@stormwakes
Trust Willow to be cornered by every street preacher she comes across. She wonders if it’s her natural tendency to appease people that makes her such an approachable victim. She has always been too easily guilted into stopping and listening, too easy to trick into eye contact and a conversation.
If it’s the dark cloud that hangs over her, alerting those closer to heaven than she might ever get to a need of saving her, the Lord’s messengers really haven’t been doing her any good. Throwing accusations, demanding love that she doubts would be accepted anyhow: Didn’t I let the spirit in? Didn’t it expel itself in horror of my heart?
She tries not to let these questions trouble her, but visibly shaken by her latest encounter with such a person, she hardly notices the heavy footfall coming from ahead until she makes a hard collision with another stranger and takes to the floor with a thud. Her eyes brim with tears, mostly at the embarrassment.
“Sorry -- I’m---” Willow isn’t sure it’s entirely her fault, but the words come easier than any cuss she could throw at them. Her apologies are cut short by a strange cry that cuts through the air ahead of her.
