Sal would like to say that she hasn't forgotten all of her fond memories of walking into this kitchen, as well as the feeling of safety in Anathema's presence while she's patching up her wounds but...that's the trouble, isn't it? Unlike every memory Sal would wager her soul to forget, as painful and numerous as the scars spread across her skin, they were all taken from her in an instant.
It's only been weeks here, but for Sal it's been far longer. She gingerly moves out a chair from the table to sit; to behave, for once, and let the witch look at all of what's she's done to herself. Having left her dirty boots and heavy jacket at the door, she only has to make the effort of placing her sword and gun on the table.
Maybe it's only at this moment where Sal begins to be herself again; not that person fighting for her life, charging through armies, scraping by every deadly encounter by the skin of her teeth and clearly with the devil's own luck. When Jero had made her up to look normal, it was a fleeting moment, and she knew how fake the whole image appeared. How fleeting. Cosmetics can hide the scars, but they can't touch the hurt beneath them.
But this — she takes a seat to watch Anathema bustle around the kitchen in a way that makes her chest burn with a familiar feeling, this doesn't feel like some opera farce. It's not a show, it's just her and the girl who she remembers meant the world to her.
"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy," she says, with a bare fraction of her usual bravado. "However many of them there were, anyway, I can't ever keep track of shit like that." It should be a boost to her own confidence, but like everything else, the memory of how heavy Anathema's presence hits her returns with a ferocious vengeance. There's so little room to act tough, so she scrubs the tears that threaten to come out again with her dirty palms instead. Shit! Fuck! Pull it together, asshole.
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It's only been weeks here, but for Sal it's been far longer. She gingerly moves out a chair from the table to sit; to behave, for once, and let the witch look at all of what's she's done to herself. Having left her dirty boots and heavy jacket at the door, she only has to make the effort of placing her sword and gun on the table.
Maybe it's only at this moment where Sal begins to be herself again; not that person fighting for her life, charging through armies, scraping by every deadly encounter by the skin of her teeth and clearly with the devil's own luck. When Jero had made her up to look normal, it was a fleeting moment, and she knew how fake the whole image appeared. How fleeting. Cosmetics can hide the scars, but they can't touch the hurt beneath them.
But this — she takes a seat to watch Anathema bustle around the kitchen in a way that makes her chest burn with a familiar feeling, this doesn't feel like some opera farce. It's not a show, it's just her and the girl who she remembers meant the world to her.
"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy," she says, with a bare fraction of her usual bravado. "However many of them there were, anyway, I can't ever keep track of shit like that." It should be a boost to her own confidence, but like everything else, the memory of how heavy Anathema's presence hits her returns with a ferocious vengeance. There's so little room to act tough, so she scrubs the tears that threaten to come out again with her dirty palms instead. Shit! Fuck! Pull it together, asshole.