#elleomet

          ❛   when  you  said  forensic  artist,   i  got  this  rather  obscure  image  of  you  painting  in  blood.  ❜    yes,  i’m  trying  to  be  funny  but  i’m  also  being  deadly serious.  i’ve  just  finished  the  second  series  of  dexter,  clearly  my  head  is  stuck  in  the land  of  netflix.    ❛  i  know  that’s  not  at  all  what  it  is  but  it’s  …  rather  fun  to  think  about.    ❜ 

𝐉𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐒  𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 ,   𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃  𝐓𝐎  𝐓𝐎𝐄 .        ❛      hey  !   i  know  you ...  i  𝖋𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖉   you  on  my  𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑚 .   you’re  that --  juliet ?!   it’s  so  good  to  𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕  𝒚𝒐𝒖   here !    i  love  what  you’ve  been  doing ...  it’s   really  𝖗𝖊𝖋𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 .      ❜      

“I’m not human. I have a mouth, but it doesn’t do anything. It is a walkie-talkie. Hunger can’t hurt me!” 

startercall.   @elleomet

“Okay, that’s cute. I’ll let it slide.” 

“hypothetically speaking, if i thought my neighbor was a blood sucking demon -- would this book help me tell the signs of vampirism? if it was real. which it isn’t. because i’m forty fucking years old and i don’t believe in vampires, just. hypothetically speaking.” he tapped the cover of the book in his hands, though his eyes looked as wild as a man who did believe in vampires. 

 he  slips  through  the  door,        glancing  around.            it  smells  vaguely  unwelcoming  in  here,        the  way  all  the  testing  rooms  used  to  be,        but  he  can  block  that  out  easily  enough.            he  knows  he’s  come  to  the  right  place,        a  clinic  apparently  named  'epione's  refuge'  for  reasons  he  can’t  figure  out  by  himself  and  doesn’t  care  enough  to  look  into.            all  he  really  needs  is  someone  who  can  work  on  changing  up  the  parts  of  his  identity  he  needs  to  get  rid  of  without  asking  too  many  questions.            (  'why?'      'what  happened  to  you?'      'is  the  government  after  you?'  )                               not  things  he  wants  to  hear,        and  definitely  not  things  he’ll  answer  straight.            he  only  has  his  burner  and  a  folded  paper  in  his  pocket  with  the  address.            underneath  that  is  a  whole  bunch  of  cash.            slowly,        he  steps  farther  in,        his  fingers  hooked  in  his  pockets.

      “I’m unfortunately not on the menu,” she responded, dully.