Sticky pads and cracked hands

Her head hurt. Eyes focusing in the dark. Bats flapping around. The sun was barely starting to come up. Food crusted paper plates littered the living room. Remains of the party last night. Everyone was still sleeping. About 10 bodies laying unconciously on the floor. Some snoring, some too deep in their dreams to notice that rain was leaking through the roof and onto their foreheads. She chuckled. Her feet were numb. The glass bowl broke and was lying in shards over in the corner. Whos house were they at again? No one seemed to know. The sudden act of hospitatlity had shocked them all. Here they were, travelers, roamers, outcasts, invited into the home of somebody who obviously had it together. Food, a hot shower, even a smile was all it took to make her feel like a human being. She had been a sillhouette for such a long time, nothing to define her as...real. And now here she was, wrapped in sheets, hair brushed and stomach full. It felt nice, it felt comfortable, too comfortable. It scared her. She stood up and started stepping over people to get to the front door. It was locked. Silly people. Didnt they realize the real danger was already inside? She changed her mind and went over to the window, sliding it up and popping out the screen she crawled out into the damp grass. It was foggy and cold. Goose bumps crawled up and down her arms. She could of asked for a coat, shoes, an extra change of clothes. but she refused. She loved testing her self. her survivial skills. she was cold...yes...but she was going to deal with it. Walking away from the strange yet familar house full of her comrades she couldnt help but feel meloncholy....yet...empowered...she was back.