#ataviisms

/ this took me forever and i'm so sorry. 😞

don't torture a duckling (1972, lucio fulci)

a reporter and a promiscuous young woman try to solve a series of child killings in a remote southern italian town rife with superstition and a distrust of outsiders.

preacher's daughter sentence starters | still accepting.

The grin that splits her face as she looks up at him in the doorway twinges at the still-purpling bruise that swallows up the curve of of her jaw; her fingertips, reaching as easily and automatically for his sleeve as they always have, are scrubbed raw from the ever fruitless effort to clear the asylum's lemon chemical scent from the cuticles.

"Aren't you trouble?" she asks, and then, because he's the first face she's really seen in the days since the breakout, since the running and hiding and scrambling up the fire escape, she laughs once. A little bark of sound. Relief creeps into her tone.

FUCK ME.

IT’S JUGGALO NURSE.

I THINK JUGGALO NURSE IS GENDER NEUTRAL.

I THINK ANYPONY CAN BE JUGGALO NURSE.

I’m so blessed to have spent this year meeting up with people I’ve met on this beloved hellsite.

willoughby tucker, i'll always love you sentence starters | still accepting.

Mary knows there is a nicer veneer over everything that has ever happened to her. A layer of performative prettiness, a need for perfection that has somehow strangled the more violent parts of it into submission. No forward facing bruises, no less-than-1000-watt smiles, everything ugly secreted away until the exact moment it all bubbles over.

It is the way it is. She has never felt ashamed of it, not until now, when Waylon's words — pretty, ugly — set something prickling at the nape of her neck, and she's reminded again of the differences between them both that Mary often ignores in favour of picking out their similarities with the desperate fervour of an obsessive.

It's easier, sometimes, to forget that he had also once been very small. That it might hurt him more than it does her to see small things suffer.

"I'm sorry I asked," she says after a long moment, the apology unfamiliar — reigning in an instinctive disingenuity that wants to creep its way in — in her mouth. Sorry, really, for asking about that last time in Blackgate, about what had gone on there, at what had gone on before, sorry for always prying with little fingernails at what he wanted to keep away.

She folds her arms on the tabletop and settles her chin on them, peering up at him through her eyelashes. Her brows draw together — the way her eyes flick across his face is like someone searching for answer, explanation, meaning in an abstract art.