Note: This is just a quick, rough character sketch. One of the characters in the story I’m working on. I doubt it will end up in the story as is. I just wanted to get to know Marley a bit, and the best way to do that, for me, is to write her into something. Anything.

Marley Osmoildis blew her red hair out of her face and cradled her chin in her palm. The login screen for Crystal Wars beckoned. It featured a buxom lass with cleavage for days, clad in an outfit that could only be described as “Victorian bondage slut warrior.” Slung over her shoulder was a vaguely rifle-shaped conglomeration of burnished wood, analog dial gauges, and gleaming brass. It looked big enough to stop a bear. A top hat with ornate goggles wrapped around its base above the brim tilted jauntily atop her crazy curlicue hair. Computer animated smoke slowly coiled out and up from the business end of the weapon.

Marley’s fingers twitched with the muscle memory of her password, but she didn’t type it in. Mail, first. She had promised. Promised herself. She reached around for her cane without looking and snatched it up. She thudded it into the carpeted floor between her feet, rested her hands on its ornate dragon handle and pulled herself up. She pushed back her leather office chair slightly with the backs of her knees as she straightened her legs. Pain ripped up the side of her leg and into her gut like a red bolt of lightning.

“Oh, hello, you,” she said, laughing away the wince and grimace as she often tried to do.

Something had happened to her as a child that neither she nor anyone in her family could remember that had somehow left her in this painful, crippled state. When people asked about it they were of course completely baffled. What do you mean, you don’t know? How could you not remember? Haven’t you seen a doctor? It wasn’t anything a doctor could fix, but how could she tell them that when neither she or anyone else knew what it was? Deliberately didn’t want to know. Not that she didn’t have her suspicions. The irony of trying to not think of a thing, and all that. But better to just not think about that. Better to think about that as little as possible. For her own protection. Considering her family, and all. Besides, most of the time she could stop them from asking in the first place. Her little trick.

She straightened out her layered black lace skirt and checked to make sure she’d buckled her boots. It wouldn’t do to have a spill on the way out to the mailbox. No, not at all. Ducking the odd strand of lit red Christmas lights she made her way to her apartment’s front door.

Great. She could hear people chattering out in the hall. Fuck. She bit her lower lip and leaned on her cane with one hand as she opened her front door with the other…

and shifted.

photo credit: ebbandflowphotography via photopin cc


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