softly. Her eyebags were heavy and sore with her lack of sleep. It's just that the hallway is too empty, and too busy, and she's too alone, but too crowded, and Strawberry Swirl isn't here. The thought of her old friend stirs back up the old bile, and she's forced to walk away from her project in fear of ruining it.
The sock puppets on her bed are ugly. She knows they are. She's not, like, a master of creating things anyways. Vampy's is crude, hot glue fangs painted a shimmery, translucent gray that gives off a faint sheen in the dim light. Firelight's is next to hers, painted an accurate red and fastened with a nice little keychain to match the lighter's own.
Vampy's eyes flick to where the puppets' hands meet and she wrenches them apart, throwing her puppet across the room. She swears the Firelight puppet smiles at her when she glares at it.
Whatever.
Her personal favorite is the small pink cloth painted like a cupcake that's pinned to the inside of the poorly made puppet theater. Nassy's visage, with much less effort visibly put into it, is hung beside it.
Blood is smeared on Strawberry Swirl's hand, and Vampy reaches out to brush it, lost in thought as she mutters under her breath to her friend's lookalike. "Now, how'd you get dirty? Silly thing. You always were so chaotic..."
Vampy swallows and lets her hand drop.
It's not time for this right now. She has to finish. The scattered papers of crossed out and rewritten lines of a play seem to mock her from the corner. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She needs to write.
The wood of her chair is worn, and uncomfortable, but she sits in it anyway. Her pen sits comfortably in the divots of her fingers as she scratches out word after word after word. Her thoughts wander, and the page ends with his name. She stares down at it and then stands back up.
Maybe writing can wait.
She's impatient and nervous all at once. Her rug creaks underneath her pacing, and Vampy vaguely wonders what would happen if she fell through the floorboards. Firelight did, after all; it's only one more drop in the ocean that makes them so similar.
The timer she set overhead rings, and she curses under her breath, blood dripping from her nose. The linoleum of her bathroom tiles squeaks as she rushes in and then falls on the slick water there, cursing loudly as pain sears through her shoulders and back. One of her ankles is twisted and she whimpers at the sight, lip trembling.
She's never loved and hated the soundproof walls before, but every new experience seems to be unwelcome nowadays.
There's a knock at the door, and Vampy stills, freezing in her efforts to stand.
"Vampy?" Bitte's muffled voice calls, concerned and higher pitched than usual. "Are you alright? I heard a crash!"
She can't bring herself to speak for a long moment, and the door opens. Alarm settles in her bones - she swore she locked that damn door, and she didn't want anyone seeing her while she was vulnerable.
Bitte hisses in a breath as he finds the scene, and Vampy can't meet his eyes. She knows she looks pitiful, curled into a ball on the floor with blood still dripping down her face and tile cracked under her.
Something warm touches her, then withdraws. Her eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that she doesn't think she'll open them ever again.
Then there's cloth on her ankle, and she yelps, pushing herself up onto her forearms and trying to draw away. "No," she whispers, voice cracking. "No, no, no! Don't touch me!"
Her eyes are open wide with terror now, and Bitte her uncle looks saddened by her reaction. This time, though, Uncle Danny doesn't respond with anger. He simply puts down the bandages next to her, sweeps up the broken tile, and walks out, never taking his eyes off of her.
Vampy cries.