𝐜𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 her idiosyncrasies , nonchalantly sipping his ( regular , nonspiked ) black coffee every now & then . his appetite isn’t what it used to be , he’s lucky if he can get down a piece of toast this late at night . he didn’t want to offend patty though , hence the warm mug that remains mostly untouched . he smiles when she speaks but it’s tired ; worn down . the smile of a man who should be in bed but is stiffed by troubling thoughts .
❛ huh . ❜ a strange question but it’s welcome . sitting in silence gets old after awhile . ❛ i think it’s better for the customer to be able to control the syrup . after all , pouring syrup on pancakes is part of the experience , no ? ❜ hands clasp around his coffee cup , the steam tapering off in the light . ❛ it’d be harder to put cheese on every table in a restaurant without it smelling . syrup is more … contained . ❜
across the way patty’s made a beeline for the old stereo tucked neatly between the till and cutlery tray. faraway and tinny sounding, johnny cash spilled out and into the air of the three quarters-empty diner. hazel straightened, if not for the song but the lone syllable let forth from his mouth. ‘ what d’you mean, huh? this is a fundamental question about life. ’ the dreariness of the drawling voice suited cain, she thought, all weary eyes and lukewarm coffee hardly sipped.
‘ oh, huh. ’ yet to her he was a chameleon ; not so much the boo radley she’d thought him to be but instead a person to dissect, make sense of each and every nuance. her back hit the seat hard enough to elicit a thump. legs crossed now, her eyes travelled to the ceiling. ‘ it is the experience. a rite of passage, almost. ’ there were better things to discuss, she knew. although he’d become weighed down enough by her never-ending spout of questions on topics far less trivial. ‘ cheese can be contained, though. you’ve seen those little bottles of parmesan at pizza places? ’
‘ i could have an implant, you know, and never even realise it. ’ the idea’s one whisked away from the x files’ pilot, although she’d never quite managed to eliminate the possibility. sitting cross legged on the foot of her bed, her finger travelled upward, from the tip of the nose to the bridge, finally stopping underneath her right eye. she tapped the area once, twice, before lowering the hand to her lap. ‘ tucked away, lovely and neat in my nasal cavity. tracking me. a human gps. ’ rhett’s heard the story before, she was certain. josh too. but he could hear it again, she supposed, if not out of convenience but for the minute shock factor, a morbid amusement on her end. ‘ aliens do other things, too. check your teeth. fertility tests. poke and prod your skin, your eyes, but the eyes are a little less common. ’ a persistent ache in the knee forced her to straighten her legs. bare feet dangled over the side now, hazel reached down underneath the bed to fish for an opened packet of chips she was sure had been abandoned there the night before. no luck. ‘ except, ’ voice muffled before sitting upright once more, a sneeze was bit back from dust motes caught in her nose. ‘ it’s not as if they’re cruel enough to do all that at once. only sometimes. if you’re a really fascinating test subject. ’
knees curled to her chest in the opposite side of the diner booth, the fork was idle atop a stack of syrup-drowned pancakes. the night should’ve come to rest warm and heavy in the pit of hazel’s stomach as a family outing from childhood might. except, close to three in the morning and a nip of whisky in the coffee ( if you asked patty the right way, she’d give you just about anything ), little else evoked the feeling. another triangle of sodden dough on the fork, it was herded around the lip of the plate before making its way to her mouth. ‘ that’s well sweet, ’ hazel coughed around the pancakes, on her tongue an overwhelming saccharine. another gulp of coffee did little to soothe the new burn in her throat. at the dying notes of a nearby jukebox the silence became unbearable. her jaw worked open, shut with a click of the teeth, open once more to produce a lone syllable.
‘ cain. ’ a name could give one power. a name could control the owner. but her cheek now pressed on a knee, vision warped past it to stare at him, a name was merely familiarity. ‘ d’you think it’s smarter for the cook to put on the syrup right before the waitress brings ‘em out? or for the customer to put it on after getting the pancakes? ’ the fork landed on the linoleum tabletop in a muted clatter. ‘ sorta like when the chef puts cheese on pasta themselves. as in, that’s enough cheese and you can’t add more because it’ll spoil the dish, kind of way. ’
well , THAT was to be expected––– lily having predicted nothing more or less from the shady bar and the barmen’s keep. what she was trying to do dangerous as well as questionably unethical. getting tossed out of the bar for snooping was ( in hindsight ) a nice holiday in the alpines compared to what could’ve happened. it was by no means a recommendation she’d make , but she couldn’t BLAME them either for quite literally putting her ass out onto the streets. ‘ just.. walk around me ! ’ lungs were breathless as she waved the tall shadow past. groans of soreness involuntarily releasing as she rolled onto her side and felt the 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓁 dig into her skin. ‘ ouchie , ouchie , ouchie…. ’
beneath a flash of thunderclouds on the horizon that crackled with static, few remained wandering along the streets. especially when it was late. especially when there could be no telling who might disappear next. even up to her neck in the whisperings that could be drawn out with the press of a button on her phone, apprehension flipped hazel’s gut. from the last shower of rain the bitumen was dotted with undisturbed puddles, iridescent under streetlights. but appearances deceived the best of people ; in the split second of a bar door opening to leave a woman on the street, she caught the steady clamour of those inside. filled to the brim, near overflowing with razor-sharp remarks and cheap beer, the heady smell of hops coming to meet her on the sidewalk. ‘ you want a hand up? ’ a hand extended, palm open and fingers splayed, feet steady in a spot on the ground. catching familiar features in the gloom, a hint of a smile appeared. ‘ what d’you think you’ll get out of going to a dodgy place like that, lil? ’
teehee it is i,, cee, with another new gal hazel !! as always, everythin to know about her is under the cut x
CIS FEMALE — ever hear people say HAZEL DARROW looks a lot like FREYA MAVOR? I think SHE is about 23, so it doesn’t really work. The LITERATURE major is a SENIOR that is from ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND. They can be SHREWD, but they can also be COWARDLY. I think HAZEL might be a TIER 2 SHEPHERD. They are living in KIERAN.
AESTHETICS
billowy white linen shirt sleeves, flowers pressed between the pages of antique books, heat rings from a mug on an old oak desk, crumpled up sheets of paper thrown down at the feet, magnolia perfume, novelty candles lined across a mantle, the grimace of a subject in a renaissance painting, lips bitten rosy pink.
+ here is hazel’s pinterest board
BACKGROUND
the second-youngest child out of four, hazel was home-schooled for the first half of her life. with two working parents in agriculture, it became harder and harder to make the time for schooling, especially as it got more obvious she was gifted.
her siblings were content with settling into inheritance of the farm. hazel had never warmed to the idea and instead asked questions about the many books she’d pick up on a weekly trip to a local library, about why stars blinked - things her parents just weren’t equipped to do.
in her first year of secondary school she attended a public school, with long commutes and seemingly little difference made. it was by luck she received a scholarship for a private girls school, but it meant she had to move away. hazel nearly gave up from homesickness several times, only finding it easier towards the end of her schooling.
while her parents wanted hazel to go into science, her imagination ran far too much to be contained to a clinical space and equations. she had the aptitude for almost everything, but a hankering desire to simply write had never left her all through childhood. she chose to go into literature instead
the only reason she wound up in livingstone, rather than a prestigious university at home, was she spun a globe and wherever her finger landed, she went ( cliche i know ). she’s on a partial scholarship here.
hazel wasn’t particularly close to either kieran or michael, having floated between social groups every now and then when she wasn’t holed up in her dorm writing. she’s always kept a close eye on things, preferring to be a quiet bystander that listens in.
the only reason she got involved with the watershed app was for writing inspiration. having been mostly detached from the people affected, hazel has used the app for bits and pieces she can weave into her pieces.
PERSONALITY
manipulative pisces bitch
comes off as cowardly and tearful to try and get people to do things for her, is an experienced performer of crocodile tears. loves to pull strings
acutely aware of what she’s getting up to with the watershed app is wrong but keeps an eye on it anyway, almost to the point that it’s become obsessive
probably wears an aluminium foil hat in the privacy of her own dorm. biggest conspiracy theorist
LOVES aliens and genuinely thinks she’s had an experience as an abductee in the summer after her freshman year of university. will tell you about it if she’s feeling particularly brave
raised in a working class family, hates gentrificiation. can and will stick it to The Man
literature major because she’s got a ridiculous imagination and is currently writing a few short pieces, dabbles in visual art in her spare time
the way she dresses is far more collected than hazel herself is. very dreamlike, wears lots of flowy linen, slip dresses and vintage wool coats ( thinks she’s a real life camilla macaulay, honestly )
very sly and is good at keeping secrets, telling white lies and not letting people catch on to what she’s doing
in terms of the watershed, she’s usually surfing the omegle-type chat to talk ideas and planning. on the app, she always wears a cheap halloween mask, warps her voice and makes her dorm impossibly dark to see in. wants to remain as anonymous as she can. her user icon is also an anime girl :-)
scholarship student, but still does odd jobs when she isn’t studying to make up for watershed membership subscriptions
never sleeps. ever
a real slut for talking heads
is always reading, and adores trashy $2 romance novels
WANTED CONNECTIONS
a ufo hunting pal
more generally, a few people she’ll share all her conspiracy theories with ( whether they want her to or not )
current/former crushes cos she’s a hopeless romantic
