#foirceann

  “OH, YOU PRETTY THING.” 

handwritten  note  /  semi-accepting  .

TRANSCRIPT  :

Odeorain  ,  

random inbox things || always accepting

      THERE’S A CERTAIN LEVEL OF PRIDE she takes in her career of choice – she’s made her own family && keeps tight control of them so long as they follow her rule. it’s the way she likes it – things going exactly her way – && never having to bow to anyone else. 

      still, there’s an amusement that presents itself on plump red lips – oh, coaxing out her ego was always a lovely move && she always did love a compliment that held more than just praise for her outward appearance. few ever saw past the rich woman && her looks enough to admire her for her competency. 

      a step forward – closer to the other woman – sly smirk on painted lips as she places a hand to her hip in confidence.

       ❝ can’t blame a gal for lovin’ bein’ in charge, now can ya? but if y’got ideas, maybe i’d be willin’ to listen. ❞

      hearing someone out never hurts, after all – business is business but it’s better business when it’s with someone so interesting && alluring. she’s always open to the opportunity to earn more && make a bigger name for herself && her gang – so long as she doesn’t have to exclusively answer to anyone that’s not paying her in some form.

when  the  word  tireless  is  used  in  conjunction  with  her  name ,     there  is  at  once  the  inexorable  crawl  of  a  long ,    drawn  out  hysteria  in  her  throat .       it  is  bile - bitter ,     scorching ,     the  bottled - up  exhaust  fumes  of  a  soul  whole - heartedly  thrown  into  work .       angela  is  so  meticulously  careful  about  the  image  she  presents ,     always  keeping  her  hands  busy  over  this  instrument  and  that ,     stethoscope  looped  ‘round  the  collar  of  a  pristine  lab - coat ,     swaying  pendulously  with  each  measured   &   quantified  movement     –––––     she ,     a  study  in  perpetual  motion .       if  she  never  stops ,     maybe  the  world  will  never  see  her  as  she  is     :     some  days ,     a  shell  that  barely  holds  an  incandescent  flame ,     her  ambition  bigger  than  her  skin ,     at  once  halfway  between  immolation   &   immortality .       look  beyond  the  easy  nurture  of  soft  hands ,     i  dare  you ,     trace  the  deep  creases  at  the  inner  corners  of  her  eyes ,     the  fatigue  that  never  truly  fades  from  sleepless  nights  spent  poring  over  any  number  of  things  in  the  dimness  of  her  laboratory .          (     she  keeps  the  lights  dim  after  23:00 ,     works  by  the  light  of  desk  lamps  scattered  sporadically  around  the  room     –––––     less  people  are  wont  to  wander  in  and  berate  her ,     though  it  is  surely  a  poorly  kept  secret  on  campus  regarding  the  unpredictable  hours  doctor  ziegler  keeps .     )

even  now ,     with  the  violet - petalled  bruises  beneath  her  eyes  that  only  moira  a  select  few  will  ever  see ,     sequestered  in  their  private  wing  of  laboratories ,     angela  cannot  help  but  deflect  from  her  tiredness  for  a  moment .       fingers  leave  pen  to  fiddle  at  the  sleeve  of  her  lab - coat ,     a  subtle  assurance  that  it  is  pulled  down  to  her  wrist ,     hiding  the  caffeine   &   nicotine  patches  lined  up  neatly  upon  her  arm .       her  blood  thrums ;     but  from  the  chemical  stimulation ,     or  the  woman  before  her ?