[hath no fury]

    written by nate      ❪     21   +   he   /   him     ❫.            ᴍɪɴᴏʀs ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ

…        BRENT  DOES  NOT  SEE  HIMSELF  AS  A  REPLACEMENT.        there  is  no  second  place  to  be  had  here        (        there  are  winners  and  there  are  losers  and,   well,   brent  is  the  one  who  ended  up  with  daniel        …        and  lark  is  the  forgotten  songbird  who  has  had  his  voice  choked  out  of  him,     who  had  lost  his  wings  and  his  hope  in  one  fell  swoop        ).        brent  understands  hopelessness,    but  lark  is  a  villain  of  his  own  making.      any  pity  that  could  be  spared  between  them  is  a  song  that  neither  wants  to  sing   :        even  when  daniel  isn’t  here,   he  haunts  them.

there  had  been  a  cage  with  a  mother  and  a  son  inside.     the  father  existed  outside  of  steel  and  bone,     a  ghostly  remnant  of  his  own  death,    a  reminder  that  all  lives  came  with  a  price  tag        (        are  you  feeling  weak?        brent  had  stolen  a  life  with  acid  smears  and  blank  eyes,    a  human  being  in  exchange  for  a  human  being,     mourning  that  comes  with  a  physical  representation   :         death  is  an  ally        ).       ‘   are you trying to make me feel weak?     you  aren’t  doing  as  well  as  you  think.   ’ 

The frown that sits upon thin lips is snatched away by the sneer that claws its way to the surface. Lark could not let himself feel small. The boy in scuffed converse was no sweet songbird; he was wing-plucked vulture circling over the soon-to-be bones of the other boy. He saw all, each crack in Brent’s soft exterior. No one was without their motive, the fox plays with the rabbit and pretends they are one in the same but in reality, he’s every bit the predator as him- even if he so desperately wishes he were prey.

It isn’t easy to hide his disgust for the other. It is an envy bleeding emerald over gaunt features, jade daggers clawing at the face of the boy he can barely bring himself to look upon. Lark had messed up, and here was this perfect specimen to pick up the pieces. One that wouldn’t dream of hurting Daniel, one that could give him everything the web-spun teen couldn’t. What bullshit. It would only be a matter of time before the fox had the rabbit’s heart between his jaws, it’s horrid bone puncturing  sinew--- leaving vulture to pluck at the scraps left over. Lark was not content with the scraps, he would eat Daniel whole.

“Again, that’s your choice of word. Not mine.” He reminds, keeping his tone as cool as he could despite his stomach doing cartwheels. It’s hard not to perform here; a strange circus of a teen very conscious of himself. The way he folded his arms to hide his figure, to both look bigger and smaller at the same time. The way he tried to deepen his voice, tone sounding thick as it claws at his throat. He sat so uncomfortable in his own skin, reminded ever more so of that fact every time he looked at Brent.

 Envy had its own little palette of greens; another shade added to the mix with each breath. He picks the survivor apart with shattered beak. Brent was handsome, far more than Lark could ever consider himself to be. His clothes didn’t hang off his frame, his shoulders filled out his shirt well. Even his voice was something the songbird wishes he could bottle up and swallow greedily. The replacement, the upgrade. He can’t help but feel this way, Daniel’s new forged flame feeling like betrayal.

“I’m not trying to make you feel like anything. Sometimes you just can’t help being the way you are. Some people are just born weak, you know? Are quite content to stew away in that for the rest of their sad little lives.” He takes a moment to swallow his smile, readjusting folded arms. “You’re certainly not weak, dude. Far from it.”

ofgxds​:

…        IZZY  WAS  OFF  WITH  THE  FAIRIES        (        this  expression  had  danced  across  her  childhood,    the  murmuring  of  motherly  mouths  excusing  her  ditzy  moments,    explaining  away  a  girl  who  lost  herself  in  internet  buzzwords  and  dangerous  pipelines   :        no  one  ever  seemed  to  remember  that  fairies  were  fanged  creatures,    clawed  hounds,   brutal  hunters  of  little  girls        ).         she  had  been  pinned  and  dissected,    her  organs  weighed  and  found  wanting        …        fairies  were  not  friendly  creatures.        which  meant  that  izzy  was  used  to  the  leftovers,    the  rotten  pieces  of  humanity  that  rotted  tongues  to  nothing.        I  DO  NOT  SPEAK  OF  TROUBLES,      SAYS  THE  FAIRY  -  PLUCKED  GIRL.

here,   the  world  cared  for  her.     these  people  would  not  let  her  be  dragged  away  by  the  fairies,    they  would  not  let  her  die  as  little  more  than  blown  pollen  spooling  free  from  the  dawning  bud  of  a  flower        (        if  she  dies  here,    people  would  notice        …       and  that  is  the  only  way  to  truly  die   :        anything  else  is  just  ceaseless  wandering        ).        ‘   perfect,   ’        izzy  signs  with  a  noiseless  laugh.       here,    they  do  not  hear  her,    but  they  find  other  ways  of  listening  to  her.      lark  turns  his  hands  into  a  voice,    his  palms  into  a  throat,    a  killing  word  trapped  beneath  his  nails   :        he  does  these  things  for  her.        she  wants  to  curl  into  his  hands  and  lay  there,     watching  him  twitch  more  words  into  the  air  just  for  her.

she  has  not  yet  learned  how  real  danger  can  be,    so  she  rests  against  the  couch  with  ease,     a  little  drop  of  a  white  -  budded  flower  opening  for  him.        ‘   do  i  visit  too  often?     i  try  to  make  sure  there’s  a  day  between  each.     but  days  are  so  funny.     fast  and  slow,    all  so  different.   ’        she  draws  the  words  quickly,    fingers  made  for  these  aching  movements.        ‘    domi  could  teach  you.   she’s  so  smart.   ’       friendship,   fresh  from  the  over,   wrapped  in  a  gentle  blanket.        ‘   can  i  see  what’s  on  it?   ’

Company had seldom been found in thin frame of his van; the vehicle more a home than any brick-and-water housing he’d been privy to. This was a home self-made, just as much as he was self-made (and self-destructive). Songbird had flown from the nest long ago in search for clearer skies and greener pastures, the road long and turbulent; chapters spent caged, pages turning tales of wings clipped- but now? Here he had settled in the greenest pastures of them all, the raggedy little creature left at the end of his novel was still the same bird. And what had such pasture offered? A whole flock of lambs to perch upon, soft and clean and gentle.

He does his best to catch up with her flurry of words, gathering and plucking what meaning he could from the air. Lark was by no means fluent at all, but still he sat and watched, listened. He nodded politely, eyes widening slightly at a sign he DID recognise. DOMI. “Sure. I guess.” A half-committed response dressed and laced in a gentle smile, he hopes that it’s a convincing enough gift to hide his embarrassment. He hadn’t been practicing as much as he should have been; mind these days PREOCCUPIED.

Dark eyes glance back at the small but sturdy box in his hand, deciding to place it back on the ground out of reach. “Ah, it’s still kinda busted. Just a bunch of old stuff. Nothing crazy interesting.” Lark’s lies flow one after another, each spilling out over the other like white water in gushing river. Lark was a self-made man, and he would create himself in whatever image he saw fit; that was a side of him that he didn’t need nor particularly want new friends to see. Careful, sweet flock- that is not a songbird at all, plucked and raw and beady-eyed----- that thing is a vulture.

“It’s cool having you over, y’know? It’s nice.” He turns to look back at her, fiddling with the screwdriver between digits as he pulls his legs up to his chest. The slightest of winces; everything still ached.

 “You really liven the whole joint up an---” The boy’s words trail off as a thought comes to mind, “Oh, wait.” Lark flashes a smile as he carefully rises to crouch, moving over to the small power-bank at the back of the confines of the van. With a tiny CLICK, a flick of the switch- the space comes to life. A collection of soft reds, burning crimson stars scattered across the ceiling erupt in bloody glow. “Put up some fairy lights. Thought it’d be more uh… cosy?” Bashful laugh stutters out as he returns to his seat next to her. “What d’you think?”

…       STORIES  ARE  ALWAYS  SAD   :        they  overwhelm  the  human  mind  to  the  point  of  tears,    whether  the  offered  ending  sings  of  dismal  destruction  or  sweetened  hope        (        it’s  not  the  ending  that  matters        …        it  is  the  fact  it  ends  at  all         …         it’s  the  way  the  ending  is  underscored  as  one  set  in  stone,    an  unmoving  beast  that  rebels  against  the  allure  of  their  humanity         ).        this  is  why  charlie  is  dressed  up  in  her  own  misery,     clouded  by  a  fading  blanket  of  her  own  endings.      once  day,   her  story  will  end,    colliding  itself  thinly  against  the  tale  of  lark’s  life.        BUT  IF  SHE  IS  A  PAPERBACK,   THEN  HE  IS  AN  ORIGAMI  BIRD   :        he  denies  that  he  is  even  made  of  paper,    growing  feathers  from  papercuts  and  wings  from  inky  scribbles.

his  story  will  end,   too,    and  the  final  pages  will  be  more  gory  than  her  own        …        the  paper  -  bird  will  find  the  ground  in  a  blaze  of  glory,   unable  to  accept  its  true  form        (        beneath  all  of  lark’s  cracks,    he  wears  the  making  of  a  monster   :       charlie  might  one  day  set  the  blade  into  his  hand,     but  it’ll  be  his  own  sick  mind  that  drives  him  to  murder        ).        CHARLIE  TOWNES,   FIRST  ON  THE  SCENE        …        she  could  create  quite  the  stir  in  documenting  a  friend  -  turned  -  killer,   the  inside  scoop  dishing  out  organs  and  secrets  and  the  offal  of  lark’s  soul.        she  delights  herself  in  the  idea,   but  does  not  press  towards  it.

‘   you  look  like  the  dead  bird  that  a  cat  dragged  in.   ’        she  ruffles  her  fingers  lightly  through  his  messy  locks,    dropping  her  hand  until  it  could  smooth  against  the  skin  behind  his  ear.      he’s  soft  there,     her  little  songbird.        ‘   please.   scott  kicked  your  ass.    i  should  get  you  boxing  lessons  or  something,    toughen  you  up.   ’

ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʙᴇ sᴜʀᴘʀɪsᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴏᴏʟs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟɪғᴇ. Sinners flocked and atoned, reborn everyday in something as commonly found as water; deeds forgotten and forgiven in the eyes of those who created them with just a few words. Liars and crooks and criminals were reborn, reforged from the ashes of their own mistakes with something as simple as a blade. The life led, blood shed is nothing more really than the inky mess left behind to recount such tales. One of the many reasons Lark adored Charlie Townes was because they were of the same kind in a way;ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠɪsᴛs.

ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴍᴀɴ ʜᴇʟᴅ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ sᴛᴏᴄᴋ ғᴏʀ ʜɪs ᴏᴡɴ sᴛᴏʀʏ, one who’s chapters began only a few years prior. If he were to document his life as both writer and editor, he’d proudly omit the first decade and a half that came before. It was only very recently he’d stepped into the narrative himself, from observer to the observed and already it had cost him more blood and tears than he had been prepared for. Young icarus plastered in wax of his own making was already left with burns. Only in the last few months had he really felt alive.

Ardant spectator to atrocities grainy on dim screen, he had carved himself onto the pages  and been burdened with spectacular clarity. Lark Hernández had no past, and there was little future left for him in the space between sun and grave, but he was content with the blessings the present provided. It’s in these small, solar-painted moments he hopes he is remembered.

“Thanks.” Grin sits warmly on tired features as he feels Charlie’s hand etch across his skin, eyes resting in the gentle touch the reporter provided. How glad he felt that this chapter need not be a lonely one. “Not dead yet.” He teases in reminder, young hues opening to crest upon her visage.

“Boxing  lessons?  Now  that’d be something, huh?” A little laugh exhales into the evening as hands form fists and punch out lightly into the air before them. They drop to ring themselves, bandaged hands kissed together in humble steeple. “I’m sure I’m a Rocky in the making.”

“I could have taken him, y’know. If it’d been an actual fight and not, y’know, an ambush.” The guitarist had really come out of nowhere, an invasion into the small nest he had made for himself, and painted collected scraps with the bird’s insides. Vicious hound plucking at wing and sinew with unfair advantage. He had hurt Tibbs before, and he was happy to do so again. He could fly to  heights Scott could only dream of, leaving him down below in the dirt gagged with his own ego-stained fabric.

 “Is that where you’re headed after this?   He’ll probably be asking where you are, huh?”             

…        HUMANITY  IS  A  STUPID  BEAST   :        it  growls and  reviles  against  the  dying  light        (        colton  is  glad  he  snuffed  out  the  dying  embers  of  his  own        …        it  would  not  serve  him  anymore,    refusing  to  yield  to  the  tender  grip  of  his  fingers        ).         they  sit  in  colton’s  palour,    flush  with  muted  browns  and  the  gentle  fragments  of  gold.     a  teacup  rests  against  his  palm,    an  aching  warmth  that  kisses  his  skin        …        most  killers        [          if  such  a  crass  term  could  ever  be  applied  to  his  art   :        he  was  little  more  than  an  artist        ]         had  become  so  unabashed.       there  wasn’t  any  decorum  anymore.

‘   some  believe  me  to  be  quite  a  dangerous  figure.   ’        his  smile  is  sickly  sweet  and  flush,     the  godly  benevolence  as  he  stares  down  at  the  weakened  creature.     lark  is  sparrow  -  boned  and  crowned  by  his  own  softness.         ‘   you  don’t  think  i’m  dangerous?       …        pour  yourself  more  tea.   ’

#cont        …         @ofgxds

The internet could be a ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀғᴜʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢ. A tool to connect, a tool to create, a tool to share. The web itself was not inherently evil. It was no more evil than…than a baseball bat, slick with jewelled ash as it sits on the shelf. It was the hands that commanded these tools that directed the evil, the sweaty sinner’s palms that strangled themselves around hilt and chose where to swing. The dirty little spiders that scurried to feast on the aftermath from behind their little screens.

Lark felt incredibly out of place. Colton’s place is probably the nicest place he’d ever stepped foot in. Wire-frame rests uncomfortable in plush chair, with scuffed converse resting soundlessly against immaculate floors. But Lark could be in some back alley for all he cared, It was not the majesty of the man’s home that brought the boy here. His own lips curve to smile in mirror of Colton’s own; a sense of relief in tight chest that he had made him smile.

“That’s all subjective.” He replies, the teacup held between both hands yet untouched. It burned just a little against skin where he had held it in one place too long, but the dull sensation went unnoticed. “But… I mean, yeah? You’re pretty dangerous, I guess.” He plays with both ends of answer, a candle determined to burn to the core in order to please. Lark wishes not to pander; he won’t be reduced to a fan-boy. But he can’t help but breathe in silent prayer the wish for Colton’s smile to continuing its blessing.

“You’re only a danger to stupid people,” He catches his explanation, freeing one hand to push his curls out of his face; he really needed a haircut. “And even then I wouldn’t say danger.” A wry smile creeps its way onto his features, “They’re lucky they end up a part of your content. Given their sad little lives some actual use.”

@ofgxds​ :     “  what  hideous  sin  have  you  committed  lately?  ”

   patience has never been one of adam’s greatest virtues.   adam’s always been known for his hair - trigger temper,  his explosive anger,  his time - bomb nature.   restraint was not a word typically associated with adam faulkner - stanheight.   he’s TRYING   …   dear god,  he’s trying   …   but it’s not going all that well.     ‘ would you shut the fuck up? ’     huh.   not as nasty as he’d expected.     ‘ i don’t need a fuckin’ play - by - play of your therapy sessions.   i just asked if you actually showed up. ’

ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴀɪʀ ᴛʜɪs ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ғᴏᴏʟ’s ɢᴀᴍᴇ. It had been a thoughtless tease of the lips of the sinner that holier man dismissed with a snarl. Tough crowd. The rat struck back against flightless beast, both vermin of their own accord trying to make peace with their own strangled sense of devil and divinity. Claw and talon clash soundlessly, wordlessly in the air when light hues can bring themselves to glower at darker. Nothing could hide the disgust etched onto Adam’s tired features.

Lark looks away, ringing hands as he tries to straighten his posture; an unconscious gesture to affirm to himself that the photographer’s tone didn’t sting. Whatever creature had graced him with caring eyes or cautious advice had died long ago, corpse rotting in monochrome shadow of decaying tape. How much smaller Lark felt without the safety of a screen separating him from his consequences.

He scuffs foot against the ground, arms folding in on themselves as his mop of curls lifts to took at him. The sadness clawing at his own features would garner no sympathy here; he did not deserve it.

“Yeah.” His tone is smaller, guilt sour on his tongue as he can’t bear to look at him for more than a few seconds. That same disgust manifesting itself pointed inwards.  “I went. I’ve been going. I’m--- trying, dude..”

               oh   ,   dear   juliet   ,   can’t   you   see?   those   eyes   aren’t   one   of   your   dearly   beloved   ,   they   are   the   deathlike   slumber   that   you   will   fall   into.   like   frankenstein’s   monster   ,   he’s   reanimated   —   gangly   limbs   and   tubes   and   a   corpse-like   face   all   carry   the   signs   of   a   boy   beyond   the   grave.   HELD   TOGETHER   SO   LOOSELY   :   DESTINED   TO   FALL   APART   …                …   the   funny   thing   about   jigsaw   is   how   he   discards   his   little   dolls.   he   forms   them   ,   molds   them   out   of   their   own   bloodshed   ,   and   leaves   them   to   play   with   another.   sins   are   wiped   clean   in   his   eyes   ,   but   his   own   are   not   accounted   for   (   rehabilitation   is   nothing   without   guidance   :   for   what   do   the   lost   flock   do   when   found   again?   ).   a   so-called   shepherd   leads   nothing   but   questions   with   no   answers   ,   a   pain   with   no   resolve.   sat   in   a   small   circle   ,   head   low   ,   with   others   of   the   lord   herd.   survivors?   no.   they   were   ABADONED.                the   remnants   of   the   dead   echoed   beyond   the   boy.   it   bled   into   the   very   house   itself.   there   was   a   strange   emptiness   (   a   polaroid   with   a   cut   out   in   the   middle   ,   the   outlines   of   what   was   clear   in   the   composition   though   torn   away   ).   he   acts   like   the   phantom   of   a   man   isn’t   in   the   room   with   them   ,   small   smile   forming   as   nostrils   flare.

               “   you   really   shouldn’t   be   ,   ”   he   speaks   shyly   ,   voice   almost   lost   in   his   chest.   “   i’m   not   good   ,   aside   from   the   hand   stuff.   ”   he   lingers   in   the   moment   ,   feeling   a   horror   movie   chill   (   was   it   from   him   or   lark?   he   couldn’t   tell   ).   “   …   —   we   should   ,   go   upstairs   ,   yeah?   my   mom’s   cool   with   it   ,   as   long   as   the   door’s   open.   ”   his   thumb   points   to   the   stairway   as   he   speaks.   “   i’ll   ,   uh   ,   ”   his   thought   doesn’t   finish   as   he   grabs   onto   his   oxygen   tank   ,   wheeling   it   behind   him   as   he   makes   the   voyage   back   up   the   stairs   he   had   just   run   down.                it’s   an   arduous   task   ,   slender   fingers   clinging   onto   the   railing   with   all   strength   that   can   be   mustered   as   lungs   wheeze   and   groan   with   every   step.   eventually   ,   they   reach   the   top   ,   and   daniel   needs   a   moment   to   collect   himself.   it’s   a   quick   moment   that’s   ended   just   as   quick   when   lark   comes   around.   with   a   push   off   the   wall   and   a   small   smile   ,   he   leads   them   down   the   hallway.                if   there   ever   was   a   reflection   of   teenage   angst   ,   it   would   be   found   here.   grey-blue   walls   are   covered   in   various   posters   (   from   the   smiths   to   godzilla   1954   to   the   invisible   man   1933   ,   it’s   an   eclectic   collection   of   whatever   piques   his   fluctuating   interest   ).   but   the   largest   display   is   his   vinyl   collection   which   is   right   by   the   door   ,   a   worn   wooden   record   player   stand   with   two   small   speakers   by   it.   stacks   of   albums   rested   next   to   the   record   player   as   an   indication   of   his   listening   history.   pink   floyd   ,   green   day   ,   oasis   ,   radiohead.   an   organized   mess   :   disheveled   but   intentional.   his   space   was   kept   tidy   ,   though   ,   aside   from   a   pair   of   jeans   that   he   kicks   under   his   bed   quickly.                A   WOLF   CLOAKED   IN   LAMB’S   WOOL   IS   WELCOMED   INTO   THIS   RABBIT’S   DEN.                “   you   can   sit   wherever.   ”   daniel   gestures   vaguely   around   him   before   he   goes   to   his   desk   ,   pulling   out   his   chair.   “   i   didn’t   really   —   my   set   up   isn’t   meant   for   more   than   one   person   ,   so   ,   it’s   a   little   weird.   ”   he   tilts   his   monitor   towards   the   bed.   “   you   can   sit   in   the   chair   if   you   want.   ”   he   kneels   now   ,   opening   his   desk   cabinet   and   taking   out   a   neatly   wrapped   snes   with   two   controllers.   “   i   had   to   get   an   adapter   to   get   it   to   work   on   my   monitor.   ”   idle   chatter   as   he   sets   up   the   console.   “   it’s   not   really   meant   it   be   played   on   anything   not   from   the   nineties.   so   ,   had   to   make   it   work.   but   it   works   really   well   ,   i   think.   not   that   i’m   bragging   …   ”   his   small   tangent   ends   as   he   hands   the   other   a   controller.   “   be   careful   with   it   ,   okay?   ”   

               “   are   you   scared?   ”   she   asks   politely   ,   fingers   folded   behind   her   back   as   mary   janes   take   careful   strides   on   the   path   lightly   treaded.   she’s   a   preying   mantis   wrapped   in   dior   and   cherry - coated   smiles   that   whisper   such   sweet   nothings.   a   siren   ,   luring   sailors   off   to   sea   (   they’re   always   so   needy   ,   so   desperate   for   control   they   don’t   realize   they   never   had.   she   wonders   :   how   long   until   this   one   drowns?   ).                moonlight   follows   them   like   a   stage   light   ,   highlighting   the   main   act.   the   soft   scuff   of   her   shoes   mesh   with   cicadas   and   crickets   orchestrating   the   night   ambiance   as   gnarled   branches   cast   tendrils   of   clinging   shadows   that   fall   upon   the   two.   each   one   of   her   steps   is   calculated   ,   poised   ,   and   slightly   behind   the   song   bird   between   her   teeth.   “   you   should   not   be.   it   is   just   us   here.   ”

           closed   starter   for   @ofgxds​!

The invitation had ripped apart the veil. A man, a monster hidden behind screen names and pages and pages of text was nothing more than a boy of his own making. She, however, was just as devastatingly beautiful as she was online. Josie’s voice, her posture, was all as he had imagined it to be and more. There was never any deceit with the blonde, and that had carried true with even her online persona. It left cheeks red with shame, mop of curls unruly as they hid away wide eyes that trained carefully to the ground. Here he trod, scuffed converse against the undergrowth as they followed the forest’s path.

Everything felt so real now. She was real, the night’s air warm and suffocating against his skin was real, the sound of the woods alive in the virgin dusk so real. Lark’s chest felt even tighter in the woman’s company, the blistering reality that impossibly decadent tone provided.

“Scared? What—? No.” Lark lied, his words caught in his throat as they’re half coughed out. He straightens his posture just a little, eyes daring to flicker to the woman’s face before returning to their place on the trail. “Why…why would I be scared?” He asked in rhetoric, a half snorted laugh dry and incredulous trailing after in pretension of bravery.

She was a viper in the grass, precise and deadly in her hunt. What she was hunting for exactly alluded him, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. Here he was, sparrow-boned and eager to nestle himself in the snake’s maw, finding hollow home amongst fang and venom. 

“Just us. What could be better..?”

He hangs onto his every word. His breath is stolen between the syllables given like revelation. Palms are pressed together in subconscious prayer, doing their best to hide glorious tremor that divinity offers. Left to die. Lark is more than aware of the terror that Xavier faced in his journey to enlightenment. Scarred flesh is kissed by angels, handsome features heavenly in the room’s subtle dark. What a collection of  wonders the musician had managed to shepherd to his tribe. Play your role. Xavier ! The rough-looking roommate of your frontman. Lark ! The unwitting lackey to said roommate. A roll of the eyes, a knowing glance when rock star opened maw to shriek.

Brows knit in well-practiced concern. “Shit man…” He breathes, pushing hand through his curls, bass guitar resting in his lap. “Fuck… I’m sorry,” an apology not for his circumstance, but for the lack of words in the face of such horror. He swallows hard, letting brown eyes melt to lighter shade. “How’d you.. get out? Shit’s fucked...”