#abjecterror

✨ @abjecterror u asked, u got an answer.

❝I think he's sexy, but in a way that like... Walk with me, here. Okay, so, like. Imagine you go on a Tinder date, right? To a local restaurant, it's probably like tapas or something. You look good. You’re wearing your favorite Nine West pumps. He sits across from you, candlelight flickering and Coldplay playing in the background. The Coldplay makes you wish you were dead, but it's okay. He starts talking to you about how he collects teeth for his tea bags and once made a cake using toothpaste, cement, egg shells, motor oil, and putty. He details how he ate this cake. Gave the rest to his friends, who seemed to have mysteriously passed shortly after due to unforeseen circumstances. Your expression shifts a little, this conversation's weird. Then, he starts talking about how one time he took a bunch of drugs in Nevada and had a hallucination at the Bellagio where he saw a pot roast singing showtunes at the buffet. Made him cry, like a vision of a deity. Holy. In passing, he mentions that his mother is a tree in the woods somewhere in Montana. He asks if Montana is even real, but you can’t answer.❞

“you have.” You say calmly, and you listen to them stir and stir and listen to the way that excuse rolls off their tongue— it’s not an excuse. That’s not the right word, not at all. Excuse would mean something almost cruel. You don't think of it that way. Or them. You think if they’re protecting anything, it’s themselves. And that okay, you remind yourself. (It’s a moment before you functionally realize that there’s a frightening thought— when did you start to pick things apart this way, this viciously? Now you can only stare into your tea and think and think about what you’re trying to do here. You’re trying to think about it and you almost cringe when your brain says accomplish.)

How much of him did he leave in you? You don’t know. You shake it off. And your eyebrows raise slowly. You speak softly.

“you did just use the phrase no time to do anything good for yourself,” you point out— and avoid the urge to point with your spoon. You won’t. It would be rude. (Getoutgetout he hisses from the corner.) “i’m just... worried.” And i like being near you. I think you’re smart. I think i understand you. I want to understand you. That’s you, not him. Sincere. “concerned? I’m—” those beats of thought, “—concerned. And it was more an observation than an accusation.” There you are. Those parts of you.

before they see ur reply:

after they see ur reply:

       “My, uh... my finacé is a kitten, now. Brother killed him. And then this... man–– Just hands me a cat and tells me his name...” She swallows. “And it’s my Ray.” She looks up at the other person, defiant against her own embarrassment, projecting it onto them before they even . “I know how it sounds, alright? And I don’t believe in that stuff. But it was him.”

✨ @abjecterror. meme. still accepting!

its unparalleled cuz its in another galaxy. a galaxy shaped like a cube of cheese. every planet in that galaxy is themed after a different prince song... i dont go to the purple rain planet....... i dont even like that song....... anyway ty!!! ur one of the only people around here whose taste in horror i trust. as someone who grew up... w. a mother who was a vhs store employed horror enthusiast ( maybe too enthusiastic ) i really cant get behind anyones taste in horror lol on this fucking site or anywhere else for that matter eeeuugghhh

but with u.... i see ur recs. i nod silently and agree................................... i feel like u should know this....

“you are aware what you’re discussing is my specialty, correct? i’m catnip for killers, tegan.” the words come at you tensely so you volley them back with an almost equivalent tension, challenging them with the dip of your gaze to steel that energy and then a glance upward. to meet those eyes with your own blue, ground held. your head tilts. you fight with the urge to fire back at them-- and what of lecter, then, tegan? what about him? what? all he can tell us about is what, dismembering, turkeys? what? did he teach me, you, us, the bureau nothing? you don’t know where this acid comes from, but it sloshes in the back of you throat.

✨ @abjecterror ty!!! he wants to marry a clown.

❝Performance art was my first love, before I even learned how to move to music. When I was a kid, my dream was to be a performer for Cirque du Soleil. I wanted to join a circus. A big pretty one, just like that. I had a good handle on walking tightropes and bending impossible ways and expressing without painting or saying anything. Telling stories with my movements.❞ Still, he had his daydreams about it. Imagining himself in the middle of La Nouba. Bird women and peacocks and princesses. People gasping and clapping.

❝A lot of performance art projects are pretentious shit with no point. But, hey, so is a lot of visual art. Every medium has its, um. You know, like, hollow artists that provide nothing. I can’t even tell you with confidence that the visual art that I make has a point. Anyway, as a dancer and a contortionist before anything else, performance art is near and dear to my heart. No matter how basic or weird it is. I want to have a show in a Subway... Like, the sandwich place. I wanna unorder a sub, have the person behind the counter take it apart. I want it to be silent. Poignant. Deconstructing something I had assembled just for me. Kind of like disassembling myself.❞ It was a joke when he said it, but...

your hands always feel raw. like the way it feels to dip your hands in hot water after they’ve been frigid. your hands always feel raw and when you look at them they feel rawer— they feel like your palms and the corners of your flesh fill in with all those callouses you don’t have. the trigger of a gun, the way it feels to grasp that and not press the click. you don’t know why this starts in your brain, but it does. and it makes your stomach churn.

ghosts are things you know. they’re strange and forceful and constant. the hallways of your brain echo and you slip on the blood on the floor. your daddy’s voice is a grating thing, no longer smooth. mama’s is a harsh, shrill sound in your dreams. ghosts?

abigail’s standing in the doorway and her eyes are empty. there’s nothing. no pupils, no irises. they’re as bottomless as white pools. from her fingertips, her shoe soles, her throat, a gaping red wound weeps. you look at her and then look back at them again and when you blink she’s only faint in your vision and you’re sure your meds need adjustment.

so you reach up, touch, touch, touch— you brush your fingertips across their ear and tuck blonde hair back. you take their hand and reach it down to press against your heart and you say softly, “i am not a ghost,” just before you taste their lips. just before you wish you had a cigarette and a scotch and the moonlight in front of you both. like you were always meant to be.