( It’s nice, familiar. It reminds her of the rocky shores of the town she called home, her younger years in particular.


She peruses festival as a whole but she examines the artists more with more intent, perhaps even a little scrutiny. She knows she could do better than some of the artists here, and that knowledge keeps her warm for long enough - up until she encounters artists, local photographers in particular, beyond her skill level.

Between her judgements, she samples only the high-end looking foods — all lobster, no mussels — and is quick to find a drink to follow it down. The effects of the iced-tea aren’t too far off from her usual demeanor and she hardly notices in difference in herself when the strong urge to be biting comes on.

Whether they truly are looking at her or not, she’s quick to snap: ) 



A picture would last longer. ( Said with a particularly pointed eye-roll. ) Speaking of pictures, can you believe some of the garbage the people in this town try to pass off as art? As if I’d pay for something so ugly.


( Victoria didn’t particularly need to get away from anything, but she could only stand to be surrounded by seafood for so long. Once far enough away, she gives herself a sniff to be sure she isn’t carrying the fish with her. 



The blueberry fields were the perfect change of scenery. A whole aesthetic, as it were. The authentic outdoorsy vibe would look so good on her Instagram feed! But that wasn’t really a priority right now. Not when, after only a few moments of walking through, she began to feel so incredibly sleepy...

She was conscientious enough to at least clear herself a small patch on the ground before making herself comfortable, because there was no way she was going home with fish stink and blueberry stains on her favorite sweater. 



Anyone who happens across her would be privy to soft murmurs and gentle tossing and turning. ) 


Not your fault… not anyone’s fault… 'cept those damn hipsters...

( Her dreams are of faces. Of course it’s his face — someone so trusted — but her dreams are nightmares wrapped up in blankets wrapped up in other dreams. End of the world prophecies, hurricanes, monsters in human faces. Monsters in human faces. It’s all the same — whether she’s asleep or awake, it’s all camera lenses, and paranoia, and waiting for the inevitable. 



Lately, she’s been holing herself up inside her ‘favorite’ diner. Favorite because they stay open late and they never stop serving coffee. Hands wrapped around a coffee mug, fingers jitterbugging against the porcine, back pressed against the stiff padding of the booth, eyes on sleepless alert and flinching with the possibilities.

After fighting for long enough, she slowly, slowly falls asleep in the booth. Any attempts at trying to rouse her will be met with a scream and maybe a lukewarm mug of coffee tossed in their direction. )