Saying that socialization is a rarity for the Killer would have been stretching it, at the very least. With Christmas looming in the small peak of time (T-minus 12 Hours), Jacinthe understands the general modernized rituals that take place - usually the same in any cultural setting. This is the time where humans gather to give thanks, exchange gifts (that later, she learned that material gifts are the most common within the community but as it stands, materialistic objects are not a requirement). Families congregate from their corners of the planet to share stories and revel in one another's long missed presence. It is never understood, still today, why people required a day to dictate their appreciation for another. To Jacinthe, a person either shows care for another person or they didn't. No grey area clouds her firm opinion on the subject of the mutualism woven into social relationships.
Weeks, months rolled by without the accepted definition of a conversation occuring amongst the two women. Repeating an obsessive routine makes time bleed together, making it hard for the pseudo-white haired vampire to keep a regular pattern in visiting with Elizabeth. Breaking the routine of training and resting seems like an impossible task that she's been unwilling to put more effort into than necessary.
A disturbingly frozen stare targets a clock hanging from the wall above the bank tellers. Several more hours remain before participating in the rituals of the few people still near her side. As close as she's able for anyone to be but there are times where blue moons come to reveal their existence more frequently than she. The line inches forward as another person leaves the building, their financial transaction having been satisfactory and successful. But the monotony of the standard activities that undergo during her nights lull Jacinthe to reflect on how best to display her appreciation for both Shamus and Elizabeth? This requires a deep consideration, more than just meeting the accepted essentials.
It all comes back to one particular object in her possession:
the plant.
A formulation of different strategies come together, brewing beneath the layers of flesh and skull. The line shortens, and the course of action approaches its finalization stage just as she completes her monetary transaction. Celerity clips the distance that wedges in between herself and the vegetation awaiting the corpse's arrival. Tonight is also the night it's hydrated.
Avoiding schedules that align with anyone else's was found unchallenging, so there were never narrow chances of having to verbally communicate with any other resident. Light footsteps guide her to the room that houses the plant; her presence has never been absorbed by the room. Only life within the solid confines of a five walled imprisonment can allow the air to maintain an alluring warmth. With fresh water beside the clay pot, habit reminds her that she must first tend to the need that sustains life before the want to appease desire. The basin in careful hands is tipped to pour the exact measurement of water that has been engrained in her memory. Once the container is placed precisely in its designated position, Jacinthe takes a seat in a chair, the only piece of furniture decorating the room.
A voice, muffled by the width of the door, is that of a woman who once took great pleasure in raveling the curiousities that lie in social interactions with other people. All despite her challenges with relating to one in any general sense, and articulating sympathy - or empathy - to the best of her emotional capabilities.
"Hello, Vee. I hope you continue to sustain life, the water I have provided will last you the average estimated time that I have recited before. I contain a great amount of trust that you remember. Your color is vibrant, and I read that that is a good sign. You have the ideal height and shape that a high standard plant of your specific origin attains with very strict monitoring levels and perfected doses of their preferred elements. Tonight, I regret to inform you of a change in our schedule."
A paper and a permanent marker slide out of an envelop requested at the bank. Uncapping the sharpie, she writes out on the paper's top half:
My name is Vee. I am a gift received by Jacinthe but my origins start with Elizabeth Naarc. I am regularly scheduled the following; hydration, sunlight, transference to larger pots with commodating, fresh soil and daily three to four hours of positive, verbal communication. For Christmas it was agreed upon that I come show you that I have not perished.
Merry Christmas,
Vee, and Jacinthe
The paper is folded to stand up as a pyramid with the words unobscured to deliver their message. As the gaping orifice of yellow-orange paper swallows the permanent marker, the Killer lifts from the aged wooden structure. One hand cradles the message, the other cradles the plant whose pot wedges into her side similar to mothers with genetic offspring. Elizabeth and Shamus' room is the prime destination but one that yields no favorable results. Determined to exposing this gift to her closest friends, Jacinthe risks the probability of encountering situations that force conversations in order to seek out closure of the task she's given herself. It's much more reasonable for other people to know the whereabouts of the two than for herself. Tracking remains a amateur skill in its best performance for the Swedish-American though her senses stay alert for the lingering hints of either the Telepath or the Shadow.
First floor is scouted, the second the same. A strong, pungent scent unmistakably pine oriented overwhelms the sensitive sense of smell and leads her to the library. A tree, decorated in related fashion to ones in the plethora of foster homes she was cycled through growing up. Packages nestle under the coverage, each with a different name. Encroaching further and furthering the assault on her high functioning preception of the world, her name calls from one of the wrapping papers. Without hesitation, aware that there was more than just her name beckoning off paper neatly lined up against the base of the tree, the plant is swapped for the bundle. Message set front and foremost.
"Make sure that you tell Elizabeth to bring you back and tell her thak you. I will practice patience until you return. Goodnight, Vee."
Jacinthe Tessyla runs nimble fingers gingerly over the plant itself, fixated on the texture for a mesmerizing albeit short span of time before she straightens up and exits the library.
. : . : . : . : .
Fashion is as foreign as natural, casual conversations. It's held up pinched between two fingers of either hand to be closely examined. Every stray thread, every frayed section of pattern. It is hand made, that is a fact. Elizabeth's musk is distinct to her, even through all the time that they were absent from one another. Using that information, Jacinthe theorizes that Elizabeth made her sweater.
So for the rest of the night after the article of clothing is pullec over her head and fit onto her form properly, Jacinthe wears the ugly sweater.
Merry Christmas.
)
