Work Text:
It looks the same. The soup has gone cold now, and in its state, it has a striking similarity to the texture of rotting flesh. It smells different. But it looks the same.
The green. The shade of green is so sickly, so similar to the hue of zombie flesh and stained clothing. So similar to the death that draped over the skin of her friends and her brothers.
Shiloh drops her spoon and holds in a gag. She can’t stomach it. She’s hungry, they explored a rocky raelo and she didn’t eat lunch, but anxiety and fear and that image in the back of her mind… she just can’t.
The soup goes from lukewarm, re-heated in the microwave since no-one had had time to make dinner, to cold.
Shiloh doesn’t move. She sits alone at the table, staring at the soup for as long as she can manage before the sight makes her sick, and she’s forced to look away.
The clock ticks later and later, until the oven chimes for 11. It's been 2 hours. She gives up. Trembling, she stands, takes the soup and dumps it back into the glass container with the rest. Then leaves the bowl in the sink, and puts the soup back in the fridge.
Shiloh goes to her room. She throws up in a trashcan. She goes to bed and dreams of zombies and death.
And when she finally wakes up. When she finally goes downstairs, there are pancakes on the table with her name written in chocolate chips and no more pea soup in the fridge.