* // 𝖇𝖆𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖆𝖗

pregnant. he recalls hearing her say such a thing to him. ‘ i’m pregnant ’ and he had heard the words, making his heart skip in such a way that was unfounded by him. they were not meant to be more than co-stars. co-workers who just act. who smile and laugh on cue. who argue on cue. who do what they’re paid to do on cue. but it seemed that one thing led to another and undoubtedly it appeared that things escalated until francois was in her presence. until francois’ lips were against hers unsuspectingly. and he’s a religious man. a well-regarded man in society and by his peers. he’s polite. self-aware. conscious of others outside of himself. selfless. and somehow he’d found himself with willow in a night of passion. his lips against her flesh and the two of them communicating in ways that only the two of them could comprehend. and he had not imagined his life to prevail in such a way. he hadn’t imagined it to unravel with a woman saying she was pregnant who was not his girlfriend, nor his wife. a child out of wedlock. something so traditional and yet so personal and important to francois.

he knows willow is with ed. manly ed. masculine and muscular ed. a man who flexes his arms in every single photograph that is taken of him and wears tight tops to show off his pectorals. a man who seems to pout and show off how long he can do a workout with a protein shake in his hand. he is surprised when willow agrees to come with him; when she agrees to stay at his home - a minimalist space that he’s made his home. it’s not as self-aware as other celebrities. francois is more minimalist. more homely. he’s bought a christmas tree - he thinks it’s the ugliest one in the lot but he bought it because he felt sorry for it. as though it had feelings. as though it would feel upset if it didn’t get picked. he looks towards willow as she dangles ornaments in his face making him blink, a soft smile coming across his face. she’s always been this invasive. he recalls how taken aback the crew had been at times by her invasive behaviour. “ red ” he responds, but as always, he isn’t opposed to her saying no to him. he’s quite gotten used to her asking something and then doing the opposite to his answer.

he looks up towards the mistletoe hanging above them - between the two of them. a pregnant blonde. he knows he isn’t quite sure as to what to do. his feelings for willow are still rising within him despite the time they’ve had apart. and knowing she’s pregnant has brought alongside a different kind of affection he has for her. “ who says that? ” he hums. “ i haven’t heard that saying before ” he finds himself to look towards her and he can already feel the blush across his chest, to his neck, and to his cheeks causing his golden skin to glow in a rosy way. “ willow, do you think i… ” he trails off a little before he finds himself to swallow thickly. his mouth, feels dry. he soon nods his head, stiffly. “ okay, just a…okay ” he doesn’t know why he’s nervous. he wasn’t nervous before when he’d kissed her. when he’d embraced her. he now lets himself to kiss her softly - gently. quickly.

impulsive. some might even refer to it as irrational. and now it feels as though the entire world is watching and left wondering which of the two is the biggest fool. most might say it’s francois. they would think him to have been naive enough to have fallen into willow’s schemes. she is the woman so she must have naturally been the first to make a move on him. and she had flirted — had allowed her gaze to linger in his direction for seconds too long. she had indeed been the first to suggest that they breach the boundaries of friendship. but no one knows the truth. no one knows that it had been his lips that had found hers first. soft and delicate as the act may have been, it was enough for both of them to seal the deal. a mutual choice. there’d been no elaborate plot, no act of seduction on willow’s part. maybe they’re both fools. francois for having thought willow was the best choice for a hook up and willow for suddenly thinking it meant something more than it actually did. because in her mind, it did. she had thought that they would both awaken the next morning and find themselves unable to move past the events that had unfolded the night prior. she had expected for francois to look at her with that delightful gaze of his and think the world of her. no such thing had occurred. instead, they’d shuffled atop the surface of the mattress before willow had quickly excused herself and headed out of his trailer. they hadn’t spoken until willow had called sobbing upon hearing the news that has brought them right where they are now. a little life grows inside of her. a life that they had both created on a night of sin, as francois would probably call it.

“ maybe we should have gone with silver, ” she murmurs under her breath after a short moment of thought. for two people who aren’t together, they find themselves acting as though they are. francois has purchased a tree much to willow’s insistence. she’d begged him for it, threatening to roll around on her stomach in the concrete if he didn’t give in. francois is one of those environmentalists. he uses his platform for wholesome things. willow, on the other hand, spends her off time doing photo shoots for brands that aren’t vegan or animal friendly. it’s something she’s become more conscious of since becoming acquainted with francois. they’re going to raise a child together and she figures that they should meet each other half - way. ‘ let’s not do the thing where we dunk it water. please? ’ she’d asked, pouting up her lips like a sad puppy if only because she was already allowing francois to raise their child up on a vegan diet. willow had complained about that too, warning that their baby would end up becoming a worm if they did. she complains a lot, but it’s all part of her outlandish banter. francois meets her halfway sometimes, like when he’d revealed that he felt bad because their tree wouldn’t have been picked because it was ugly. willow had agreed, and inadvertently named it floppy. she supposes thats one thing they have in common : ascribing human qualities to inanimate objects.

commodus is regarded as the boldest, most aggressive, courageous, and most virile emperor. his was a nature that yielded to no obstacles, that could not be moved nor turned aside by the allurements of place or position, the menaces of power, the favors of the opulent, or the enticing influences of public opinion. for he has always been this way. entering upon his career in an age of obsequiousness and time-serving, he has been assailing his time with the strength and power of hercules and has grounded challenges to dust under his trip-hammer blows. throughout commodus’ life so-far, there has been no greater and more potential influence than the personality of his own sublime character. sublime in all ways dark and light at the same time. his appearance, something that can fool those who only look with their eyes. and yet, there is more darkness within his veins than there has ever been light. and perhaps this is why his on-earth father has been so sure to whisper over and over again when he was a boy that the gods have left him on earth because he was too powerful even as a child for the skies above. too dark. ‘ you made the heavens darken, commodus. the gods only know what terrors you will bring among the living’. he stands now in the luxury of idle power. “ i am thinking, ” he remarks quietly. “ whether i should add to the disorder of the room and have your brains scattered by the fire pit ” he speaks as though he is mars in human form. the god of war and the son of jupiter and juno.

willow. her name is not roman. she is clearly not a roman woman. smaller breasts and more petite. her skin, not golden and her hair, not dark. her name does not translate within his mind as something he recognises. as someone he may know. he looks upon her as though she is some strange creature, and to him, she is. she has managed to avoid death. the arrows had not hit her. “ if arrows cannot hit you, i do not think the teeth of a lion will either ” he imagines it now. the large beast approaching her, but it will recoil when it tries to close its distance - as though it is afraid of the power she holds. of the gods protecting her, preventing her from death - from even under the command as a god, alike he. he thinks of the willow tree. how supple the willow tree may survive in the tough pine of a snowstorm. whereas the unyielding branches of the pine accumulate the snow until they crack, the springy boughs of the willow bend under the weight, and jump back again. much alike she. he thinks of how her branches must have sheltered her from the arrows. how they kept her in the shadows, sheltered by their weeping branches. “ you’re not to be killed. but you are not to be free either ” he has no answer from the gods. they watch on silently at the command of commodus. he does not need more spirits - let alone gods - haunting him in the dark when he attempts to sleep, simply because he has acted wrong on their behalf.

“ you are not from rome ” he speaks these words as fact. his tongue spits the words as if they are venomous. anyone outside of rome, but to be pitied, or stood upon. but she, not. she still remains here. her wrists looking red and swollen from the shackles. her body - limp and weak in its posture even as she stands. “ you’ve come a long way to be before me. do you know of the gods, willow? jupiter must know something i do not. and it is not like jupiter to not whisper in my ear my fate - nor your own ”

willow is no intellectual, but she can guarantee that there has, nor shall ever be, an emperor so cruel as that who stands before her. it seems the gods have blessed him with the power to rise above man but he has taken such powers and utilized them for terrible things. to pillage and to burn, to erase the lives of those he comes across simply because they do not suit the vision he has for rome. she listens to these words spoken past his lips. they take her moments to decipher, for his voice resonates like a soft whisper. if not for the fact that she is familiar with the language, willow would believe that his words are but soft, romantic whispers in the air. that when he speaks, it would have the same effect on leaves as does the gentle wind. willow now wonders whether her mother had been too kind when she had spoken of the gods. are they not meant to protect their people? are they not meant to ensure that it is the people who remain safe and cared for above all else? ‘ jupiter loved man so much that he ... ’ the words fade to black, merging with those of the emperor commodus. “ it would be energy spent on something of very ... few significance, ” she reassures quietly. her words come out wrong. her brain cannot string together a proper sentence as she would like but her urgency is all the same. the words translate well enough. willow regards herself as nothing, if only to remind him of the power dynamic between them. she is but a woman who has been captured from her village and nothing more.

he has thought of her death, pondered upon it just as she has for hours on end. the lions will not suffice according to this demi - god and now she is left but to wonder what will. why has he placed a name to this infidel he yearns to kill? “ i know what you must be thinking, emperor but i ... ” her hold tightens around the metal bars, eyes averted as she feels herself slightly succumb to her exhaustion. she feels as though not much keeps her from falling back into the arms of hades. how many days has it been? how many nights had she endured, dragged through snow until she had found sunlight and warmth? she tries to think, now, of her last days at home. how her father had been preparing her for marriage with a man she did not love. a warrior of her people. it was sure to bring them up in status and to ensure willow a decent rest of her life. ‘ marriage is not about love, my willow. it is about convenience and ... age. ’ willow had looked towards her father with tears in her eyes then, begging that she be spared of such a fate. ‘ you are to become a wife and mother. perhaps then you will stop behaving as would a feeble, small man. ’ willow wonders now whether this is all her fault. she had sat underneath a tree after trailing endlessly through the fields and she had prayed to jupiter. she had asked him for something to happen. something grand enough that she spared of an unhappy life. 

she should be dead. should. an important word as he stares towards her, seeing how she remains alive. there is no blood on the ground. no limp body that has fallen to the earth with a thud. no spirit that has left her body to be at the hands of the gods who will decide on which realm she will go to. no. instead the arrow has failed to hit her. it has failed to even get close enough to cut through her ivory flesh and cause a fatality. instead she remains on her knees, commanded by men who speak in latin as they all do within roma. soldiers seem confused and afraid. this is not a question of their skill. they have hit all other arrows accurately but upon her, arrows seem to avoid her presence - as though the gods speak through these actions to say, ‘ now is not the time for her death’ . commodus is taken aback by such a thing. he wishes to ask the question of why is she not dead? but his tongue does not permit it. it would show weakness. instead he looks to her upon the ground. on her knees that are grazed from how often she has been pushed around by the men of the roman empire who consider her but a slave. she is protected by the gods. something keeps her alive. whether commodus wishes it to or not.

“ stand upon your feet ” he instructs her. he can feel the disorder of their surroundings now that such a thing has not occurred. she is meant to be but another corpse dragged to the side, and buried in an unmarked grave or taken home to bring shame to her family. but this is not the case. commodus considers whether she is a witch. or whether the gods have somehow sheltered her as they have protected commodus for so many years. a man who is regarded as a god. a man of whom , they will write stories of, saying his father is not truly marcus aurelius, but that of jupiter. “ stand! ” his words are brash and cut through the hot roman air. there is silence. he does not know what to do with her. she brings no balance nor equilibrium to their current state. she has created a mess. havoc. disorder. chaos, even if she has not intended to do so. she seems as confused as the men who were meant to strike her down dead. he cannot hear the gods speak to his ear. but he does feel them guiding him. they place their hands upon his shoulders until they are commanding commodus in ways that are unearthly. “ if she will not die by an arrow, then put her back until the lions are ready to feast ” he grumbles this beneath his breath. to put her in her own separate cage for the meantime as he considers what to do with her. what this all means. why he has no direction.

men grab her and drag her in ways that are less than humane. she is not a roman. and she is not to be treated as such, even as an infidel, she is treated much worse. commodus spends hours contemplating about her presence. her existence. who she is. and what she is. until it is nightfall when he closes in on the distance between the pair of them. his hand raises against the bar that holds her within it. candlelight flickered against his features and making his eyes seem all the more intense with how unearthly they are - as though his soul is carried by the gods themselves. “ what is your name? speak. ”

death would be better. it would mean, then, that she has served her purpose on this earth. there is always more fear to be had in what is uncertain. in what inherently makes her more purposeful than the men who sputter blood past their trembling lips. they whisper out into the world. she can hear them in the silence that hangs in the warm air now. how the guards murmur as quietly as they could if only because they find themselves confused and perplexed. how can it be so, that a powerful bow would lost its power the moment an arrow is meant to strike her. how could it be so that willow, a woman who is not a mother nor a wife, be spared among all the rest? ‘ let us try again, ’ she hears one guard bravely pipe up, but it seems to be to no avail. the emperor commodus has already made up his mind. willow trembles on the ground as she extends her hands, utilizing them to force herself up on her feet. she is weak, downtrodden. if this arrow does not kill her, then surely would the thirst and hunger she has found herself riddled with. it is overwhelming underneath the roman sun, it’s warmth bringing no comfort to her. ‘ willow, ’ she can hear her mother’s sweet and gentle words over those of the emperor. even then, she can faintly hear him as he directs the guards to encage her like an animal waiting to be feasted upon. he will make use of another mode of death, it seems. she struggles with the guards, attempting to pull back against the chains around her wrists as they again, drag her onto her knees. she is shaken, distraught by the sight of death around her. by the revelation that the gods do not choose a simple death for her. willow has to wonder whether they mean to give her purpose or the most painful death that one can imagine. surely, there is nothing worst than to be ripped limb from limb by the gigantic teeth of a furred beast. ‘ your hair was strung by helios with discs of the very sun. nothing shall ever be quite as golden. ’

willow lays, attempting to ignore the stinging of her wrists. they have been cut into, skin so raw that she has nearly begun to bleed against the harsh metals. she trembles, attempting to shake the thoughts that perplex her. she has danced for jupiter in the rain and she has listened to her mother’s utterances of the gods and yet it seems she is being punished for something. it seems the gods yearn that she pay for something terrible done in this life or the last. she fears, now, more than she accepts. would her fate have been altered had she fallen to her knees in the name of caesar commodus? shaky sighs fall past her lips until she hears commotion outside again. the sound of men conversing with one another compels her to stand as quickly she could manage. she uses the bars of the cage as leverage, hoisting her weakened body so that she may pridefully receive whatever punishment shall come her way. she expects the sinister, fearsome guards who drink and speak gibberish amongst one another as they keep careful watch of the infidels in captivity.  instead, she encounters someone else. the emperor in his armored glory. she feels, again, that overwhelming rush through her body. a sensation of both bewilderment and amazement. again, she feels as though she is in the presence of one of the gods. 

‘ i already told you, francois. ’ and she’d huff as though she were annoyed and fed up with all the attention he’s been paying her as of late. ‘ you don’t have to look after me all the time. go live your life. ’ and maybe she says it less because his presence is bothersome and more because they both have their own significant others to worry about. well, maybe it’s just her. but she doesn’t fail to notice the way francois has women clinging to his arm everywhere he goes. it’s unintentional most of the time. he’s the antithesis of most men in the city. men of small iqs and shallow lifestyles. they’d rate a woman based on her looks before asking her what she thinks about anything going on in the world. but then she supposes it’s hard for a typical man to ask that question when it seems they have no thoughts to conjure up themselves. francois isn’t like that and maybe it’s the reason why he’s got women longing to date him. maybe that was why willow had initially sought after him too. she’d been fed up with finding herself caught in the same routine and hurt by the same kinda of men. it was mere attraction at first and she’d be telling the truth by saying that she hadn’t expected to like him the way she does now. that an impulsive hook up wasn’t meant to bring out such feelings from within. it surely wasn’t meant to bring about the complications of pregnancy either. 

not when she’s got boring, basic ed hanging off her back. he’d just about flipped when she revealed that she was pregnant. ‘ but, babe! i’ve been bagging up little ed for a reason! ’ it made for a very awkward conversation about how it’d been someone else’s child. how she had wound up sleeping with francois as they filmed their movie together. she’d hoped that such news would mean a break up. they’d be done and over for good. willow would stop being the laughing stock of the media. ‘ ed cheats on willow for the third time this year. what could possibly be wrong with her? ’ because no one ever questions whether it may just be, that america’s walking bicep isn’t actually as sweet and charismatic as he may seem. she hates california. hates the people and the culture. she hates the way they all punish her and all others who come here for wanting to live out their biggest dreams. she hates that it doesn’t snow on the holidays and that she’s got no one to come home to even for christmas break.  it’s why she doesn’t hesitate to say yes when francois asks her to celebrate with him. 

“ even though i’m wifey , you can hit it like a sidechick . ” / @salices​

they’re together. for reasons unknown even to joe. somehow they’d found themselves in conversation where joe was addressing her as his girlfriend. where he said that they were together, putting his foot down as if it was something they can’t have a debate about. it’s not up for debate, because joe was speaking of it as though it was confirmed fact. but since then, he has found himself to be in various situations with willow in which she is even more invasive than before. speaking to him and closing in on his space because the excuse is that they’re together. he has to witness her do more and more tiktok dances than he may care to see. he sees her failing at the wap dance in her journey to be more seductive for joe. and he watches her, trying to restrain himself from laughing as he shoves peanuts in his mouth as he lays across his couch - watching her practice over and over again as she flops to the ground like a fish on land.

“ i don’t…know what that… ” he’s furrowing his brows at her now. knitted together as he’s trying to comprehend the words she’s saying. perhaps showing the age difference between them again but more likely the fact that joe is so uncultured when it comes to popular culture that it’s shocking. sometimes, like now, he looks at willow as if she’s speaking another language. because to him, she is. a different language entirely. something he hasn’t even thought to consider trying to translate because it’s bound to be as ridiculous as she is. he knows her, he thinks, too well. “ is this for a…tiktok? ” he’s trying to gauge what she’s doing. how she’s so close to him. what her words mean when all he’s trying to do is relax. just lay there on the couch as he drifts inbetween the thoughts in his head that can make hm drift into unconsciousness for a few minutes, sleep, and drifting into the realisation that he’s living with a woman - a girlfriend - who is so unlike his other abusive partners that he doesn’t quite know what to do nor say. he’s out of his depth. he’s not treated like trash, so he’s experiencing something new.

“ is that from finding nemo? ” joe is rubbing his hands against his face now. as though to wake himself up a bit more so he can comprehend the nonsense that he’s most likely to be engaged in. “ i hate that film ”

they’re boyfriend and girlfriend now. it’s clear as day to her ever since a certain six - packed, oiled freak moved in the apartment complex next door. he’d been overly friendly, making sexual innuendos just as joe had been pulling up in his car. it was a recipe for disaster, resulting in an accidental slip of words. ‘ you’re my girlfriend, ’ he’d said without much hesitance or insistence on willow’s part. this had fallen past his lips all on his own.. no one could be blamed, except perhaps the chiseled orange that had moved into the neighborhood. ed had been his name, but willow makes no mention of it. she thinks even just remembering such a simple set of syllables would set joe off it again. ‘ oh, you remember his name? is it because you want to fuck him? ’ and they’d be back at it again, arguing until willow was shutting him up with her lips to his. maybe they should fight more often about foolish things. maybe then he’d say something utterly ridiculous about her being the girl of his dreams, or something of the like. it’d be more fuel to the fire lit inside the gates of her chest. 

“ is what for a tik tok?  ” they have miscommunications a lot. she thinks it might be the difference in age. sometimes it baffles her that joe was already approaching adolescence when willow was born. ‘ joe, do you get what that means? you were already going on dates and getting pimples while i was born! ’ she speaks of their age - difference as though it’s some big taboo subject. she supposes it would be if they’d traced back even just ten years. willow would have been twenty and he’d already be thirty - three. age gaps become less weird as both people age, she thinks. she can’t imagine joe would have shown her any interest then anyway. he barely shows her interest now, scowling and confusing her words to be some kind of online meme. “ no, ” she huffs, shaking her head. she’s moving towards him in an instant if only because her dancing hasn’t been enough to seduce him. willow is always trying when it’s with joe. she’s never had to try before, never had to actually put words and actions to good use. she’d simply part her legs and say something really dirty and that would do the trick. but joe isn’t fazed by all of the ... prostitute stuff. 

“i’ve been afraid of changing.” / @salices​

afraid. there are two basic motivating forces in life: fear and love. when we are afraid, we pull back from life. when we are in love, we open to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement, and acceptance. we need to learn to love ourselves first, in all our glory and our imperfections. if we cannot love ourselves, we cannot fully open to our ability to love others or out potential to create. evolution and all hopes for a better world rest in the fearlessness and open-hearted vision of people who embrace. or at least this is what his father once thought. the world is a different place from when his father ruled. now commodus is emperor of the roman empire and people live in fear of him. they regard him with awe and fear - he is strong, agile, and intelligent. but violent, and he disregards life as though it can so easily be made. ‘ if i kill one ant, another shall appear and live on, ’ he’d said once. ‘ similar to if i kill one life, another will be spared ’ . the world will continue to turn regardless of this. he looks to life as if he is god. as if he can take what he needs, and disregard what he does not. this is how life has been since he has become emperor. a man of whom is regarded as a god. a demi-god who has been placed down by the likes of jupiter to wander the earth and cause turmoil with each heavy step he takes.

today is a day of reckoning. he stands outside of the palace among soldiers and their general. women and men lined up to face their deaths in front of the emperor. a private showing, as you will. people who are being murdered due to treason, because they are infidels, or for other reasons that commodus thinks is worthy of seeing their blood splatter upon the ground. ‘ attendentes! ’ the general always calls out as men rise their bows to fire arrows directly into the bodies of these people who, after a short amount of pain, fall limp and are dragged off to the side to be buried in unmarked graves or thrown upon the properties of their families - a way to shame them and remind them of how the emperor has disowned them so. commodus stands in red, black and gold. under the roman sun, he should look godly and as irresistable as the women think he does who fall to his feet. and perhaps he does. but his darkness is more blinding perhaps than any light that can come from jupiter.

he sees the woman - blonde, and clearly not roman. even in the line-up she sticks out like a sore thumb and people who are afraid of dying still regard her unusual appearance. and she is unusual. blue eyes and golden hair. she would make aphrodite recoil in shock. he feels as though part of him should recognise her. there is something unearthly about her. but his mind cannot place her face. he imagines, she is but a character from one of many stories his father once told. “ there is no need to change now ” he breathes out as he stands to the side - away from the arrows that are due to be directed at her once he gives such a command. “ change is too late. not even the gods will accept you in this life, nor the next ”

a marked infidel. ‘ yield to the only rightful emperor of rome. your caesar, commodus. ’ willow, along with other women who had been gathered around her small village, were made to bow in the name of their new ruler as the remnants of their home burned in the background. men had been killed attempting to protect their honor as well as that of their leader. the germanic king of whom had ensured for centuries, that peace would remain intact with the romans. but such a time had come to an end with the death of emperor aurelius. he was said to be a kind man, respected by her people for having an honorable word. it seems this new emperor, son of aurelius, lacks the grace and honor of his father. it was why willow could not yield on her own accord. the women had trembled and whimpered as they fell to their knees, obeying if only because it seemed the only option fit. but willow had done no such thing. she did not believe that people should be ruled by fear. and so even though she knew such an act would result in her undoing, she did not care. ‘ kneel, wench! ’ one guard had called out, only to be met with more resistance from the non - roman. she stood as tall as she could, head held high as though to incite the slicing of a sword through it. the young guard had intended just that, looking to make an example of willow. but a higher up had decided against it, stopping the boy just as he drew the sharp object to willow’s neck. ‘ the emperor could make good use of her and all the others who disobey him. ’

they speak latin, a language that willow is knowledgable of but not entirely fluent. she has spent her entire life tripping up over words and finding it difficult to pronounce certain syllables, but she can understand it quite well. she can make out the whisperings of those superiors around her when she, along with other women, are taken back to rome to be made slaves. some women suffer great misfortunes along the way. they are taken and ravished. others of whom find themselves with child, barely last the journey. a young woman, no older than sixteen, had been killed the moment she had been discovered to have gone into labor. the romans are as deadly as her father had insisted. they kill and pillage and they are unkind in doing so. her mother had always painted a more romanticized view of the people. her father was a roman general who had fallen in love with a non - roman woman during his travels. willow’s mother had always grown embracing two very differing lifestyles. she enjoyed being roman just as she did being germanic. 

she hasn’t told him about her — about all of the things she’d endured in their years apart. maybe it’s just one of those things that don’t require words to be spoken. ‘ i’ve been patrolling the streets a long time, willow. i know a prostitute when i see one. ’ he would never say words so blatant and harsh but she could almost hear them now. she could feel a similar weight impending within the center of her chest. fingers work to pluck at the thread on the decorative pillow she’s hugging close to her chest. they’re in her apartment, sat on her couches that are shaped like a woman’s lips. it makes her back curve uncomfortably but willow is convinced that an s - shaped back is worth it because of how aesthetically pleasing her apartment looks. “ you ... you searched me up in your database thing, didn’t you? ” he read up on her files. willow didn’t have run - ins with the law but james did. there were always complaints filed by people who lived in their apartment complex. the cops had found their way into the apartment once, only to find willow bleeding with splotches of pink and purple forming around her neck. she’d been twenty then. it was a long time ago, but maybe it’s enough to piece together just why she hadn’t become a nurse — why college and all of her dreams had come to a halt.

“ it ... ” she should be mad at him for looking into her past, for delving into something that she hadn’t first unveiled. she should turn away and ask him to leave. it’s a breach of privacy, the kind of thing that makes willow worry. she doesn’t wish to be pitied. but even now, he doesn’t look at her as though she’s got something wrong with her. he only says something that she thinks she’s always needed to hear. something that makes willow feel as though everything will be okay. and maybe it won’t be. maybe she’ll end up getting pushed into the tracks while waiting for a train. maybe she’ll trip over her heels just as a loaded truck is moving down the road at too fast a speed. he won’t be able to protect her then but it wouldn’t matter because she’ll buy into the illusion. “ it was a long time ago. ” she wants to tell him that it’s okay now. that she’s gotten over her fears and can easily rest knowing that she’ll never see james again. but he would know better than anyone that such a sentiment is the furthest from the truth. it’s much like grief. she’ll carry the weight of every moment of abuse on her back. she’ll relive those memories even when she doesn’t intend to, sparked by even the tiniest of things.

“ don’t go outside you fucking drama queen ” this is not how arguments and problems are resolved. but how does max know that? max who commits the most heinous of crimes and behaves in such a despicable way. he’s earned money doing unspeakable things. things that he doesn’t even mention to willow sometimes. ‘ i just tortured him a bit. i then killed him ’ he doesn’t speak about the other things he does. or what that entails. she’d look at him differently. like a monster. because that’s what he is. and she thinks she loves him but max knows this is textbook stockholm syndrome. even when they’re apart she still feels it - and he has been hoping her mind might be cleared of her obvious brainwashing. she might actually realise her feelings are simply misdirected and realise that he’s no good just like the rest of society will see him as.

“ that’s it ” it clicks in his head. he imagines he’s a character on looney tunes who has a lightbulb above his head. kill someone else. another blonde that looks like willow. another blonde who he can record the murder of. they won’t know the difference. willow will remain alive. they could even try to get out of this dark web he’s found himself in. but what sort of life remains for a man like max? he’s only ever been a pornography store clerk and even then that doesn’t require any qualifications - just a vulgar tongue.

“ if you want me to go, i’ll go. but you aren’t going out there in this storm ” more orders because max feels that despite everything, he is still in charge of her. he still has some dominance no doubt. his green eyes look towards her - focused and concentrated. “ i’m gonna find someone else and kill her. she’s going to look like you. but i’m going to kill her and things will be fine ” things will be fine. he’s deluded. he’ll have this morality hung over his head. this unethical behaviour hung over him like some type of fool. he can’t consider it. but he also can’t not consider it. he’s fixated on the thought. how he could put up a craigslist advert like that german cannibal once did and advertise for someone who wants to be killed, or even, perhaps an easier tactic - for someone who wants to be the screen double for willow. there’s so many idiots in hollywood he thinks someone will fall for it. it would explain why the video camera is there recording them at least.

“ i’m not a drama queen. i just don’t want to be around you. ” it is as though everything she does needs further explanation. as though max has such a deep rooted sense of control over willow, that she feels none of her antics or desires can go unexplained. he’s instilled it within her to remain loyal to him. she remembers how riled up he would become if she’d arrive to their shared motel room even just five minutes late. the fear was always that she’d leave him — that she’d abandon him. but it seems now that it’s all he could ever want from her. in a strange twist of fate, it is she who begs him to stay a little longer. at least, that is how it’d been towards the end. willow would fall to her knees and sob against his leg if only because she didn’t want there to ever be a day where she was left alone. where her heart would remain the most unguarded part of her. “ i don’t want to listen to your stupid words or look at your stupid face another minute. ” she wants to ask him if he truly believes the words uttered past his lips. if there is something within him — a spark of doubt over the idea of them remaining apart even now.

fingers work through her bag packs now. she retrieved another candy bar. it’s her second in less than an hour but willow could care less about it. she’s tired, hungry, and upset with max. or maybe it’s just as possible that willow is stalling her inevitable return to the rain that awaits her outside. the pattering of water has intensified since they’d both been escorted inside. she’d all but pushed max to get inside and now she can’t wait to leave. of course, it’s feigned. in an ideal world, she and max wouldn’t even be fighting. he likely wouldn’t even be here, in fact. ‘ you’re nothing but a distraction from my career! ’ and he would be. her so - called dream wasn’t even a dream until max had suggested it so. nothing in her life is her own. not even the tit shirt she’s lied to him about. but that’s it. it seems she has inadvertently planted the seed of a terrible idea in his mind. the notion that if he conduct one last screening for those people that keep following them around, then they’d be in the clear. willow could live a life free of fear and so could max.

“ you do. you may not want it, but you need it ” he is insistent as he speaks to her. his grip on her wrist remains. he imagines that if he twisted her wrist in a certain way he’d be able to feel the bone moving, and if he were skillful enough, he might be able to move the bone so that it would point directly out of her skin. breaking the flesh and showing itself when in the light of day. he’s trying to speak to willow but words are not his forte. well, not so much words but a way to express how he feels. because he feels something for her but it can’t be placed. ‘ i want to fuck your corpse and hold your heart in my hand and keep it forever ’ but those aren’t the most romantic words she would have heard. but they’re how he feels. some sick, psychotic need to keep her. to love her in his own way even when she dies. a promise that he’d protect her heart and keep it beating even after he’s tugged it out of her rib-cage and broken it free from the arteries that would no doubt squirt her blood at him like some kind of over the top horror movie. her words frustrate him. if only because she should understand what he tries to say when he says…nothing. but that’s the very problem. he’s expecting her to read his mind.

“ life isn’t fucking fair. you think this is fair? where you are right now in your fucking life? it’s not. but you’re fucking safe. you’re safer on your own than you ever were with me. and that’s what fucking matters. if you’re safer without me, and i want to protect you, i’ll do that. and you can’t make me fucking sound like the bad guy for doing this bullshit ” this is the most he’s said to her since they’ve found each other again. his green hues are on her and although his grasp on her wrist is tight if only to keep her in his presence and focused upon him, it isn’t enough to bruise her flesh in its entirety now. he’s trying to speak to her to make her see his perspective. but it’s hard. he’s always had trouble communicating. maybe he is a textbook psychopath after all. no matter how hard he tries to distinguish himself from christian bale’s character in american psycho, it seems he becomes more attuned to it by the day.

“ i have thought about you. i fucking care about your marshmallow titted, beautiful, annoying, and ridiculous fucking self. do you get that shit-for-brains? ” insults. a new one at that. his freehand raises to his head, knocking his fist against the side of his own skull as though for emphasis of her alleged idiocy. “ i am protecting you whether you fucking like it or not. i didn’t at the beginning when you were in that basement ready to be fucking tortured and killed. but i’ve protected you now. your hair has even grown back…you look almost passable as a frat boys girlfriend ” he takes a deep breath to calm himself down. to find a balance in his equilbrium to everything he is saying. slowly, he releases her wrist. “ i’m showing you more love than you could ever show me. and you’re the one who’s supposed to be in love ”

“ stop, ” she attempts to silence these harsh, insistent words with quiet pleas. she knows they will prove fruitless, that her desires have never been max’s priority. it’s always what she needs, what he thinks is best for her. and often times, that conflicts with those things willow desires most. sometimes she wonders whether it’s actually about protecting her anymore. maybe max simply enjoys the power dynamic. the fact that he can look at willow and tell her ‘ no, ’ in the same breath that she utters a, ‘ yes. ’ that his words will prevail because he’s naturally more assertive, more dominant than she could ever be. for once, she wants to grab either of his shoulders and shake him past the point of theatrics. this is what this is, isn’t it? because it all feels like some poorly written movie where the climax surrounds the protagonists own stubborn nature. his own self - doubt that stems from a traumatic past or weird insecurity. she thinks the plot becomes messy and overwritten if only because max is a psychopath who used to kill people on live webcam shows. his redemption arc shouldn’t be saving a woman like willow. a prostitute who’s biggest achievement has been playing a dead woman and outsmarting a killer into almost loving her. 

“ then why are we talking about this? if you have your mind made up then why say that you miss me? why not just ... let me sleep? ” sleeping has become unnecessary code for ‘ leaving. ’ she’d leave if he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. she’d find it too difficult to allow her heart to open up to him for one night before it is all over again. before he’s flipping the script in sync with the changing of the skies from dark to light. “ you’re never satisfied until you break me. ” until she’s crying and barely able to breathe as she’s tossed back out onto the streets. maybe he can’t or won’t kill her, but this seems to come a close second. it satisfies whatever thirst he feels for doing all those bad things to her. 

“ right ” nick stares at the bruises populating on her leg like little countries and continents that are appearing on her skin. green, purple, black and red. diverse in their size and colour. there’s a desire to just press his finger on the edge of one of them, to see how much pain he can make her feel with such an easy action from himself. but he doesn’t know her well enough. and he thinks that if he were to document this scenario, he might be doing himself a favour to look like a good guy rather than a man who is anything but. “ maybe you should have just…waited for the next train ” maybe. he thinks his words are stupid as soon as he says them. it’s like a parent telling their child things they should have done as opposed to what they actually did.

there’s no point in saying them because the fact is, the circumstances have been done and can’t change. he can almost feel his teenage self rolling his eyes at his own words. ‘ shut up, man’  he’d say and face palm himself as though the words are so ridiculous and cringe worthy he wants to die. don’t all teenagers want to die? it’s the stereotype he can feel his inner bro supporting. “ that was stupid. let me say it again ” a re-do. like they’re on some kind of movie set he’s configured in his mind. but in reality, he doesn’t want to be laid in bed later on rehashing this situation in his mind. he doesn’t want it to be one of those embarassing memories that will keep him up at night with thoughts including ‘ i wish i said this instead ’ or ‘ why the fuck did i do that for? ’ . he’s conscientious for a man who has previously killed people for kicks and money.

the middle of no where. that’s what she’s saying. in reality they’re a few blocks from a bar that could have ice. they’re also a few blocks from the apartment he’s renting under the name pablo. he thought it would be funny. well, he thinks it is funny. the fact of the matter is that the landlord didn’t even bother for asking proof of his identity. so long as he paid on time, pablo could live there as long as he wanted. all he has to do is pretend he’s fluent in spanish which simply means that he must know enough phrases that make it seem like he’s telling the truth. so far he knows how to say hello and goodbye. the rest of the time he just mumbles gibberish in an accent. and probably an offensive one at that. “ well…i mean, can you walk? there’s a bar not too far from here…and my apartment isn’t too far either… ” he thinks about what a good man would do. if he was clark kent maybe he’d be flying her to hospital rather than suggesting she sit in a dodgy bar or in his shitty apartment filled with takeout boxes and drawings of random shit he thinks of. “ i can lift you up ” he suggests “ i can carry you ” maybe this is as close to clark kent as he can get. “ or…do you live near here? i can take you home ”

she’s a prostitute. does he know? if he did, he likely wouldn’t be speaking to her right now. it’s not right for a filmmaker to be seen with someone lowly like her. maybe he’s being followed around by the paparazzi. maybe he’s got a bad reputation that he thinks can be fixed by tending to the bruise on this depraved woman’s leg. she reckons maybe she should mention it to him or something. ‘ i know it isn’t all that obvious because i’m gorgeous and don’t have meth mouth but i’m a prostitute. ’ no, she thinks she’d say something more creative like man fucker. that way if he was looking for someone to star in his movie, he’d think maybe she has a very cool way with words. “ i live on the other side of the city. it isn’t safe. ” and then, maybe it is just as unsafe to speak to a complete stranger or be lured into random men’s cars because they wave dollar bills in her direction. 

willow is watching him as he trips up over his own words. she wants to do the age old bombshell move and flip her hair out of her face, bat her eyelashes, and send him off the edge with a seductive smile. she thinks maybe then he’d be sold on the fact that with a proper haircut and wardrobe change, she would be worthy of staring in his independent film. she’s already decided what kind of film it is, even though it’s apparent that there is no crew or cast in the vicinity of the area. “ you don’t have to, ” she says quietly. try again. it sounds to her as though he’s attempting to find a better answer  to something that doesn’t seem to be all that big a deal. “ i wasn’t looking for a train. ” the truth. she hasn’t even been pressed for it. he doesn’t seem to care all that much about why or how willow ended up with this bruise. “ i saw you with a camera and i thought maybe you’d let me be in your film if i drew your attention. ” admittedly, she’s done just that but things never seem to go as willow desires them to. the longer she sits around, the less pointless all of this feels. willow works her way around opportunities if she must. maybe she won’t be in a hollywood production, but he is cute. no, cute isn’t the right word. cute is what someone would say about a stray puppy that needs a place to stay. she’s the stray puppy. he’s the sexy, dapper hunk of a man. 

letters. he could have written her letters of his own. letters telling her his feelings and how he’s yearned for her. but he doesn’t. he hadn’t. freddie has never been particularly good with his feelings nor expressing them, but when he’s with willow, things are a little easier. if only because they don’t necessarily need to use words to express themselves. there’s body language. gazes. certain touches. they don’t have to be explicit. just a language that the two of them only understand. and it should be obvious that they’re tactile with one another. two individuals. he, a war veteran. and she, a former prostitute. now self-asserted leader of women’s self defense. it’s funny to him. “ i’ll complain ‘bout it as much as i want. t’same way i’m gonna complain ‘bout you pouncin’ on me when i just wanted a fuckin’ drink ” maybe he is a complainer. maybe he’s many things including that. she’s called him toxic before. ugly. compared him to a hunch back. maybe a complainer is the nicer descriptive term she’s called him. he imagines what dodd would think of them now. he’d insist that they get married, but all freddie can imagine is that they’d write their own vows and it would consist of verses insulting each other at the end of the aisle.

she’s close to him and all feels better in the world. he remembers nights away from her. countless nights where he doesn’t have a warm body beside him or sprawled across him. instead he feels cold, and only has the presence of a blanket to cover him over. sometimes he’d hug a pillow to his chest, trying to pretend it was her body close to his own. but it doesn’t have her smell. her scent. her softness. nothing can replicate willow no matter how hard a man may try. all he had was photographs of her he had taken and placed by his bedside and in his wallet. a reminder that he’d want to make her proud. although all of these things, are things that he doesn’t voice when they’re together. when they’re together there’s only banter, crude remarks, and insults passed between them. the occasional argument and then laughing about things that are beyond ridiculous. he feels her bunch his shirt in her fists - feeling her tug the fabric ever-so-slightly.

“ mhm. ‘n as much as a bitch as you are, i guess i love you too ” he tells her as though it’s a guess. an estimate that he loves her. he does love her. it’s the closest thing to love he’s ever felt anyway, he supposes. his hands grasping her by her hips as he leans in, grinning as he kisses her lips after endless weeks and months apart. she still tastes and has the same affect on him as she had before.

willow had read in a magazine that letters keep romance alive. she thinks it must be some kind of sentiment carried on from the war. willow doesn’t remember much about that point in time. she thinks she chooses not to remember it because she wasn’t doing some honorable job like most of the other women in the country were while their husbands were away. she was off fucking sorry excuses for men who’d either evaded the draft or found themselves to old and decrepit to participate. the closest thing willow had to a husband was james. a man who had been healthy enough to join in on the fight, but refused to. he’d skip from town to town, avoiding the draft and leaving those he’d gamble with in search of a particular blonde with a, ‘ good mouth on her. ’ sometimes willow wishes that she’d met freddie before the war. maybe then she’d be used to him carrying off and leaving her in the dust. maybe then she would have met him before the trauma and the booze. she would have known the real freddie quell. was he softer before the war? she reckons he may have always been something of a hard worker. a photographer or maybe one of those greasy mechanics. she would have loved him then as she does now, would have waited for him to return from the war. she would have written him all kinds of letters. ‘ write me something naughty. ’ he’d ask and she’d do it with no questions asked. “ there’s a nicer way of doin’ things, freddie. ” tomorrow’s her day off. now she’ll have to spend it begging her landlord for a new lock. she’d have to explain that her boyfriend’s back in town and maybe that’d be warning enough. everyone is afraid of freddie quell. they don’t mess with willow because of it. 

“ oh, freddie. ” she wants to cry, wants to just close her eyes and thank her lucky stars for his return. she’s asked for it, promised a lot of things in return if he were ever to be stood back in her arms. ‘ i’ll go to church once a ... ’ she’d been speaking into the air, soft whispers uttered at night when she couldn’t stop tossing and turning. her mother had always said that even when you think you’re alone, there’s always someone listening. maybe that’s why willow’s been seen talking and dancing by herself. ‘ month. ’ she couldn’t promise one a week. it’d feel something of a lie then. willow waiting for the man in the funny hat to stop speaking so that she could return home and sin some more with freddie. “ i’ve missed your dumb face so, so much. ” she’s rejoicing, speaking her insulting truths and matching them with a loving look in her eyes. he makes everything better, a little lighter.