mess 2 digress

morticia’s brows furrowed, her dark painted lips in a frown when she was thunked on the forehead. her arm raised at lightning speed, pushing the other’s hand away from her before it settled back to where it was crossed under her chest. “don’t touch,” she said. “you need to sleep. you’re gonna feel like shit in the morning.”

“Holy shit! What an epic 4D experience. I feel like I’m at the Louvre.” That being said, if people were in fact art exhibits then Pearl fancied herself as a melancholic Van Gogh painting, post almost fatal ear massacre, whereas the likes of Morticia would be scrabbling to call themselves a Banksy. Tucking her slapped hand into the fuzzy linings of her pocket, Pearl gritted her teeth in response to the act of molly coddling. “I’d rather deep throat a hang ham. Jeez, Addam’s Family, you ever--... I don’t know--... let your hair down?" Slapped hand emerging from it’s navy cave once more, she tugged at a strand of Morticia’s hair so harshly it snapped loose from her scalp. “You’re already going bald so I suggest you do a shot.”

Max took the tiny action figure in his hand, turning it around between his fingers and allowing it to rest in his palm. “How much money do you think we could get for this thing online if we come up with some elaborate background for it?” he asked, humming in thought as he met Pearl’s gaze. “Do you really want me to share my nasty thoughts with you? Sounds kinda sketch. Borderlining on Kathryn and Sebastian in Cruel Intentions territory.”

“Background idea number one: belonged to a toothless cannibal in Mexico. He crafted it to resemble his favourite meal, an amputee who couldn’t crawl away in time before a fork sank into his jugular.” Background idea number two was dancing along Pearl’s tongue but she chewed it up, tiring quickly of her own imagination when she pondered the honest origin story: a present Homeless Joe had squirrelled away in case he ever returned to wherever mystical land he sprouted from so he could gift it to his childhood sweetheart, Grettle. A florist who wore a necklace made out of tinsel. Something Pearl gagged at the prospect of before she convinced Joe she was infinitely sweeter -- an easy task and a fair trade for a half eaten bag of gummy worms. “Troubling.” A vague which couldn’t have been harpooned in a barrel. Frowning, Pearl focused on the pinch of her skin knitting together as she reassessed Max, wondering if he harboured any nasty thoughts she didn’t already know about. “Where was their Academy nod anyway? I’d nom them for that handjob scene alone.”

“i’m still yet to see those movies, so i hate to say i can’t quite understand that reference.” it was one of the most referenced movies and yet olivia never felt the need to watch it, sci fi wasn’t quite her thing and she found it to be overhyped. the girl was horribly drunk though, alcohol subtly the smell surrounding her, and just watching her you yourself could feel drunk. “not thinking much interesting, it would be a waste of your penny.” she joked along, wondering if the girl would remember this the next day “i’d rather not.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard all year. You’re a real Greek tragedy.” Marginally sadder than the way her fingers twirled around old telephone cords as if she was trying to tempt a ghost hidden between the wires, a haunting that might reconnect her with a long lost “something”: can’t say “friend” because “friend” insinuated they’d spoken in the last few months, can’t say “lover” because her throat tightened so harshly around the word it was squeezed into something uglier. Pearl had always been a boa constrictor when it came to personal matters, something she rather prided herself on. She felt like a proud woodland pixie who's only purpose was preening a secret garden where white oleanders blossomed and poison ivy grew inside the cracks. After all, Pearl was cracked, so of course there’d be greenhouse glass as jagged as spikes on a trauma patient’s heart monitor -- a product of rage she’d insist was purely purposeful, something to let the moonlight in and feed the snarling heads of her Venus fly traps when she wasn’t fluttering nearby, hornets cradled on tender threads, ready to tend to her hungry babies. Alas, on nights like these when pickings were slim, no insects to snare in as bait for one of her morbid fantasies, Pearl decided to zero in on Olivia. “My achy breaky heart is bleeding for you.” Even as she toyed with the idea, Pearl had ran her thumb over her lighter chord so many times that dapples of blood dripped down the soulless eyes of a worn away Mickey Mouse. “Save me, Livvy,” she reached to suck away the sting of iron that had dribbled down her finger, “you’ve got me making such a mess.”

confusion sets in as yuri observes the blonde throw her words around like nothing. the conversation at hand catches him off guard, and he tries to make sense of the english being thrown at him. part of him worries if she’s that trashed or if he really doesn’t know as much english as he thought because that was downright gibberish. “i’m very sorry, but i don’t understand what it is you would like from me.”

“Jesus, who the fuck are you? Am I talking to a stump? A real life Sloth from the Goonies? Hey you guys,” Pearl scoffed, tugging at the lavender splattered skin beneath her eyelid so she could mimic the bedraggled creature’s infamous lazy eye. Growing quickly tired of her own theatrics, Pearl hopped up onto a painted black bench so she could stick her arms out and saunter along the plank whilst she quizzed Yuri, kicking at the lumps of pigeon shit as she did so. “Well shit, son, that one’s really on there,” of course she cut herself short with an abrupt burst of laughter when the lodge came loose and shot through the air, slapping Yuri on the cheek. “She shoots! She scores! Touchdown! Pearl Winters wins the scholarship to ass hat university.”

A drink or two after work was how Catherine had been spending her days for years now. There was no point in her going home, it was practically an empty house and she’d rather be surrounded by noise than surrounded by the terrible silence that echoed in her home. She took a sip of the red wine that had been handed to her before looking up at the blonde beside her and shaking her head. “I don’t think I have anything for you…or Bubba,” she said with a chuckle. “My life’s pretty boring.”

“Way harsh. You’re kinda like the craggy old chef in Oliver Twist, denying poor Bubba and I some gruel. We’re so hungry, too. Almost starving.” Drumming the nicotine splits in her cherry lips with the tiny army man, Pearl sized up her latest tag along in a long line up of wanton strangers, every tap, tap punctuating another spin of her mental cogs. “Reckon I look like a wolf, Little Red?” Under a guise of moonlight, streams of silver dancing along the faint points of her canines. “Like I’d sink my teeth into you if I let you pet me?”

“What does that even mean?” Atropa had been out drinking away that month’s rental income, donning their nicest shoes as they convinced guys and girls alike to buy them drinks. “ Never mind, my thoughts are mainly revolving around wondering why you think I’d want to talk to the likes of you,” they replied. Their words felt as sharp as the taste of vodka that still lingered in their mouth.

“God, Atrophy, get your empty and unimaginative skull in the game. I feel like I’m spitting bars with a dry wall.” Thumbs dug into the denim loops of her shorts, Pearl spat a wad of excess saliva onto the sidewalk, grimacing when a sudden gush of wind whipped it back onto the scuffed heel of her Vans. “Wowie, Cowabunga boys. She slayed the mighty dragon.” A cigarette soon mimicked the telltale puff of smoke, amber tendrils crackling with every hard suck on the Marlboro menthol. “You can hobble back to The Shire now, Bilbo. Preferably before I grind this out on your retina.”

“my thoughts aren’t anybody’s business but my own.”

“Fucking savage, Morti.” Clutching Bubba against her frosty heart through the sparse fabric of her jumper, Pearl stumbled slightly, convincing herself it was purely intentional and wasn’t because she’d shrivelled her liver into a martini drenched pickle. “Tried to engage in banter and it was shut down,” she echoed Skepta and flicked Morticia on the forehead with the plastic figurine. “Impromptu bongo solo!”