but I am alive.

I have been taking a break since Nov 2017 and have actually been enjoying my time away. This blog is special to me, as Perion has been with me for nearly 8 years. I decided to delete many of my other blogs, this is not one of them. I will come back! I’d love to stay in touch with my friends and mutuals so please feel free to add me on Dis//cord ( (screen)writing#4143 ) and feel free to message me. I have a personal blog and twitter I am happy to share if I trust you.

@abeyantly​

“No, I’m done sharing. I’m so goddamn sick of people acting like ‘bumming’ cigs isn’t just taking money from my paycheck. I work for my money, alright? I earn my money and I go to the store and I buy these for myself. Not every guy that passes by and feels like a puff. I’m not some fuckin’ charity – Christ!” Long winded complaint was punctuated by a long drag of his cigarette and a stony glare downward. Anton was in one of his moods tonight – not because of Perion, but she was, nonetheless, an easy target. He blew smoke from his nostrils and muttered, “No common fuckin’ decency.”

“ i’m happy to do it   —–   it gets me out of clay clean up duty,   anyways.   honestly i should be thanking you for this. ”      shoots her a light-hearted smile and falls into step beside her.   arms habitually crossing loose over his chest.   eyes settling on their feet as uneven ground passes below.      “ have you lived so close by for long ? ”      it’s odd to him that she could have been in the area for a lifetime and he might simply never have run into her before.   feels improbable and yet the feeling is wrong.   the people you think you’d remember,   are rarely the ones you do.

                     ❛   … sorry.  don’t know why you’re concerned ‘bout people watchin’ out for you coming  HOME.  normal people think that’s good  neighbouring.   ❜     tug the thread you’ve been given,  haught.  don’t let it slip through your fingers,  like an eel on a dock,  while you’ve got her.  while the report still stands,  and while you’ve got an open door.  (  she doesn’t  quail.  she’s got less than a proper reason to,  while she’s the  concerned sheriff’s deputy.  )     ❛   you wanna report some … new,  unnatural lighting on your street ?   ❜

inbox time with -- @eidetic187

“  given the situation  ,  i doubt they would have done any worse  .  “ wounds heal  ,  bruises fade  —  injuries scar over with hopes they weren’t deep enough to be permanent  .  but the mental  &  emotional scars that were left behind  .  no amount of denial or booze can make her forget  .  or heal  .  without the use of her left arm  ,  that it being in a sling to keep it elevated  .  she struggled to take off her jacket  ;  her sides were just about all healed up but any quick twist sent a shockwave of pain up her spin  .  

she grits her teeth  ,  trying to hide that she was in any pain  .  but as soon as mia slipped off the jacket she caught it with her hand  &  tossed it on a near by chair  .  “  at least one of us looks in one piece  .  how’s that tongue of yours  ?  “

@abeyantly

The hallway smells of sweat and bleach and blood, but none of the smells bother her as much as her pounding headache. She’s holding a small squishy ice pack against her forehead, the in-house nurse had slathered the worst of her bruises with tiger balm and voltaren so she reeks of menthol and eucalyptus. Her body still aches though, the satisfying ache of a won fight. Her bag is heavy with the weight of the 2k she won.

She hears slower footsteps out of sync with her own, and though many people use this way to leave. Perion quickens her steps instinctively despite the aching it causes her. She catches sight of a shadow behind her, just as three fighters how down the hallway -- “It’s the FEDS! It’s a bust!” But before she can react there’s a hand shoving her head into the wall, and a booted foot kicking her knees. She can barely hear the crowd above her thundering heart beat. 

Perion screams, a hoarse and angry noise when he grabs her by the hair, further up the hallway toward the exit. She doesn’t pass out, but it’s a near miss. Flickerings of white and black dancing before her gaze as panicked gasps and growls leave her throat-- she’s thrown forward, sure he’d ripped some of her hair out. A kick to her stomach-- had she dropped her ice pack?-- a blow to her face (a boot? a fist), a harsh arm trying to yank her by the shoulder...

The sound of heavy footfalls, people yelling “CLEAR” -- her vision flickers again. He can’t drag her any further, she’s heavier than he expected. She conscious but her body isn’t listening to her, there’s a delay. He tries to hoist her over his shoulder-- but finally her body reacts and she brings her elbow down against his neck and starts clawing at his head and face. He drops her and kicks her again-- her ribs are definitely cracked. She can’t distinguish between the approaching and departing footsteps. Perion tries to yell again, but it only comes out like a deflated groan. 

The sound of distant shouting is a cacophony echoing among concrete hallways. They’re damp, they smell of sweat and bleach and blood; but none of the smells bother her as much as her pounding headache. Perion is already holding a small ice pack to her face, the in-house nurse had slathered half her body in tiger balm and voltaren gel to ease the bruising so the scent of menthol and eucalyptus almost overwhelms the rest. Her body still aches though, the way it aches when she’s won a fight, with her bag heavy with the weight of the 2k she’d won.

Through the haze of post-fight dissociation and migraine Perion hears slower footsteps. Fear rushes through her veins and she quickens her step despite the flashes of pain that the exertion causes. Perion catches sight of a shadow behind her, just as three fighters howl down the hallway “cops cops— fuckin’ feds! it’s a bust!”  She’s barely able to react before there’s a hand shoving her head into the wall, and a booted foot kicking her knees. Perion goes down, and only the distant rumble of the crowd can be heard beyond her heartbeat.

She screams, a hoarse and angry noise, as she’s thrown down and dragged by the hair further up the hallway toward the exit.  She doesn’t pass out, but it’s a near miss. Flickerings of white and black dancing before her gaze as panicked gasps and growls leave her throat– she’s thrown forward by her hair, she’s sure some has been ripped out. A kick to her stomach– Perion thinks she must have dropped the ice pack– a blow to her face (a boot? a fist), a harsh arm trying to yank her by the shoulder…

                  ❛ so i may or may not have gotten a nuke tattooed to my middle finger knuckle on my left hand and a mushroom cloud on my right middle finger knuckle. ‘cause you know: f-bomb. ❜

@abeyantly / sc.