awoken.

lilac  mornings   /   white-out  afternoons.     a  day  grows  bitter  when  memory  speaks  its  permanence.     when  the  dogged  begin  to  balk  at  its  once  silent  mouth.     no  longer  a  mere  pavlovian  response:   her  clean  figure  sidles  close  to  his  own,   and  he  will  remember  his  dirt-packed  reflection.     (   un-fucking-believable  bitch,   and  her  stupid  little  camera.   )     for  her  eyes,   a  scowl  darkens  his  shadowed  sockets.     the  sunken  pout,   laid  beneath  his  mask,   is  for  him  alone.     ‘   the  press  will  –   ’     clenched  jaw:   this  chagrin  won’t  pass  his  ticking  muscles.     under  his  teeth,   it  becomes  buttery.     pools  past  his  teeth  like  gathering  spit  for  an  altar.     ‘   y’gonna  publish  the  photos  of  the  shrine  on  your  bedside  table?     my  candlelit  picture  right  beside  your  own.     nothing  comforts  you  like  a  reflection,   yeah?   ’     his  tone  teeters  down  to  a  grumble.     despite  himself,   he  grabs  her  bicep,   gently  like  a  web  wraps  around  a  fly,   and  tries  to  pull  them  to  the  room’s  outskirts.     ‘   tricky,   tricky.     if  you’re  gonna  dote  on  me,   you  could  do  me  the  solid  of  feeling  warmer.     just   ( … )   tone  down  on  the  bitch-speak,   citizen  kane.     someone,   i  won’t  name  names,   might  start  calling  you  fake.   ’

you  bite,   again,   at  your  gnarled  tongue.     the  blood  tastes  burgundy.     like  slurried  rain  off  french  coasts,   at  the  heart  of  babylon  isles,   cinched  tightly  by  man.     to  suit  its  single  fish-eyed  gaze.     this  muggy  booth   –   plum-lit  with  a  latent  tremble  of  music   –   brews  the  hackneyed  pain  in  your  mouth.     cut  on  the  earth:   damp  and  endless  like  a  tooth  wound.     in  the  empty  socket,   a  clove  of  bone.     (   your  father  had  the  same  loose  tooth.     same  spot;   same  gum.   )     this  autumn  craving  is  older  than  her.     dyed  black  in  memory.     of  your  first  home,   you  remember  chestnut  tiles  and  cicada-sung  nights.     here  you  learned  that  a  stupid  pig  chews  seaweed,   and  tastes  the  same  sticky  viscera  of  leftover  meat.     that  a  wound  lurks,   evermore,   amidst  shark-held  waters.     he  puts  both  elbows  onto  the  table.     ‘   yeah?     pity  you’ve  got  the  taste  of  a  flat-rate  client.     charm   like  one  too.     y’should  practice  more  in  the  mirror.     it’s  not  just  for  looking  at  yourself.   ’     under  the  weight  of  his  raised  brow,   his  head  tilts  in  mild  curiosity.     she  lifts  her  toes  from  the  encroaching  tide,   but  not  from  the  wet  sand.     nothing  but  ocean  on  the  horizon;   water  will  always  find  another  stranded  body.     you  chortle  at  her,   at  the  idea  that  a  bar  could  alleviate  your  thirst.     all  that  water,   and  all  your  lungs  can  do  is  beg  for  more.     ‘   my  dime  is  your  dime   ––   your  dime  is  your  own.     an’  my  dime  likes  to  dine  on  what  it  can  see.     on  fresh  bunny,   or  naked  duck   ( … )   what’s  it  seeing  now,   hmm?     something  that  plays  with  its  meat?   ’

You didn’t get it. You were never gonna get it. They dangle these things in front of you, they tell you you got a chance, but I’m sorry, it’s a lie. They had already made up their mind. They knew what they were gonna do before you walked in the door. You made a mistake and they are never forgetting it. As far as they’re concerned your mistake is just… It’s who you are. And it’s all you are. And I’m not just talking about the scholarship. I’m talking about everything. I mean, they’ll smile at you, they’ll pat you on the head, but they are never, ever letting you in. But listen, It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Because you don’t need them. They’re not gonna give it to you, so what? You’re gonna take it. You’re gonna do whatever it takes, you hear me? You are not gonna play by the rules. You’re gonna go your own way, you’re gonna do what they won’t do. You’re gonna be smart, you are gonna cut corners and you are gonna win. They’re on the 35th floor. You’re gonna be on the 50th floor. You’re gonna be looking down on them. The higher you rise, the more they’re gonna hate you. Good. Good. You rub their noses in it. You make them suffer. Because you don’t matter all that much to them. So what? Screw them. Remember, the winner takes it all.

it's not often she does this: seek people out. if she can help it, she'll get the job done herself. always so isolated - and by her own hand - sometimes she wonders how long she can keep going like this. until her skin is raw and her legs give out, until the exhaustion literally takes her out itself. for now, she's been driving herself in circles over the names the office received - the offer that came with it. a name for a name. with begrudging acquiescence, she slips into august's office, already preparing herself for his quips. if she plays her cards right, she'll be able to get at least something from this. "look at you. it's almost a miracle you're still sitting in an office like this." or an obvious marker of how corrupt this city really is. "someone must be looking out for you, huh?" she grasps the chair in front of her, her chest tight and her throat scratchy. there's a reason she keeps her distance. she speaks definitively, lips pursing in defiance. "i have a couple of questions to ask you."

dual  silhouettes  at  the  creek’s  border:   where  the  water  cascades  into  foam.     there  are  songbirds,   still,   in  this  blue  memory.     chirping  under  the  blanket  of  nightfall.     his  finger  would  point;   she  wouldn’t  look.     you  get  what  you  deserve:   a  smacked  cheek  and  a  grabbed  chin.     (   why  look  at  what  you’ve  already  been  shown?   )     where  she  grew  quiet,   he  dove  into  something  cruel.     tammy  and  auggie:   a  pair  can’t  separate  for  long,   can  they?     he  remembers,   and  she  still  walks  into  his  office.     ‘   de-tec-tive  kassa.   ’     an  absent  greeting,   conversational  in  its  forced  lack  of  familiarity.     gaze  adrift,   he  paws  for  his  schedule  book.     every  golden  script  needs  its  silver  props,   and  every  daylight  burner  needs  a  good  chiding.     ‘   tam-sin  ka-ssa   ( … )   tammy  kassy   ( … )   hmm,   looks  like  you’re  not  booked  in.     shoulda   known   you’d  visit  on  another’s  dime.   ’     each  syllable  drags  on  his  tongue,   wading  through  lazy  spit  and  clenched  teeth.     the  cat  prowls,   and  the  fox  shadows;   you  never  could  walk  astride  with  her.     and  now,   he  joins  their  gazes.     the  little  book  drops,   soft  thump  against  the  mahogany  desk,   and  he  breathes  deeply.     we’ll  never  have  enough  time.     ‘   mine  can’t  look  after  themselves.     same  as  yours.     lovely  as  this  is,   don’t   waste  my  time.   ’

in  the  city’s  withering  sunlight   –   worn  by  dark  smog,   and  the  overreaching  hand  of  mankind   –   her  skin  pares  to  nothing.     this  is  what  coaxes  you:   an  exposed  cheekbone,   drawing  his  eye  in  ways  her  fingers  will  not.     that  apricot  blood  would  honey  his  stubble.     sweet  like  death’s  ripened  scent.     she  leads;   he  follows.     (   what  you’ve  destroyed  will  not  eat  itself.   )     she  brushes  the  hard  bone  of  your  maw,   which  tickles  your  gums  and  your  spine.     his  chin  cants  down  to  her  touch.     with  the  flat  of  your  tongue,   you  should  trace  her  jaw.     tear  her  from  groin  to  gullet;   show  her  those  pink  entrails  before  the  world  blackens.     her  eyes  would  close.     your  blood  would  flow  unshed.     his  shoes  frame  hers  instead:   their  outer  rims  press  together.     he  noses  along  her  jaw,   underlining  bone  with  bone.     ‘   would  you  come  back  if  you  thought  i  couldn’t  hunt?   ’     a  crackling  hum  in  his  throat.     where  desire  burrows  like  fire  reaches  for  dry  air,   loosens  within  the  depths  of  your  flesh.     it  speaks  for  you.     syllables  waxed  thin  past  your  teeth.     a  conceded  open-mouthed  kiss,   before  he  pulls  back  from  her  thrumming  heartbeat.     (   obsessive  in  our  restraint:   the  divine  feast  forgives.     this  god  will  save  us,   we’ll  make  sure  of  it.   )    his  thumb  searches  for  the  seam  that  hides  her  taut  hip.     there  his  inflection  lowers  too:   a  sighed  howl  to  a  waning  moon.     ‘   be  good.     you  have  a  clean  neck  for  a  reason.     an’  now  my  plate  will  taste  less  lovely,   just  ‘cause  you  couldn’t  be  good.   ’

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐒𝐒 . @8blud

[   💌   starter   for   @8blud   at   trader   joe's   ]

an  electric  whine  passes  through  her.     entwines  with  the  silky  brush  in  her  hair.     he  can’t  recede,   then,   like  an  aged  gum.     not  when  a  puddle  ripples  as  the  rabbit  gently  drinks.     ‘   saw  a  kid  lick  one  of  them  an’  then  put  it  back.     only  one  but   –   ’     a  relaxed  shrug.     he  won’t  look  at  her.     ‘   –   could  be   any   of  them.     y’wanna  take  that  chance?   ’

── from the beguiling depths of her morass mind, on such somnolent forenoon, it's his knavish cry that reels her back in, trounced at once by the image of the collar beset with blood. hanged man, drowned man, do not let thy heart flitter, for in the eternal darkness the very she returns to thee. in the mirror, from her vantage point, there's only one wicked thing that she looks at, one wicked thing that looks back — is it her reflection or him? awfully attuned to his every move, lavinia dismisses his trumped-up accusation with a deft wave of her hand, eluding his eye. “well, at least you finally look decent.” an index finger finds itself pressed against the cut, skin to skin, now stained with cardinal red. leaving a sudden cleft between them, she runs a finger across her cheek as if using crimson tint, or some recherché blush, and not his blood. “i quite like this shade.”

the  sight  of  her   /   a  clean-gulped  breeze.     dry  breath,   un-buried  by  the  lake’s  air,   remembered  by  this  sea-wicked  witch.     a  man  washed  ashore,   and  a  blinking,   fawn-eyed  woman  at  his  side.     holding  her  in  the  crook  of  your  elbow;   rigidly  clutched  by  her  cold,   shadowed  fingers.     there  is  no  i  or  we  between  them.     there  is  only  you  and  you.     (   your  mud-rich  hands,   and  her  precious,   precious  head.   )     bone-locked  and  blood-warm.     the  abyss  grows  arms   /   closer  than  your  own  skin.     an  empty  scoff.     he  doesn’t  waver,   even  when  her  claw  touches  him.     ‘   of  course,   how  could  i  think  otherwise?     an’  next  time,   my  cheek  will  be  your  dirty  napkin  for  that   ( … )   smudged  lipstick.     whatever  the  fuck  you  use.   ’     it  trails  to  nothing.     bare  mumbles.     his  gaze  flits  around  her  cherried  cheeks.     it  does  suit  the  invertebrate  call  that  reaches  only  his  ears.     ‘   take  the  rest  of  me,   then  i’ll  smell  you  before  i  see  you.     ‘cause  i  always  know  when   my  blood’s   around.     y’know?     it’ll  want  to  seep  back  into  me  eventually.   ’

Like a hawk eyeing a flaunting mouse in the field,     she fixates.     Mask covering his face,    transforming his voice,    but how that careful tease is placed in between them.    Bait reddening the waters.     She,    that hungry shark that nears a sailor half-asleep among one frail wooden raft.      “Maybe I’ll give you to him as my next sacrifice.”        The smile is lazy,    languid as it splits her lips apart and teeth are shown.     Not quite on edge,   but certainly aware of how the shoulders tense    —    her spine jerking slightly like it knows a war-pig when it senses one.      Thick on the verge of delusion,    she with her wolf-like hunger and he,    with his leech-like desperation.     Always willing to be pitted against a phantom.      Comparisons to the dead hardly held any weight for the living.        Aranya’s gaze sharpens,    merciless,    even as the smile wanes.     Her features hold her stoic persona of someone simply not present enough to share idealisms with a carnivorous snake.     The Moscow accent comes out heavy here,    wrathful.      “If you want to ask me to dance   [ … ]      you will have to swallow your pride,     little one.         Every drop of it.”

for  all  its  wanton  glory,   technicolour  disappoints.     the  blood-pink  face  bores  you.     crisp  and  crimson  hues  distract  from  the  real  show.     unearned  touch;   the  maw  can’t  grip  so  tightly  around  another’s  neck.     only  tenderised  meat,   christened  by  the  hunt,   deserves  the  thickened  shades  of  red.     when  flesh  splits  from  bone.     the  jellied  matter  from  a  hand-crushed  skull.     how  it   drools   from  a  porcelain  doll’s  glass  eye.     a  doe-shot  gaze:  made  for  staring  the  sun  back  in  its  white,  unblinking  eye.     her  image  fizzles  to  a  grainy  black-and-white.     the  clouds  stop  the  sky  breaking  from  the  sea,   and  the  sun  won’t  rise  again.     you  settle  further  into  your  seat,   letting  your  head  loll  from  side  to  side.     ‘   now  where  did   your   pride  go?   ’     finger  by  finger,   he  removes  his  right-hand  glove.     the  soft  sigh  in  shedding  leather  skin.     smacked  lips   /   a  spare  glance.     ink-dark  irises,   emerging  into  her  lashes.     the  greying  skin  of   a  worm-less  corpse.     the  only  true,   worldly  red  flows  in  your  veins  like  water  through  a  valley.     and  you  must  earn  the  drop  you  seek.     ‘   you  already  refused  the  offer.     y’gonna  abandon  yourself   for  me?     that’s  sweet   ––   you  don’t  look  like  much  of  a  swallower.   ’

❝ kind, indeed. you spoil me, jack. ❞ for all that it sounds facetious, orson speaks nothing but truth. as it stands, the majority of his operations within hanging man involve disposing of the visceral evidence of the organization's finest : the armed & brainless. if he had a dollar for every dripping bag of useless waste dumped on his doorstep for disposal, perhaps he could replace the many antique carpets they've ruined with their stains. ❝ it isn't often i'm presented with options. ❞ a pause, and he turns only then to look toward jack once more. ❝ it would appear i've forgotten my manners entirely tonight . . . can i offer you a drink ? ❞

something  grotesque  swathed  in  cotton  like  a  childhood  memory.     close-eyed  and  wishing.     this  time,   the  script  will  like  you.     this  time,   your  hand  will  scalp  the  pelt  from  its  meat  as  your  father  watches.     you  will  be  better,   this  time,   when  scripture  releases  its  hold  on  your  shoulders.     a  human-shaped  grip:   whose  hands  are  those?     un-aged  freckles  or  wrinkles.     soft  like  moth-eaten  flesh.     a  sweet  hum,   caught  in  his  throat  like  a  sickly  cough.     ‘   that   sounds  like  something  a  sweetie  would  do.     i  thought  your  name  was  orson  lloyd,   patron  saint  of  mr.  horne’s   best  boy   behaviour.   ’     his  hands,   absently,   drop  the  pictures  like  a  wad  of  cards.     (   the  game  plays  itself:   you  have  nothing  to  hide.   )     and  then,   they  clasp  behind  his  back  while  he  idly  shadows  orson.     you’ll  always  follow  the  blood-trail.     no  matter  how  faint,   no  matter  how  pulse-less.     ‘   i  can’t  wine  without  my  dine  but  that  could  disappoint  you,   couldn’t  it?     i  won’t  do  that.     not  to  you.     right?     y’could  put  it  into  the  skull  of  my  first  kill   ( … )   think  i  still  have  it  at  home.     i’ll  bring  that  too  after  you  uh,   decide.   ’

"what did you do, did you say? you aren't qualified to give lobotomies, if i remember it right. be good now, mr. horne. if you bleed any more on the pews, you'll give poor sister agnes a hernia, at her ripe old age." sister agnes is a good excuse for driving people away, especially those that brought their mess to the doors of the church. "you know how she gets about dust, much less... this."

harken  to  the  bloodshot  man’s  recoiling  hiss.     how  it  beholds,   unabashed,   its  own  pain  to  an  angel’s  tenfold  gaze.     where  most  would  trip  into  self-pity  and  loathing,   you  lay  into  the  stringed  script  of  your  own  ruination.     (   shameless  in  your  skin:   write  a  eulogy  with  your  own  ash.   )     who  else  would  happen  upon  you   ––   bear  witness  to  your  catacombs  and  its  remnant  curls  of  dirtied  fingernails?     an  angel   /   a  brother:   you  should  wield  the  title  like  the  prayer  he  awaits.     spoken  meanly  into  a  cherried  sponge.     a  holy  gaze  shouldn’t  drift  below  the  clouds.     not  when  a  brother  watches,   eternally,   and  thinks  of  deadening  summer  days.     august  dawns   /   sandalwood  dusks.     jack  gives  the  kneeling  man  a  sidelong  stare.     ‘   you  don’t  need  water.   ’     sheathed  within  your  tone  of  disinterest.     idle  dwellings:   you  want  to  spit  in  his  eyes  for  looking  at  such  sin.     dust  your  blister  into  his  palms.     the  skin  thrums,   unbidden,   when  it  remembers  its  sea-soaked  past.     let  him  bottle  you  into  holy  water,   alongside  the  salted  abel  instinct.     fine.     you  still  spit  on  your  wound.     ‘   that’s  all  the  water  you  need.   ’     quiet,   quiet.     quiet.     too  hushed  here,   now,   in  absence  of  mass  and  its  worshipers.     your  tongue,   of  course,   recovers  where  your  dried  veins  lag.     ‘   oh  i’m  well  aware  the  old   ( … )   crone  has  cleaned  worse.     much  worse.     d’you  know  how  dirty  an’  rusty  her  bed  frame  is?     y’should  be  ashamed  of  not  paying  her  enough.     i   wouldn’t  leave  her  hanging  like  that.   ’

it  always  comes  back,   you  know  this,   hungry  for  a  stronger  nest.     a  fresh  queen,   unsullied  by  her  thumb’s  filth.     her  worker’s  proclivity  to  return  rotten  meat.     you  smell  a  home  before  you  know  it.     august  garvey  knew  this.     pinned  his  surname  to  an  unused  bullet  in  a  child’s  coat  pocket.     (   she  leaves  hers  in  a  nursery,   doesn’t  she?   )     a  chin  lowers  until  he  stares  at  her  with  a  forward  tilt.     there’s  no  place  for  a  surname  here.     not  even  a  gifted  one.     ‘   get  them  off   ––   what  would  your  daughter  think  if  she  heard  that?   ’     jack  tuts  like  such  a  mundane  thing  could  disgust  him.     ‘   you’re  not  supposed  to  be  out  this  early  either,   dearie,   blistering  among  the  fleshy  piggies  like  this   ( … )   i  would’ve  let  you  in  y’know.     for  a  nice,   long  look.     you  weren’t  too  scared  to  join  me,   were  you?   ’

Rowan,    he supposes,     has her own share of fucking shit-storms.     Doesn’t need an additional corpse hanging off her shoulders.   Certainly not one that can’t seem to stop thinking about driving a bullet into her husband’s leg.      His hunger hadn’t been sated,     through no fault of hers.      One can tell in the roughness of his voice,      groggy and exhausted.     Tired of riddles.      “You think I’m unfinished only because you haven’t truly seen me.     That reeks of desperation,     Rowan    [ … ]     are you looking for company or pity?”      Denial of all knives,     no matter how wet the blood in the wound.       A shoulder angles itself towards the crowd,       jaw working in a half-circle with the looseness of a younger man.       Arrogance settles where it shouldn’t,       they live in godless times.      Doesn’t that make him godless himself?      And she?    What does she worship?     Fidelity?       A scoff breaches the mouth,    gruff and hoarse.     Defensive to the very brink of self-destruction.      A finger raised to signal a waiter,    glare deepening    —    a look of disgust.       Hand snatching a flute of champagne,   the classical music in the background now simply grating upon his patience.     “You’re always alone.     Even with me.     Even with him.”      A baritone chuckle,    but the belly swells with nausea.    A fist of anxiety tightens around Finn’s neck.      “The mask suits you   [  … ]    I can never tell what you’re fucking thinking anyway.      Or feeling.” 

an  end  unravels  down  to  the  root.     your  fated  return  to  a  beginning,   despite  your  crooked  protests.     the  way  they  glitch  between  tongue  and  touch.     speak,   you  think,   speak,   and  your  neck  aches.     or  there,   in  your  carved  spleen.     or  here,   in  your  useless  heart.     where  instinct  crests  into  action.     when  your  body  possesses  you,   and  speaks  for  itself.     with  a  clearer  voice  than  your  own,   without  the  deathless  static  in  your  ears.     her  hands  clasp  behind  her  back.     counts  a  quick  ten  taps  with  her  fingers,   before  slowly  lifting  her  chin.     ‘   even  with  him,   there’s  a  champagne  glass  in  front  of  me.     would  you  really  like  to  know  how  that  makes  me  feel?   ’     a  hurt  burrows  where  she  can’t  see.     un-bled  wound   /   your  bullet-cased  needs.     wearing  iced  fingertips,   she  dips  into  his  champagne.     dangles  its  soft  drips  for  a  moment,   then  slips  the  bare  taste  that  remains  under  her  mask.     almost,   you  are  satisfied.     almost,   you  don’t  want  to  foster  another  frustration.     ‘   that’s  a  new  flavour  for  me.   ’     a  light  voice;   the  poor  imitation  of  a  smile  that  won’t  reach  your  lips.     and  still,   she  thinks  she  should  smile.     ‘   you  should  play  your  cards  closer  to  the  chest.     stop  being  so  easy  to  rile   ( … )   like  that.   ’

somewhere  between  them  is  a  choked  mewl.     blood-wet  like  a  mutual  rebirth.     with  her,   you  forget  futile  greed.     you  remember,   only,   those  dark  eyes  and  her  ripe,   mortal  scent.     you  remember  obsession,   and  its  wounded  devotion.     his  gaze  stoops  to  her  level,   to  the  bleeding  grave  that  whispers  against  his  feet.     curling  his  silhouette  forward  like  a  shoreline’s  call.     (   what  death  will  you  find  on  the  horizon?   )     where  the  dark  clouds  brew  over  the  night  sea.     where  an  abyss  meets  another.     how  will  you  chew  on  that  meat?     a  hum  low  in  his  throat.     he  looks  at  her,   half-lidded,   and  closes  their  gap  with  another  step.     the  fingertip  almost  touches  a  strand  of  her  hair.     you  chew  on  what  you  won’t  give.     ‘   ah,   a  sound  so  sweet  even   you   want  to  beg  for  permission   ( … )   it’s  a  shame  i’m  booked,   kitty,   got  a  ride  to  catch  an’  all.   ’     before  jack  remembers  he  should  sidestep  her,   he  extends  a  hand  to  her  left.     lifts  his  brows;   expectant  and  lewd.     ‘   lead  me  with  a  crawl.     a  taste  can  be  just  as  lovely  as  a  meal,   hmm?   ’

he  looks  at  her,   again,   and  finds  nothing.     the  back  of  his  own  head,   maybe,   fading  into  the  air  as  her  clear  eyes  peer  and  blink.     an  embodied  woman,   who  plumes  into  smoke  before  his  eyes.     where  a  hunter’s  gaze  fails,   the  worm’s  soil-gritted  eyes  prevail.     hungry  for  the  absence,   for  the  ribs  that  can’t  regrow  sinew.     a  brief  widening  of  his  eyes  interlaces  with  his  pause.     so  quick  to  reciprocate  the  game.     well,   if  she  wants  to  go  there.     ‘   yeah,   an’  most  women  recoil  at  the  thought  of  me  using  a  tissue   ( … )   let  alone  around  them.   ’     your  tone  edges  the  line  of  nonchalance.     a  sideways  glance  at  her,   then  a  tingle  on  his  plastic,   hollow  skin.     (   if  she  lacks  breath,   you  will  breathe  twofold  for  her.   )     itchy  like  regrowth  on  a  newly  waxed  face.     there,   that  pinch  of  drive  in  your  right  nostril.     the  bottomless  ambition  that  puts  a  spring  into  your  silhouette.     he  taps  his  breast  pocket  as  he  inches  his  own  pile  of  chips  forward.     read  the  innuendo:   bigger  than  her  little  tower.     ‘   no  need  to  worry  your  little  head  about  me   ––   i’ve  got  some  crusted  leftovers.   ’