#jwhik

     *    .   .  .   𝚑𝚎'𝚕𝚕     𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚍     𝚝𝚑𝚎     𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗     𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎 ,      𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖     𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎       :       𝐀    𝐌𝐀𝐃 - 𝐃𝐎𝐆    𝐎𝐅𝐅    𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃    𝐁𝐘    𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐄    𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊    𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄    .

DON’T   TURN   AROUND,   I’M  NOT  THE  ONE  FOR   YOU.  deep - bodily  regrets,   guts   torn   asunder,   she  was  lying   when  she  told  him   she  hated  him,  she  was  only   lying   when   she  looked   into   his  eyes.   AND  THIS  WAS  SAD,    SO   SAD .  Pride   won’t  let   her   call  for him,   tell  him ,   no  matter   what  her  heart  wanted,     what   kept   her   going .   a  moment   of  happiness,   to   only  laugh   and  dance,   but   once  those  things  start  to  become  real  she  realizes she  wasn’t   made   for  this. ❝ I’m   being   fucking   realistic, John   ---  what  do  you think   this   is  ?   Who I  AM who  YOU are.  Do   you   ever,    EVER  take a  second  to   use   your   fucking  brain  and  THINK  ?  ❞

 fruit  roll   up    clumped   around   her   thumb   ,       she   naws  and   sucks   on   it     as  she     sits    on    a   stiff   sofa   watching   the    tv   as   it   displays   fireworks.         Cool   girl   ,    bad   girl,     or  the    I’m   quite   flexible   -  girl   ,   she   didn’t  require  the   same   things   as  anyone  else,  and  depending  on  the  situation  she  was   comfortable  with  quite   less ,    going  outside  and  driving  to a  location  to  view  the   fireworks  wasn’t  necessary,  she’d  rather   spend   all  night   with  her  eyes  closed,   listening  to  each  crackle and  imagining   what   they   would  look   like.    beautiful  splashes   of   pink   &   blue.   But     he   was   here ,     John    an   unlikely    someone   who   doesn’t  seem  to   mind   spending   time   with  her.    he   sits   on  the  couch,   rather   comfortable  while   she   keeps   her  legs   spread   over   his.    

  could’ve   ,    if   only   she   was   willing,     more   rational   than   irritable   and  irrational   -         use   her   words   besides   fist  ,     learn   to  voice  her    feelings   in   truth   and    not   in  a  mocking  attitude.   Being  normal    almost   felt   foreign  to  her,   she   never   got   her  way   just  by     being  ,  she  had  to  push and  push,  and  she  kept   on   pushing.      she    knew   she   wasn’t      normal     ,   odder   even   out   of  the   few    of   weirdos  i  but  she   tried   to   navigate   it.   

INT. DARK STAGE - NIGHT OPENING CREDITS: A SPOTLIGHT slices black space. In its beam, a DANCER materializes. She is fair-skinned. Beautiful and pure. The maiden twirls on point, a smile on her face, light as air and carefree. She pauses, her face grows worried. Sensing someone watching . Scared, she peers into the darkness.   She moves now, looking, growing more frantic. Then, a SINISTER MAN emerges out of the darkness behind her. She stumbles backwards, frightened. She tries to escape, twirling away, but he pursues. His true form is revealed, the demon ROTHBART. He flings his open hand towards her, casting the spell. She wants to scream, but nothing comes out. She looks at her body, sensing something happening to her. Something terrifying.  She spins, panicking, but it’s too late. She disappears beneath the beast’s cape. She emerges as the WHITE SWAN, the iconic protagonist of SWAN LAKE. CUT TO BLACK. @jwhik​

wasn’t    it   all     true   violence     ?       in  song   -    in   dance,    in  the   fine   motion  of  a  knife   that   slits  across  the  crevasse  of  a   neck,        the  thunderclap    of     ballistic    bullets   raving   past    your       face.       was     it    the    potent   squish    of    ones   neck    ---  the  fine  intimacies   of   murder    ;   or  sweet   death.      the   bad   kills  the   bad,       sometimes  ,  the  bad   kills   the   worse   of   them   all  ---   one  could  say   it  wasn’t   murder,     it  was   mitzvah.     the    act   alone   religious   ties   and   knots   in  her   hair.    she   was    elegant  and  boyish   ,       the   black   swan   standing   beneath  a   beam   of    light  ,     warm   and  confronting   ---   yet   also   hell.        she   twists   and  turns  ,   breaks   her  back   and  binds   her   body   to   the  floor   only    for   no   one   to   see.      her  skin  is  colors   of   the  rainbow  ,  both   blue   purple    &  green  ,    mouth   busted   and  it  wasn’t   from  a  kiss  that   became   too   passionate  .         she   lives   in  a  shadow    ,    in  a  institute   that   salutes   and  quietly   praises   it’s  successor  ---    the   babayka        ,    which     made    no   sense   to    her,     tone   of   history   &  folklore   lost   in  the  English   translation   ---   but   he   was   indeed    the   boogyman.     Had   he   not   haunted   her  dreams   for   reasons   unbeknown    ,     she   wouldn’t   be   a  pilled   up   mess    in   front   of   his   feet.

JOHN WICK :  anything could’ve happened to you.        

bloody : my muse coming to your muse with bloodstains on their clothes and hands, shaking. + I can’t do this without you.     -----     @jwhik.

“SHIT.” probably not the greeting he was expecting upon her opening that door. ( or maybe it was; there’s no flinch, no grimace. he knows just how bad this all looks, just as much as she does. he knows that her phone LIT UP just like everyone else’s. and if there’s ONE THING she’s always appreciated about john wick, he had a low tolerance for BULLSHIT. ) but the fact that he’s HERE -------- standing in the doorway of a hole - in - the - wall apartment in brooklyn and far from the SANCTITY and SAFETY of the continental  -------- does he really think that somehow HER PLACE is immune from it all? “shit.”

and despite it all, she still grabs his arm and ushers him INSIDE, and once the door’s shut and deadbolt LOCKED she’s a blur of blonde pausing only to get him to sit down at her kitchen table while she tracks down the MEDKIT she keeps tucked under her bed. get me up to speed sounds like a lofty request as she sets up in the seat beside him, listening to his version of THE ODESSEY while soaking squares of gauze and searching for a needle and thread. 

------------------------- and where does SHE fit into all of this, other than breaking a code she’s sworn to by stitching him up? EXCOMMUNICADO. every moment he’s here, time outside these walls skips ahead twofold.

                                                             ( ‘ i can’t do this without you. ’ )

        “john ------------- ” telling him what it means to take on the HIGH TABLE is a moot point. he knows the full extent of what he’s asking, and he knows what it already means for her to be sitting here with him PIECING HIM BACK TOGETHER after what went down. john wick and thirteen, at it again. she EXHALES, resigned, as she cuts the thread. what’s one excommunicado when you can have two?