Kit Marquez represents one side of the coin. Heads. She's a heart attack with poisonous smiles and eyes like melted chocolate, captivating and deadly. She's also angry. Angry at the world, angry at the people in her life, angry with everyone except...
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THEODORA MONTOYA: perched precariously on the edge of her apartment building's fire escape, her legs dangling over the side, ankles knocking together in a constant rhythm that might cause them to end up bruised, a drop of sweat running down her spine from the effort it took to climb up to her current position.
A strand of dark auburn hair falls from its containment against her head by one of her many obnoxiously coloured clips and bobby pins, falling in her eyes. It tickles her brow and she blinks, torn from her thoughts, and stares at it with a transfixed expression. It's too short to tuck behind her ear, so she lets it be.
Around her, the city is quiet. It's to be expected, as the only creatures awake aside from herself are a couple of stray cats and some weary-looking adults coming back from long night shifts. The sky is dripping with cool dawn, too early to be considered daytime and too late to be considered nightime, but Theo likes it best in this stage — quiet and still, like she's looking at the world through a photograph, and she gets to watch her neighbours wake up and the different ways they each start their days. People watching, she finds, is a strangely addictive hobby.
A cool breeze passes by her and her entire body shivers in response to it. She's normally very resilient to the cold, all pale skin and thick woollen jumpers and faux fur-lined boots, but she knows the sun will rise in about an hour and then the unforgiving summer day's heat will be unbearable to her body.
She fiddles with her necklace absent-mindedly and lies back against the fire escape, fully aware that her position is dangerous but also fully uncaring. Her chest feels metaphorically empty, like she'd woken to the realization that her heart had run away during the night hours. Not literally, of course — she places a hand over her chest and feels the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of its beating — but she'd felt a bit like something was just missing. For a while, she'd wondered if she'd forgotten something like a birthday or an international holiday, but after double-checking her calendar, that had been ruled out. It was more like her entire self was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, waiting for a star to explode, waiting for the world to end.
