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Nightmares [OPEN]
She hasn't been seen in three days. Wait, four? No, it's been five days. The last person to see Kennedy was Iris during their girls' night in Kennedy's apartment. Her shop has been closed ever since, and she hasn't been seen outside of her apartment.
It happened the day after Iris left. She thinks? Her vision blurred, heart racing as she felt the overwhelming drowning sensation of a premonition. A storm, vague like trying to remember a distant dream days after it happens. She tried to paint the scene, but couldn't remember details for the life of her and trying to produce what played in her mind onto a canvas frustrated Kennedy to a point where she tossed her brush and paints onto the floor. Even more frustrating than trying to paint the vision was cleaning her own damn mess. She cursed herself for losing her temper so easily and before she could completely wipe up the vibrant red from the wood floors, paint seeping between the cracks, her mind was attacked by an onslaught of visions.
Storms, murder, death, police, water, love, loss, the sounds of a life torn apart.
This continues for days.
It's confusing. Overwhelming. Locations range from seaside to plains to snow covered cities. Every time a vision fades, Kennedy is left weak, but driven to paint. It's a compulsion she can't break away from. She scratches messages and crumbling buildings into a notebook. Her walls are now covered in canvases--some streaks of violent colours everywhere, others with full scenes, dark and haunting. The visions repeat in a cycle and she can't sleep. She's long lost track of time, barely eating and sleeping. When she does sleep, the visions become worse, playing into her imagination and morph into truly horrifying nightmares that wake her up screaming and shivering. They've infected her mind.
She finally passes out from hunger and sleep deprivation at 3pm Saturday afternoon and wakes up at seven Sunday morning. Perched gingerly at the edge of her bed like she's afraid to move or she'll shatter like glass, Kennedy takes several deep calming breaths and waits for the next wave of visions to strike. After thirty minutes of freedom, she ventures to get out of bed. This leads to washing her face, changing clothes, brushing her hair, and stepping out of her apartment--all movements that are automatic, her body taking control to care for itself while Kennedy's mind runs a-mile-a-minute, paranoid and anxious.
Next thing she knows, she's in front of Quill. There's a coffee in her hands, though she doesn't remember ordering it. She wipes her cheek and she's surprised to feel tears. When did she start crying? And before she can put the breaks on her emotions, she's sobbing on the sidewalk. A girl sobbing uncontrollably on a sidewalk with her coffee.
It happened the day after Iris left. She thinks? Her vision blurred, heart racing as she felt the overwhelming drowning sensation of a premonition. A storm, vague like trying to remember a distant dream days after it happens. She tried to paint the scene, but couldn't remember details for the life of her and trying to produce what played in her mind onto a canvas frustrated Kennedy to a point where she tossed her brush and paints onto the floor. Even more frustrating than trying to paint the vision was cleaning her own damn mess. She cursed herself for losing her temper so easily and before she could completely wipe up the vibrant red from the wood floors, paint seeping between the cracks, her mind was attacked by an onslaught of visions.
Storms, murder, death, police, water, love, loss, the sounds of a life torn apart.
This continues for days.
It's confusing. Overwhelming. Locations range from seaside to plains to snow covered cities. Every time a vision fades, Kennedy is left weak, but driven to paint. It's a compulsion she can't break away from. She scratches messages and crumbling buildings into a notebook. Her walls are now covered in canvases--some streaks of violent colours everywhere, others with full scenes, dark and haunting. The visions repeat in a cycle and she can't sleep. She's long lost track of time, barely eating and sleeping. When she does sleep, the visions become worse, playing into her imagination and morph into truly horrifying nightmares that wake her up screaming and shivering. They've infected her mind.
She finally passes out from hunger and sleep deprivation at 3pm Saturday afternoon and wakes up at seven Sunday morning. Perched gingerly at the edge of her bed like she's afraid to move or she'll shatter like glass, Kennedy takes several deep calming breaths and waits for the next wave of visions to strike. After thirty minutes of freedom, she ventures to get out of bed. This leads to washing her face, changing clothes, brushing her hair, and stepping out of her apartment--all movements that are automatic, her body taking control to care for itself while Kennedy's mind runs a-mile-a-minute, paranoid and anxious.
Next thing she knows, she's in front of Quill. There's a coffee in her hands, though she doesn't remember ordering it. She wipes her cheek and she's surprised to feel tears. When did she start crying? And before she can put the breaks on her emotions, she's sobbing on the sidewalk. A girl sobbing uncontrollably on a sidewalk with her coffee.
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Her shoulders slump when he asks, and Kennedy can't seem to bring herself to lie to Owen and say yes, she's okay. After all, crying on a sidewalk in public screams anything but okay. "I can't shut off my brain," she admits, frowning. "It's exhausting."
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The brain, the natural enemy of anyone who struggled to shut it off. She looked almost defeated by the admission and he’d have hugged her had he known if it was ok to do so. Since he didn’t, he asked, in a tone that said she didn’t need to answer if she didn’t want to, “And what’s it so desperate to tell you Kennedy?”
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Her eyes brighten. "You're a siren?"
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“Yep, a Siren. Although from English lineage, so a little different metamorphosis from most of the Sirens here.” He replied, slowly lowering himself into his chair.
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"I had no idea there were different changes," she admits, squinting at Owen like she's trying to picture what he looks like.
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“Yeah, Sirens are not that common so as they’ve mutated and reproduced over time they’ve started to take on different transformation qualities. I guess it’s a little like dog breeds,” Owen guessed. He hadn’t known himself until he transformed once and everyone looked different.
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"Awwww, you're a cute puppy!" She's smiling now, something to distract her from what a crappy week she's had.
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Letting out a soft snort at that, he grinned. “Well, I am sensitive behind my ears and I am a good height for people to pat my head at the moment,” he agreed.
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She's trying to piece the puzzle together. Obviously, she has roots here, her mother's family has history here, her mother died here. And some days she walks outside to crisp clean air and a clear head, and other days there's a darkness that clouds her thoughts. She figured it was just her, but Owen mentions a curse and that makes sense, right? Maybe she's more sensitive here because of the strong magic in the air.
"Just never stand up again, that's my decree."
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“As for your Aunt – I wouldn’t know, until recently the curse has been very much a rumour, but something appears to have triggered,” he explained, a little more sadly. He can remember at school how they all used to laugh at the idea of a curse, and now here it was. Most of his school friends had left, but he wondered what they’d think if they knew it was apparently all true.
“You just like being taller, don’t you?” Owen asked with a grin. “Well tough luck.” He playfully stuck his tongue out at her.
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She winkles her nose at him. "Hey, being 5'2", you revel anytime you're taller than someone. Don't take this away from me."
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He grinned, a little lopsidedly, “When I’m back to walking normally, I’ll have to give you piggy backs – you’ll be taller than most people then.”
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Kennedy almost flails herself out of her chair. "I'm holding you to that, Owen Phillips!"
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He can’t help but grin at her excitement, “As if I would break a promise, my word is my bond.”
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"Welp, you're gonna regret that one, buddy. I'll never walk again," she grins, loving the idea of being lazy for life.
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“That’s fine, I imagine you’re pretty light. I’ll be your own personal taxi service.”
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She smacks his arm lightly, teasing him. "You know just what to say to win a girl over, don't you? "You're so light, let me carry you," regular prince charming over here."
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He scoffs, "I can be very charming when I chose to be. I just naturally fall into the goofy category - which some find charming."
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"So there's times you don't want to be charming? Dang Owen, real harsh."
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“My type of charming is pretty upfront – can’t be doing that all the time. Anyway, I thought you liked me anyway without having to be charming,” he pouted a little.
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"It is pretty exhausting, isn't it?" she huffs, acting like the world is so tough. "I like you because you're shorter than me, don't forget that."
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