#selfpara

All day, she's watched them setting up past the fences. Lugging in... stage kit, amps, speakers, subs, canopies. Clearing space around Warehouse 12.

The fucking fire department's there. The fucking cops are there.

This is a thing that is happening in her back yard, and she wants very much to know why exactly she didn't know about it until now. It's a complete failing, on her part. A complete fucking affront. She doesn't like surprises, never has.

Picking up the phone on her desk, she dials out on the ancient touch pad and growls a missive out to the other end of the line. Security doubles tonight. No chances.

Her eyes cant down from the window, observe the place. The fences are just that - chain-link and razor wire, Warwick-vetted rent-a-cops patrolling it every twenty minutes or so. The security chief, inside the security station, is busy getting his face melted off over the phone, the Alpha threatening that, should he prove to be as useless as his predecessor when it comes to keeping important files and dossiers locked up, there won't be enough of him left to fire. The small row of warehouses inside the shipping yard lock up for the evening, and Yuisa makes doubly sure that nobody's looking when she slips a very special key into it's hiding spot. The the offices close for the night, the shipping yard itself never truly sleeps. Security and Dockworkers are there in some capacity all night, even if it's quiet, and the rows of shipping containers create a strange maze for any who don't know their way around in the dark. Finally, just past the old Portside Tavern, beyond where the huge shipping freighters moor for emptying, a set of spindly piers lay quiet with a handful of small runner boats roped to the pylons, bobbing on the black waves of Leiry Bay.

Something itches at the back of her mind. Pulls at a monstrous instinct below her skin as her eyes drift from her stronghold over to a party unfolding as costumed and masked idiots begin flooding into the space.

The backstage area in the Seoul Arts Centre is alive with the sound of ballerinas rushing around like rabid peacocks. The illusion of grace is just that, an illusion. The truth is, half of them are hopped up on cocaine, supplies that their sponsors provide financing for. The other half are too young, too stupid, or too snobbish to realize one day they will end up being coke-trophies too, if they want to achieve greatness.

Jimin is a blur, like a cartoon on steroids, racing from one wall to the other, high on lollipops and coffee. It’s unbelievable that during the performances, he even has grace, but he has, he always does. Outside in the spacious corridors, the flurry of backstage activity is heightened, but no one is paying attention to him yet. When it’s his time, he’ll be shoved out to leap into a grand jeté and steal the show. Until then, he’s just a ghost, wandering around and peering into other people’s dressing rooms as if he’s lost something valuable. He can hear the more distant buzz of the guests, sipping champagne in the lobby as they wait for the show to start. They will have on their cocktail dresses, their gowns, and their firmly pressed suits, all worn like armor, empty eyes winged with liner and pocket watches showily flashed under the lights of the chandeliers. It's a special conundrum to dislike the audience he most appeals to.

Tonight’s performance is a variant of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Jimin is the water nymph, clad in form-fitting trousers in shifting shades of deep sapphire and soft cerulean that shimmer like the surface of a moonlit sea, catching every glint of light as if alive, hair is swept back effortlessly, damp with shimmering sprays that glisten like morning dew, with flecks of silver and lavender dusted across his freckled skin. He looks exquisite, but still, he doesn’t like it. He’d rather just have the leotard back. He isn’t the greatest fan of change.

The damned irony.

Upstairs, he bumps into the dance troupe grouped together, already halfway through their prayer. Jimin crouches down, shuffle-hops, and lands somewhere in the middle before the ballet master realizes he wasn't there. They end with their hands thrown into the air, and it's that moment he realizes, something is off. As he stands at the side of the stage waiting for his cue, he peeks around the screen at the audience, squinting past the lights, taking only a proper look at the first row. Then he looks up at the VIP boxes, and there he sees him. His father. He’s got his fingers interlaced again, resting on the edge of the balcony. As if he gives a fuck about ballet, as if he’s spent his life going to these shows, and he’s riveted to every move.

“Jimin, in five—” the stage director hisses, and pats him on the arm in passing. He closes his eyes, asks his mother for good luck, and then springs forward.

(9PM, Seoul Arts Centre, the Performance)

He pirouettes on the spot, and in the space of that single movement, he lets his arms unfurl gracefully, tracing a long, flowing arc through the air. His hands glide like ribbons in motion, swirling with the same fluidity as a streak of moonlight as he leaps into a grand jeté, all grace and precision. He knows he looks good, as the dance turns into an allegro, making use of the entire floor space of the theatre. His movements slow down, cheeks flushed, and he runs a hand over his thighs before arching himself into a starting position for a promenade and arabesque. He turns on the spot, single foot shifting him in increments as if the floor is turning him instead. In the eyes of the guests watching him, the lines of his body are perfect, a perfect ballet dancer in a music box.

Then, without warning, a sharp, burning warmth floods his nostrils. Blood wells and spills, vivid and raw, tracing a crimson path down his lip. His breath catches, heart hammering in sudden panic. In that fractured moment, his eyes snap upward, drawn like a magnet to the VIP box. There, his father sits, watching with a cold, unreadable gaze that freezes the blood running through Jimin’s veins. For a heartbeat, his father’s eyes narrow, just the faintest crease of disdain or was it disappointment? Then his lips press into a thin, pale line, the faintest curl of a smirk twisting at the corner, as if savoring some cruel secret. Lips parting just enough to mouth the words,

Hey, Miss Moss, i know it's been kind of hectic and i haven't seen a lot of you lately. i'm going through some stuff right now and i've honestly just been throwing myself into work to sort of distract myself from it. i was going to actually offer to do dinner or something with you but i didn't know if it'd be right or if you'd have had other plans so i guess, ultimately, i chickened out, but i really just wanted to sort of say thank you for everything again. thanks for being there for me when I needed it, thanks for having my back when I really needed it. Thanks for letting me talk when I needed it, and not judging but also not being afraid to be honest. i know i hurt you, even if I didn't -hurt you hurt you- i know that what happened that night at the arcade was hurtful, even if i would have never done it if i'd have had any say in it. i know we've hashed this out, but i just, again, wanted to say thank you for finding it in yourself to forgive me. that's something i'm not super good at. forgiving things, i mean. either myself or other people. i'm trying. but yeah, i don't want this to get too long, but i just wanted to do -something- for mother's day and you're the closest thing i've got to that right now. i hope you enjoy the presents (i really hope you don't already have them) anyways, i'm fine. i'm sorry i've been so quiet. i'm trying to not be as quiet or distant. i'll try to come see you soon, i just can't do the arcade right now, it's too close to the bookstore and things are just weird. i know this could have been a text or something, but you know me, i love my pencils and paper. Happy Mother's Day Autumn

A piece of nice paper sits folded up inside a Mother's Day card inside of a Hallmark envelope. It's written neatly but with little regard for punctuation. It's up against Morgan Moss' front door, alongside a gift-wrapped box, inside of which sits a set of cartoonish figures. It arrives early, because she has a long drive out to Owyhee Canyon to make, and she might as well get a head start.

———

Summer, How do I say this? I know things might be a little weird now. I don't really know where they sit with us, but I want to come out there again, or have you come into town, whichever, and I want to talk with you more. About mom (am I even allowed to call her that?), about Aunt Therese, too. This isn't going to be a super long letter or anything, because I feel like we still just barely know each other, but I don't want that to be the case. I want to get to know you, I want to learn about our mom. I know I'll never know her or miss her the way you must, but that doesn't change that there's something important there, even if its in the past. I wonder a lot these days what it would have been like to grow up out there, with you and your family. If it would have made things different. If I'd really want different. I don't know that I would but I don't not know either, you know? Sorry - all that to say, I love you, I can't wait to see you again, or to visit again, if you'll have me. I just don't want to not be a part of your life, and I don't want you to not be a part of mine. I'll try to call more often. I probably should have called to say all this but, well, you'll get used to it. I have a thing for scribbling. Your sister, ♥ Autumn

It might not arrive on Mother's Day, but that's fine really - it's not really meant for Laurel, just inspired by the thought of her. It's a nice letter on the same nice paper, and tucked inside it's three-way fold are pictures of Autumn, from her days a a tow-headed, chubby little blue-eyed baby, to big happy smiles at a petting zoo, to a morose and reluctantly smiling teen making a ridiculous face and devil horns at a camera. Little memories for Summer to do whatever she wants to do with.

———

amanda you weren't ever really what i needed, but i guess, in your own way, i wouldn't be here without you. in that way, you shaped me, so in the sickest manner i guess i do owe you something. but as much as i might owe you, there's so much that i can't ever really forgive you for, too. i won't go into all of them, because let's be real, this letter's more for me than for you - even if you did show up i don't think i'd have it in me to say anything nice to you. i spent pretty much the entirety of my childhood hating almost everything about myself because of the way you spoke to me, about me, for me. i was never smart enough, i never dressed nice enough. everything i did that wasn't explicitly what you told me to do was idiotic or misinformed or selfish and yeah, maybe some of it was, or all of it was, it doesn't matter now. you're dead, and you're, god willing, not coming back. but i just never really got to say what i wanted to say, so i'm going to say it now. i'm not anything that you ever said i was. i'm not stupid, and i'm not lazy, and i'm not ugly, or fat, or any of it. i'm not any of that shit you used to drill into my head to keep me from feeling like i was enough, and i know that now because i have friends that show me i'm not any of that. i'm also not your daughter, and i'm sorry if my being brought into your life was so bad that it turned you into whatever you wound up being. i apologize for that. i don't apologize for any of the rest of it, though. i won't. so yeah, that's all. i'm going to run this out to where you are, and i don't know, burn it or something, pretend that means you'll find it in whatever lazy pit of the afterlife you've sunken into and read it and know that you tried to make me as miserable as you and if it takes the rest of my life i won't let you do it. so goodbye. good riddance. happy mother's day for the last time too i guess.

rough, hasty pencil scribbled onto a folded up set of notebook papers. They're curling up as flame eats away woodpulp and graphite. Someone watches nearby as the fire slowly eats away the words and thoughts, turning it all to smoke. A hiking boot, before too long, thuds down on the burning paper, grinding it into the patchy earth where new growth has largely obscured the scars of digging from months prior. A rush of water follows, just to prevent anything tragic from sparking off once she leaves the site of this little ritual of communion with the dead.

A Prayer to Hecate, from a Son of Zeus

“Whom the gods wish to destroy they first call promising.” — Cyril Connolly, Enemies of Promise

Location: Bella's room, Valentin's South Withermore Estate Time: A few weeks after becoming a vampire.

Soft silk rubbed between her calves as she drew her feet up beneath her in the large bed, the fabric tightening over her knees. The sound was ungodly loud as sheets grazed one another, vibrating in her ears. Such loudness made her consider asking to feed, her senses dulled when she fed, focused on the food. Bella had told him this. He had written something down. Still the dullness that came lasted only a few moments and he had insisted that her body would adjust to her new senses. He had still written something down. Maybe other newborns couldn't communicate how irritating all their senses were because they felt far more compelled to feed.

That was what he had tested on her afterall. A subdued hunger. She was glad it had worked, or worked to some degree. She didn't think she could handle becoming something feral and monstrous while grieving her wings as well.

Bella could still feel them in her mind, her muscles shifting as she willed limbs that were no longer present to caress her form as the sheets had for weeks. Even when she left the bed she had requested robes she bundled herself up in, removing the garment only when tests were needed. He could probably see the way her body adjusted when she removed it, like she were pulling her wings back as well, attempting to lift something unseen off the floor of the room he studied her in. It was not his lab, but some other space he used to test her. She hadn't seen his lab since her death.

She was glad he didn't seem to counter her that she was dead whenever she mentioned it. He noted it. He noted almost everything. How he noted it she wasn't sure. Perhaps he simply wrote 'delusional' down and continued asking questions. It didn't bother her. Whatever he was doing was the only thing it felt she had to exist for. The only thing that stopped the tears after the first day. She hadn't even fed by the time he had summoned for her, eyes weak and face wet. He asked if she was hungry and she had said 'no' and immediately asked on her wings. The alchemist never seemed to care the loss upset her, beyond trying to discern if her sorrow was a side affect, which was why she knew he hadn't turned her assuming she'd lose them, why she never became enraged.

With fingers curling around the sheets she heard a loud dragging sound and she tried to focus on what he had told her regarding the overwhelming nature of her senses. To control her own focus. So she attempted as much. Instead listening for the distant sounds of his turning pages, or scribbles with quill and ink. Distant sounds were quiet, and if she listened for them those that were closer would fade. It took a few moments for her to find the sound of him in the estate, but eventually she did, curiously calloused fingers turning parchment pages softened her mind, allowed her to relax within the sheets engulfing her.

"Forgive me my selfishness, Mother," she prayed as softly as the steps of mice in the kitchens. "I wished only to save what you had given me." Her slender pallid fingers grasping the sheet tightly in the darkness they kept her in. "Please give them back."

Her celestial mother did not respond as she once had.

All Bella could hear was her sire's quill against parchment, the sound of a swirled letter swinging across the sheet, a strict pull as something was crossed out, before a page was turned. Valentin did not breathe and hearing his lack of breath allowed for her own she habitually retained to stop as well.

"Let him know how to give them back."

“Hey, it’s Delphi,” Cat drawled into the microphone, voice in half a slur.

"Goooooood evening, Bitties - it’s one of those nights where I’m deeply contemplative on the nature of many things. I’m sure we all get that way. When you sit alone and it’s raining, and something about the sound is so deeply nostalgic even though you hear it all the time. And then, you somehow get into existential questions about self, about love, about loss. 

And it’ll all stemmed from grabbing some ice for your glass of water or something, right? Because, well, your second cousin used to make jokes about how you only put 2 ice cubes in your drink. Like why only 2? Is that enough to get it cold? And you’d only see that second cousin every summer, because your families would go to that old lodge by the lake. You’d swim all day and then dry out on the rocks, and you’d both go steal a few otter pops from the secret cooler your uncle kept in the garage."

... more of Aviel's podcast under the read more ....

Memento Mori

"Some people don't know what they have until it's gone." "But what about the ones who do know? The ones who never took a damn thing for granted? Who tried their hardest to hold on, yet could only look on helplessly while they lost the thing they loved the most. Isn't it so much worse for them?" - Lang Leav