send 🔪 to encounter my muse after they've just killed someone | still accepting.
Mary's eyes follow the cars on the highway across the parking lot; the harsh gutter cement scrapes the backs of her legs. Blood on her coat. Sad, that, because she likes the coat very much, had had it a long while, and as she picks at the drying stain with her fingernails she remembers her tailor had been blown to smithereens in a car bomb some six months prior.
On the highway, over the top of a half-dead hedge that straddles the border between roadside motel and getting-the-hell-outta-dodge, she can just make out the top of a police car. Not coming for her. Off to some other sorry asshole.
Footsteps. She turns to look, spots the girl approaching and narrows her eyes; a cigarette burns bright between her fingertips in the late afternoon light, the day still sticky and hot. "Wouldn't go in there, if I were you." She nods at the closed motel room door at her back, the rusting 6 almost falling off the wood, the firmly drawn curtains.
But fuck it. What does Mary care? She's only waiting for her ride. She settles forward again, resting her elbows on her knees, watching the girl through her eyelashes.
