#deamazed

       i see you. i see your insides and the dark places, i see them bright and white like they are my own and you can run as fast as you want, i will find them and expose them. amma wants to crawl inside amazing amy and live in her SKIN. wants to live in the space between her lungs, in the cavern of her heart, in the pause between breaths as she speaks. amma wants to strip her skin and pull her teeth and stick her fingers into the wide maw of amazing amy’s mouth, see if she would gag. 

           ( probably not. probably be nick has seen to getting rid of that particular reflex. )

nick is a lot like john keene: dumber than he thinks, handsome in a boring white borderline-fat man, ignorant of his own glaring shortcomings. easy to trap, easier to trick. nick is window dressing. nick is the dollhouse. but amy? amy could be adora in the right light, the same WICKEDNESS behind the eyes and that’s what amma sees -- cruelty for cruelty’s sake. 

        (  when you let them do the bad thing to you, you’re really doing it to them. )

sharp objects.

          ( accepting -- mutuals / @deamazed )

          amy has never struck her as the sort of person things just happen to, no matter what anyone else might think; there’s something about the way that she carries herself, not a hair out of place unless she wants it to be, that says nothing happens unless i want it to. (with anyone else, she thinks, it’d be a quality she would admire; her own life has been such a strange hodgepodge of events that any semblance of control is something to be envious of. but with amy –– she hesitates. she’s not wholly sure why.) 

              amy dunne is an asshole; hopper can sniff it out. got a nose for these kind of things, a bloodhound for the BASTARDS of this world - a takes one to know one kind of deal. waking up in missouri makes him queasy, makes him think of joyce back in hawkins and sam in new orleans and how he thought getting out would make any kind of difference. it hasn’t. it doesn’t. he rocks back in his chair at the bar and squints at her. 

@deamazed

❝ i think i know this one. ❞ her teeth show in the smile, a soft laugh coupled with it as she allows her head to angle to the side. the sound itself is short lived, but the smile remains, lessening until it is little more than a suggestion, a knowing edge to it, even so.

funny thing about blood is how slippy it gets, especially when it's fresh; it's like oil, spreading out in big swathes, soaking into the solid oak floorboards phil had imported two years ago. the entire renovation had taken four months to get it all right and now he's watching his own life force quite literally sink into it. thank god it isn't anywhere else.

the problem here is that she's left the knife in which if you're going to kill someone, you really should do a little research first. and he is surprised about that too, because undoubtedly she must have looked some of this up; he's heard about her story, he knows the details, blah blah blah. trauma can inform psychosis he knows. this seems a little much.

she should have gone for his throat, not his stomach. it's effective, yes, but it's slow. slower than she really has the time for and he's been stabbed in the stomach before.

❝  oh, i wouldn't say that.  ❞  she smiles, and though it's subtle, she thinks that amy will note the emphasis on the 'incorrect' word. it's not : i wouldn't say that. it's : i wouldn't say that. a minor inflection, but one that makes all the difference.

❝  truthfully, i loved my husband very much.  ❞  for thirty years, just about. intensely, and through pitfalls and slights that she knows others would have easily drawn the line at. she'd drawn the line too, and gone back over it tens of times just to confirm to herself the necessity of it. in the end, he really hadn't given her a lot of choice.

on the surface, amy dunne reminds bobbi a bit of sourdough toast — not quite sliced white, has a bit of an edge and a wit, but relatively . . . plain. it's still the cookie cutter house, the vaguely neutral colors, the soft, airy voice that lends itself to the vague midwestern housewife energies that amy sends out. that, in itself, lies in direct contrast to bobbi — ripped jeans, mismatched socks, high top converse. amazing amy and bobbi morse couldn't be any more opposite if they tried.

but amy. amy's another best entirely. bobbi's born witness to a nature she can only describe as nearly diabolical. she takes in far more than bobbi thinks she lets on. amy observes, calculates, theorizes — and, dangerously, she schemes, hypothesizes, plans. an ex-husband had once called bobbi a snake in the grass — lying in wait, always ready to strike. nonchalantly, bobbi had looked over with a forced pleasant smile and told him that most snakes don't attack unless provoked. a snake, no. a lion, perhaps, a crocodile, a bird of prey. an ambush predator.

I know that this fact is what keeps me alive.

It should be daunting, I know. I should be terrified, absolutely shaken to the bone by this realization, I should be panting on the floor because of it.

Let me assure you: I am, I am, and I have, already.

There is something incredibly honest and disarming about Amy. In this moment it is impossible to believe that she could be lying to me, because I can see the truth shining there, settled all the way at the back of her eyes. Which are beautiful, I am inclined to add. Amy is a very beautiful, disarming woman. When she slides her hands over my sides and links her fingers behind my back, her head angling to look at me as her chest presses to mine, looking for all the world as if she might just let her legs go out and force me to hold her upright, I am very, very cognizant of this fact. My arms settle around her just in case she decides to sag for the dramatics, expecting me to follow her down like Rhett would Scarlett.

I would. I will.

The unsettling, gruesome, Go - Repellent truth is that I would do anything for Amy. I have cooked more in the months that she has been back with me than I ever have throughout our entire marriage. I run baths for her. I stroke the back of her head when we lie in bed and I think to myself over and over, How can I please her? How can I comfort her? How can I ease the burden she must feel of having to be this creature, every hour of every day?

I strike that thought, I commit to myself never to think it again. I lower my face to bring it very close to hers, my thumbs press into the small of her back and rub in slow, languid motions, and I find that I like the feel of her. How her shirt feels, how she rests her chin at the center of my chest. My lips brush the tip of her nose, and I smile, and I smile.