Totally screwed over
She stands alone in the middle of London, a battered duffel bag by her feet and an oversized khaki jacket on her back. Fucking perfect. She's got to go round the long bloody way to get to the safe zones unless she tries her luck in vamp territory. But Johanna's not stupid. She's not going there unarmed.
She crosses Trafalgar square quickly, keeping her head up, her eyes flicking in every which direction and ducking through the crowds as quickly as she can. Which right now, isn't exactly as quickly as she would like. She walks stiffly, the bruises all over her body causing her more pain than she would ever care to admit. Teeth gritted though, she barrels on. That is, until her path is blocked by someone. Johanna scowls.
"I would move if I were you."
Not like the rest of you.
She's not really got anywhere to go, even once she reaches the East End. She heads for Waltham Forest for no other reason than the reference to the woods. Once there, she treads the streets until she finds herself a park. A tree is much like any other tree, but to Johanna at least, they remind her of home. She reaches up to swing herself into the lower branches of one quite far into the park: she growls in annoyance when her grip fails and she falls on her backside with a thump. She tries again though, and again and again, until at last she gives up and kicks the trunk hard out of her sheer frustration.
"Fuck you!" she screams out, her voice hoarse and cracking.
The only result is her toe hurting now too, a specific pain, unlike the dull ache that floats through the rest of her body.
Is it a good excuse to take an extra tablet now? She flings herself down under the tree, her back resting against it. And then she realises that someone's coming towards her, and she groans again.
"What do you want?"
A bit of rain never hurt nobody
She realised too late, of course, that her plan for sleeping in a tree would do only as long as the weather held. It wasn't the cold that bothered her in the slightest, but rather the rain.
June in England is wet. This year, it's uncharacteristically wet. At first, Johanna tries to ignore it, and just pulls her sleeping bag above her head. But still, she can feel - she can almost hear - the steady drip, drip, drip of raindrops splashing down onto her forehead. It's almost exactly like where he made her - NO!
No, she refuses to think, but the damage is done, and she can't stay here any more. Not in the rain.
She doesn't bother to pack, but simply bundles the sleeping bag over her shoulders and her face, an extra layer of protection from the water. With her bag over her shoulder, she runs, quickly scaling the fence that surrounds the locked park. But where to go? She's spent her time in London so far watching people. She's cottoned on to a few of the werewolves, though she hasn't directly approached them. She has followed them though, noted their comings and goings, looked out for their homes. For now she's got no choice. She'll have to go there.
She groans as she turns on her heel and runs to the nearest residence. A hammering on the door will hopefully wake the occupant, not quite sure what she'll say when the door is eventually opened.
For now though, she presses into the doorway as close as she can, away from the rain.