[ She is not herself, though that is to be expected. Were she a girl with a single heart and a single mind she would not be expected to find herself recovered so simply or so soon. But Alayne Stone has more than one heart, just as she has a second name and a hoary host of ghosts the follow it. (By rights, she should be a ghost too but— she is not.)
She spends the first few hours crying then the hours that follow that sleeping. She does not say a word, she does not let anyone touch her, but if she is left alone for even an instant she rouses from whatever sleep or daze holds her and shrieks as if she were ravaged anew. Her dress, having been torn and stained by the attack, is stripped of her but is kept nearby because, for some reason, she will not let it be put away. Given that the only other clothes are the uniforms provided by the lockers, she spends the day in her small clothes, bundled in blankets and draped loosely with her winter's cloak. The fabric and fur gathered to her, the collar of bruises she wears around her throat are barely visible though those that watch her will catch glimpses of it here and there (angry and ugly, a telling reminder of Magneto's wrath). On her stomach, hidden beneath the covers, there is a terrible grinning scar. Absently, she touches at it through the layers of cloth as she stares at nothing at all. Her red hair, loose and unkept, spills over her shoulders in need of a brushing. Slowly she blinks and slowly she breathes. (No, she is not herself.)
Death changes everyone — those that grieve, those that survive, those that remember and those that forget.
Death changes everyone. But it changes the dead most of all. ]
( ACTION )
She spends the first few hours crying then the hours that follow that sleeping. She does not say a word, she does not let anyone touch her, but if she is left alone for even an instant she rouses from whatever sleep or daze holds her and shrieks as if she were ravaged anew. Her dress, having been torn and stained by the attack, is stripped of her but is kept nearby because, for some reason, she will not let it be put away. Given that the only other clothes are the uniforms provided by the lockers, she spends the day in her small clothes, bundled in blankets and draped loosely with her winter's cloak. The fabric and fur gathered to her, the collar of bruises she wears around her throat are barely visible though those that watch her will catch glimpses of it here and there (angry and ugly, a telling reminder of Magneto's wrath). On her stomach, hidden beneath the covers, there is a terrible grinning scar. Absently, she touches at it through the layers of cloth as she stares at nothing at all. Her red hair, loose and unkept, spills over her shoulders in need of a brushing. Slowly she blinks and slowly she breathes. (No, she is not herself.)
Death changes everyone — those that grieve, those that survive, those that remember and those that forget.
Death changes everyone. But it changes the dead most of all. ]