𝑼𝑵𝑯𝑶𝑳𝒀 𝑴𝑨𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑴𝑶𝑵𝒀.

           𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑹𝑰𝑫𝑬 ...     independent,   selective and private writing blog for   eddie gluskin   of red barrels’   outlast:   whistleblower.   please press the   ♡   or   ↻   to help me find more writing partners !   this blog is 18+ due to the nature of the character.   follow at your own discretion.

for @inholys··:

CROWS CAW AT THE SETTING SUN, the clouds lower, covering the sun’s rays. the fresh air of the courtyard flows into his nostrils, a deep exhale filling him with the unfamiliar expression of ease. despite the grim atmosphere, the courtyard serves as a symbol of paradise to the variants, providing a strange sense of peace that comes from existing within its boundaries. it is one of the few places billy enjoys within the walls of mount massive.

cameral eyes search for a bench to sit on and take in the scenery of the environment, but only one catches his eye. there sits the infamous groom, known for his murderous romance. billy’s heard of the rumors, of the women that have suffered by his hand. it sends shivers down his spine, but a tug in his inners persuades him to sit beside the man of violence. glancing over at his escort, billy slowly approaches the other, his words mumbled out of fear. “ can i sit here ? ”

          PARADISE IS A FLEETING TERM AND MEANS NOTHING TO MEN WHO DO NOT BELIEVE.   crows caw,   their song weak,   mountain air thin and sparse lest you really seek,   and men will respond in kind with lunacy ramblings and howls of war.   the courtyard is hardly paradise but it is a reprieve,   a show of   ‘ i’ve been good,   let me leave ’.   few does,   that he knows.   not through the front doors.   suddenly they’re gone,   empty cells that had once been full.

walrider,   the others whisper in silent revery.   walrider,   he caws back to appeal to the people who will let him go free.   all lucid in some way,   delusional in some other aspect,   but none has achieved quite as much as billy hope,   a prodigy of insanity that many can hardly even dare to know.

“     please,     ”     eddie replies,   gesturing with cuffed fists to the empty seat beside him   (   the orderly breathing down his neck throws him a warning glare,   their mouth set in a firm line   ),     “     i can’t say no to company.     ”     ungentlemanly   —   let it be known that eddie gluskin is the opposite of that   (   the floors are red,   the walls are wet   —   bleed less,   you’ve could’ve been a woman instead of a pest   ).

crows caw.   they silence.   if the crows are like the patients   (   not him,   never him   )   then the doctors are like the wolves that howl.

“     this time of the year,     ”     wavering,   spilling,   leaking,   barely held in,   a voice like a dam;   hands flatten,   then curl,   fingers interlock and then smoothes over knuckles   —   he has never been one to sit idly,   never been one to stay quiet for long,   and small talk is the sane man’s boon after all,     “     when i was young,   i used to plant flowers in the garden with my mother.   daffodils,   roses,   lillies.   she wanted a flower shop,   you see.     ”

          it’s  a  fruitless  and  tiring  search  to  find  a  man  as  constitutional  and  willing  as  this  one,  a  boring  search  that  has  left  unsatisfied  and  bereft  of  gift.  part  of  her  loathes  him,  abhors  him,  disdains  him!  how  he  speaks  with  rose - laden  lips  and  honeyed  lies,  how  he  paints  with  iridescent  gold  and  brings  her  mud  and  rust.    (  her  lashers  twitch  in  the  shadows,  almost  whip  at  his  shoulder,  almost  strangles  the  blood  and  colour  from  his  face.  almost,  almost,  almost. ) 

          evelynn  knows  the  steps  to  every  housewifes  dance,  how  to  tango  with  brutes  and  how  to  lay  with  monsters.  she  does  all  of  these  with  him,  and  more ;  how  exciting  a  groom  he  would  be  for  her  if  he  ever  made  it  past  the  consummation  of  their  wedding  night.  her  painted  lips  smile,  let  out  a  sharp  “ mhm ”,  yes  darling  i  hear  you.  how  many  dreams  does  she  have  of  pulling  his  tongue  out  through  his  eye  sockets?  far  too  many,  but  those  dreams  keep  her  alive,  healthy,  willing  to  dance  the  dance  they  dance  for  as  long  as  they  have.  

          ❛  ours,  of  course.  ❜     she  corrects  without  a  second  thought,  as  if  the  steps  come  naturally.  one - two - three - four.

          naturally,  like  a  good  wife - to - be,  she  leans  into  his  touch,  almost  rests  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  holds  him  closer.  her  jeweled  claws  almost  threaten  to  dig  into  his  sleeve,  pierce  the  fabric  and  tear  into  skin.  grip  tightens  for  a  moment  before  a  separate  thought  relaxes,  not  yet,  not  here,  not  now. 

          ❛  perfect,  darling,  we  will  be  perfect.  the  spitting  image  of  what  everyone  wants  to  be.  ❜

          IT’S ALWAYS HARD TO SEARCH FOR PERFECTION !   defined by the person,   not the people:   what is   ‘ perfect ’ ?   nuclear family and a front lawn,   kiss me good - bye while i slit your throat.   almost is a perfect word,   however.   i almost had it.   i almost had that.   i almost had you.   almost - lovers,   how sickly sweet   (   it rots just like everything else,   attracting the worst to come for a feast   ).

she’s perfect.   the perfect wife,   the perfect high,   the perfect lie.   in the darkness he sees a shimmer of something,   iridescent and ghastly and much too sharp,   flicker and then disappear.   a trick of the eye,   he muses,   dust catching the light of the night.   she wouldn’t do anything to him   (   prickling along neck,   nothing wrapping around and—   i can’t breathe,   i can’t breathe,   darling—   whore— !   )   and he wouldn’t do anything to her.

not yet.   she’s still perfect.   when she’s laid bare for all to see,   flaws and perfections and everything god has made her to be,   he’ll decide whether she’s fit for motherhood,   to give him what he’s been lacking for an eternity.

he hums in response,   the correction pleasing.   fragile creatures,   these women,   they need but gentle correction and they bend over,   eager for the attention.   he preens at her touch,   standing just that much taller,   puts his hand over where hers rest in the crook of his elbow.   the diamond nails are cold,   she’s always been too cold,   too hot,   never quite in the middle   —   corpses start warm and then goes cold,   but can often be seen rising a degree or two when their insides bloat and their orifices bleed sludge the color of coal.

“    you make me the happiest man,   darling,     ”     he sighs,   leading her 'round and 'round to nowhere and everywere at once,     “     a honest man to a honest woman ...   oh,   like a dream come true.     ”     it’s not a perfect home,   he’ll admit it,   but they will move when she’s with babe and then all of their whims will—

he can’t feel a ring.   she’s not wearing the ring.   why isn’t she wearing a ring.

the laugh that bubbles up is harsh and grating.   the dress can wait.   she’s not going to soil it if she removes the ring to seduce other men.   oh,   eddie,   you always pick the wrong ones !   they look so delicate,   so fine at first glance,   but beneath the skin is where the devil lives,   malevolent.

his grip tightens.   blunt nails dig into her skin.   it was too good to be true.

@encompassingfear​ vowed:     “     you didn’t outgrow your misery,   you grew into it     ”   —   Father Martin

(                                CURSED SUGGESTIONS.                                 )

          HOLY,   HOLY;   THE FATHER SPEAKS,   THE SINNER SEEKS   —   misery is a woman who haunts the darkest of reaches.   there’s nothing there,   she cries,   speaking of loss like the dropping of flies,   vacant,   empty,   a cave that wants but has to live with having much to spare.

he doesn’t have the same woes as the women.   of course he wouldn’t,   a man has nothing to fear but love lost   (   and all he holds dear   ).   the priest tells him of shame,   of misery locked like a cage,   of the key he holds but forgot it was there.   silly.   he breaks the key in a fit of rage,   swallows the pieces like it’s nothing more than air.

“     father,     ”     he laughs but it’s not quite there,   a threat that wants to spill and is only held in by a tight - lipped smile,     “     my life has been—   been nothing but perfect !     ”     it’s not a lie if he believes it to be true   (   the pictures tell otherwise,   young boy spread wide,   it hurts oh god it hurts stop please no no no—   )   and the eyes only see what they can’t look through.

the shaking of hands,   the bounce of a leg,   the chime of cuffs rubbing together and ensuring that he can’t wrap hands around a neck so wide—   the father should be lucky,   so lucky,   that he’s on his best behaviour right now.   see,   see ?   soon he’ll be let out,   they’ll have to realize it’s all a mistake,   he’s not stewing in misery and pretending that everything is okay.

the vocational block is alive with a buzzing.   it’s flies,   he thinks,   flies that eats at their flesh,   drinks at their innards and suckles on the fine mesh.   the fluorescent lights above blink once,   twice;   martin’s painting blends together,   words that only mad men and lunatics understands.  

it’s a gospel.   eddie was once religious.   he fails to believe a god would allow—

he pricks his finger with his given needle,   jittery motions rubbing the blood into off - white fabric.   the stitches are thick,   vague spacings making the cloth bunch up in odd places.   he thinks of the medicine he’s given.   how he keeps it below his tongue when they inspect to see if he has taken it.   how he spits it out when the doctors turn away their sight,   flushing it down the drain until there’s naught left behind.

eddie swallows the urge to laugh in martin’s face,   grimacing instead of smiling,   more teeth than is needed   (   pull them out with pliers lest he’s bound to do bad things   ).   on his best behaviour,   he reminds himself.

the poor,   delusional fool should be on the brink of dying.

he places people on a stool,   wraps a rope around their neck,   and then tips the chair until the person can either decide to jump themself or wait,   in painfully long intervals,   to slip.   because they’ll always slip,   that’s what eddie makes sure they do

the only one who’s able to be kept to his standards are himself.   he thinks that he’s always right.   his delusions feed into this mindset.   he doesn’t want to change this.   he thinks he’s right and everyone else are wrong and that’s just how it is

          she  loves  him,  she  does!  fervently,  ardently,  wholly.  the  hunter  becomes  the  prey  becomes  the  hunter──  a  dangerously  and  wildly  spinning  carousel  that  the  two  of  them  have  found  themselves  stuck  in  while  in  the  midst  of  the  asylums  walls   ( and  sometimes  the  arms  of  the  other ).   she  loves  him,  loves  how  he  wails  when  her  lashers  prick  and  poke,  when  her  claws  pull  and  yank  at  all  the  bits  that  shouldn’t  be  yanked.  there’s  a  glint  in  feline  eyes,  she  moves  just  as  quietly,  her  claws  just  as  hidden.  especially  here,  where  others  would  rather  pluck  her  fingers  off  for  themselves.

          this  is  not  the  first  time  agony  has  entered  those  walls,  not  the  first  time  she’s  embraced  and  tortured  and  saw  others  rot  in  them.  delicate  fingertips  hover  over  deteriorating  handrails,   ( were  those  maggots  or  termites  eating  away  at  the  wood? )    light  steps  descending  empty  halls.  

          ❛  is  this  where  you’re  to  put  your  vows  to  life?  ❜

@inholys·  i love you

          SNAKE IN THE GRASS;   TELL ME,   WHERE IS YOUR HEART OF GLASS ?   he loves her,   he does !   fervently,   ardently,   wholly.   he hates her,   he does !   vehemently,   stridently,   violently.   he loves how she cries when she loses an eye,   loves how she vies and tries   —   he hates how she lies,   how she dies tongue - tied,   returns with the buzz of the flies.   i want your heart,   laid out on a table like a prize.   i want,   and want and want   (   he takes,   and takes and takes   ).

linen wraps ‘round limbs and is twisted to the right;   strung up like garlands in the depths of their man - made hell.   they rot,   hung up so high,   their plight as discarded brides   —   beautiful in the moment where the knife cut away at their breasts,   lined up perfectly and removing the most vulgar of flesh.

“     where we‘re to put our vows to life,   darling.     ”     he corrects her with every right a man has,   silences her in the way that a blade of his will,   in the way a woman should ever be;   meek,   obedient,   quiet,   reliant.   she’s everything.   she’s nothing.   she’s perfect.   she’s rotting.

eddie’s grip on her arm is,   would be,   bruising;   evelynn doesn’t notice,  oh no,   of course she doesn’t,   she’s the perfect wife,  isn’t she ?   compliant,   lovely,   she loves him,   loves him,   loves him !   oh,   eddie,   you’re the luckiest man alive   (   i want her bones to snap beneath my heel   ).

the chapel,   not - quite chapel,   festering and rotting but perfect,   he only gives her what’s perfect after all,   they won’t need anyone but each other,   is empty and devoid;   stands like a testiment of every murkoff sin.   eddie hums below his breath;   the organ plays the tune when the bride walks down the aisle   (   he has never been to a wedding in his life,   tv shows and talk of love has driven him to memorize it for the sake of—   )   and he has waited for so,   so long.

(   i love you,   i love you   —   white picket fence stained red as he mounts her head on the spikes.   )

“     oh,   i can already hear the chiming,   it’s—     ”     turns around,   so fast it’d dislocate a man’s arm,   how he marches away from the aisle,   a groom who lacks the will to commit to a fairytale,     “     the dress—    we need to get you into your dress.   it’s beautiful.   we’ll be beautiful !   i know we will.     ”