Well, wasn't this just adorable.
Silent silver blue eyes twitched over the various items laid out over the delicate, chipper patterned tablecloth, organized in some manner that made them possibly more appetizing to look at. If this was the case, she wasn't buying it. A rather thin arm raised up, pale beyond normalcy, ever so carefully towards the wooden chair awaiting an assertive touch. Fingers curled, chipped nail polish rubbed against the material for a moment. Steadying her hand the best she could, the seat was pulled out from the table, and soon occupied after.
Averting tired pupils from the table to an empty, rather scrawny lap, the lass with a gathering of vibrant strands a top her head fidgeted with her clothing. Pulling at the scratchy, black wristband laid across her left limb, it seemed she couldn't sit still for very long. Rubbing fingertips against the skin rather harshly, relief filling the body as an itch was doused. Crimson circular marks, deeply set within the skin that was once porcelain clear, smooth beyond belief, were covered once again as the band was reset into place. Eyeing the one on her opposite arm, the girl finally sat back against her seat, raising her chin up higher.
Teeth, white enough for her liking, scuffed over a bottom lip, kind of chapped for this time of the season. But, this was normal. Not much was normal in her life but this. Food. There was food in front of her. Lids shut quickly over perfect sight, falling to only black. Neck arching at the back, bone sticking up and out against the skin like an eager child wanting to leave the house at the first spot of snow outside, once more the face was directed towards legs covered in black skinnies. No, she didn't want food. Did she have to have food? Why was there food? Well, scratch that last one.. Tugging at the ends of her tee, which was kinda drowning her frame beyond the fabric, some skin was to be chewed at against that one lip. Actually, she had worn her favorite shirt that morning, in hopes of some luck possibly being set in to each fiber making it a solid. It was a black shirt, with some gray shades mixed throughout, maybe giving it some dimension or something? She wouldn't know, she didn't design the thing. There was a single wolf in the center, sitting elegantly over the edge of a soft white cliff. The head was thrown back, the paws sturdy against the flakes of snow, and the canines were showing to help release a heartbreaking howl, calling to the wind. It was a beautiful sight. Wolves were her favorite..
Bleached out stubble grazed the right side of her head, which might have been a weird choice for a hairstyle to most of the general human public. They didn't know of what she had gone through, so she couldn't give them the time of day to care, or adjust herself. Soft, pale pink layers were choppy, falling along the other side, usually blocking a bit of her forehead. Bold, straight out pink was the color of the ends, pulled at to stay over her shoulder, leaving her neck as bare as she could manage for most of the time. She wore no jewelry, besides her black wristbands. She was told before this 'experiment' she would not be able to bring what she considered jewelry. That was indeed a shame. Play it nice, play it safe, play it happy. By remembering these three guidelines in her head, she knew she would be able to leave this place and never come back eventually. So what if she might lie here and there. These people were not her friends, they were not her blankets of protection, nor her stuffed animals, slightly chewed up by her husky, Marcy. A wince caused her to gently suck in her cheeks, accenting the shadows against her face even more than before. She missed her dog. Ignoring a few drops falling to the fuzzy black fabric near the bottom of her palm, she stared.
They thought this would help her 'get better', her aunt and uncle promised it would work this time.
But, what was 'better'? Were things already 'worse' when she came to be?
Wiping at her eyes, Charlotte Morell took in a deep breath. She knew her limit, what she could handle physically, and emotionally (and mentally, why not). If the cards were played right, she would handle this.
Using two hands, Lette grabbed at a pitcher of water. Trying to show no struggle, though her expressive dark eyebrows showed everything, she brought it over to her side. Filling a small glass to the top, her body was tilted forward to sip from the edge, only spilling a little. Fixing her eyes down on the tablecloth, the cold glass was set before her, sitting still and just as silent as before. If Webster's threw a competition for putting an image behind the word 'reserved', she might as well leave and work on her acceptance speech right then and there.