@zlomidze After Much Avoidance.
In a handful of crude words, life is fucking unfair.
Perhaps she should have seen this coming - this reunion or reckoning. But for Çaska, life is and always has been and likely always will be a perpetual brat era; one that has, since her release, visited itself upon the city with little room for pushback or any ear for protest. Her feelings, her stylings, her re-education in the trends and lingos and social cues of not just a new decade or century this time, but of a new millenium has been quick, for she has always been quick, for she has always lived a life and had a brother who necessitated quickness, lest she be caught up in his iron jaws more than she already had.
And now, that carefree, crude, and perhaps to all but her socially embarrassing era has come to a screechingly absolute halt with a single text.
The snow has covered for this, at least briefly - she has every reason to avoid the house in Waneoft Heights between Nadia and Madison and a sorority house full of beautiful idiot women and their beautiful idiot boyfriends and girlfriends and theyfriends with their mind-purchased sycophancy and delicious blood.
But now, it is a matter of time - He will find Her or She will happen upon Him and as all of their first meetings are past one of her stony wakeups brought about by her sister's pity, the city will know why it is that mingling Zakarias and Shalaçaska Lomidze are like mixing lantern oil with an open flame in a dry Chicago barn.
She does not want to be oil, nor does she want to be an open flame, and despite its sopping wet nature (either in terms of thawed snow or its newfound stifling humidity) she thinks a little more of this town than a dry Chicago Barn and so she does not want to leave.
And so - for all that, shades of her rumination echo in her eyes as she exits the latenight Uber with the look of a funeral mourner and walks into her family's home, winding her way towards her chosen bedroom - startlingly bereft of witchblood or its mousy casing, and hopes that her brother has the good grace to knock before he comes to read her his Lutherian Manifesto on every way she belongs back in a stone box.
She makes it to the fucking den before she finds him. "Brother." She says, injecting months (well, decades) of fear and irritation into seven words and two syllables as she might possibly manage.