#godblooded

I’m so blessed to have spent this year meeting up with people I’ve met on this beloved hellsite.

trish always texts, talks, answers the phone like a goddamn wounded bird.

it's why jessica doesn't text first, doesn't call back. most of the time. she's worked hard at building up these walls of hers, brick by fucking brick. & even if it's hasty work over some of the rough patches, it only takes a few words from trish to tear the whole thing down. she sighs, exasperated, down at the message that has already come back in rapid fire & the spider vein cracked across it.

fucking metaphor.

[ text ]: yeah. i just

she doesn't finish the text yet.

Some stray hairs are tucked back behind her ear as she takes a seat opposite Dr Alana.

"I'm not asking about a patient, I know better given I have a rather high profile patient of my own. I was hoping to compare notes about the work we do."

AHHHH THANK YOUUUUU <3 this coming from THE best Catwoman writer around?? HUGE compliment.

[ oh. lovely. she can’t help but smile about it. sincerity is a virtue she believes in pretty staunchly. ] [ TXT: SHEP ] that’s maybe one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. [ TXT: SHEP ] choosing a specific kiss. [ TXT: SHEP ] that’s incredibly charming. and likewise. thank you.

answered !

the roots of allyson's resentment toward her grandmother had spread in the years after michael myers' disappearance. for the way she'd turned the yard that should've been a sanctuary for family into a shooting range, the way she'd turned her home into a mausoleum--none of those feelings ever brought her mother back, of course, but it felt good to put her anger, her hate, her despair toward someone real.

michael myers is--had been, she constantly has to remind herself of the past-tense--a shape of a human being, but he slipped through her fingers like sand. laurie hadn't been. all of that--everything--had to go somewhere.

and yet, here she is, despite all her resentment toward her grandmother, with her guns laid out on her table, long elegant fingers covered in gun oil. her mother had always refused to even entertain the idea of a gun in the house for fear of repeating intergenerational curses, or whatever other shit she spewed. maybe it skips a generation. probably.

It's a quiet evening. Norma thinks she never really took the right amount of time to appreciate quiet evenings before; her life has been a hectic mess, a desperate race, since the moment she was born. She never had the time or energy to appreciate the soft call of crickets from the tall grass, or the way the sunset paints the sky in orange and pink like a tart sorbet. Since Alana stepped into her life, she's had the time.

Not that things haven't been challenging. Navigating Norman's new diagnosis, putting a name to what was happening, was scary. In a way, there had suddenly been two new women in her life, where she had gotten so used to there being none. (She and Eleanora don't get along. They're working on that as a family.)

But tonight, things can be quiet. Strangely peaceful. Norman is out with Dylan. Norma sits with Alana on the porch, on the new swing in front of the living room window, a bottle of wine between them, split into glasses.

The peace can't last long, not with Norma's brain being the way it is. Toeing the line carefully, she clears her throat, snuggles close to Alana, her legs tucked up to her side.