#lordt.

effie i get it

2008. You’re slipping, dear girl. You’ve lost your head. She grips the diamonds around her neck. Lyrabela. Ten years. It’s been ten years. ( Heart pulsing in her chest, moving through the party, disoriented, dazed, pounding in her ears, whore, whore, whore, whore, she tries to lift her head and it’s the heaviest it’s been, she cannot, the glittering albatross around her neck is choking her, suffocating her. She cannot breathe. ) “Take it,” she would plead, then, necklace-bearing hand outstretched towards the cocktail waitress, lips trembling, eyes stinging. “Please take it.” She’ll understand later. The waitress pushing away from her uncomfortably, patting her back pockets, checking the serving tray, the champagne glasses. ( She didn’t know, then. She didn’t know anything. She’ll learn. ) Lawrence watching her from across the room; she stares back at him, then. Hears it for the first time, thudding in her skull. End it. End them. // 2018. Here, now. A decade past. Diamonds digging into her flesh, red with blood. Nails in her palms, knuckles turning white. Deserved it, she thinks. He deserved it, the man from whom she removed them. Deserved it, he deserved it, he — Hysteria. You’re hysterical. Not yet. Do not break just yet.

@yunhoflrtz