no strings on me.

1. borrowing misery from future

2. carrying grief of the past

not only does @silencedrage / @founderscouncil write beautifully, the mun behind that blog also has an amazing grasp on so many different characters with so many different voices and every post is so well thought out and very fun to read. very much blown away by the talent! <3

Leaves snap under her feet, trees cracking with the force of the wind. It's bites against her cheek, and Desdemona dares it to break skin. It won't, she knows, for even the earth does not defy her. Skeleton hand wraps around a pale, cold ankle, effortlessly dragging whatever remains of Monsieur Putain through the forest floor. There are, certainly, better ways of reaching the property — But Desdemona enjoys the flavor of dramatics, and, she had to dispose the man's car.

The walk does not tire her, anyway. She basks in the bitter cold, savor the taste and scent of wet grass and damp barks. Animals are hurrying inside their nests, finding any shelter before the upcoming storm. (She always found peace in the woods. Memories of a life she holds dear, one she put behind countless walls and locks, feels less overwhelming when she has her feet touching dirt, and no sign of human life near.)

Well — All but one. Two, if she must be technical; but the boy is not alive, and Desdemona is certain he is asleep by now. (If not — Nothing a good punishment won't remedy.)

She opens the back door with enough force to make glass shake, uncaring for the trail of blood her guest is leaving behind. It is not she who cleans the floor. He is a sore sight, and Desdemona does not remember where she discarded his manhood. Somewhere between the first stabbing and the poisoning — His whines quite annoyed her, and she paid little to no attention on the way to the cliffs.

The headache was well worth it, she decides, dropping the body in front of Dahlia. A tilt of her head, eyes glinting in the dark. “Is this the man who called you a bitch?” It is, she is certain. That is why she if gifting him to Dahlia, is it not? — Why his tongue is gone.

A pressure begins to fill the space, and some might call it oppressive, but Dahlia welcomes it like a weighted blanket. Within minutes, the back door slams open, but the witch does nothing blow lightly on the tea that she has poured for both she and Desdemona. Her companion's cup sits waiting at her seat, steam curling from the top invitingly.

The corpse that Des drags in looks worse than the last time Dahlia had laid eyes on him, but his face is unmistakable, even twisted in dread and covered in blood. "Indeed," she hums as she takes a sip of tea. Her foot reaches out to nudge at the man's cheek, the toe of her boot pressing carelessly into the cold flesh.

She does not remember why he had flung about such horrid words in her direction. Surely her minor comment of his inability to satisfy his wife couldn't have been so upsetting. After all, why else would the girl end up in their bed time and time again whenever her husband went on his distant travels? She would have to stop by to visit the newly-widowed woman soon, to give her condolences.