#maniquinn

i am basically a very lazy girl. i don't even want to be a writer any more. i want to go to los angeles. maybe be an actress. maybe, if i don't get any work, i can write something for myself. i'll walk away and never come back. if i live, i will never say a word about--

what happened in new york can never be repeated. i will never be that girl, i will be better, a new beck, a new woman -- one that respects herself enough to at least recognise a red flag when i see it. i'm in a new city, a new place; i will leave joe behind me, and all the nightmares that accompany him.

los angeles, like new york, is full of people trying to 'make it' and is just as overpriced. i get by, though, scrambling as i always have. only there's no peach to bail me out this time, nobody to blame when i inevitably fail here, too.

i'm sick, and i kill people. sometimes, three bottles of wine deep into another lonely night (i have sworn off men until i can tolerate the thought of a hand around my throat again) i think about how maybe i should have died in that bookstore basement. i think about the taste of paper and ink bleeding into my swollen mouth, and the bruising.

i'm out on a supply run right now, looking for the perfect bottle to accompany me through another semi-suicidal alcohol binge.

"i don't know anything about wine."

❀    ||      closed starter    ||     @maniquinn​

 they're very much bobby's friend group,    not hers,    but then again when do they ever spend time with her friends over his?   cooling air comes as a relief as brunette sits on balcony wall,  distracted gaze on all too quickly setting day   (  it will be ages yet until she's missed,    there's no rush to return  ).    there is nobody to notice she is gone,   fidgeting with dress' hem,   twisting stray thread around slender fingers only to release it without snapping it free.    squeak of door gets her attention even if she doesn't look up for a long few moments,    allowing other time to process own presence before small forced smile is offered in lieu of a greeting.

the responsibility of regent came with concessions, ones made to facilitate the secure reign of her eldest— a bold girl who loved the attention of court. and so she would continue to, despite the crawling feeling in rhaena at remaining inside the worm's keep. it was beyond her to comment, to make clear the discomfort of memory, of pain inflicted in the walls that had cost lives to build. she'd considered it then, the cost, though in years before, the knowledge that war had forged the realm was not unknown to her. what the conqueror did in wartime seemed incomparable to what the cruel did for vanity, a purposeless display for stone and secret passages. it was difficult not to think of each marriage before the one that was meant to be the next, a suggestion, when alysanne had finally come to the realization that her interests lay elsewhere. love was an interesting name, a cleverly organized union by a younger sister. aIysanne was clever to have chosen one illustrious house over another, one that would force her to confront the word while still maintaining power. if the choice had been made with her eyes, the elder targaryen wondered if another had given her advice, but could not bring herself to dwell long, as the party neared closer.

dark haired and shorter than her own height, rhaena found the rest difficult to judge. too proud to ask about her mood, lest aIysanne take her choice with too much ego. lianna remained behind as she stepped forward, opting to greet, and not be mistaken for petulant. mailed steps followed her, two of the queensguard like shadows on her heels.

is it obvious ? the rain unrelenting as the museum ebbs and flows with traffic , it seems that kandinsky is somewhat soothing. my eyes trained upon geometric patterns that said *nothing and everything all at once. sleep elusive as i find that most of my days and nights blur together in one deluge of beatings that i can't seem to properly combat.

eyes had indeed been upon THIS particular patron , eyebrows that lifted upwards as one gave a look of utter detest. nothing is said - the air heavy , and claustrophobic with WORDS UNSAID.

i should leave . . .

getting up as jaw is clenched , and he stands slightly straighter. shoes sound upon flooring as he pauses and discards of a to go coffee cup. walking just a few more steps as he then goes to pull out phone , and back leans against wall. pretending to be engrossed by an email for a few moments before phone is put back into pocket.

BACK leans against wall , and wall holds weight as head falls back and eyes close for a second. to ABSORB the silence.

how long has it been since you’ve slept? / @maniquinn

Mackenzie is upright and fierce and snarling, is human but not really. Her fingers are curled like Harpy’s claws and she jabs one into Love’s chest.

That was a joke. Yeah, no, not really. Not at all. She thinks about the knife in Elijah's throat and the way Idris and Shipley fled and the way the pianist looked when he bled out beneath her, executed by his own wire.

It horrifies her that anyone besides herself or Cass or J.M. would have something crass to say about all this death, all this loss.

But, look, maybe they see each other for what they are now. Maybe Love figured it out. Maybe there's a reason why Love was able to figure it out. But Mackenzie still wants to live in the world where Love doesn't know anything at all, where they can pretend this was all some sort of silly game.