GAIAGIFTED / HAUNT ME, THEN ( evelynn ).
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.
“ you ... you’ve been laying with others, haven’t you ? ”