#godblooded

@godblooded

There isn't an answer for a while. Which in itself is probably quite telling, really. There are plenty of things she wants to do, but there's no one that truly stands out.

She wants to climb something ridiculously, dangerously tall. She wants to jump from it, let herself fall and fall and fall. She wants to fly. She wants to grab Stark and kiss him until they both see stars. She wants to swim under the arctic ice (or antarctic, she isn't picky). She wants to go to a back-alley european rave with base so loud she can feel it in her whole body. She wants to get struck by lightning, just to know what it feels like.

Mostly, she realises, she wants to stay exactly where she is. Sprawled across the sofa, head resting gently in Stark's lap as the serum works its way through her system, so when the answer comes it's...simple.

footprints (1975, luigi bazzoni)

alice, a young translator, finds the real world slowly merging with her recurring nightmares as she tries to solve the puzzle of her recent memory loss. a postcard leads her to the island of garma where the locals seems to know her. is she who she thinks she is? and what significance does her dream of an astronaut abandoned on the moon have?

    Margarethe stiffens. She's been navigating around the dogs all day, an exquisite headache building at the base of her skull, and the girls have been yammering on about something she doesn't understand, then telling her, "That's because you're 'unc', Mamma," when she says that to her it's all gibberish.

    And there are dishes in the sink.

    Heaven knows that Margarethe will never wash a dish if she can help it, and in any case, their cleaning woman is due that afternoon, but the dishes glower at her. What she hates most is the film of dog and cat hair that gathers on wet things around this household. She thinks bitterly about assigning Anastasia and Drisella chores, thinks still more bitterly about the time before Alana came into her life, when there was someone to take care of these things, and her mind, nearly crossing into her memories of her former stepdaughter, screeches to a juddering halt, quickly conducts a volte-face.

    She's washing the dishes in the sink, thinking still more bitterly about her skin and her nails and the state of her cuticles, when a pair of delicate but strong arms wrap around her from behind. And she stiffens. It's instinct entirely. A familiar and comforting cologne wraps around her, dragging her down from the lofty heights of martyrdom, and Margarethe takes a deep breath of it, allows herself to exhale as she shakes one pink rubber glove off a hand, baring it to pat Alana's arm.

Alana’s coming to beat you up for this.