Cold. Numb.
That’s all Molly could feel aside the splitting pain in her head as she stumbled down the street. Her eyes were wide, but held no warmth. No usual shine or color. Dull.
Her face, similarly, is paled - rosy cheeks having wilted significantly, lips missing their usual color. Dark circles were under her eyes, cushioning the exhaustion that laid in them.
It was robotic, really. She wasn’t even aware of where she was going - of even walking. Her legs moved but not by her own consciousness. All she could tune in was ringing. The rest of the world was still snuffed out to her. The streets were busy, people were screaming, things falling apart.
But Molly felt, and looked, as merely a ghost walking through everyone. No one paid her no real mind, which is fortunate. She had no strength or coherence to deal with anyone trying to shake her down at the moment.
Was she breathing? She couldn’t tell. She didn’t even think on it, but her lungs still felt like they were burning. Fingers try and flex lightly, her fingertips being cold -- she can’t even feel them moving. Were they moving?
It didn’t matter. She just wanted to get back to the hotel, to climb up those familiar stairs, collapse on her bed.
And cry.
