#loathsomedogs

The first couple of nights had been the worst. Nightmares that once lived outside her door now navigated the weakness of her psyche and plagued her dreams, turning what should have been a breath of fresh air into gasps of horror and anguish. No amount of comforting could appease her fears and soon they offered drugs to aid with sleep. There were times when she even questioned her sanity like her family. When she wondered if everything that occurred those last few months had been no more than a figment of her own imagination. A result of some unknown head trauma, as her husband coaxed.  Though she knew it in her heart to not be true, Dilara accepted their explanations. It was the only way she saw herself getting through it all. The only way she could remain at her children’s side after being lost the last six months. “  No such things as monsters.  ” she uttered, and just as she turned to close the curtains, Dee caught sight of a figure beyond her yard lights making her chest thunder but she refused to give into the fear. It was probably one of the workers. The gardener or pool maintenance guy. There’s no such thing as monsters. Not giving it another thought, she hurried off to her bedroom, stopping by her children’s room on the way to offer them a kiss goodnight. Cameron worked too much to be home, but he hired people to stay with them. To keep her protected, but she knew there was more to it. He didn’t trust her alone with their children. Dee couldn’t fault him when she’d have done the same if the roles were reversed. So she put a smile on her face and accepted whatever means of safety were tossed her way. Noticing her bedroom door ajar, Dilara addressed the only other person allowed in her chambers, “  You can't honestly be cleaning at-  ” Then caught between bewilderment and utter shocked, “  Nick?  ”

she  steps  over  the  empty  shells.  there's  so  many  of  them  scattered,  they  still  clink  underfoot.  there  is  only  the  unclean  path  to  tread  towards  him.  no  matter  where  she  walks,  there  are  the  remains  of  the  firefight.

sadie  skirts  around  the  pool  of  blood.  she's  peppered  with  beads  of  sanguine.  still,  it  sticks.  uncomfortably  to  collar,  to  skin.  to  places  she  can't  see.  (she'll  stand  under  showerhead  until  the  water  runs  ice  cold,  and  she  won't  flinch,  she'll  rub  at  her  skin  until  she  turns  bright  pink.)

she  doesn't  remember  if  he  reached,  or  she  did,  hands  clasp,  assistance  in  her  approach  to  step  over  the  body,  their  palms  clasp  together  for  only  a  moment.  she  is  quick  to  let  go,  grains  of  sand  slipping  through  her  fingers.  forward,  forward  motion.  like  a  shark,  she  can  detect  a  specimen  living  still.  the  breathing  is  ragged.  he  wasn't  dead  yet,  but  he  soon  would  be. 

it's  not  over  yet,  but  her  clip  is  empty.  there  is  mercy  is  the  crush  of  a  windpipe,  but  her  back  straightens.  better  to  let  him  simply  bleed. 

AS IF I HAD A FUCKING CHOICE. " of course " even faux kindness was too much to muster. her words coming across as empty, the death gurgle leaving a wilting husk. weak though she may have been fists still managed to tangle themselves in the thin cotton blanket which had been placed over her aching wound of a body, beads of sweat licked from her upper lip the only thing she managed to keep down without nausea looming around the corner.

for days it had been the same ── wake with pain, sleep with pain, refuse to speak refuse to eat refuse to exist. each passing minute felt like an hour, each hour a day, each day a new and endless hell. but she wouldn't give in.

if there was help to be had, some miracle to bring it all to an end ; so long as it was coming from them, she would refuse. nothing could change that. if only her mind had consulted with her body on that front, perhaps the physical rogue would have known about the mental rogue's instructions not to speak.

✶ ・ @loathsomedogs said “ don't you trust me? ” && “ who are you doing this for? ” && “ use your words. ”

The permanent sight of irritation clinging to her features is somehow worsened, darkened by an expression of pure and plain loathing. A boiling hatred is about to blow to the surface, but for the sake of composure Demetria obliged herself to collect her breaths and measure them into a less burning pace before granting Nick an answer.

“ This is not about trust, Nicolas, ” voice working around rough syllables, coming from a place of disdain that echoes familiarity, the lips are pressed into a thin line before they part to speak again. Not softly yet, but not as rough still. “ How am I to trust someone I’ve barely met? And nonetheless, haven’t I trusted you enough so far? ”

Truth to be told, he was the son of a family friend, someone she wouldn’t recognize if such background wasn’t previously explained; an unknown face who was expected to be granted. But the ghosts of a long forgotten past brought them impossible close, against every odd — and even then, her temper wouldn’t allow any sort of intimacy.

But at least, he had finally managed to earn something aside from her uttermost disdain.

“ Pardon me? ” a blink, followed by another, and another… a compelling to immediately shoo him prickled her skin, but the words are stuck in her throat, a lump hard to swallow and impossible to puke. Slowly, eyes trail through the walls to chase the figure portrayed statically in hanging frames. The eyes of her father stare back at her, deadly cold. “ Not that I owe you any explanation… but for him, of course. What else could keep me in this haunted house, in this city, in this... curse? ”

The heart of it is an assumption, right? He assumes her surprise, or he wants it. Emily likes being contradictory, or she just likes the rebuttal. She's never anything or anyone people want her to be. Either more or less than they expect. Whichever it is, it's never a good thing.

words would register slowly, several moments spent where the sound of something came across as only vague noise ─── not rhythmic enough to be machinery, too deep to be static. ( a voice. it was a voice. a realization which ushered in the ability to understands what had been said ─ none too pleased when the mystery was solved. )

clotted blood would be expelled from her nose with a strong exhale, still fuzzy vision finally allowing rogue to view the room in which she'd been so graciously placed. " well ── " voice a raw croak after several hours of disuse, and what she could only assume ( based on feeling alone ) to be yelling at one point or another. a valiant attempt was made to think back on the evening, however only annoyance would be found as the night was a blank spot in her mind. whether or not the man before her was the cause of her current state was unclear, but given his tone rogue would have put money on his involvement.

The thought of it clinging—the snow from Blackwood, the cold of February, the ash of the dead—makes her nauseous. She flattens her tongue against the roof her mouth, drumming her sharp nails against her leg. Winter, and she thinks of innocence. Winter, and she thinks of rot.

[    DID    YOU    EVER    WANDA?    ]    shadow    crevices    betwixt    brows    /    folded    skin    depicting    mere    curiosity    /    wonder    ;    exploring    others'    eyes    for    a    split    microsecond.    query    such    forthright    [    &    ]    definite,    amusement    bestowed    frontal    view    as    she    dipped    her    cranium    to    gaze    towards    the    coffee    table.    reflections    ponded    'pon    her    mind    ,    a    stir    within    her    voice    box    ;    gathering    vocals    to    communicate    'pon    parted    painted    lips.    ‘    hardly,    for    who    would    give    a    witch    what    they    want?    for    what    I    have    done    ,    what    i    accomplished    as    a    friend    [    &    ]    foe    I    did    it    with    my    own    hands.    ’