#rottedhope

      ❝ I think you have me confused with… uh, anybody else. ❞

“ You have the appearance, but do you have the talent?

      Why should I have you become one of my disciples?” 

    He inquired, Was she worthy? Could the maestro teach her? Cohen must know for validation. Those whom he did in fact teach were hand picked and certainly ones he saw potential in. 

 Though he knew nothing about this female-- nothing at all! 

“ i’m tired of bein’ snuck up on by every jumped up little shit who wants me dead ”

the gun lowers, but only by a hair, a moment of weakness for a man, a woman -- a girl. the church smells like stale dust, mildew. bare bones wood, holding ghostly congregation for a flash of blue, a slash of crimson at the end of the pews. and from the vestibule, he walks slowly, a step in every agonizing moment of held breath.              “ who told you? ” he barks, loud enough to stir the moths from their barren, bleached perches. silence outside. 

Kyle turns in shock. No one should be in the booth besides him. How did someone get in?

Then he realizes. It’s her. The woman from the Artist’s Struggle. At least, that’s what she said. She showed up with a detective. 

He killed her. Didn’t he?

Well. Obviously he didn’t. She looks as alive as ever. Even her makeup is immaculate. The wiring here must be shot. Idly, Kyle thinks he’ll get someone to fix it. Just in case he’s asked to murder anyone else in the future.

(The whole thing has given him a migraine. At once he feels relief and fear, choking him. He’s glad he didn’t kill her. He’s terrified Cohen will find out.)

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. He can hear how strained his voice must sound. “You might get caught.” 

Pain and loss. Is she talking about the performance? 

AESTHETIC for @rottedhope && lady a. comstock.

PLEASE MR. POSTMAN