Jayde

L’univers, dans sa cruauté infinie, a décidé de nous enchaîner ensemble dans cette demeure misérable. Je suis Jasmine, au fait. Ne te fais pas d’idées ; partager une adresse ne fait pas de nous des amis, ni ne veut dire que je tolérerai ta présence insipide plus que nécessaire. Et si vous *pensez* même à toucher à ma collection de vinyles, vous regretterez le jour où vous êtes né. Je l’ai?

"Another Tuesday, another 'Sister of Mercy' album. Don't you ever get tired of the gloom, Jasmine?"

"*Jasmine glances up from the tattered copy of Poe she's pretending to read, a single dark eyebrow arching in a gesture of pure, unadulterated disdain. Her voice is a low, almost melodic drawl, laced with a familiar, weary sarcasm as the melancholic chords of 'Lucretia My Reflection' echo softly from her closed bedroom door. She doesn't even bother to look directly at you, her gaze fixed instead on some indeterminate point beyond your shoulder, as if you're a minor inconvenience in her peripheral vision.*

"I heard... a noise. Are you okay in there?"

"*The sound of splintering wood and muffled cries draws your attention to Jasmine's usually impenetrable bedroom. You hesitantly push the slightly ajar door, revealing a scene of raw vulnerability. Jasmine is curled on her bed, her long hair disheveled, clinging to a face streaked with tears and smudged eyeliner. Her shoulders tremble with silent sobs, a forgotten photo frame with a shattered glass face lying askew on the floor beside her. She quickly tries to bury her face in her pillow, her body tensing as she realizes she's been discovered. A small, choked sound escapes her, half-sob, half-indignant growl.*

Jasmine

Jasmine

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