The Deck, Tuesday Morning

[rebelseekspizza]

Dante had a vague and nonspecific image of what Cassandra looked like - but in a school this small, she shouldn't have been so hard to spot. Still, he hadn't managed to run into her at all over the past few days, and it had left him frustrated, antsy and anxious. His two settings had always been 'do something' or 'forget about it'-- but he hadn't managed to do the former and he was having a hard time with the latter.

So after rolling out of bed on Tuesday, he'd gotten dressed, snagged his guns on the way out the door, and parked his ass on the deck.

After an hour of waiting, though, there was still no sign of her. He let out a sigh, slumped further into his seat, and parked his feet up on the divider. Great. Now even his efforts to do something were making him antsy. He should've brought the boombox and tossed on those Dead Kennedys albums Pretentious-Ass Starsmore had passed on. He found a pen in his pocket, fiddled with it. Fiddled with Ebony for a second, too. Looked up at the ceiling, counted the cracks. ... Finally, he tilted his head up and tried to balance the pen on his face.

Screw Hellfire Prison. This was hell.

[[ open! ]]