* ℌe̶̦̺̲̘̟̭͓͉̐𝕝𝖑 𝘏𝝤ᵤ𝔰ǝ̸͕̩̿̚

———— DELIVER ME , O ' LORD , FROM THE VIOLENT MAN .

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❝ no , really , i'm fine - ❞ she protests — almost demands it . the delicate tone of her voice does little to subdue the firmness behind it . blanca lowers her head , taking in the sight of the fresh wound on her arm . it isn't until she takes in her condition , a blunt , vertical abrasion on her elbow layered over a chunk of bruising , that she realizes she should remain open to outside consideration . she's the only one trying to convince herself of her own strength in this moment . ❝ this is nothing new to me ; getting pushed around and treated like garbage . people don't know what to make of me . ❞

it     happened     again     .     quentin     finds     himself     fighting     off     his     body's     instincts     ,     wrestling     the     overwhelming     urge     to     close     his     eyes     .     it's     a     vicious     cycle     .     another     night     spent     sleepless     ,     his     very     needs     being     perceived     as     a     threat     to     his     life     —     and     in     a     way     ,    it     was     .     every     hour     he     spends     asleep     feels     like     an     hour     wasted     .     they're     only     dreams     ;  they     can't     hurt     you     .     it's     rhetoric     that     he's     heard     many     times     over     ,     one     that     has     become     irrelevant     in     the     wake     of     his     many     disturbances   :     ungodly     night     terrors     ,     trembling     hands     ,     cold     sweats     ,     and     tangible     sensations     associated     with     pain     .     all     of     the     professional     opinions     from     doctors     ,     experts     and     psychiatrists     have     become     distant     noise     to     him     [  . . .  ]     much     like     the     current     words     coming     from     scout     ,     whom     he     fails     to     adequately     focus     on     .     

in     gene's     possession     rests     a     hand  -  plucked     vinyl     ,     fresh     from     the     assorted     rows     of     metal     ,     noise     ,     and     hell     itself     .     as     he     peers     down     at     the     item     he's     gathered     ,     thoughtful     judgement     appears     in     his     eyes     .     a     tale     as     old     as     time     —     stop     me     if     you've     heard     this     one  : a     rancid     but     colorful     cover     ,     the     contents     within     promising     pulsating     tempos     and     devastating     blast     beats     .     upon     the     vinyl's     backside     is     the     album's     song     list     ,     promising     regurgitated     themes     of     gore     ,     vomit     ,     and     death     all     around     —     but     no     interest     can     be     found     on     gene's     end     .     gruff     but     thorough     ,     he     mumbles     to     no     one     in     particular     .

❝     shit     ,     ❞     he     returns     the     piece     to     its     alphabetized     label     ,     his     fingers     flicking     toward     its     runner  -  up     ,     pulling     it     from     the     assortment     .     gene     repeats     the     action     with     each     vinyl     pulled     —     picking     and     choosing     ,     judging     and     relinquishing     each     item     until     he     grows     irate     with     the     overall      selection     and     gives     up     .     ❝     shit     ,     shit     [  . . .  ]     and     more     shit     .     ❞     there's     a     cockiness     to     his     dismissal     .

LIKE FOR A STARTER — SPECIFY MUSE !

with his brows furrowed , heinrich's head lolls back , his aching back sinking deeper into the worn chair . although his lips part in attempt to articulate a response , the act of contemplation renders his voice useless . his thumb flicks the butt of his cigarette , sending ashes snowing into the ashtray at his feet . the cigarette soon finds its way back , wedged between his puckered lips , cheeks growing hollow with a slow inhale , drawing a cloud of grey smoke that lingers for a few seconds .

his thoughts sift through various memories until they settle on a boy much younger than himself , one who bears resemblance to both himself and his wife . a boy who calls him heinrich instead of dad for no other reason than to needle him , though there is love buried somewhere beneath the defiance . somewhere . it's a hard pill for heinrich to swallow : the realization that he was the very reason his son ever felt compelled to resort to such petty attempts to provoke him . not much he can do about that now , can he ? guilt  persists  . how  could  be begin to  think  about  the  future , let alone the here  and  now  , when  he's  buried  in  the  past  ?

a     phantom     wearing     mortal     skin     ;     nehel's     presence     reads     ghost  -  like     .    if     ever     there     was     a     plea     to     God     on     his     behalf     ,     it     would     surely     be     this  :     don't     let     them     hear     me     .     don't     let     them       see     me     .     and     please     ,         God     ,     don't     let     them     find     me     .     every     move     he     has     ever     made     ,     no     matter     how     small     ,     has     adhered     to     a     troublesome     little     pattern:     light     ,     curious     ,     hesitant     —     almost     skittish     .     his     second     nature     caries     the     burden     of     many     sins     .     repentance     is     rehearsed     inside     of     his     head     .     i'm     sorry     ,     i'm     sorry     .     the     words     never     leave     .

this     hadn't     been     the     first     time     nehel     has     turned     up     around     the     store     without     announcement     ,     or     even     so     much     as     a     breath     .     around     here     ,     it's     what     people     have     grown     to     dread     about     him     .     at     his     core     is     an     instinctive     unwillingness     to     be     perceived     as     an     obstacle     ,     which     always     drives     him     back     into     an     old     habit     of     playing     small     —     nay     ,    playing     dead     .    he     substitutes     the     pathetic     need     to     tuck     his     tail     in     between     his     legs     ,     in     exchange     for     honest     conversation     .

& ———RUINED IN EVERY HOLE .

he has long since abandoned his dealt hand in favor of nodding off ; his cards lie facing upward , although they probably shouldn't be . his eyes flicker down to observe the culprit of his vocal fit . a tacky lighter he remembers picking up from the corner store downtown , and the ombre glass bong , illuminated by the neon lighting of the bedroom . heinrich leans back , resting his back against the frame of the bed . one knee is propped up out of his criss - cross positioning , allowing him to rest his elbow upon it .