#gore ts

                                    @grievice   : "You don't have to hide them around me. The scars are just part of who you are, and I like all of what I see."

                Tattered, in ribbons the flesh dangled, she touched her cheek && bore a snarl. A rabbit hearted girl, thunderous her heart would pound, like a war drum that refused to succumb. Deity, there was forewarning in the word alone, your first solo assignment - how exciting. As the summer slipped through her grasp, the shattering of her heart bore itself into several shards, each she wished to grasp && reclaim, haphazardly fixing them with gold. Every God needs their altar, a sacrificial lamb to please upon it, bled in an illumination of crimson, for second it appears like wine gathering in her palms, soaking the bindings. Godhood was merely girlhood, the suffering, sin && virtue, to be flayed without a moment of hesitation, the executioner && wayward daughter. Emerging, she holds the corpse of what was innocent && pure, crystalline tears that fall onto the soft white of her blouse, everything aches.

           That is rebirth, sacrifice && tribulation, Goddess! Stronger than steel, unbending like iron, the shatter of storms - Goddess of the Feast who sups on the flesh of the divine. Glory was given in momentary sums, she flees without warning, the rabbit wishes to find a burrow && rebuke her newfound status. She’s dead, the rumors echoe, but hasn’t she always been? Between the cups of coffee && deep obsidian brews, there was a happiness that blossomed in her chest. From the withered cavern where her heart once reigned; sunflowers began to crawl towards the skies.

              Rightfully, she wishes to howl in indignation, he should have never bothered to retrieve her. The age where they clambered together && her awestricken gaze was warmed with admiration now remained buried. Between her fingers the wooden stamp rolls, why keep something that cannot be? In serpentine tongues, voices murmurs, cursed to seek the endless horizons, cursed to be ripped from the daylight that bore the  love of the wise moon, bride of winter, bride of shadows, isn’t fate a horrific thing? Her mind is a torrent of restless seas, colliding && clashing. “Huh….?” foolishly, she plays ignorant to Naoya's remarks. The typical tactic when she was corned, when her cruelty was drawn out, when she could not hide from the scathing of his gaze. “They make me nostalgic” with an idle shrug of her shoulders, melancholy begins to fill her, listless she tugs upon the warmth of her robes holding them in place. Beautiful, he utters it feverishly when her skin is set ablaze, tenderness that rips the seams apart && stitches them together again.

             Love is agonizing, yearning that consumes the essence of her soul, she often regales the two star crossed lovers, tendrils of red held in hands akin to bouquet, waiting to be tossed. In another life, was she brave enough to discard the relic that has brought her agony? A name that bore no benevolence, an outlier who wept - if there was no blessing bestowed upon her, could he still love her? Beautiful, once more it rings within her mind, he would love her in full. “It’s rather difficult to constantly sum the energy up to hide such marks, expensive makeup does less, when I see each blemish - they remind me of failure” how could she be anything but meager? A Kobayashi was a blade, one that intervene when need be. Equalizing those who believed they were righteous && bringing forth balance, harmony, prideful smiles in their candlelit features declared. How could that be? When Sayuri was left behind && used for political gain, thrust into a land not of her own. She sets the seal down, “In fantasies, I think of that day where our union was made by the elders, in that instance, I should have swallowed my pride” reject everything, the God of Reverly’s gift, the name she was born to wear, the one gifted to her in hopes that generation worth of feuds could end.

            “You were surprised when I refused to wear the title Zen’in, everyone else was horrified” she laughs, merrily with her calloused grasp clasping together. Home was not across the streams where beautiful beings whispered pleasantries, it was not amongst the hydrangeas && chrysanthemums, it was in a den of wolves that flashed their teeth. Who knew she was neither a rabbit or celestial being, but the beloved of Death himself, a bride unlike any other, monstrous && cherished. “It remains a fixture that I cannot escape, even now I still use the seal like an entitled wife that refuses to part with the decadence of her social standing - it’s tragic, isn’t it?” in one quick movement, she tugs upon him, just like in girlhood when her frame shook && she could not utter, I’m scared.

     the soaked pale peach tablecloth was dropped suddenly when the scream pierced the otherwise tranquil evening air.    the cloth only made it partially back into the basket along with the rest of the cottage’s laundry,    but hannah spared it no thought.   she was too busy pitching herself over the basket in her haste to get back inside to check upon her children.    if it had not been for the twine drying line above her head,    she just very well may have fallen.

     when she had righted herself and reached the backdoor within record time,    she called for them in the calmest voice that she could muster,    but her thundering heart caused the words to come out rushed and breathless.    where were they?    what happened to cause such a noise?    let it only be a spider in the house, she begs as she pushes open the back door.    samuel and sara both turned to her,    their coloring ceasing only for a moment as they looked to her for answers.    neither looked to be hurt or in trouble in anyways.    if not them,    then who?

     “ stay inside. ”    hannah told them as she heard her name being called from the front of the house by a familiar voice.    they do as she asks,    but peak from the window ledge in the kitchen as she rushes out the front door.    they do not look on for long as zelda brings the mangled boy upon their porch.

     their mother cannot look away.   she refuses to despite the way her stomach rolls and her eyes water.    this image will be burned in her brain as her hands shakily reach out to soothingly push the boys hair back from his face.    her mouth opens to comfort him and give zelda directions,    but no sound comes out.    just a strangled gasping noise.    she is no doctor.    never took an anatomy class.    never even took a health class at that.    her knowledge here was incredibly limited and for that,    her entire chest burns.

     with all the force of a tidal wave,    one thought did come to mind.    something she had to do once when nathan,    a farmhand,    crushed his hand under some tractor parts.    she remembers how he howled as the bones crushed and shattered under his skin.    how he bleed too.    they needed something to stop the flow of blood until a doctor could arrive or until they could reach one.    what hannah?    what will stop it?    a second thought,    her apron.

You know how people have those nicknames that have nothing to do with them? Well, Mad Dogs’ nickname isn’t like that, and it isn’t that much of a nickname at all. It’s a title, and an earned one, at that. Mad Dog worked like a fucking dog to be the aggressive businessman he is, and it’s not a position that he’d easily give up. He has a bullet or a blade with the name of each power-hungry rival inscribed on it, and he’s the kind of man to give a snake the name of his enemy before hacking off its head.

2013 / 2017

trackpad pixels of the general enemies from crry of fear :-)

Blood pooled on the ground, on the concrete, jagged and grating against his skin, these shimmering puddles of almost-black red. Limbs shivered and stuttered the motions. Mouth parted to exhale simultaneous half-made whimpers. The world dragged along and lost its sharp outlines, smudged on the corners of his retinas, this aged fairy dust. He made an attempt to crawl and he was forced onto his back with the tip of a boot, clutching protectively at his mangled stomach and facing up, trying to wolf down the sight.

But there was no face. No eyes. No mouth. No nose. There was, instead, a skull.