#resurrectedher

He ain’t the one.

   “is that a knife? at least buy me dinner first,” @resurrectedher​

@resurrectedher​ / starter call!

He didn’t want to believe it. Ben had sworn it, tried to convince him that it wasn’t one of his drug-fuelled hallucinations. It couldn’t possibly be true. If it were true, she would have come to see him, she would have. Miguel repeats it to himself like a mantra, trying to ignore the way his hands shake with nerves as he pulls his car up to the curb. Engine cuts off, he pulls the keys out of the ignition as he peers out through the windscreen. It had been so long before he could even think about The Bar, let alone come anywhere near it. Now, it seems surreal, a haziness as if he is trapped inside a dream.  For what feels like hours, he only stares and tries to summon the courage to get out of the car. It happens, eventually. And with apprehension in each step, he finally makes his way inside. He is quiet, at first, because the sight of her catches his breath in his throat. She can’t be real. Looking at her felt like those scenes in the movies, as if she has a spotlight on her and everything is in slow motion. It doesn’t make him happy, it makes him sick to his stomach, he doesn’t really know what to feel.             “Dakota?”      His voice doesn’t feel like his own, it trembles around her name as if it is a foreign language. 

‘you look pretty. do you have a date? or something?’ 

Attention shifted there’s something about your presence that leaves the hound uneasy. She doesn’t have a tell,    but she’ll keep watching out of the corner of her eye   &  inhale deeply to get a better idea of what you are.   Drink in hand--- perhaps not the best idea but she’s not on the job so it’s not like it matters right?

Papers  are  spread  out  on  the  table  in front of them, red underlines and circles covering different newspaper articles and photocopied pages of books, with Miguel pouring over them. Trying to find the missing link, trying to piece the puzzle together. His brow furrows together, so deep in his concentration that he doesn’t notice when she seats herself across from him. Then she speaks, and his attention is on her almost immediately.  “What are you talking about?”       Miguel studies her, searches for meaning behind her words in the lines of her face. He knows her better than she knows herself, he likes to think -- actively, he ignores that feeling that prickles at the back of his neck. One that taunts him, that she isn’t who he thinks she is. Instead, he reaches his hand out across the table and covers her own. His thumb runs over the back of her hand, a sweet smile across his face.           “I love you. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”      A pause, he knows for people like them, that will always be a lie. Miguel tilts his head to one side, trying to make her smile with a goofy scrunch of his face.     “At least, not right now.” 

Kindness  often  makes  her  skin  feel uncomfortable against her bones; as if at any given moment she might break out in a rash, forming a physical reaction to the unnatural feelings in her chest. It happens now, as her gaze meets with Dakota’s. Shut up, she wants to say, don’t love me, she wants to scream. People never love her for the right reasons. They want attention, fame, money, something, anything. She is curling her fingers into loose fists in her lap, without realising, and drawing blood from crescent-shaped marks beneath her nails. But not Aunt Dakota, she would never use her. Sometimes she forgets, that she has been there for her entire life. It’s easy to get everything so muddled up, when one has to often piece together their life like a puzzle. Astrid is quick to bring back her facade, nose wrinkling with child-like disgust. Hands loosen, she wipes them together to hide the traces of blood.              “That’s, like, the dumbest mistake ever. Our family is totally fucked up.”      If one were to look close enough, however, Astrid’s mouth forms into a smile for a moment. The words have clearly warmed her heart. Promise you won’t leave, she nearly asks. Instead, she shakes her head, curls bouncing as she does.    “Are you and uncle Miguel even ever going to get married? Seems like such a long shot.”