chthonic.

“You think holy water is going to help anyone?” His head is tilting back, shoulders shaking with imitation laughter. “Holy water doesn’t work, bud.” Because — you know why? — a little piss water isn’t gonna condemn no spirit to hell. And you know why else? Because God isn’t real! Myth busted! You’re welcome; Deja has graced the Earth from the afterlife to tell you this much alone. Applaud, bow, take your seats. Show’s over, we can all go home now.

Deja only offers a grunt in response, reading the short-and-sweet newspaper clipping for a second time. Apparently some dork armed to the tits is robbing people, places, and things of that nature. They haven’t caught the criminal yet, but they’re raising public awareness. To that, Deja simply thinks humanity is fucked up. Let’s not dismiss the fact that he’s basically human himself, just of a different genre. But he shits on humanity constantly, the same way white people diss other white people in an attempt to dislocate themselves from their reality. Well, Deja is just that kind of dude. Viva la muerte! Dead man’s pride. 

so perhaps she hadn’t been the most subtle whilst staring as he ate. (to her credit, it never worked before during the greater part of her life.) palms are splayed out to accept the treat, her lips and front teeth clamping over it before she could let the thought simmer for much longer; lithe fingers work off the wrapper that clung to the bottom before offering it back to the male. dayoon was made out of peculiar tact and/or lack thereof. (note: ‘tact’ is interchangeable with many words, and then some.) her eyes turn to crescents when she smiles, gratitude comes after. “thank you,” is muffled through a mouthful.

Why don’t little girls ever use their words? This is what comes to mind, with his snout pointed down and his blackened eyes lifted upward. Up, surveying her face, studying every sweep of her own eyes over his snack. And mind you, these thoughts don’t come with the company of distaste, belligerence, or anything of that sort. No, it comes rather dry. Should just ask.

“Here, you can have the rest.” He’s eating these individually wrapped and brightly-colored candies. Shit made mostly of either oils or sugars hold a firm spot at #1 in his dietary list. Hear him out, he doesn’t have to eat so some junk every once and awhile won’t hurt. And while being on the stop of not needing to eat, this is (in fact) the reason he’s plopping the remains of inside his crinkled convenience store bag in her small open hands. Petite enough for him to wonder if the hard candy will overwhelm those dainty palms, spill over, and plummet to the ground like raindrops. (Spoiler alert: they do.) But she’s pleased, it seems. When Dayoon is offering the remaining bunch back to him, he’s waving a hand dismissively. A rather prince-like operation, if I do say so myself. I mean look at him, his chin lifted up and now his gaze is turned downward to meet hers. Hand flapping in the air. She out’ta punch him in the gut. 

THEY CALL ME DEJA, LIKE DEJA VU.