Shane dreamt. All was silent and distant, sepia filtered and muted. She stood in the center of a field, posture strange. No, not a field but the ruins. Unlike her usual dreams, Shane watched herself from the outside, as though she were a character in a movie. Her mouth moved, but the silence reigned. They were her features, but the expressions on it were alien.
As she watched, Girl approached at a distance, grimaced, and ran away as Shane's dress lost all of its color. The figure, the Alien Shane, looked toward Shanes disembodied perspective with violet eyes. She awoke with a gasp, skin drenched in sweat and pearlescent white.
The darkness of the attic frightened her for the first time, as if even this place no longer could protect her. She cast an annoyed glance at the dream catchers on the windows for failing so keenly at their sole job aside from decoration, missing the figure
He thumbed through the sketchpad, lying backward on Shane's bed, head dangling where feet should.
"These are good," he pronounced. His eyes darted over wings and tails, horns and hooves. He absorbed and denied the uneasiness he felt. "Who did these? You?"
"No, Roselyn, my roommate. She's an art major. You'd like her," she responded, looking through her diary and contriving good questions to ask it. She motioned to the far wall, to the gift of their portrait. Eliot rose and looked it over intently, more uneasy at how well he had been rendered than the other pictures.
"When did she do this?"
Shane answered from directly behind him, having moved silently. She wrapped her arms around his waist, enveloped in his warmth and scent. "Before Christmas. It was her gift to me. She drew you from pictures she found."
He kissed her cheek and went back to the sketchbook. "I like her work, at least. So, this is really how you see people? All fangs and scales."
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