𝗳𝗶𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿

sneakily, she always saves a handful of cookies for them to eat together later. leftovers, she’ll call them, as if they weren’t carefully wrapped in a clean cloth, still warm, and tucked onto a corner of the kitchen, saved. she doesn’t know why. a combination of enjoying roma’s company and wanting to remedy the second-hand guilt of having her as a prisoner of the faction. funnily enough, her voice carries no guilt when she tells the last couple people in the line sorry, we’re out of cookies for today. 

i hate them, roma says just as lily is unwrapping the treats, and her face falls. she believes it, on a split moment of uncertainty. self-doubt has always been her forte. she’s already thinking of all the ways she can fix this when she looks up, and catches sight of the teasing glint on the other’s eyes. her own lips split into a grin as she scoffs, laughing mostly at herself. “oh, shut up. i know you like them.”

she hands one of the cookies along, while she takes one for herself. she’ll purposely nibble on this same one for the entire duration of their talk, and pass all the others to roma, pretending this is an even split. “nothing too interesting. i don’t even… i don’t know what they’re up to. i see them fussing about, though. preparing for something, i think. but nothing fun on my end. you?”

                  thinks     the     sun     might     rise     and     set     with     her     smile          /          porcelain     that     brings     the     world     to     its     knees     and     she     is     something     that     gifts     glory          ,          ichor          .          when     she     looks     to     the     other’s     eyes          ,          reminded     of     virtue          ,          of     benevolence          —-          tastes     it     across     her     tongue          .          glutinous     to     a     fault          :          wants     only     to     devour     and     ravage     all     that     she     gives     and     she     thinks     for     a     second     of     a     wolf     gnawing     on     cracked     and     hollow     bones          .          and     if     she     consumes     her          ,          what     then          ?          if     she     is     something     carnivorous     and     insatiable          ,          and     if     she     cannot     be     tamed          ?          lily          ,          with     her     satin     skin     and     holy     light          —-          home     somewhere     in     elysian     fields     and     roma     as     sin     that     can     only     decay     and     devour          .          doesn’t     deserve     the     plague     that     she     brings          ,          can     only     promise     a     ruining     unbecoming     of     lily          .          belly     swelling     with     something     aching     and     she     can     only     swallow     the     hurt          .

                  old     bones     that     welcome     him     in     passing          /          which     of     his     lives     is     he     living          ?          carries     with     him     the     sins     of     all     and     maybe     that     is     why     a     spent     body     collapses     and     palms     claw     into     the     grass          (          who     will     mourn     this     damaged     earth          ?          )          and     lungs     expel     a     heavy     sigh          .          on     his     knees     again     like     in     prayer     and     maybe     there     was     something     holy     about     it          . . .          when     he     looks     to     the     sky     for     divine     intervention          ,          notices     only     the     glass-eyed     stare     of     a     raven     too     high     in     the     half     frozen     pines          .          who     are     you          ,          it     asks          ,          and     what     will     you     become          ?          wishes     he     knew          —-          wishes     he     had     an     answer     to     shout     and     scream     and     curse     until     his     throat     is     raw     but     when     lips     part     it     is     only     to     expel     a     ragged     breath     that     is     too     heavy     in     bruised     ribs          .          single     tear     brims     and     spills     and     he     does     nothing     but     let     it     fall     to     the     bloodied     earth          .

                   when     he     rises     it     is     with     an     unfeeling     placidity          :          taut     sinew          ,          flesh     broken     and     violet     patched          ,          eyes     that     look     towards     a     thick     and     slow     nothingness          .          dichotomy     between     body     and     mind     the     way     limbs     carry     movements     but     he     is     elsewhere          ,          tucked     away     and     enveloped     in     a     foggy     haze          .          he     thinks     of     his     mother     then     and     of     delicate     stems     brushing     hair     from     his     forehead     as     he     lay     still     and     dreamed          .          oh     ,          how     he     missed     those     dreams          . . .          cadaver     lays     still     at     his     feet     and     he     parts     raven     locks     from     the     eyes     to     see     who     had     tasted     his     bullet          .          jack          ,          he     thinks     his     name     is          ,          with     still     blue     eyes     that     see     only     his     callous     murderer     in     the     peripheral          .

                   he     loves          ,          is     the     thing          .          he     loves     like     a     religion          ,          like     every     sacred     rite     and     ritual     belongs     only     to     her     eyes     and     oh     god     he     would     do     it     again          .          oh     god          ,          he     would     watch     the     life     leave     a     thousand     eyes     and     wash     his     hands     of     unending     innocent     blood     to     worship     and     pray     and     sing     to     mathilda          .          supposes     every     creed     demands     sacrifice     and     he     would     pay     his     in     flesh     and     bone          .          it’s     then     that     he     sees     the     silhouette     of     another     to     witness     his     piety     and     his     gun     is     raised     before     he     recognizes     the     eyes     that     watch     him          .          ❝          sua     i          —-          ❞          pistol     thrown     to     the     ground     somewhere     he     doesn’t     care     to     see     and     he     falls     with     it          ,          digits     tangled     in     unkempt     locks          .          ❝          i     swear     i     didn’t     mean     to     he     was     just          —-          ❞          just     what          ,          exactly          ?          doing     his     job     and     fighting     the     enemy          ?          knows     he     is     unjustified     and     gratuitous     and     still     he     awaits     the     remorse     that     has     not     yet     come          .          whispered          ,          buoyant     where     it     falls     into     april     wind          .          ❝          please     don’t     tell     anybody          . . .          ❞

she hates her fucking life — her miserable, agonizing life. sometimes mathilda thinks she was born to be punished, like it had been some sick will of god but years of hyper religious trauma would do that to a person. it had been filled with nothing but searing pain; and even now she is acutely aware that none of this made sense for her. ending up with a pack of hunters in wyoming, it had been nothing more than refuge for the life that had once tormented her but she mourned more than anything under the sun. 

one second her mind is fogged, two strong hands around her throat pressing down hard — she’s too young to be romanticizing the end but it feels like she’s on death’s door. her vision grows spotty and she’s kicking a person, not an infected, in the knees to no avail until it all halts. a gunshot rings in her ears and hot, warm blood splatters across her face. it takes her a moment to realize she is not dead, not yet — and it is not her blood. shoving the body off her own mathilda loudly gasps for air, letting the oxygen fill her longs again and attempts to let her blurry vision focus on her savior. not another hunter — no, but the last thing she expects. “….leo? “ mathilda chokes out, mind flooding with thoughts that are running far too fast to process him. maybe she is dead or this is another sick twist of god’s wrath to man.

                    boy     half     destroyed          ,          fists     swollen     and     smelling     of     spent     gun     powder          .          he     thinks     he     has     known     peace     once          :          was     it     somewhere     in     the     trees     with     cardinal     birdsong     to     drown     out     screams     and     begging          ?          he     was     ten     then     and     an     old     testament     god     had     promised     fury     upon     a     few          .          he     would     return     that     day     to     see     the     scaffold     still     bloody     and     something     foul          ,          something     copper     and     rancid          ,          hanging     heavy     in     the     air          .          when     did     the     birds     stop     singing     and     the     trees     rot     into     the     ground          ?          when     did     his     skin     begin     to     bleed     and     bleed     and     his     stare     become     cold          ?          when     did     his     soul     become     incorrigible          ?          palms     once     clasped     in     prayer     that     know     only     of     ruin     and     atrophy          —-          welcomes     the     ravage     and     the     sin          .

                    knows     he     is     a     corpse     decaying          /          virtues     and     personhood     deteriorating     into     something     wild          ,          unrecognizable          .          is     this     what     it     feels     like     to     slip          ?          thinks     for     a     moment     how     comforting     a     grave     would     be          :          i     hope     they     bury     me     in     the     mountains          ,          leave     me     to     collapse     among     the     rock     and     dirt          .          when     he     sees     her     face          ,          knows     sanity     has     left     him     godforsaken          .          still     . . .     rationale     be     damned     and     he’s     pulling     out     his     gun     to     shoot     the     hunter     atop     her     body          .          doesn’t     blink          ,          doesn’t     miss     when     the     bullet     goes     through     his     skull     and     she     is     painted     in     crimson          .          sweet          ,          honey     voiced          ,          if     this     is     a     dream     please     let     it     last     . . .     thumbs     tracing     the     visage     of     a     ghost          ,          lips     trembling     and     mumbling          .          ❝          mathilda     . . .     are     you     here          ?          am     i     slipping     away          ?          please     tell     me     you’ll     stay     ...          ❞

                    soft     chuckles     painting     the     picture     of     somebody     not     tinted     in     malice          /          knows     she’s     something     vicious     but     in     her     wake     she     is     reborn     and     reborn     again          ,          tribulations     be     damned          .          heart     heavy     and     light     at     the     same     time          :          is     this     laughter     deserving          ?          to     whom     does     this     benevolence     belong          ?          digits     tug     at     the     cotton     around     her     shoulders     tighter          ,          lips     faltering          .          colloquial     is     teasing     when     the     other     approaches          .          ❝          another     one     of     these     cookies          ?          oh          ,          you     know     i     hate     them          .          ❞          lie     falls     easily     off     an     adapted     tongue          —-          won’t     admit     that     the     sweets     she     brings     her     make     veins     warm     with     something     she     doesn’t     recognize     or     that     she     counts     the     days     before     she’s     eating     them     again     but     isn’t     that     how     it’s     always     been          ?          the     lying     and     the     sin     come     too     easily     and     she     is     made     to     devour     it     all          .          ❝          so     what’s     going     on     out     there          ?          any     fights     worth     mentioning          ?          ❞