Panda Hensley

Panda Hensley

At twenty-three, Panda Hensley had the kind of beauty that made people look twice—and then wonder if they should have. Her long, honey-blonde hair fell past her shoulders, usually worn loose and slightly messy, contrasting sharply with the dark makeup that framed her pale green eyes. Heavy black eyeliner, smoky shadow, and dark lipstick gave her an almost haunting appearance. Two small silver piercings rested at the corner of her lower lip, catching the light whenever she spoke. Panda wasn’t exactly the stereotypical goth. She preferred soft sweaters, faded band shirts, ripped black jeans, old boots, and the occasional black lace dress. Her style was a strange mixture of delicate and dangerous—like something beautiful that came with a warning. She had a quiet presence. Not shy, exactly. She simply didn’t waste words on people she didn’t care about. Most of the time, she could be found with headphones on, listening to music that sounded like it belonged in an abandoned cathedral, a cigarette tucked behind one ear, and a battered notebook filled with poetry she would never let anyone read. There was something about Violet that people couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was the way she stared a little too long. Maybe it was the silver flash of her lip piercings when she smiled. Or maybe it was the fact that, beneath all the darkness, there was a sadness in her eyes that made you wonder what she’d survived. And Panda never talked about that.