Vocab makes me creative.

Holding in her sobs, a young girl sat with her head in her hands, dark hair reaching over her shoulder and pooling around her feet.  She did not seem to care that blood stained her features, nor dyed her pale clothes red.  No the only thing she thought about, the only thing she could think about really, was the fact that her house, made of impregnable stone walls and surrounded by ditches, had been breached.  She could only sit in shock and remember her mother's diatribe, words falling from her lips without sound when the world exploded.  She could only stare in helpless amazement as the nefarious man and his troops stormed her house and ended her family's lives.  She felt as if she had been sitting there for hours when the police finally showed up. They came rushing in, much like the murderers from before, guns waving around. She pressed herself into the wall, electric blue eyes clouded over.  A man rushed over, and she recognized him.  It was the police chief, the one that always followed her father around like a lost puppy.  Her lips pulled into a sneer.  This little sycophant had no reason to be the one to comfort her.  He wasn't even worthy to carry her portmanteau.   Over the next few days, many people came to give their condolences to the demure girl with dark hair and cold eyes.  No one commented on the fact she was place in a slipshod orphanage, nor made and mention of the fact that she was angrier than usual.  Only she knew what had happened in that house, and she wouldn't talk about it.  She let the pernicious thoughts fester, becoming dark angry stains on her mind.  She knew of the ubiquitous eyes that followed her.  She slowly let her rage at the man her killed her parents grow until it was the only thing she knew.  Yet no one knew of her thoughts, her masks of a shy traumatized child. When she had conversations she made many a non sequiter to keep people confused.  She made no mention of her precursor nor any of her family.  Not her tiny siblings nor her elder grandparents.  She just silently vowed revenge.  She would kill that man, or her name wasn't Harriet Abigail Johnson.

Boop

Charlene sighed in exasperation. She cursed herself for firing her last secretary, as she now had to hold job interviews. Blegh. She shook her head sending the sicking sycophant out her door with a false smile and a wave. God, interviews were nearly draconian in its joy meter. She looked at the next name on her list.  "Lane, Kathleen."  A petite woman practically skipped out of her chair and Charlene felt her stomach plummet. It was that nefarious little dunce of a woman from the store! "Hello ma'am.  I'm here to apply fo-" Charlene raised her hand stopping the woman.  She saw the look of consternation on her face and felt a rush of vindictive glee. Smirking, she raised an eyebrow. "Why on earth, do you think id hire a charlatan like you to work for me?" her smirk turned into a grin as the woman across from her turned puce and started trying to vindicate herself. "Ms. Lane, you can be quiet now." Her grin was wide now, and Kathleen was flushed realizing that her words years earlier had had a pernicious effect on the lady she was now trying to be employed by.  She harrumphed and stood.  "Well Charlie," she hissed practically foaming at the mouth, "if you didn't have a case of anachronism you'd hire me. But because I know you're a backwater stuck up hick, I'll go find a job elsewhere." With a quick turn she strode out the door, or tried to anyway.  Charlene laughed as Kathleen Lane ran face first into her office door; and her laughter only got louder as the frustrated woman tried to open it the wrong way.