#atfaults

         she barely registers the initial sound till she’s been shoved out of the way, lead projectile (luckily) only hitting the very edge of the hunter’s arm. a gun. someone took a shot at her. & they probably would’ve hit her. might’ve been a good thing. that’s the right way to kill a wild animal, isn’t it? “ oh, fuck -- wh -- what th’shit is th’ matter with you, jackass? ” she’s glad it isn’t something horrible, of course, but at the moment she’s a smidge more shocked that any of this happened. “ i don’ know first aid for a goddamn bullet hole so i sure’s fuck hope you do -- this is why y’don’ trespass in th’ sticks. old rednecks love t’play john wayne & you’re never th’winner. ”

THE   WORDS   COME   FULL   CIRCLE,   bring   her   memories   back   to   a   place   she   had   since   buried   deep   in   the   void   of   her   mind.

[   OCT   21ST,   2006.   john   lays   on   his   death   bed.   she   is   always   thankful   to   see   him   get   any   bit   of   sleep   these   days,   recognizes   that   in   his   slumber   is   the   only   place   where   he   may   not   feel   much   pain.   she   stands   over   him,   protectively   hand   in   hand   while   the   eyes   of   lynn   burn   into   the   back   of   her   skull.   of   course,   a   stranger   could   never   understand   the   bond   amanda   and   john   have.   to   outsiders:   torturers,   murderers,   sickos   ...   to   them:   a   bond   that   could   hardly   be   replicated   anywhere   else.   john   is   a   mentor,   friend,   FATHER.   and   amanda,   his   loyal   follower   —   A   DAUGHTER   with   a   gun   hidden   in   the   her   back   pocket.   TO   PROTECT   HIM   UNTIL   HER   FINAL   BREATH   ...   ]

upon   snapping   back   to   reality,   amanda   realizes   hot   tears   have   begun   to   unforgivingly   sting   her   eyes.   ❝   i   don't   ...   —   ...   d-don't   deserve   that.   ❞   she   finally   gets   out   with   a   small   hiccup,   a   last   ditch   effort   to   blink   back   her   emotions.   a   hand   comes   up,   rubs   harshly   against   the   soft   skin   of   her   face   almost   like   a   punishment.

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐘   𝐈𝐒   𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃   𝐓𝐎   𝐇𝐄𝐑   —   to   be   vulnerable   and   exposed,   to   allow   another   to   see   every   imperfection   and   every   scar.   very   few   have   earned   enough   of   her   trust   to   reach   this   point,   yet   dean   has   snuck   his   way   into   her   heart   &   mind   and   has   found   a   home   there   just   as   she   has   with   him.   he   hovers   over   her,   golden   light   of   morning   surrounding   his   features   in   a   way   that   almost   seems   ethereal.   she   opens   her   mouth   to   mention   it,   then   promptly   changes   her   mind   —   maybe   it   would   sound   too   corny   coming   from   her.

amanda   is   such   an   early   00's   metalcore   &   rock/goth   rock   connoisseur   and   honestly   i   love   that   for   her   bc   um   ,,,   me   too   bitch   !!   but   if   you're   getting   in   the   car   with   her   or   just   hanging   around,   expect   her   to   always   whip   out   one   of   the   following   albums:

         it wasn’t intentional. some wounds left over from the summer keep refusing to heal -- physically, this time. edith narrows her eyes at dean, upper lip curling. “ y’didn’ have t’ let me in. or help. this fuckin’ thing’s been a bitch t’heal anyway, & your bad attitude isn’t fuckin’ helping. ” icy gaze turns to the large gash on her side, equal & opposite to one she’d left on daniel fairly early on. she grimaces, only barely being able to see it. (she does feel a bit bad about the whole blood thing. if you’re not experienced, it can be a bitch to get out.) she sighs, any movement stinging & eliciting a small hiss from her.

           “ listen, man, i’ll wash yer goddamn sheets. jus’ opened an older wound on accident -- wasn’ as healed as i thought, ” that last phrase is mumbled. it’s healed enough that it looks clean, as opposed to how it was when she first drove herself home. it’s a bit smaller, she figures, the skin that wasn’t split so far apart sewing itself together. the almost-healed other marks across her stay as hidden as possible, one hand still on the jacket that she wears like armor. “ goddamn ex-boyfriends’re like chicken pox or some shit -- even when they’re gone they might come back as even more of a pain in the ass. ”