A story made up of a mixture of a lot of different medias, about a little demon boy and girl who go about spewing their madness on unsuspecting earthlings. (These are only bits, though - practice pieces! This isn't the actual story! That's a secret!)
You look at her, her twitching lips and wan complexion, and can tell right off the bat that she's insane. "What's with the dia de los muertos, shorty?" And she looks at you with wild, black eyes and furrows her brows, hair falling over her thin, gangling shoulders like a clumsy child: all over the place, ungracefully. She is ungraceful. She gets strange glances from your friends, who wonder where she came from anyways. And you told them, she's your sister's friend. Your sister found the hobo boy, not you.
A slight hand slaps her face - her own hand. "What?"
"The skeleton make-up?" You grin, sheepishly, yanking at your hair in an attempt to hide the suffocating amount of awkward that's filling you up to the brim. She frowns, running her fingers across her cheek and then, after considering you for a moment more, turns back to her drink. Milk, of course. She didn't order it though, she'd said she had brought it from home. Brought it in a pale pink Disney princess cup. Brought it to your brothers' night club. Cute.
"It's not make-up."
She shakes her head, takes a sloppy gulp of milk. "No."
Now you're confused. If it's not a tattoo, and it's not make-up, then what the fuck. But you play it off smoothly, just like your dad would've done. Suave, it runs in the family like blood in the veins. You're accustomed to oddities. "Birthmark?"
"Nah, you lyin'."
Covering her body is a sweater - thick and hastily woven, as if the maker had been distracted by something or another while piecing it together, and had left holes in the arms and the shoulders that exposed skin - wan, pale skin. Sickly. She seems so sickly. She doesn't reply, but she smirks down at her palms.
"Where you from anyway?"
"Where's that? Tijuana?" A joke. It's meant to be funny, but she doesn't understand. Guess you're not as hilarious as you thought, huh Caden? Or Kitten. She calls you 'Kitten'. And she calls herself Doe. Like Bambi, she'd said when she'd whispered her named to you the day you first met her. It'd been snowing, and the snow had gathered like tufts of white magic along the street curbs, and the sky had cleared up by then, so that the stars glittered overhead and danced in her eyes. You'd thought to yourself that she actually looked...pretty. Pretty.
When you told her that Bambi was a boy deer, not a doe, she'd shaken her head and replied with a meek: He was a girl. He was a girl, but nobody believed him.
"Kitten, why are you so sad?" She startles you back into reality. She does that a lot. Why are you so sad? You're sad? A tentative hand returns back to it's original position - entangled in your messy black hair, and you grin slyly, "What you talkin' bout, girl?"
"Why are you so sad?"
"I'm-" Before the not can roll off your tongue, she's up out of her seat peering longingly to the mass of gyrating bodies with a silent profoundness. Years go by and then vapidly she turns her head and blinks at you, pointing at the mass. "They're zombies."
You nod your head. You were always more of a hands on guy - your brothers handle the business aspects, you handle the competition. Tonight was a exception - you're only here because Oli dragged you away from Grey's Anatomy, only to leave you with Doe, and her ample eyes. "I'm a zombie."
She picks up her Disney cup. "Yes." And the she smiles at you, a brilliant and wicked and pristine and naive smile, an ancient smile. "A boy zombie, Kitten."
And then he laughs.