`baptized in blood.

               Mark could silently PRAY that Amanda wasn’t going to get up to any of her antics, mainly with that venomous tongue of hers, but he doubted that he would have any stroke of luck with that. He was parked out in front of the bar, eyes narrowing to see if he could spot her through the darkness and into the foggy bar windows but he didn’t have any luck. Hopefully she wasn’t passed out over the counter of the bar because he really wasn’t looking to go in there and carry her drunk ass out to the car. He didn’t even want to be here at all but something inside of him had agreed to pick the woman up.

               The officer reached over to unlock the car doors, not exactly trusting this side of town. He had arrested plenty of criminals in this area before and some of them had tried ripping civilians right out of their cars and taking them for a ride. Some of them had a rude awakening, too, when they tried getting into the wrong cars. Sometimes it was hard walking into certain places when all you could think about is the scum that inhabited these parts and the dirty arrests that he had made. He took a breath, looking towards the window as she propped herself against it.

                ❝I hear some uber drivers don’t even charge for money anymore, hence the handcuffs.❞  What was that? Some kind of humor?  ❝Just get in there car already, Amanda. I’ll get you home.❞  Mostly he was just anxious for her to get in already so he could drop her off wherever she needed to go and he could get on with his night. That didn’t entail much if he was being honest with himself. He could tie up a few loose ends for John if he needed, too, or he could just go home and try to sleep, even if it was a lucky four hours.

                                       ❛ Are you THAT disgusted by this place, Mark? ❜

                   ISN’T IT UNEASY BEING AROUND YOUR DEMONS? Doesn’t it make the stomach TURN to be around the things that once took so much from you? Money, life, the ability to feel - all of it STOLEN by a small sample of spirits. Once an addict, ALWAYS an addict. Even if he fights the urge to go inside, she can feel that anxious energy radiating off fellow reaper. The only difference between them is her ability to CAVE IN to those cravings. Upon hearing the way he dismisses her delight, a frown quickly takes the place of once pleased expression. She reluctantly opens the door, plops to his side, and rests a foot upon the dashboard. She can’t tell if she’s too faded to care about how she’s coming off or if she’s naturally DEFIANT towards those doing her a service. Regardless, this is her RESISTANCE, but she silently thanks her newfound savior for coming when no one else could.  

                                         ❛ . . . You’re not going to tell John, ARE YOU? ❜

                         SHE ONLY MAKES THE WOUND WORSE. Red descends from head to jaw, dripping slowly like sugar from a STRAWBERRY GASH. The pain ends up pulsating, but much of her neglects the ache. This isn’t the first time she’s suffered something so severe and she’s certain it won’t be the last. In fact, she rather LIKES the way it LEAKS; she rather LIKES how the HURT can be so humbling. It reminds her of what it was once like to be human, to be part of a world where pain meant something, where murder had so much meaning. But in a world where she is ETERNAL, these wounds are simply a reminder that she can be attacked, but not ended. It’s a reminder that her new gods get to decide these games and if she is to fail, THEN HER FLESH WILL FUCKING FEEL IT. She spits to the side, careful not to get drool on the damsel. Rust resides within the goop she expelled, but she can’t tell the source of her suffering. Was it from the BLOODY NOSE? Or perhaps when she BIT HER TONGUE the moment pallet fell upon her frame? Regardless, she brushes it off as a minor inconvenience and allows nurse to resume her wrapping.                         SOFTNESS - it comes in the form of a gauze and delicate fingers through her hair. She can tell this woman is careful not to make the wounds worse; she can tell that her comfort is being considered. Eyes, just as BLOODSHOT as her body, look up at the other rather weakly. There is still some DEFIANCE in those optics - a fire that begs not to be babied. But isn’t it funny how things have changed? In her own world, she was used to caring for her own cuts. She recalls the strong sent of alcohol upon her entirety and sliding into bed smelling like cheap spirits. She recalls crimson STAINING the edge of her jeans when the wraps weren’t enough to suppress new slashes. She recalls moments of STITCHING HERSELF SHUT, even when she knew a possible infection was inevitable. Never before had someone bothered to tend to her tragedy, or make her feel like she was worthy of being preserved. Much of this moment is difficult to define and yet she finds herself softened, defenseless, VULNERABLE to any vexation. But none come. All that emerges is the familiar shape of a hidden beauty trying to heal a fellow heathen. Maybe she’s losing too much life; maybe the chemicals have come over her… But she finds herself needing to say… 

                    She glances at her own palms, but briefly - and in that moment, she SWEARS she sees crimson upon her creation. A BLINK; it’s gone. Why would anyone want to wrap themselves around something that has caused so much RUIN? And any time that her hand has been taken, it’s always been guided to places that have caused her so much PAIN. She suppresses the urge to shudder - man has imposed her with so many memories she wishes to forget. But perhaps if fingers are gentle and expected, she’ll be CONTENT with the contact. 

                                                              ❛ Huh… ❜

                      She can’t pinpoint her initial emotion. Much of those intentions and words feel foreign, UNDESERVED, and like that don’t belong. She feels foolish admitting she had never been to any of those places ( BEFORE AND AFTER HER BAPTISM ), but all at once, did she ever really care to? Had they laced SIN into the setting, she might’ve felt more at home - but only because she feels like she DESERVES a setting of FILTH rather than something refined and regal. Much of her wants to part ways with something so promising. It doesn’t seem real, but that interest is AUTHENTIC. How can they find beauty with a woman riddled in WOUNDS? She’ll ACCEPT - if only to seek out an answer.

also it’s sinday so just remember...  👀 👀 👀 👀 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪