𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙳;

listening    to   wren   was   like   reading   poetry,   her   voice   like   velvet   as   selina   sat    gazing   at   her,         taking    in   everything   like   she   had   met   her   for   the   first   time   all   over   again.       though   scars   were   no   stranger   to   Selina’s    skin   too     one   for   almost    every   fight    she   had    got   herself   into   growing   up.        two   for   fist   fighting   a   guy   with   a   knife.     go    figure.       ❝     the   thorns   got   you   huh   ??    ❞        genuine   smile   upon   her   lips    as   she    allows   herself   to   be   just   selina.          not    catwoman.      not   a   thief.        just   there   with   wren   talking    about   past   scars.      &&    like   most   scars     they    heal.   

THEIR  WORLD  IS  COLLAPSING   :       an  exaggeration  that  seeps  in  quickly,    claws  exposed  and  razor  -  fangs  revealed,    fragmenting  wren’s  foggy  consciousness     (       the  truth  is  even  be  worse        ---        the  building  was  falling  to  pieces  around  them,    a  stampede  of  feet  echoing  upon  the  lower  floors,     humanity  alive  in  crisis       ).       TO  HER  LEFT,    THE  STAIRS  FALL  DOWNWARDS,    CIRCLING  IN  ON  THEMSELVES.     the  noise  is  familiar       [       your  fog  -  heated  cheek  pressed  against  a  stormy  window,    age  nine,    thunder  and  lightning  cracking  beneath  your  eyes,     your  one  salient  thought  bringing  comfort  :       you  are  going  to  die  tonight       ].      but  the  scene  grows  worse       ---       wren’s  thigh  is  impaled  upon  glass  shards,    a  window  shattered  beneath  her,     remnants  of  this  hallowed  building  weighing  upon  her  leg.       YOU  ARE  ONLY  HUMAN   :       these  hands  were  not  meant  to  move  the  skies,    to  birth  the  sun  by  eating  it  off  your  palms,    to  shove  a  collapsing  building  off  your  leg.     THESE  HANDS  WERE  NOT  MEANT  FOR  SURVIVAL.       [       @promethian​   :       this  isn’t  what  i  wanted!       ].

               EMET ONLY KNOWS ILLNESS  in the abstract, prosy metaphors and medical  definitions; but the onset of a fever doesn’t seem like an inapt comparison to the onset of his friendship with Wren Jones. A slow crawl, only noticed after you’ve started burning. Friendship in itself is tricky vocabulary to navigate. Uncommon, often fleeting. Something else seen more in concept than execution. So he’s not sure how he managed to agree to get on plane with her and land themselves in the apartment of some washed up TV psychic. 

               The evolution between offering a stranger a place to sleep to killing to keep them alive moves in leaps and bounds. In hushed promises and hot morning tea, the kind he left her in a chipped mug on the bedside table. She got the mattress, of course. Even though it’s little more that. He’s never grown used to luxury, and she, who appears bred with manners and money, seems to have grown used to being on the run. He remembers what that’s like, even if it was more than 70 years ago. 

               When she admitted her true identity he wasn’t shocked, it takes a fugitive to know one, and the abuse of power like Elijah’s comes as no surprise. 

               Maybe it’s not so miraculous he followed her out here. He’s always wanted a place to belong, even if it’s in someone else’s narrative. 

               They wade through the bodies of Demetri’s would-be assassins: two men in all black, minor genetic enhancements, but not enough to stop 9mm point blank to the chest. The man they’ve just saved from sudden death is still hiding behind the overturned sofa, his low whimpers giving his position away. 

               Emet crouches down to search one of bodies, allowing Wren and Demetri to reacquaint themselves without him looming in the background.

@nuptia

WREN IS NOT A WOMAN IN INFINITE SUPPLY OF FRIENDS: vulture - culture tabloids etched her face across front pages ( the media circus mimed out her history, a shoddy replacement of her life steeped in silence ; HATEFUL, UNHINGED, BASTARDESS, BRIDE, BRIDE, BRIDE --- ). perhaps that is the reason they had rooted together, an entanglement of growing tree - trunk - bodies [ they have only been sharing soil for a little while, but wren knows she will not let him wither --- and he, in turn, lets her flower against him ] --- LONELINESS. if they had nothing else, they had their loneliness, a horrid weight to carry upon their back. SHARED NOW, WASN’T IT? --- yes, she liked to think so.

SHE DID NOT DECIDE ON BRUTALITY: it had picked this life for her, its gallows - bled hand curling her towards demetri in his hour of need ( the truth is she will leave most of the heavy lifting to him --- i have choked too often on thoughts of killing to bathe my hands in this unseasoned redness ). instead, she kneels beside demetri and checks him over ; the process is harder on someone else. she has to look at them in parts, unfused from their wholeness, to subject someone to the splitting of the body that she has suffered through. ‘ you’re going to be okay, ‘ wren assures, seeing a splatter of blood raise up from demetri’s thigh [ there is fragmented conversation passing between them, splintered explanations, her shirt ripped and wrapped around his thigh --- an attempt to apply pressure ].

    her  smile  doesn’t  seem  to  stop  with  wren.    such  a  contrast  from  her  usual  guests,   who  bring  up  sore  subjects  and  pour  salt  on  aching  wounds.       [     THERE’S  ONE  IN  PARTICULAR  SHE  THINKS  OF.   ]        the  children  in  the  house  are  not  forgotten,    but   background  thoughts  that  come  up  in  conversation   like  bubbles  -     every  one  popping  the  illusion  that  the  two  were  young,   or  even  perhaps  free.      it’s  been  a  long  time  since  becca  had  thought  that  way,     or  even  acknowledged  what  having  a  child  meant  beyond  the  love  that  sprouted  from  her  garden  of  a  heart.    but  with  freedom  came  expression,    and  becca  realizes   -      IT’S  BEEN  A  LONG  TIME  SINCE  SHE’S  BEEN  HERSELF.      ‘     alright,   fine   ;       i’ll  indulge.     ‘      a  crooked  smile  shows  teeth,   laugh  lines  digging  themselves  further  into  features.     hands  continue  forward.      ‘    it’s  not  inviting  yourself  over  if  you’re  welcome,   you  know.   and  you  are  -        welcome,   i  mean.   ‘ 

@nuptia​ said: ❛ He fills me with horror but I do not hate him. How can I hate him? ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘  𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇  silent for a while, she confiding in the monster and he taking the emptiness of the moment to study her in the lamplight.  she had a mature face and was very pretty, and had atop her head a treasure trove of golden curls from which the count found difficult to remove his eyes.  

                  only once he had found a new surface on which to fix his gaze - a wall to the far right of the room that was fitted with a wide, colorful photograph - did he say:     “  it is easy to fall into the bitterness of contempt.  your hearts have always been fragile… nay, eager to hate what you cannot understand.  ”

I  HAVE  FORGOTTEN  MY  OWN  LAUGH   :       or,   worse  yet,   perhaps  wren  had  never  known  it       (       she  seperates  herself,   she  casts  her  icy  touch  upon  the  strange  parts  of  herself       ---       what  is  my  favourite  colour?   what  songs  do  i  like?     is  this  my  voice  or  does  it  belong  to  someone  else?      ).      maria  had  lined  up  a  movie  marathon  of  comedies,    that  eliciting  nothing  more  than  a  soft  smile  from  wren       ---       it  was  altogether  quite  likely  that  she  had  lost  the  ability  entirely       [       i  am  a  tabula  rasa,       i  am  the  absence   :       what  is  normal  for  others  is  unheard  of  inside  of  me      ].       NO  LAUGHTER    :         broken  woman  with  yet  another  tear  in  her  body         ---         the  throat  is  unscarred  from  the  outside,   but  inside?      this  is  the  space  where  she  has  been  rendered  mute.

MOVIE  NIGHT  MEANT  SNACKS   :       she’s  huddled  in  her  coat,   braced  against  the  cool  winds  that  always  seemed  to  fall  unfairly  upon  the  motel     (      the  vending  machine  is  a  girl’s  best  friend     ---     food  upon  food  upon  food,     enough  to  turn  your  mouth  in  a  sticky  sweet  heaven,   for  the  right  price        ).      her  path  is  obscured  by  another  body,     wrestling  with  the  machine.    a  pause  before  he  begins  to  shake  it,    hands  resting  against  the  top  to  rattle  it     [    and  that’s  when  it  happens       ---     wren’s  teeth  crushing  against  her  bottom  lip  to  hide  the  vague  snort  of  amusement      ].     ‘      hey,   hey,   you  know  that  actually  does  very  little,    right?     ‘     and  her  laughter  comes  clean  as  a  whistle,    high  and  bright  in  the  winter  -  stained  night.

❝    oh,  are  you  a  doctor,  now,  too?    ❞        what  might  usually  be  imbued  with  derision,  scorn,  sarcasm  –  take  your  pick,  russian  roulette  style!  –  is  played  off  as  nothing  more  than  a  quip  this  time  round,  but  she  still  won’t  challenge  it  any  further.    she’s  read  all  the  reports  and  seen  all  the  statistics  on  gun  violence,  and  twenty  minutes  seems  to  be  a  generous  estimate,  far  more  so  than  she  would’ve  appreciated.    call  her  a  pessimist  if  you  want,  but  shiv  much  prefers  to  be  pleasantly  surprised  than  greatly  disappointed,  and  bleeding  out  in  twelve  minutes  because  you  thought  you  had  twenty  would  greatly  disappoint  her.    probably.

painfully  aware  of  the  situation  that  they’re  still  in,  and  the  fact  that  the  stakes  are  higher  than  the  distance  they’ve  already  travelled,  she  tugs  wren  in  the  direction  of  the  main  street,  her  thoughts  tiptoeing  around  their  awareness  of  the  pain  that's  slowly  invading  her  arm  with  each  passing  second.    standing  here  in  the  alley  talking  won’t  help  it  any,  after  all.        ❝    yeah,  yeah,  that’s  fine,  there’s  something  like  sixty  hospitals  in  the  city,  joe  will  know  which  is  closest.    ❞        once  they  get  to  the  car  in  one  piece,  or  in  the  same  pieces  that  they’re  currently  in,  they’ll  be  fine,  it’ll  be  fine,  shiv  has  faith  in  that,  mostly.

SHE  TAKES  YOUR  HAND   :       death  -  defied  animal  led  in  reverse       [       the  slaughterhouse  is  stained  -  glass  and  ballrooms,    left  behind  with  its  perfume  -  hazed  breaths        ---       you  have  already  died        ;       this  skin  is  not  your  own,    your  body  has  been  repeaed  for  its  fresh  organs  and  silken  sinew       ].       BUT  EVEN  RUNNING  GAZELLES  ARE  OFFERED  SAFETY  SOMETIMES.       what  does  this  woman’s  hand  feel  like?       nothing  like  a  weapon,    that’s  for  damn  sure       ---       she’s  had  hands  around  her  neck before,    hands  with  talons  meant  to  rip,    hands  with  gentle  fingers  meant  to  pry  her  open,    hands  upon  hands  upon  hands       (       your  last  memory  will  be  of  all  the  hands  that  have  hurt  you  and  it  will  be  infinite       ).       her  daisy  -  white  socks  are  quickly  covered  in  dirt  and  those  prickly  little  stones  as  they  twist  through  the  alley,     a  flurry  of  noise  and  soft  glowing  lights  opening  up  before  them,    prayer  hands  torn  apart  to  reveal  a  stranger  world       [       you  are  holding  hands  and  these  hands  will  not  hurt  you       ---        THEY  COULD   :       maybe  some  deep  -  set  ploy  by  the  police  to  finally  capture  her,     a  misplaced  friend  guiding  her  towards  death       ].       NO,    I  WILL  NOT  THINK  OF  THAT.