† ╼ you know what it means ( to unhome a body ) to collapse a pillar / that may have , one day , become a tower .
adelaide montserrat. written by lenny .
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† ╼ you know what it means ( to unhome a body ) to collapse a pillar / that may have , one day , become a tower .
adelaide montserrat. written by lenny .
intro + wanted connections + pinterest + playlist

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Abbey Lee Kershaw for Vogue Magazine China July 2019
heath had been stared at his whole life. not casually, not in passing. stared at. the kind of look that lingers too long. he grew up learning the weight of it - in hallways, on grids, in boardrooms, in bedrooms. eyes followed him. there's a difference between being seen and being watched. being seen is passive; being watched means you're commanding something. he preferred the latter. preferred the quiet shift in people when he entered a space - women leaned without realizing they were leaning. men measured themselves unconsciously. he loves the pull. in fact, he never overextended, never rushed to fill silence. he let conversations adjust and energy recalibrate around him, as if he were the fixed point
he felt it before he confirmed it - that old, familiar tension crawling up the back of his neck like a warning. the man didn't turn immediately; he never did. he let her think it was unnoticed. his posture didn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpened. he could feel the exact direction of it - like a compass needle pulling north. and there she was. the way adelaide stares at him is different from the others; it carries history, unfinished sentences. It carries the bitter realization that she once believed she had him figured out
when heath finally looked up, he didn't search; he went straight to her. caught - not in accusation, in confirmation. his gaze held hers without hesitation, there was no surprise on his face. no tension. just that predatory, knowing grin at the corner of his mouth. he stood, unhurried, conversations brushed against him and fell away as he made his way towards her. he tilted his head slightly, studying her "ya still look at me the same damn way - like ya're fixin' to either kiss me slow or put a bullet in me" he admitted, stepping closer "didn't know they was pourin' straight venom in crystal glasses tonight" he teased, eyes flicking to her glass before returning to hers
He comes to her, he always comes to her. Tide and shore, he might crash violently or lick the sand in quiet submission, all the same he never stays, and she always welcomes him back like he does now; a warm hand to his stubble, patting it as if soothing an ill-behaved child. "Oh, I wouldn't shoot you, darling... you know how I feel about guns." spoken with all the softness in the world, her mouth like a petal forever in bloom, aching with a fondness that should have no room to exist between two jilted lovers; and beneath it all the cruelty of a sincerity that only exists because the truth is much deeper, much more intimate than just that. Guns are easy and loud, and she uses them sparingly, and only when necessary. Heath had never been a necessity, but an indulgence. Killing him so carelessly would be unsatisfying, for both of them; too fast, too easy. Trouble aside, Adelaide never liked easy. If things were easy, she ought to make them complicated. Happiness wasn't a constant and she enjoyed it that way, she said she liked the storm because it made the first rays of sunlight feel warmer. Satisfaction only lasted as far as she could savor digging her claws into a fresh wound, and then it disappeared. But she liked the in between too, all the anger and resentment that could exist between two people, and that bitter feeling in the back of her throat that felt like nausea that came to when she thought about him. She couldn't have him bleeding out on the floor as just somebody else... then what? Back to her dollhouse? That's no fun.
It is a maiden’s lassitude at best: plagued by banality until her boredom points itself outward like a knife, Adelaide sighs, batting those fair lashes up at him, dainty fingers stretching to drum over the bulge of his gun, smiling because he was a creature of a habit, in the way he liked his coffee, and his women, and his gun; she fathomed they were all much the same to him—just things he liked to have within reach, and none of it bothered her nearly as much as she liked to pretend it did. "It's just mine, no big deal..." she moves her fingers languidly up the length of him, fixing the dangling button as though it vexed her to see it in such state, her head tilting absently in thought. "I'm sure you're immune to it by now." with all of the dulcet incantations of her girlish charms, Adelaide leans over her glass and spits on it, then shrugs, "You may test it, if you'd like."
savannah had only stepped in for a moment, half for the bathroom, half for a little quiet away from the noise outside. she’d just finished washing her hands when she noticed the woman beside her, catching the way she’d been looking. instead of bristling, savannah simply offered a polite smile, drying her hands on a folded towel.
“oh, that’s alright,” she said warmly, a soft southern lilt rounding her words. “lord knows i’ve been caught starin’ at folks before too.” the compliment makes her laugh lightly, a little shy about it. “that’s real sweet of you to say, though. television’s got a way of bein’ kinder than real life sometimes.”
she turns slightly toward her then, friendly and relaxed, leaning one hip against the counter. “savannah,” she adds, offering her name with an easy sort of openness. her eyes flick briefly to the woman’s necklace before returning to her face with a small, genuine smile. “and i have to say, that necklace is just beautiful.”
"Oh, my—and she's humble," she gasped in feigned shock, easing her mouth into a playful, smooth smile. "I can totally see why you're making such a stir in the industry." she leaned over the sink into the mirrored reflection, patting the corners of her open mouth to clean any lipstick residue, curling her loose locks between her fingertips to fix the shape before turning to her again with a softened, friendly expression, all practiced sincerity and curated friendliness.
"Adelaide... but all my friends call me Addie," she added after her, and let her fingertips brush against the shiny jewels on her neck, like an absent after-thought, her large doe eyes flicker to it, laughing it off. "Oh, god... it's just garish, isn't it? It was a gift," the ice blue of her eyes rolls briefly as she shakes her head. "My husband has a thing for showing off... you know—men," she whispers derogatorily like an open secret between close friends. "Between you and me, I'm pretty sure he'd bedazzle me a fourteen year old's iPhone case if I let him..." she lets it sit between them, pressing a hidden smile against her knuckle as if to stifle it.
closed starter for: @southernstormsugar
Whether it was sheer luck or coincidence or something far more insidious that had them ending up side by side in this bathroom sink, that's anyone's guess—she'd say coincidences happen, while she's sure Heath would claim the later. Coincidences happen, but never with her.
Adelaide turns with something of an effortless grace, the stiff machinery of her body forcing its gears to turn, her long swan neck tilting as she eyed the other with the most doe-eyed look in the world, her eyes, so crystal blue, framed in the longest lashes that felt as though they'd been plucked straight from a dolls, cheeks ruddy, putting cherubs and saints on church morals to shame.
"My goodness... I'm so sorry, I'm staring," she giggled, something soft and girlish, positively delighted as she pressed an apologetic hand to her chest, the lavish necklace decorating her throat accentuating the elegance of her neck and delicate way her collarbone would pop. "I'm sure you don't need any more of that tonight... it's just—you're even prettier in person than on TV."

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closed starter for: @heath-morgan
Of course she picks a fight; she picks fights like she picks at scabs, compulsively, with no rhyme or reason, just to win, to watch them blood. You'd drive yourself trying to find the bottom of that well. She's here alone tonight, by design, untethered, it can't be accidental, because nothing with her ever is.
The soft fabric of her dress falls down the delicate curves of her body like liquid, the gentle swell of jazz music enshrouding her as she slips into a seat by the bar, a casual, uninterested expression on her doll-like face as it surveys the place. There's really only one thing in this place that interests her—she doesn't care about the rest. And she was honest when she said to her husband she didn't like him, and she was honest to him when she told him he loved him. She doesn't like him. She's not too sure they ever did like each other, the soft, tender emotions never had much room to exist between them. She's always been more whirlwind than girl, and he was much of the same—it takes crazy to chase after her, after all. The world falls to pieces wherever she goes, there's a unending wreckage behind the trail of her heels, but it's in her nature to bring ruin—why should she feel bad? He doesn't. Does a natural disaster feel bad for all the damage it does? Would you ask it to be softer? To be gentler?
The drink feels bitter on her tongue, her eyes are cruel, cutting, they shift through the crowd with pale indifference until they find him—nestled somewhere, among people she doesn't even see, and it feels a little like being hunted.
starter: open to everyone location: the atlas room
There is a stranger staring back at her, with large, wet unhappy blue eyes. She tilts her head, trying to find a familiar angle, and she stares, and she stares, and the longer she stares the more distorted they become. If she stands perfectly still against the reflection, she can pretend it's always been this way, that she always felt this hollow, and this ache has always been there, gnawing on the softness of her rotting insides, and this emptiness had cleaved a home inside her chest from her very first breath. Had it ? In a moment of weakness she'd asked once: Have i ever been happy, daddy ? He said: Adelaide. Darling Adelaide, you have always been you.
Tension grips at her jaw, an intensity flickering behind the winter of her eyes moments before the glass splinters; jagged slices scattering to the balcony's floor as blood trickles down the length of her wrist, staining the pale porcelain of her skin; she watches with a strange fascination, the sharp sting not entirely unpleasant, and her chest descends slowly, blonde curls caught in playful breeze, framing the delicate apples of her cheek like a doll left on display. "God-!" an exhalation, and her posture shifts completely as she notices herself being watched, like a predator spotted in the wild, shrinking back into something amicable and docile beneath the shiny veneer of her dress, she turns, smiling sheepishly. "You scared me half to death..."
Adelaide, NYC, The Atlas Room

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The scene unfolds with Hans as first witness — sitting across the table from Adelaide, sipping his wine as he observes, weighing out choices in his mind. In an almost un believable turn of events, service staff cruelty is where he draws the line. Go figure.
Still, he doesn't step in, doesn't tell her to tone it down. Later, he would tip the waiter generously enough to cover the trouble; some three-months rent worth of zeroes, at least.
Once the guy hurries away, Hans turns to her. "They're gonna start running out of cows if you ask them to cook that steak again," he says, tone both playful and annoyed at the very same time. "Whatever happened to girls ordering salads, anyway?"
It's all very funny to her, toying with people like this, it's like watching a cat toss a bird around from paw to paw until it's bloodied and mangled. But can you really blame the cat? it does what nature dictates, not out of sheer cruelty but because it wants to play; it's not its fault birds are such fragile creatures, or that they're so easy to catch.
In that same way, there's no real apathy there—her real disdain has always been far more vicious, and unforgiving, and reserved to those closest to her. In a way, she's just slipping into another role—an unspoken expectation.
"But they look so cute when they scurry off like that," she giggles, a girlish, bubbly sound that almost sounds too much like genuine affection as she leans over the table, watching the waiter disappear for a third time in the crowd, her smile is playful as she turns to him, looking passively amused. "It's not like we keep it down, anyways."
six years later, and she still reaches first. he lets her have the sleeve, lets her tug him closer. hell, he even sits when she tells him to - letting her believe, briefly, that the old leash still fits. it doesn't. none of this feels real. it feels like one of those recurring nightmares where you know you've escaped, and yet you're suddenly back in the same room, the same air, the same tension. adelaide is dead to him, figuratively, mercifully. he never mentions her name, avoids mentioning their history. she existed only as something he'd endured
getting over her was a brutal, relentless detox that scraped him raw from the inside out. his emotions had come in waves too large to name individually - rage, guilt, hunger, shame, need, all colliding at once. he needed a new supply; the cravings had been violent, obsessive. a body demanding a substance it no longer had permission to want. everything felt distorted, too sharp, too loud, too close. and somehow numb at the same time. until it didn't
now the chair feels too small beneath him - or maybe it's just her. adelaide always had a way of making the environment feel smaller in her presence. he leans back anyway, long frame controlled, shoulders relaxed. her gaze stays on him too long, it always did "damn, ya got eyes so big, bug-like sort of. unsettlin' really" heath teased, an excuse to break eye contact. he'd always preferred feeling her eyes on him rather than meeting them head on
"i kept ya waitin'" he repeats it slowly with a smirk, like he's testing the shape of it "kept ya waitin'" he echoes, almost savoring it "that's a real romantic pretty way of sayin' consequence" he eases her finger off his jacket with two of his own, gentle enough to be polite, firm enough to make the point. the man doesn't drop her hand right away, he holds it there between them, almost reminding her of something neither of them really forgot "ya didn't get lost, addie bug. ya left. ya gave me up. ya chose it" his thumb shifts slightly against her knuckles, his eyes don't leave hers "and ya don't get to rewrite it just cause it sounds prettier this way" he releases her hand at last, the absence of her contact is heavier than her touch ever was
"reckon ya didn't spend those years sittin' alone neither" there's something raw in his tone, somethin' he's clearly holding back with effort. not rage, not jealousy, something colder. possession "so, where the hell have ya been?" he asked, settling back into the chair again
She was merely looking at him like with all the predatory allure of a large praying mantis, dangerous in its stillness, and her mouth flickers, threatening a smile—after all, he knew better than most how she appreciated the savagery of nature, collecting rare species, hunting with her family during the summer, watching documentaries of apex predators hunting in the wild. "The better to see you with, my dear." replied the girl, who in all of her beauty might as well have been a wolf; wool draped delicacy over the skin of her shoulders, gilded curls tumbling down the slight arch as if she'd been carefully groomed and posed to his liking, just another pretty doll on a dusty shelf like those her grandmother used to own, to be admired, and never played with.
"Don't be so dramatic, Heath..." she dismisses with a casual cruelty, that mean thing in her that urges to strike stirring—if not him, it'd find something else to sting. "It's not like you came chase after me," she folds her fingers with intimate care, observing him through those large, unflinching doll eyes—letting her chin sit just atop her knuckle, knowing that she was seen, recognized for the vile thing she was. She resents him, and loves him for it, all at once. "I guess it doesn't matter now," as if they'd ever really bury the axe; it wasn't really their style. They'd always rather let things rot and feaster, until their hands were around each other's throats. Some people just love differently, she always thought to herself. She wasn't made for the soft kind of love most girls fantasize about—if she were to be honest, which she seldom was, Adelaide didn't care which corner of his brain she occupied—love, hate, disgust, it didn't matter so long as she was in there. "I really did miss you, you know?" she smiles, then, allowing her mouth to curve—allowing something genuine to settle, if only for a brief moment of respite.
"No," she coos, resisting the urge to mention his parade of helpless bimbettes she was forced to see all over the news; it was never really a fair playing field. If she dated half as many men, the field would eviscerate her like hungry vultures. "I was in Paris for awhile... Alone. Until I met Lucien, anyways," she tucks a pristine blonde curl behind her ear, a 10-carat oval diamond ring far too big for her delicate little finger adorning her hand as she sighs, the memory bringing only a profound sense of existential boredom. "He's nice," but everyone was nice to her. "Big sports cars fan... you'd probably like him." he probably wouldn't, and frankly, she'd be disappointed if he did.
"I saw a picture of you and your, um... girlfriend?" she phrases it like a question, in that sing-songy way that doesn't feel genuine in the slightest; it's like a practiced act, a line rehearsed countless times on her tongue until the girlish lilt began to feel natural. "She looks... uncomplicated," the word is nice enough, and to the untrained ear, it might just sound that way. It's rarely the things she says, but the way she says it; like she's tiptoeing around landmines not to say the cruelest things, her little aggressions always veiled beneath a veil of cloying pleasantries. "I'm really happy for you," she's decidedly not, and she doesn't think either of them is really capable of this level of altruism. "I mean—you deserve somebody nice... she is nice to you, yes?"
her performance bothers him. not because it falters, but because it's flawless. the patient cruelty, the effortless dismissal that sting more than they should, the way she twists allure into coercion. he recognizes every technique, every gesture, every twitch of a brow, every subtle tilt of her body: he knows it all. if anything, he helped sharpen them without even meaning to. and standing there now, watching her deploy it on strangers like they're disposable props, he feels something dark curl pleasantly in his chest. pride, maybe. possession, definitely. a bitter kind of authorship, that thrill of seeing his fingerprints on chaos that isn't his own
heath studies her more carefully, a predatory obsessively fascination that comes from knowing exactly how lethal someone can be. he realizes, distantly, that part of him has been waiting for this moment - not reunion, not closure, but recognition. the quiet confirmation that her deadliest mistake wasn't leaving him. it was coming back, the definite moment when the prey forgets its prey
"poor thin'…it must be downright exhaustin' bein' the victim in 'very room ya walk into" his fingers lift, slowly catching a loose strand of her glacial blonde hair between them. he lets it slip through his fingers, not tugging, not quite gentle either. just enough to remind her he knows the texture, the weight, the way she used to react to it "shame it ain't an act 'nymore. maybe, that's just who ya're underneath" he paused, head tilting as if he's studying a flaw in something beautiful "fragile"
his hand falls away as he straightens again "reckon i'd know" the man adds, a wolfish grin cuts across his mouth, sharp with satisfaction "after all, i've always been the one who can wound ya best"
For a brief moment Adelaide bristles, like a wild cat catching the scent of a predator nearby; blonde brows drawn together, framing the everlasting winter of her eyes in a frown before she becomes honeyed again: wrinkles smoothed, shoulders set, rolling back in their sockets as if trying to make herself small, all wide eyes and songbird lilt, the innocuous sugary glaze of a woman untouched by the harsher things in life.
It is not a surprise that she sees him—just a surprise she sees him here. It was inevitable, after all—she'd been waiting, impatiently so. Adelaide is made of careful machinations: where she lives, how she walks, who she talks to—all delicate orchestrations to inevitably lead her where she wants, to who she wants.
The cruelty in him has always pleased her in a way so few things do—she doesn't want him to be nice to her. Everyone is always nice to her.
She subtly glances over the small bump of her shoulder, watching him play with a gilded curl from her hair, like a cruel little boy plotting to destroy his sister's barbie. She holds a smile between her teeth, angling her body slightly towards him, with all the gait of a contained predator. "Always so mean to me..." she lulls in that soft, sing-songy voice of hers as though she's urging him closer; Adelaide gets bored easily—bored of her friends, of her boyfriends, of her life—it's why she never entertained the idea of having kids. She's sure she'd get bored of them too. Heath has been a lot of things for her, most of them not good—but never boring. Perhaps, then, she decided, he does deserve to linger in the recess of her mind. "And here I was hoping you'd come to my rescue instead." there is the flicker of a smile behind the melancholy of her voice, hidden by the way she ever so intentionally brushes her a knuckle against the corner of her mouth.
"Come," Adelaide grabs at his sleeve, and tugs on it as if she's entitled, and no years have passed. "Sit." she always doles out her orders so softly, so unalarming and docile, cushioning them on her tongue to make it feel like an invitation. "The decor is horrid," she told him, aiming those big blue eyes up at him like a plea. "Let me look at you instead." there he was, her Heath, as soft as barbed wire between her fingers; and he'd never be anything else in her eyes—no matter who was fucking. Adelaide didn't share her toys, she'd rather tear out their stitching and pluck at their stuffing than giving them away. But he was no better.
"Six months, no calls, no letters..." she reminds him as if he's missed an important appointment. "You kept me waiting." an unspeakable crime—he knows how she so loathes waiting."Consider me wounded."
To say Tima is unimpressed would be a vast understatement. She has always believed that how people treat service workers is a good indicator of who they are, considering it costs nothing to not be a shithead. She crosses her arms over her chest, lingering there in the line behind this infuriating blonde, and can't help but heave a sigh. Her impulse control is lacking at the best of times and having to leave the house in winter generally puts her into a bad mood, so it's not a good recipe.
"Not everything's about you," she says aloud, expression sour. "People fuck up. It happens." She glances behind the counter at the barista who looks to be about nineteen and nervous. "But maybe someone should ruin your day."
A cruel girl, that's what her mother used to call her; you're a cruel girl, Adelaide, she told her. It wasn't her fault, she told herself; she was rotten, all the good, soft things inside had died before they ever had a chance bloom. She was familiar with cruelty, like most children are with their mother's names; tipping the aquarium in the living room just to watch it break, and plucking the wings off insects just to see them squirm.
Why should they get to fly away? She thought. If she was unhappy—why shouldn't they be too? Adelaide always made sure she was never unhappy alone.
The voice behind her finally registers. Slowly, deliberately, Adelaide lowers her phone.
“Oh,” she says, glancing over her dainty shoulder as if mildly surprised to find herself addressed at all. “Sorry. Were you talking to me?”
Her tone is soft, and sugar-sweet, and never quite kind. The gilded waves of her hair tumbled down her shoulder as she turned, pale eyes flicking over to the girl with polite disinterest, the sort reserved for strangers who have already failed to impress. She never raised her voice, she didn't have to. That is how people end up being labeled as hysterical.
Her lips pulled back from her teeth in something meant to resemble a smile and something about it felt so incredibly wrong, predatory, like a wolf baring its teeth before it bites, completely absent of warmth—it was a barren winter thing, practiced and beautiful.
“Oh my,” she murmurs, one manicured hand lifting to rest against her chest. “Do you think I was too harsh?” Not yet, she thinks to herself, and her head tilts, lashes fluttering as if the thought has only just occurred to her.
She studies the girl the way a cat studies their prey.
"I’m sorry," Adelaide adds softly, her bluebell widening just a fraction. "You sound so upset..." poor, poor thing echoes in the unsaid; the concern cloying-sweet and artificial. "Is everything okay?" spoken with the condescending infliction of a mother watching their child throw a tantrum in the store, entirely absent of guilt.

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starter: open to everyone! location: likely public, feel free to get creative
Adelaide behaves much like someone who'd spent her life spinning under the scrutiny of critics and strangers alike: like a doll, her lashes are curled, her hair combed into unruly submission, and her nails manicured and filed to an generally acceptable length.
She exhales through her pert little nose as if summoning patience out of thin air, sylph-blonde hair tossed over the delicate arch of her shoulder, mouth pursed disapprovingly: all the affectations undoubtedly expected of her. If she were truly upset, they wouldn't have a job, and she wouldn't still be standing here. But what is it that they say? Mystery loves company? Making someone's day just a little bit worse brings little joy—but of course, sometimes a little is enough. She pinches the bridge of her nose, gesturing for them to be off with all the strained tolerance of a half-tamed animal. "Please do it right this time, okay?" her voice is sweeter now, cloying and low but sharp all the same - wrapping an order into a request, carefully laced in a satin bow, her eyes, pale like hoarfrost, glitter with lurid satisfaction as she dismisses the hot beverage with a wave. "Why is it that everybody insists on trying to ruin my day..."