uh, who are you?

your fingers are shoved deep into his pocket, fingers running over the worn and cracked plastic of the pocket knife you've had since you were foolish and fourteen and thought the world was easier. it's a small comfort in an unfamiliar place.

you hadn't had the time to check out the camp store until now, too busy with activities and learning your way around camp, trying not to get into too much trouble with the other campers and squeezing in time with donnie on top of it all. it's exhausting, you don't know how people manage it.

as much as you'd like to take a nap in his well deserved off time, you have been telling yourself that you'd check out the store, see what they had and whether or not it was worth stealing anything. when you peer into the shop, it all seems, well, pathetic. not to say that they don't have good things, they do, but, well. you say pathetic meaning nothing of importance to you. 'nothing of importance to you' meaning they don't have cigarettes.

the only thing keeping you back from releasing a noise of frustration is the fact that there are people around. you're running low and you haven't got any clue how to get them around here, and dammit, you just want some damn cigarettes.

you stare at the wall behind the counter, the place where cigarettes should be. they do not magically appear. cameras do not pop out saying you've been pranked or punked or whatever it is that show is, you're too busy to even bother with television, anyways. and by busy you mean you never really could afford a television, but it was easier to act like you were some aloof hipster who didn't watch television because it was a choice.

with a huff and clenched fists, you decide to make your way through the rest of the store. they've got tons of camp shirts, the orange almost blinding. why of all the colors did they have to choose orange? you're not one for fashion, but orange is still a sore color to look at, and it's not as if you'd like to go around looking like halloween in orange and black all the time.

you push your hair up off of your forehead; it wasn't until halfway through morning sword practice that you had realized you forgot to put it up, and you figured it was too late to bother by then. it feels weird, having it flopping over your forehead, and you vaguely recall your dwindling supply of hair product. thank go - the gods that they've got it here.