────── † ❝ I'M JUST A CHILD, [ ... ] BUT I'M NOT ABOVE VIOLENCE. / ⅋ an exploration of 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇 - 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇; of the welts on your knees, sundays spent prostrate, of crimson half - moon shapes of your nails dug into the MEAT of your palms. 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚜. grief, and its painful perseverance, the taste of ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏɴᴇʏ on your tongue / there's a hand reaching out of that g̳r̳a̳v̳e̳. who does it eulogise, why does it look like your name ?
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artless reaction, like breathing / a reflex, automatic: he sees her, & he glows. ( screw it if nobody else understands, if he’s the only one privy to what feels like 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 ekeing out the corners of a bitten smile ! decades behind them now, years with her initials branded into every ventricle / every vein / body & soul, UTTERLY BEWITCHED … starcrossed by name, by nature, he’ll always be 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐲 - 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 when it comes to talia moran. ) case in point: involuntary smile, etched far beyond the corners of his mouth — russet optics SPARKLE with it too, the reverence he doesn’t care to smother anymore. “ 𝗂 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. ” adroit digits dip into the back pocket of well - worn jeans, if only to catch around a gift … pastel pink & glimmering in the sun, another for the collection that he knows like the back of his hand. “ rose quartz. ” unconditional love; oh, how symbolic ! “ something else, too ... ” another pause: burt’s bees, pomegranate. the good shit. “ turns out homemade half - ‘n - half goes down quite the treat with some of the newcomers. ”
something vulpine in the way he circles; target acquired, dancing around the edges of that impossible magnetism that he won’t claim to 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱 … but fuck, he’ll admit to feeling it, burrowed down to the depths of his goddamned marrow ! whenever she’s near, there’s a near - constant tingling in the tips of callused fingers / wonders if HERS feel the same, like there’s something nearby that she’s fighting the urge to reach out to. is she feeling it now ? … that could be the moonshine; not enough to dull his senses completely, but rather the opposite — - 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅. each sensation feels more explosive than the last, fireworks in the way he throws back another belt & slides into place by her side, catches the faintest scent of something like her perfume. “ of all the gin joints, gorgeous ... ” dim light hangs on the barest hint of a canine, exposed in a roguish grin / fuck the way the place hums with quiet activity, all of his focus is honed on mia. “ waitin’ for your FRIEND, or do i have you 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 for once ? ”
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❝ I'VE BEEN STARIN' DOWN THE BARREL OF ANOTHER LIFE ... SAID I 𝖢𝖮𝖴𝖫𝖣'𝖵𝖤 𝖡𝖤𝖤𝖭 𝖠 𝖫𝖠𝖶𝖸𝖤𝖱, WE WOULD'VE BEEN 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙴 THEN. ❞
────── ❝ I. ... OR, BASICS.
full name: scout jude vonnegut.
nickname(s): none.
age: thirty2.
gender identity: demi man.
orientation: bisexual biromantic.
place of birth: port isaac, cornwall.
date of birth: may 6th, 1991.
former occupation: electrician.
three positive traits: assiduous, blithe, equitable.
three negative traits: languid, satyric, ornery.
moral alignment: chaotic neutral.
faceclaim: aaron taylor - johnson.
────── ❝ II. ... OR, TOWN INFO.
current residency: the town.
current occupation: handyman.
────── ❝ III. ... OR, HISTORY.
i. you can divide it all, can’t you ? two categories: the before, the after. you shouldn’t be able to remember them in such vivid detail. christ, you were only a kid-
ii. before, part one: your mother, she wasn’t expecting twins. in truth, she hardly wanted one. twenty - three to his forty - four, they exist as a cautionary tale. ( did you hear about elizabeth lawrence ? shame, she had such a promising future. / loose lizzie, gave it up for her poetry professor. ten pounds says he wasn’t the first one she’d fucked. / for a good time, call 01632 960062 ! ) she, wide - eyed student in awe of her older, glamorous professor ; he, preening under the attention of a pretty little undergrad, brimming with promise & the scent of pink candy on every delicate pulse point. puerile wonder meets erudite grace, it’s a hell of a combination & it never ends well. ( you know her friends called her the next sylvia plath ? well, if the shoe fits … ) it is the kind of tale with only one end — lust turns lukewarm, regard becomes resentment. it takes him exactly eight months to realise that he’d made a mistake / twelve to slip into someone else’s bed & leave your mother’s achingly cold / sixteen to start planning. ( in muted conversation with his mistress, he’d called it wiping the slate clean. just a shame he forgot to do the same to his call logs. )
iii. before, part two: she loved you. she didn’t like a lot / you remember her in expressions: furrowed brow, tight mouth, crossed arms. she was too young to have the kinds of grooves she did, pressed into creamy flesh so prematurely. she never looked happy around your father. ( he, of the reputation that preceded him … him, you only knew in passing. he was always in his study, rarely at the dinner table, never there for the moments that counted. later, you would look upon the figure shackled at the wrists & hardly recognise him. ) with you, & your sister ? she was the picture of delight, gilded warmth & maternal joy, scented like fresh linen. you can remember the taste of sea salt on cracked lips, a thick coat from where the three of you would spend hours dashing meaningless circles in the sand just to watch the tide wash it all away. how were you to know it was the last time you’d feel that, the kind of ebullient happiness that bubbled underneath your ribcage, fierce enough to sweep you clean away ?
iv. the two of you are at a sleepover when it happens. she’s late to pick you up, & nobody thinks much of it until the sun’s threatening to creep down over the horizon & the gravel still hasn’t screeched with news of her impending arrival. your friend’s mum, she’s pacing near the windows / phone in hand, contact details a faint glow, but she pastes uneasy smile over the crack of her mouth. it doesn’t soothe you, so much as unsettle you even more. fatal move: “how about i drive you kids home?” oh, she shouldn’t have / & fuck the backseat of her car, she ought to have swaddled you in cotton, protected you. instead, she delivers you to the sight of your mother’s broken neck at the base of the stairs.
( interlude: oh, the blood … the angle of her neck wasn’t the least of it. framed like a break - and - enter gone wrong, she’d practically been torn apart. what does it say about a crime, that every juror unfortunate enough to be dealt the case of your mother’s slaughter took up the court - offered counselling session ? )
v. the tabloids called it the butcher and the bard. the judge called it one of the most gruesome murders england had seen in a long time. relatives call you lucky, for being in the right place at the right time. what do you call it ? because it tastes an awful lot like survivor’s guilt, like wishing to trade places. you’d fall down the stairs a million times if it meant saving hers / it’d be your neck, your blood. your technicolour imprint, ghosting along the backs of her eyelids every time she so much as deigned to let them flutter closed. ( you never tell anyone, how often you dream of her. how are you meant to ? “did you sleep well?” “nope, saw my mother’s mangled body. again. pass the toast?” )
vi. after: your aunt’s apartment in london ; the seemingly endless drizzle of rain against the windows ( home, school, child psychologist, courtroom, rinse, repeat ). someone seems to think it’s a good idea, for the jury to lay eyes on the children who only narrowly escaped their fate. the collars of your overly - starched shirts itch against your pale neck, you wish you didn’t have to keep coming to these fucking things. the judge casts a sympathetic gaze every time you reach to scratch at your throat / if she had her way, you’d be far away from all of this. instead, the jury rises & it falls & you are there to see it all. unanimous verdic: GUILTY. life in prison, no chance of parole. sole custody, granted to miss margaret lawrence. the therapist they make you go to, she asks you about it & all you can do is shrug. s’pose it could’a been worse, y’know ? he could’a killed me.
vii. & the thing is, he killed a part of you. something — childish wonder, a love of life, ambition, that feathered thing they call hope — it’s slaughtered on the floor with your mum that day, bleeds out right beside her on expensive marble.
viii. the years speed by, the anniversaries blur. the booze helps with that one. at thirteen: you have your first sip of something that hits the bottom of your stomach & makes you feel like the princely twat to pull the sword from the stone. at fifteen: a friend offers you a joint, the world seems to haze at the edges in just the right way. christ, pot’s a fuckin’ wonderful thing, isn’t it ? at seventeen: the drink, the drugs, the deliquency, it all catches up & your aunt can’t go to one more fuckin’ school meeting about your truancy, about your bad attitude. ( about your promise, the way it breaks teachers’ hearts to see you squandering your intelligence, your good heart. maggie lawrence is not a woman that enjoys pity, & your misery doesn’t help to detract from the enormous pile of it that she carries now. ) she sits you down, delivers an ultimatum: you get your shit together, or you get out of my house. you go to school, you get good grades, you stop stealin’ my vodka. you sort yourself out, or you leave.
ix. you leave. it’s the wrong choice.
x. you finish year 12, at the very least, but university is not a topic you so much as consider. in a hangover daze, you peruse local newspapers & online ads, offer handyman services / odd jobs keep you in your vices, & you can’t ask for much more than that. it’s not an active choice, to hide from the world in the way that you choose to, but it ends up happening all the same; it grew so very tiring, watching the recognition spark behind a stranger’s eyes at the sound of your last name. you can only deal with being a public spectacle for so long, before it makes you want to lash out & drink until you can barely remember how to stand, let alone your goddamned name. is it any wonder that you retreat, that you drink & smoke & snort & destroy yourself for a while ?
xi. she comes to you in a dream. your mum, maybe. aunt maggie ? shit. could be your sister too, they did always look awfully alike. in one swift movement, your dream-relation whacks you upside the head & tells you, time to wake up, chucklefuck. you do. you’re also violently ill in the sink, but you’ll leave that part out when you tell the story of how you pulled yourself out from the depths of your psychological despair.
xii. it’s a more conscious choice to return to the world of the living. you apologise to your aunt, to your sister, for being such a right little prick as a kid. ( you owe maggie a fair few bottles of vodka & a few packs of smokes, too. you weren’t slick about any of that, you know ? ) you try to make amends, to fix what you so willingly broke, & the most heartbreaking part of it is how easily it all comes back together. there’s no waiting period, no pacing back & forth waiting to see if your family will have you. your sister wraps her arms around your neck, your aunt presses a kiss to your forehead & manages to wipe away the errant tear that slides down her cheek before you notice. in another world, you deserve a happy ending, a soft epilogue. in another one, you get it.
xiii. the crows are what damn you in the end. your sister, she always had such a fondness for weird birds. as a kid, her favourites were puffins & pacific gulls, you can still rattle off facts about them / it’s the fuckin’ birds. you pull over, snap a photo, & by the time it sends you’re doomed. ( oh, honey. you were always walking a tenuous death sentence. it was only a matter of time. )
────── ❝ IV. ... OR, WANTED CONNECTIONS.
twin sister !!! ↷ prob needs to go up on the main at some pt, but alas ! pls bring his twin sistter who arrived recently bc she was hunting her dickhead brother down <333 very luke/nell crain vibes here. more than a dash of the twin telepathy. the only person who knows him in their goddamn marrow. probs freaked when he fell off the radar & didn’t want a repeat of their whole mommy getting got thing </3
she had only been in town for a few days—three, to be exact—and already ender had learned the horrors of that middle monstrosity she had found herself in. sure, there were people that were killed in the night, locked in boxes, those strange moaning things knocking on windows... but the worst part of all was that she had to walk in flats. it was a fate worst than death. ender used to love horror movies, watching the same patterns play out like clockwork, but it meant she knew exactly how this would all pan out—she was the bad girl, the blonde, the beautiful vixen that was offed after sneaking into the forest for a little action. "be honest." she sighed, smoothing down auburn hair in the reflection of her cracked compact mirror, "does my face look okay? i only packed three lipsticks and none of them are my colour." ( capping at 1/5 . )
self - imposed eidolon that it is, esme’s sure that the edges of town are cooler / like the heat is 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 on the outskirts ; fuckin’ pipe dream, sure, but a girl can have those. viridescent canopies provide patches of blissful shade, & it’s with the column of her spine 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙳 against bark that she’s stolen brief reprieve for herself, allowed a moment to breathe. ‘𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗴𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗱. unexpected question piques curiosity, has a manicured brow arching — wide optics range other’s features, cataloguing each one like she’s tryin’ to memorise them. posterity, or some shit. regardless: “ pretty as a PICTURE, honey. ” carmine curls into a smile, a kindness still so easily proffered / lights up every goddamn feature, esme can’t help but GLOW as she straightens, digs into a pocket like a 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 ! “ only colour i got on me is ravish me red, but it’d suit ya’. red looks good on everyone. ”
❝ CHRIST, FORGIVE THESE BONES I'VE BEEN HIDING ... & THE 𝑩𝑶𝑵𝑬𝑺 I'M ABOUT TO LEAVE. ❞
────── ❝ I. ... OR, BASICS.
full name: esmerelda flores moretti.
nickname(s): goes primarily by esme.
age: thirty3.
gender identity: cis woman.
orientation: bisexual, biromanic.
place of birth: meadville, mississippi.
date of birth: february 14th, 1990.
former occupation: nurse practitioner.
three positive traits: beneficent, tenacious, precipitate.
three negative traits: circumspect, irresolute, stringent.
moral alignment: neutral good.
faceclaim: christian serratos.
────── ❝ II. ... OR, TOWN INFO.
current residency: the town.
current occupation: nurse.
────── ❝ III. ... OR, HISTORY.
one. this story begins the same way it ends: in a chapel that thrums, ACHES with the weight of all its combined prayers, hopeless intercessions, heavenly father, hallowed be thy name … mama says it was a wednesday when she heard that there was a new preacher just rolled into town, & that she ain’t ever been so excited for sunday mass. young, italian, gorgeous … she’ll tell you that god put him in meadville for a reason, just for her. for us to have you, mija. ( & she’ll leave out the other parts: about knees bruised first when she knelt in prayer, second time in pleasure / profane communion found in each other’s hips, first day they ever met. holy mouth trails scorching path down, down, down … when her parents asked what took her so goddamn long to come home, she’ll tell them she found god, that he told her that it’s about time she started staying an hour longer on sundays to pray. ) ain’t never seen her hang on a man’s word so damn much as when she started goin’ to church, just to listen to him talk ! six months after that first sermon, her papa gives her away in the SAME spot they conceived you in.
two. you got good folks, that’s what everyone says. your daddy, he’s a good man. ( sicilian turned southern, loyalty runs as bright as anything in those bones / that blood. “yours too, mia ragazza.” is that meant to reassure you, or to send the first prickling thrill of fear racing down your spine ? you settle on both. ) mama, she smells like cheap vanilla & makes your favourite foods ( pico de gallo, flautas, a mean huevos rancheros ) ; she sings to you in her dulcet, smooth spanish, makes light work of turning your unruly curls into two neat braids that hang down your back. by the time you start primary school, you have two little sisters who adore the very ground on which you so daintily step / & you never get the feelin’ that your daddy might’a wanted another boy. he’s got his girls, & he’s got his god, & he don’t need much else. ( good folks, good family. whatever happened to that oldest girl o’ theirs, though ? didn’t she- … christ, is that what happened ? mother of god. )
three. “that girl’s as sweet as cherry pie.” teachers, friends, everybody loves you. why wouldn’t they ? smart as a whip & pretty as a picture, kindest heart around … there’s a reason that the other little girls in your class love & loathe you in equal, violent measures / why the boys are linin’ up on the playground to catch a glimpse of that sunray smile you flash so indiscriminately. & that’s all swell when you’re little, when a peck on the cheek is just that, but kids don’t stay that way forever, motives change & gazes grow leery, lingering to the point where your skin feels prickly with it. heart o’ gold never turns, though … ain’t nothin’ you wouldn’t do to help someone who needed it, or someone who didn’t know they needed it until you stepped in with your hair smellin’ like strawberries & your dimples punchin’ craters in the soft skin of your cheeks. you’re too soft, too sweet, too good, & it’s the reason that your daddy takes you out the back of a paddock when you’re fourteen. he places the weight of his colt in your shaking palms, & shows you how to hit targets. “just in case, mia ragazza.” & christ almighty, you’re an awful shot, but it’s a symbolic exercise / half practical, half allegorical, leaves you with a strange feeling at the base of your stomach anyway.
four. you never thought you’d have to use it, that lesson. you chalk it up to him being overprotective, overprepared, worrying about a hypothetical that would never see the light of day / for years, you never have to so much as think about the way your fingers curl around the trigger, too terrified to squeeze it but urged on by need. you have to be able to protect yourself. & the thing is, you got so close. you graduate, valedictorian / victorious, glimmering, beautiful thing in your graduation cap & gown, your scholarship to harvard, your career unfurling in front of you like something glittering, something just in your grasp. ( you deliberated for hours, harvard over columbia. acceptance letters to both, you should’ve listened to your gut. ) in a fluorescently - lit bar, you meet someone / you fall in something that looks like love / fourth of july looks like a barbeque & too many vodka sodas & one knee pressing an indent into the sand, a gasp that comes from somewhere outside your body, last of the twilight sunbeams catching the diamond that twinkles inside its velveteen box. ( he never asked your father. if you’d had known, you would’a never said yes. it’s stupid, it’s old, it’s a tradition the likes of which you shucked off years ago, but it means somethin’ to him. if only you’d known … ) the engagement is a blur, & he’s so candy - sweet that your back teeth rot with it / you’re knee - deep in adoration, your mama doesn’t like him & true to the song, she does like everyone.
five. on the evening of your wedding, your father gives you that same colt. “just in case.” twenty - four hours later, your hands will smell of gunpowder. in a week, you will fall off the face of the planet.
six. he puts his hands on you. that’s all it takes, a grip that goes well beyond loving or protective / fingertips pressed into the groove of your wrist, hard enough to bruise. “you’re my wife now, you’ll do as i goddamn say.” you, of the analytical mind & the careful hands & the painstaking ways, you don’t think. for the first time in your adult life, near thirty goddamned years, you act first. point, squeeze. shoot. you do not stick around to see if you hit anywhere vital. the keys to his dusty old pickup are on the tallboy; you take them, you run. barefoot bride, still in your wedding gown when you bundle yourself into the drivers’ seat & go.
seven. you didn’t plan for anything, didn’t take any clothes / no money, no nothing. your parents, they give you a wad of cash, your bank card, & a suitcase of clothes that border on too tight but that aren’t your shorn - off dress. they fill up your tank, they kiss you on the cheek, they promise not to tell anyone that you were ever here. harbouring a murderess, that’s still a crime, isn’t it ? you don’t frequent anywhere too long, can’t risk it. dirty motels & greasy spoons, the open road, you spend a few days just driving, wandering, refusing to think too long about your wedding night. ( his eyes, blown wide when the sound cracks / you hands, fuck, they haven’t stopped shaking / blood, & the smell, & the door banging into the drywall so hard you’re sure it took a chunk out. ) on the third night, you finally work up the courage to slide the gold band off your finger, toss it into the desert. let somebody stumble on it one day, wonder why there’s such a pretty little trinket buried in six feet of sand.
eight. the crows. the tree. you don’t know why you stopped. maybe you got tired of running, of driving, of looking over your shoulder. stupid girl, you should’ve known better. you stopped, got out of the car, signed over the rest of your life the minute the dang door closed behind you. the creatures, that smile … two years now, & they still haunt you the minute your eyelids deign to slip closed. you’ve carved out somethin’ alright for yourself, got work as a nurse, built somethin’ halfway decent in this hellhole / got a funny feelin’ you would’ve ended up dealin’ with monsters regardless. maybe the ones with the eerie smile, the penchant for rippin’ people limb to limb, maybe they’re better / maybe they’re worse, who knows. ‘least you know this for sure: you won’t miss next time you & your colt come up against one.
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