#carvesbrides

     there were very few places avery WOULDN’T rather be at this very moment. it wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy dresses or fashion - quite the opposite, in fact - but there was very little about marriage, both in concept and practice, that didn’t repel her. she’d just never understood the significance of it, really: why bother, unless you’re looking for tax benefits or citizenship? who needs a piece of paper to certify their relationship, especially when so many of them just ended in divorce? it was just asking for hassle, as far as avery was concerned - an ANTIQUATED practice that seemed to have more to do with attention and a big, fancy party than love. 

     and that opinion would’ve been fine and dandy if she hadn’t drunkenly shared it with her bride-to-be coworker only hours after she’d asked avery to be a bridesmaid. which put her in a difficult position, with a very... passionate voicemail to wake up to the next morning.

     as such, she had two choices - let a friendship be ruined because she happened to be a jaded asshole, or go out of her way to try to be extra supportive. unfortunately, to her current chagrin, avery had chosen the former. “anything i can do to help, just tell me,” she had said, the words echoing in her irritated mind as she cursed her past self. she hadn’t expected her friend to actually take her up on the offer, but the request to join the woman in looking for a wedding dress had most definitely proven her wrong.

     her frustration had only grown when said friend cancelled on her last minute, but still wanted her to go check out a full list of bridal shops and come up with recommendations - but it wasn’t like avery could decline after literally shitting on the concept of marriage for a full half hour on the same night she announced her engagement. this was her penance, she supposed with a sigh, pushing open the door to the third shop she’d been in today (god, she needed coffee).

     looking around, though, she actually felt herself smile, if only slightly - unlike her other destinations (corporate, boring, overpriced), this place actually seemed... nice. clearly independently owned, and even more clearly run with love. definitely more her friend’s style, and certainly less of a bore for avery. she might actually enjoy looking around here.

     the dresses were gorgeous - she tried to be subtle as she snapped pictures of her favourites to send to her friend - and as she perused, her words were (surprisingly) genuine as she turned to the man she assumed either owned or worked at the shop with a smile:

Short, bitten down, nails scratch at her neck, tugging the too-high neckline of the too-stiff beige uniform away from her skin. When she first came to this place, she occasionally wondered whether the cheap fabric was simply the result of corporate greed trying to cut corners, or an intentional ploy to leave the patients as uncomfortable as possible. She doesn't think about that much anymore; Doesn't care. The outcome is the same either way.

She wishes she could strip it all off. Human beings are animals at their core, propelled by instinct and the will to survive at any cost. They can't thrive in harsh uniforms under fluorescent lights. If she were home, with the desert mud to protect her from the elements, she could undress.

But, it's different here. Unnatural. It isn't the same in cold hallways and tile floors, isn't the same without mud and twigs and shadows to conceal her flaws. So, she remains in her itchy uniform even now, even roaming the halls aimlessly with no living guards in sight.

Mostly, her aim is to find territory outside of the chapel; Father Martin has been getting on her nerves more often than usual lately. They need the space. Though they're fighting for the same team he, respectfully, doesn't know what he's talking about. The apostle doesn't need his guidance. God will find him without the priest's meddling. But, he doesn't want to hear that. She's not going to be in the middle of it when The Walrider puts him in his place.

      The male ward is a fortress of sorts... or a mancave. If you leave you're in danger of getting bitched at, right? Or attacked by Eddie Goatskin or whatever the fuck he's calling himself nowadays. Sometimes you've gotta take that risk in the name of profit.

              Hollow eyes watched the Groom as he paced, his place in the Entity's realm still FREASH and NEW, like a fawn still learning the forest. Yet still, Danny did well to keep his distance. Sitting along one of the many brick walls that caged in their HUNTING GROUND. Not to far, but safe from the larger mans REACH. As the Groom moved closer, Danny whistled at him. Much like an owner does to GRAB their hounds attention. When their gazes met, the ghost grinned despite his features being HIDDEN by the frozen scream. 

@carvesbrides​ :  ‘ there are no others like us and there never will be. ‘ ( angst? yeah. idk what this is )

shadow & bone | accepting

     Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs something sitting hidden inside his chest. It's heavy and dark and vile, a feeling of dread, of weariness. It sits, curled around his heart so tightly, it feels like it hardly manages to beat properly against the vines of it, thorns tearing into the organs and letting blood seep into his lungs.

     It's not fear, but it's akin to it. It's not pity but an estranged sibling, biting with teeth that aren't real and hurt all the same, wrapping a wired cage around his hurting heart that keeps it from ever expanding with any real feeling that isn't this silent terror, this impending doom, aimed at nothing and nobody. It's cold, not quite frozen but halfway there, and it's impossible to determine whether it brought the freezing winter into his chest, or if it simply adjusted to what had been there.

     (This one; it's utterly different from what would build it's nest there later; just as dark as the inky corruption made of metal and electrons and things a human mind cannot possibly hope to understand, but that is where the similarities end. This now is cold and impossibly quiet and so so awful and hurting, when everything else later would be scalding and loud and comforting in it's burrowing.)

     It has been living there, a snake, a beast with venom dripping fangs, for so long. Not as long as he can remember but long enough that he cannot recall the feeling of it not knowing it there, deep down, that he doesn't remember the person he was before he carried it within him.

     (Everyone is going to leave, eventually.)

     The desperate hunger of being known, and at the same time dreading that very thing. Of wanting to lay your heart bare towards anyone, and knowing that when they see this twisted rotten thing, they are going to flee. What else? It wakes at words such as these, and yet — what is it but another lie, another deception, another bite into that blacked cold thing?

     (One day, something will sing: that you can be a home, that you can be fully consumed by what loves you. But not this; no matter what mania those words spring from, it's never meant and never enough, and all you get from it is another scar, both literally and metaphorically.)

     "No." Softly, but not agreement. Or maybe it is; there is nothing and nobody else. But that includes the other one, too.

     (What are you hiding from? Who are you hiding from? And how do you expect to ever be found like this?)

     "No one."

𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃    𝙼𝙰𝙳𝙴   𝙰    𝙼𝙰𝙽?    was   it    his    kindness?   his    strength?    his   cunning?    all    had   a    different    answer   to    what    made   them,    and    what   forged    him    was   the    guiding    hand   of    human    cruelty.   it    made    miller   harsh,    cunning,    cold   ...    and    foolish.   he    was    there   beneath    the    shadow   of    night,    crept   upon    an    entrance   he’d    noted    when   casing    the    place.    barely   a    human    at   all    in    the   eyes    of    those   passing    by.    (    THEY    SEE   YOU    /    BUT   THEY    DON’T    SEE   YOU    /    YOU’RE   NOTHING!    NOTHING    !    )    he   remembers    it    like   it’s    some    faint   daydream    now,    some   sick    nightmare    of   a    time    on   the    crux    of   normal    that    he   wishes    so    desperately    to   return    to.    it   aches    terribly    in   his    chest,    sinks    with   dread    and    wraps   him    up    whole.   his    wrists    pleading   for    respite    from   the    bite    of   the    harsh    rope   upon    his    skin   as    he    shifts,   feeble    attempts    to   make    himself    comfortable.    still,   still    he    recalls,   as    if    he   may    fall    unto   that    time    again   and    make    a    difference    decision   something    like    a    recollection    of   terror,    what    it   meant    to    be   gripped    by    it.    staring   into    the    welcoming   maw    of    a    wolf    and   the    stag    stumbles   backwards,    a    crash   ---    the    shattering    of   something    he    meant   to    peddle    in   some    dingy    shop   in    a    town   over    that    surely   would    not    know   the    worth    of   such    an    object.   but    he’d    haggle   and    take    what   best    they    could   give    for    a    pack    of   cigarettes    and    a    few    meals.   do    it    all    over   again    next    week.   it’s    what    he   wishes    he    was   doing.    ne’er    thought   he’d    yearn    for   the    cold    bite   of    the    wind   outside    and    the   pangs    of    hunger   in    his    gut.   watches    the    look   of    pure    unholy   wrath    take    hold   of    that    near   unfaltering    complexion.    the   very    thought    of   it    makes    his   stomach    lurch    and   twist.    shake    of   his    head,    near   violent,    eyes    closed    tight   enough    to    see   colors.    anything    to   wipe    that    vision   of    his    rage   from    his    mind   as    he    shudders   there    in    the   dark    corridor.    the   smell    of    rot   was    suffocating    back   there,    perhaps    more   than    a    day   or    two    since   he’d    been    back   here.    (    THE   SHADOWS    CREEP    IN   AT    NIGHT    /    HE    HOLDS   HIS    BREATH    SO   THEY    CAN    SEE   )    but    it    never   helps.    the    days   drag    on,    the   sound    of    idle   chatter    haunting    him.   gluskin    wore    a    face    and   spoke    like    a    man    but   the    little    wretch   in    his    basement   knew    better.    kept   there    all    day,   like    some    toy   waiting    to    be   seen,    pulled    from   the    dark    and   wrenched    around    until   whatever    within    him   howling    had    been   fed.    a    lapse   in    time    (    IT    MOVED  SO    ODD   /    WHICH    WAY   WAS    UP    /    WHAT    WAS   THAT    STRING    OF   NUMBERS...    IF    HE   COULD    REMEMBER    THEN   MAYBE...    )    memory   is    fuzzy,    did   he    fall    asleep   or    did    he   simply    feel    he   did?    all    is   frazzled    and    awakened   to    some    fried   nerves    as    heavy   footfall    approaches.    and   he    scrabbles    for   some    position    that   would    seem    less   like    some    animal   awaiting    the    slaughter,  all    belly   up    for    him.   red    on    his   skin,    biting    into   him    from    all   his    movements    over   the    days    (    WEEKS?    )    holds   his    breath    as   the    light    pours   in    and    he   winces,    recoils,    and   awaits    for    his   eyes    to    adjust.   felt    like    some   hare    in    a    snag,    pressed   upon    the    furthest   wall    with    heart   pounding    in    his   ears.    he    says   nothing,    though    the    snarl   upon    his    lips   seems    to    convey   his    disdain    for   being    left    as   such.    having    to   wriggle    up    against   the    wall    was   no    easy    feat   after    all!    while   sarcasm    was    the   intent,    it’s    more   dripping    with    malice   than    anything    else.   watches    him    with   eyes    cold,    hateful.   if    looks    could   kill    alone    he   would    have    been   long    gone    surely.   dares    to    part   his    lips    and    speak   as    his    ‘husband’   seems    to    make   himself    comfortable.     (    DINNER    TIME   ALREADY?    ---    A    PANG    IN   HIS    GUT    WOULD   SECURE    THIS    SUSPICION   )    purred    out   lowly    with    a    tender    bite   hanging    off    the   way    that    term   of    endearment    is   hummed.    a    light   lilt    of    what   was    meant    to   be    a    hidden   jab,    and    some   poor    attempt    at   appealing    to    him   to    make    him    drop   his    guard.    the   ropes    never    seem   to    loosen    no   matter    how    he   pulls.    manages    his   best    crooked    grin   to    pair    with   such    sweetened    sick   venom,    a    quiver   hidden    behind    his   crooning.

vehement   declaration   would   lead   inevitably   to   the   fumbling   of   the   doe.   his   emerald   hues   glinting   with   some   mixture   of   terror   and   worry,   object   of   his   concerns   before   him   now   as   he   dares   with   shaking   limbs   to   step   back   to   the   comfortable   distance   afforded   to   him.   indicated   then,   by   the   district   lack   of   aggression.   in   spite   of   the   fear   that   grips   him,   wracks   his   fingers   and   worries   the   space   between   brows   in   a   tender   crease,   his   voice   reflects   a   sort   of   genuine   tenderness   that   would   give   cause   for   many   a   creature   to   wince.   the   folly   of   man   was   ne’er   trusting   in   their   fellow   humans,   and   thus,   becoming   that   which   made   them   in   the   first   place.   of   course,   the   brave   fools   who   continue   on   without   such,   bear   the   wounds   of   a   life   lived   daringly.   and   he   had   many   a   wound   to   bear   to   those   who   would   care   enough   to   ask.   his   voice   like   honey,   reassuring,   gentle.   the   voice   of   his   mother   in   his   mind   :   easy,   easy,   mon   chéri.   move   with   kindness   and   kindness   in   turn   you   will   get.   a   creed   he   lived   by,   and   surely,   would   die   by.

            ❛      easy ,   easy .   oh ,   toi   pauvre   chéri .   i’m   not   going                         to   hurt   you ,   and   i’m   not   going   to   touch   you .     ❜

it   was   the   truth,   as   much   so   as   he   could   convey   through   his   words   alone.   palms   raised   and   open   in   some   sort   of   movement   to   ease   his   mind.   not   a   step   made   to   trek   upon   the   space   he   needed.   his   lips   spill   forth   his   softness.   no   such   command   from   his   ethereal   form,   more   some   hushed   guidance   from   some   heavenly   creature   sat   upon   your   bedside   in   the   early   hours   of   morn   on   a   day   you   thought   you   wouldn’t   survive.

@carvesbrides​:  ❛  her body was a dress i hung for motivation.  ❜

not here | accepting

     Tʜɪs ɴɪɢʜᴛ sure goes down as The Night, all capital letters in his mind. Well, that kind of implies he lives to see the morning to think back to that night; that there is at least one more to follow, and he's not entirely sure of that fact. Remaining fingers close around the shard of glass that digs into them, but the pain barely registers between the other. If he makes it out alive (big if) he doubts he can use his hands properly ever again as is, so what does it matter if he cuts open his palm now as well? It's the one way he can keep it somewhat hidden for the time being.

     Talking is good. Talking usually means another second being alive. Not always — and being alive in this place isn't always favorable for what else is to come, isn't it? Heavens, as unlikely as it is, but if he makes it out against all odds, he's going to need to check himself into the next asylum, except a proper one — one step at a time. First, try to make it through the next ten minutes. Five. One, even.

     It's kind of hard to not look at the object in question, though. Object, as if it wasn't a corpse. If he thinks too hard about it, he's going to lose his mind far faster than he already is. And he tries, really tries, not to stare at the mangled corpse hanging from the ceiling. He tries.

     " — uh. Lovely. But that means y'got all th', uh, motivation you need, right?"