#amygone

there’s a sweet spot in time in Northeast Pennsylvania when the night air was still warm enough that it wouldn’t kill you unless you wanted it to and the ground was still soft enough to cushion a fall should you trip over a wayward root.   but as per usual,  with one being perpetually out of place and the other permanently out of time,  Charlotte and Amy had missed the sweet spot by at least ten days.   tonight,  the air pressed against them like the walls of a meat freezer,  each breath a hard and brittle effort;  and the ground ( ! ) oh,  the ground tonight wouldn’t take a corpse even if one was desperately offered down to it. the best thing keeping the void - borne vessel warm now was the sweat she was working up,  striking the hardened earth with a shovel,  performing an excruciating removal of scabrous dirt to reach the supple stuff deep below.   meanwhile,  a brief glance over at Amy held a smidge of concern, her counterpart’s only task was to stand still and steady a light on the growing wound.  how much longer before a haphazard look found her friend petrified in place without so much of a peep of complaint?   it would be just like her. . .

so, how do you prove that something was,  in fact,  alive when everything both within and without it signified  ( for )  death?   like the meaningless yammering that kept a heavy - lidded driver awake during long stretches of tiresome road, the two exchanged words to stave off the stillness;  words dug up from boggy memories and mismatched with the glee of a child who believed every sheet of paper bowed under the weight of glitter,  dried pasta,  and star stickers was the pinnacle of art. they had their favourite topics and talking the same old shit to death was what friends did,  wasn’t it?  even if it bored them,  even if it pained them. so here goes. a return to a topic that wasn’t quite a favourite, ( would likely never be, )  but needed a few more cycles so that it might compare with how much they talked about other stupid shit.

the slimy and odious figure that was Amy’s father bothered Charlotte.   one of the few people alive that did and she had never even met the man.   it bothered her that as far away as he might seem at any given moment,  he never was or would be far enough; how could he be?   he was real. unlike the predicament of her own creator existing beyond the realm of all fucking human comprehension and so,  was in a definitive way beyond reproach and solution,  she knew that the man who wrote,  overwrote,  and rewrote the part of Odile was flesh and blood. same as his daughter. the gap between this visceral knowledge and the boogeyman story Amy often framed him in sat poorly,  restlessly on Charlotte’s mind.   yet at her attempt to address this gap,  the daughter,  well - versed with the play she’d been cast in,  reminded the blonde that optimism had no place in this story. there was only resignation  —  the swan’s resignation,  to be exact.

it isn't her atrocities that unnerves jacob so, as he is a soldier built sturdy with unholy bricks. but possibly what he may find to be grieving bones. it lingers the same way condensation does, heavier than this is cathedral night air. see, john seed was hardly a man. he wore a half-decent costume of one, held his postures. though, perhaps it was, that john was in the depths of a shadow of his own past, draped in sermons larger than he could fathom. he was damage incarnate, the kind of ruin that smiles at its own reflection and mistakes the cracks for divinity. out of his mind, maybe, but not with fire — with fever, with hunger, with that gnawing sickness. he was not a lion, he was certainly no baptist. he was a hollow echo of other men’s courage, the yes-man to his own undoing.

jacob, on the other hand, was carved with a jagged battle knife. he was forged, not born. where john tried to satiate that nasty hunger of his, jacob chose to starve himself. where john begged to be seen by the world around him, jacob taught himself to be a silent, steady trigger. a sharpshooter. that makes sense to him. the ritual of battle made him stronger the march, the repetition. it was understood early that weakness was contagious. so, jacob seed chooses to mourn his brother in the way a wolves mourn the weakest of the pack: with a moment of silence and eyes that track his empty space, but never lingers. jacob doesn't confess much to anything or, rather .. anyone. that falters. ‘‘ -- maybe so. ’’ rolls the rifle in his lap, thumb stroking the worn metal where the paint’s long since chipped. the click of the safety, off then on again, punctuates his words : deliberate, steady, like the rhythm of a metronome.

everything has quickly gone to shit. annoyingly so, graves might add. but, truth be told, he tends to thrive in situations like this. when he's allowed to cross lines in order to get people back in line. unfortunately for agent madani and amy, they happen to be right in the middle of what he needs to fix. but, surely they know about casualties. and, if he's honest, they wouldn't be too much of a loss to him. not when it was either him or them. 

graves never planned on betraying agent madani. no, he considered dinah a valuable ally. someone that, in other circumstances, he could trust. she was great partner and not an enemy he'd want to have. but, he knew better than to question his orders. he can't help but wonder if she'd understand that much. that he was simply following his orders. not that he'd take the time to ask the woman that ; he's sure that he wouldn't get the chance to ask anything if he came face to face with her again. 

charlotte winced behind the impenetrable shade of her sunglasses, lips puckering and shoulders rising as pain sparked like starbursts at the peripherals of brain matter. her mouth and tongue had been stained a bright crimson, a dribble of the red stuff sparkling at the corner of her mouth. this, she lapped up with a quick press of her tongue. ouch, she muttered to herself before drawing a breath and closing her lips around the mouth of her drink's straw for another draw of strawberry slushy.

charlotte stood, leaning against a traffic post, the yellow signal box directly above her head. everyday people along with a huge group of tourist stirred to life and walked around her as the light changed; a few tried to walk through her only to find that even nothingness could occupy spaces in their reality. those who crossed the street here did so quickly, for what sounded like certain impending death was approaching at a high and reckless speed. several heads, including charlotte's, turned towards the wailing. while the others hurried along lest they get caught in death's trap, charlotte only continued to sip at her drink, savouring the sourness seeping into the tongue. they could all hear it before they could see it. IT WAS LIKE A MONSTER, capable of vacating the known ambience of their world with its own roars and bellows. no one knew from around which corner this beast would suddenly appear. . .

. . .not even charlotte.

she blinked once and there it was. the hellcat had arrived, indeed, like death itself: in a storm of dust and smoke, its frightful wailing silenced and replaced now with a low and patient hum. those around charlotte jerked and jumped out of the way as the car came to a cold stop precisely where the agent stood; a reaper had seemingly come to take the woman away and the woman, for her part, seemed totally alright with it. THIS REAPER WAS SOMETHING OF A FRIEND. charlotte pushed off the pole and pulled the passenger door of the hellcat open. in a motion that was clearly well - practiced, charlotte lowered herself into the seat.

@amygone / HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOTTIE DOLL. WE'RE GETTING FOOD.

with one hand still on the door and one foot on the shaded pavement, charlotte rose from the passenger seat and promptly exited the vehicle. she had half a mind to empty the drink in her hand onto amy's console. BUT THAT SEEMED LIKE A WASTE. she supposed there was something genial about amy knowing exactly what to say to make her regret ever thinking that friendship could be a good idea. that allowing anyone to know her all too well could ever be a good idea. that there could exist a person who would message her out of the blue after being missing for weeks to meet her at the intersection of 197th and main for a surprise, and she would go, only to be grossly mistreated in this way.

several cars began depressing their horns as the hellcat idled at the corner, keeping traffic from moving forward, cutting off circulation to an entire lane, for longer and longer as charlotte simply stood there, with her hand on the door and a dark glare on her face. a particularly large and formidable old truck was right at the bumper of the car. a few moments more of this stagnation and the people surrounding the two anomalies would begin hurtling more than mere obscenities in their direction. maybe, charlotte wouldn't have to waste her drink on staining amy's car, after all. " That's real cute. But I'm not getting into the car until you either apologize or tell me where you stashed that knife I gave you for your birthday because you're right. One of us is going to get stabbed by it before your next. And it's gonna be you. " the light changed again, but this time no one moved. cars stilled and people stared. save for one man who decided that all these bitches needed was a mean and ugly scare to persuade them into moving their asses along.

seemingly, HE CAME OUT OF NOWHERE. fabricating from somewhere between the hovering dust and the sunlight shining off the shells of a dozen stopped cars. he moved quickly, confidently, suddenly at amy's driver side and slammed a massive meaty paw against her window. the entire vehicle rattled on its springs, vibrations shooting up charlotte's arm on the other side. his other hand groped for the handle of the driver's door as he shouted how if amy, in the part of the crazy bitch, did not immediately drive off, he, in the part of today's hero, would pull her out by her hair and do it for her, dragging the blonde bitch behind him. his fingers wrapped around the car handle for just a moment before releasing it as the sting of cold ice and sharp plastic hit him square in the face at a brutal velocity. skin broke in several places and soon it was hard to tell the strawberry sugar from the blood coating his face. the man stumbled onto his back foot, but that wasn't far enough away from the danger.

a flicker of frustration flickers across black pupils, casting his cold gaze over amy like a shadow. there's annoyance at the feeling of his web unravel, paired with the piqued chagrin that she'd ever even question his candour [ though she was certainly well within her rights to do so. ] his arrogance was insurmountable, offended merely by the rippling of air around him that her swift and sudden appearance left in its path. her stormy presence whips at his skin and he almost has to force himself not to react to this interruption with the same turbulence she brought with her. it's rather impolite, he thinks, to cut in on his blissful reverie as an uninvited guest. the marquis cants his head to the side with some swelling, weighty disinterest, peering around amy's form to the masterpiece she chose to obstruct. his eyes find peace within the intense study of antiquated brush strokes, placating his vexation almost instantly.

there’s   a   drastic   change   in   the   air   upon   his   departure   from   the   kitchen ,        lungs   on   the   verge   of   collapsing   suddenly   able   to   breathe.          a   certain   calm   he’d   give   anything   to   revel   in   even   for   just   a   moment        ——      if   only   a   mind   unable   to   stop   turning ,         or   now   his   company   standing   behind   counter ,        would   allow   it.

                           𝑩𝑼𝑻   𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻   𝑬𝑿𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑳𝒀   𝑾𝑨𝑺   𝑪𝑨𝑳𝑴 ?

he’s   sure   the   shabby   building   hadn’t   experienced   such   a   sensation   in   a   very ,      very   long   time.          in   fact ,      he’d   bet   his   last   fucking   dollar   on   it.           every   profanity   roared   after   blade   met   flesh ,        every   petty   or   heated   argument   between   kitchen   mates ,      every   overwhelming   lunch   rush   that   would   make   even   the   best   under   pressure   let   out   a   much   needed   scream   in   the   walk   in          [...]          𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈   𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝙸𝙼𝙿𝚁𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳   𝙾𝙽   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚂𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚂.

and   that’s   just   before   5   o’clock.

𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓:           𝙸𝙽𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝟶𝟶𝟽𝟷𝟸         ——         NASHTON,  EDWARD.          ¹²/⁰¹/²⁰²⁰.

i can be  given,       i can be  kept.       I CAN BE CRUSHED!        yet i am whole at the same time...       WHAT AM I?

i have got so many letters since being here i can barely keep up.        BUT I ALWAYS LOOK FOR YOURS FIRST!         my special girl.          ODILE      ——      there is no one else i want to talk to,       think about.        these letters to you are all that’s keeping me sane.      i read them over and over until my head HURTS because of how LUCKY you make me feel!!!!!!      it’s hard to even think about    OUR FUTURE PLANS   when all i am starting to want out of life is you.      i fantasise often about seeing you  here      ——     your pretty face would be the only   GOOD THING I GET TO SEE INSIDE THESE WALLS!         the nights are the WORST OF ALL but all i have to do is think about you and the life we will   WE WILL HAVE   and it’s all better!!!!       i want you to know me,     odile;       the real me.       i can’t wait to tell you everything,      every detail,      every plan.        just a little further to go and all this will be behind us.      i think i can make you soooo happy,     odile!       just give me some time:        i’ll make all of this worth it.       you think you can answer my riddle,   pretty?         it’s an easy one,      i promise.       i just know you will,      clever girl.        you are doing so well.

YOURS, <3 RID XXX