#split identity

She hadn’t planned on going in.

The costume shop sat wedged between a discount electronics store and a nail salon, its windows crowded with mannequins frozen mid-celebration—witches, superheroes, glittering showgirls. It was the kind of place you only entered with a purpose. A party, a theme night, something specific.

She had none of those.

Still, something about it tugged at her as she passed. A flicker of curiosity, maybe boredom. Before she could second-guess it, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of plastic, fabric dye, and something sweet.

Rows of costumes stretched out before her. She wandered without direction, fingers brushing against sequins, faux leather, feathered trims. Pirate coats. Angel wings. Latex catsuits. Nothing held her attention for long.

Until it did.

Her hand drifted—absently, lazily—and then stopped.

Black and red.

Her fingers brushed the fabric, and—

A jolt.

Not pain. Not quite surprise. Something warmer. A sudden, electric pulse that shot up her arm and settled low in her chest, blooming outward in a slow, dizzying wave. She froze, breath catching.

“What—”

She touched it again.

The sensation returned instantly. Stronger this time. A soft, intoxicating warmth, like laughter bubbling up from nowhere, like a secret only she had just discovered. Her lips parted as she exhaled, and for a second, the rest of the store seemed to blur.

The tag read: Harley Quinn.

A full-body suit—sleek, bold, unmistakable. Red and black split down the middle, glossy in places, matte in others. It looked almost alive under the lights.

She pulled her hand back.

Then reached out again.

Another pulse. Another wave. This time it lingered, humming faintly under her skin even after she let go.

“…okay,” she murmured, though there was no one nearby to hear.

She stood there longer than she meant to, fingers hovering, brushing, retreating, returning. Each contact brought that same strange, delicious feeling. Not overwhelming—but compelling. Addictive, in a quiet, creeping way.

She told herself it was just the texture. Some kind of fabric trick. Static, maybe.

But when she finally took the costume off the rack, her heart was beating faster than it should have been.

She almost didn’t buy it.

She walked around the store with it draped over her arm, pretending to browse other things, giving herself time to come to her senses. It was ridiculous. She didn’t go to costume parties. She didn’t need this.

But every time she shifted it, her fingers brushed the material again.

And every time, that warmth returned.

By the time she reached the register, she wasn’t even pretending anymore.

“It’s… for a party,” she said, though the cashier hadn’t asked.

At home, she hung it in her closet.

Closed the door.

And didn’t touch it.

For a while.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Life moved on, routine settling back into place. The memory of the sensation dulled, softened, became something she could almost dismiss as imagination.

Almost.

She avoided looking at it. Avoided thinking about it. When she opened her closet, her gaze slid past that one section, like her mind refused to linger.

Until one afternoon, without really knowing why, she stopped.

There it was.

Black and red, waiting.

Her hand moved before she could overthink it.

Fingers brushing fabric—

And there it was again.

Stronger than she remembered.

The warmth surged up instantly, curling through her chest, her stomach, her thoughts. It wasn’t just a sensation anymore—it was a pull. A bright, buzzing curiosity that drowned out hesitation.

Her grip tightened on the hanger.

“I mean… it’s just trying it on,” she muttered.

That was reasonable. Normal.

Just to see.

The fabric slid over her skin like it had been made for her.

The moment it settled into place, the world shifted.

The sensation wasn’t a pulse anymore—it was constant. A steady, intoxicating hum that filled every inch of her awareness. Her posture changed without her noticing at first—hips tilting, shoulders relaxing into something looser, more confident.

A laugh slipped out.

High. Sharp. Wrong.

“…ooookay then,” she drawled, the word stretching, twisting, playful and sing-song. “Well ain’t this a kick~”

She caught her reflection.

And grinned—wide, crooked, a little too eager.

“Lookit you… heehee—lookit me,” she giggled, tapping the mirror lightly. “All dolled up an’ ready ta play, huh?”

Something in her eyes had changed.

She didn’t take it off that day.

Or the next.

Time blurred. Thoughts softened around the edges, replaced by a bubbling energy that refused to settle. She moved differently—looser, bolder, like every motion was part of a performance she didn’t remember rehearsing but knew perfectly.

Her voice twisted further, words bouncing, erratic, gleefully unhinged.

“C’mon, c’mon, don’t be such a stick in the mud,” she chirped at the empty room, pacing. “Loosen up, puddin’, life’s s’posed ta be fun, y’hear me? Fuuun!”

Somewhere, faint and distant, a quieter version of herself noticed.

But it didn’t matter.

Not when it felt this good.

She did get the costume off.

At some point. Somehow.

It wasn’t dramatic. No big moment. Just… gone.

Hung back up in the closet.

She stood there afterward, breathing slowly, her reflection staring back at her in normal clothes.

Normal.

Mostly.

“…okay,” she said.

But it came out wrong.

“Oookay… yeah, yeah, we’re— we’re fine, we’re totally fine,” she muttered quickly, words tripping over themselves with a lingering lilt. “Nothin’ weird, nothin’ funny—just… heh… just a lil’ hiccup, yeah?”

Her posture didn’t quite settle back. Her thoughts still skipped in odd, playful patterns. A giggle slipped out at the wrong moment—too bright, too sharp.

It faded, a little, over the next few days.

But not completely.

Never completely.

And the memory of how it felt—

That didn’t fade at all.

She avoided the closet.

Again.

But this time, it was harder.

Because now she knew.

Knew how easy it would be to slip back into that feeling. That warmth. That bright, buzzing freedom where everything felt sharper, funnier, better.

And that scared her.

Almost as much as it excited her.

“What if I don’t come back next time?” she whispered one night.

Then, softer—tilted, lilting despite herself:

“…what if I don’t wanna come back, huh?”

Her lips curled into a slow, uncertain smile.

She held out longer than she expected.

Days. Then weeks.

Every time she opened the closet, she looked away.

Every time her hand drifted too close, she pulled it back.

Until one day—

Accident.

Just a brush.

Fabric against fingertips.

And that was it.

The warmth roared back, stronger than ever, flooding her thoughts before she could even think to resist.

“Ohhh, there y’are, sweetheart,” she purred instantly, voice snapping into that bright, chaotic cadence. “Miss me? ‘Course ya did—heehee, I knew ya would.”

The hanger was in her hand before she remembered picking it up.

The costume was halfway on before hesitation even had a chance to form.

And once it did—

It didn’t matter.

When she looked in the mirror this time, there was no confusion.

No hesitation.

Just a wide, delighted grin.

“Well, well, well~,” she cooed, cocking her head, eyes glittering. “Took ya long enough ta quit playin’ hard ta get, didn’tcha?”

There was no one left inside her to argue.

Later, standing in the doorway of her apartment, she glanced back once at the quiet, ordinary space she’d lived in before.

Then she laughed—bright, ringing, just a little wild.

“Pfft—what a snoozefest,” she snickered, waving it off. “Can’t keep all this fun bottled up, no sirree~”

Her fingers traced the edge of a sleeve—another Harley Quinn costume—already humming with that familiar, irresistible energy.

Somewhere out there, she knew, there were more people like her.

People who just needed a little push.

Her smile widened, sharp and delighted.

“Don’tcha worry, dolls,” she sang, skipping forward into the world. “I’m gonna share the love—gonna make ya feel it, every lil’ tingly bit~”

poster series: black swan

another poster.

this one was made while watching the 2010 film black swan. i try to make them as fast as possible — the longer you sit, the worse it gets.

---

From the earliest years of his life, I imagine birthdays in an old money type family like the Silvers weren't your ordinary balloons and cake affairs one might immediately opt to envisioning--- something that would be considered cheap, kitsch and vulgar. More befitting the common rabble; it was private for the Silvers, I feel, in fact. So private, that it was solemn, and a near non-existent affair. Certainly not a kid's party. No other children present, no music (unless it is some classy ambiance one can quietly waltz to), no ribbons and the only company was to be found in other adults, mingling in the parlour, talking about adult things, sharing gin, tobacco and playing Bridge. Sure, gifts were given, because I figure if there is one thing Terry Silver didn't lack growing up it was material possessions galore. Material possessions a child might not even need necessarily; like a...diamond encrusted watch for his seventh birthday when all he might've wanted was some sort of toy to play with, like any kid would've. Nope, his next gift was a bejewelled needle pin for his tie monogrammed with his initials because a relative knew someone at Cartier. Maybe a new piano to practice on? Maybe a new teacher or two, imported, from overseas, if needed, like one imports furniture? He wasn't an unhappy kid, necessarily, but there is something fundamentally lacking in this image described.

So, birthdays?

I don't think Terry viewed birthdays the way most people view birthdays.

Maybe in the 80's, he'd see it as yet another occasion to cart out the champagne, the cigars, the coke and have a celebratory orgy out on some private island he owns, giving his staff ostentatious raises in the meantime, but then again, Terry Silver doesn't need to wait around for birthdays once a year for that when life was what he made it out to be as he was master of it, controlled by nothing but his impulses and desires. But, the real, genuine intimacy of a birthday? Inviting special people to commemorate one's age and mark an important goalpost in one's life?

No.

Too intimate.

Too vulnerable.

I think Terry would feel way too seen.

And he doesn't want to be seen like that.

He's not available; cancel all his meetings and calls. It is 1985 and he's too busy!

It is all a load of bullshit anyway.

He'd use excess to distract from the real meaning of a birthday.

I feel some of the most heartfelt moments he's ever celebrated birthdays in what would've been considered the classic, traditional way to do it could've been in Vietnam. Why? Because it was the one time he had friends that were truly his and friends he truly felt he made on his own merit, in an environment where any day could've been his last, free of the rigid expectation of the class he was born into and the method he was raised in; ironically, it was in war where he needed to grow up right there and then and be a man, but also, where he could be just a kid sometimes, and have candles on a cake in some makeshift concoction John and Ponytail might've acquired for him at base camp, alongside eighteen candles to mark Twig's adulthood during their leaves back at the barracks, shocked once they discovered Twig has never actually celebrated the way everyone else does. Then came his time in the POW camp, Ponytail's death, John fighting Turner to the death, the snake-pit, the end of the war, and Terry never really marked the occasion again that way, oddly frozen in time, aging, yet somehow forever seventeen, or eighteen. Nineteen? However many years it was. On the cusp of being a young adult and a teenager, caught somewhere in-between the two, his age oddly coinciding with the age Ponytail might've been when he was shot; everything moving yet forever standing still in the fog of trauma. It is entirely believable that in taking on so much of Ponytail's identity, Terry might've actually discarded the original date he was born, going as far as altering his own records after the war (he was certainly powerful and rich enough for that), and took on his friend's instead, as homage to the compatriot he felt responsible for, changing his literal stars.

Maybe Terry just wanted to forget? Maybe he isn't aware he did?

Maybe it was a deliberate choice?

The Thunder Prince and the Blood Master