#warhaeds

❝ㅤㅤ i  put  my  ring  𝘰𝘯  𝘮𝘺  𝘛𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘉  ( ... )  and  i'm  having  𝗧  𝗥  𝗢  𝗨  𝗕  𝗟  𝗘  getting  it  off.ㅤㅤ ❞

[  cristina  yang  ↬  brandon  wash  ]  they  sent  me  home [  cristina  yang  ↬  brandon  wash  ]  can  you  believe  that??? [  cristina  yang  ↬  brandon  wash  ]  please  tell  me  you  can  entertain  me..  i  don't  do  late  night  tv

she smiles, pleased to be cleaning the dishes. john and helena have their bellies full, their skin all warm and cozied up in their beds. washington sits at the table, with his vice of the night, and she turns to look at him. intimidating, he says, and she shakes her head. she doesn't need to intimidate him, or anyone around him. she can be the warm, comforting hug as opposed to his sharp, angry slap.

a tweet my muse would make about yours / @warhaeds.

@warhaeds : ❛   you can’t make homes out of people. someone should have taught you that.  ❜  

𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢.     NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU.  despite being outside, breathing in fresh - as fresh as one could be after the bombs dropped - air, her chest is tightened, reminding her of that box,  of how tight it was, how broken she was going to be. the scarred and marred flesh on her hands enough of a reminder that she was a commodity, an object to be had, and zachariah belmont had kept her nicely on a shelf like a porcelain doll, collector's edition.   she holds the last thing he gave her  to her chest, looking up at wash, tears streaking down her cheeks.  all she wanted was to be a caregiver.   a wife,  a mother.  and now, she is none of the above, nothing more than a toy taken out of its box, having lost all value.  she wanted a home, not a house; somewhere that could take care of her, rather than the other way around.

the item in her hand is a porcelain doll ( a wedding topper ) , stolen off of her shelf when she RAN AND RAN AND RAN out of the embrace of THE TRAITOR, and into the embrace of the WARHEAD.  despite his cruelty, he is firm with her - not mean.  he looks at her  and sees the ghost of someone else, but she doesn't mind.  until she can discover who she is,  SHE CAN FILL IN FOR SOMEONE ELSE.  someone who has the rot of anger in her belly already; someone who has already been given room to grow by brandon washington.  no one is coming to save you,  he tells her in no less than a few words, and the doll goes slamming into the ground below. her fists hit dirt, OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN.  she screams, her tears angry, her tears violent. it is an explosive thing, a broken thing, and evangeline st. claire breaks once more, like one would break a bone again to set it. hatred. it is hatred that sits in her bones : she, too, is broken like the porcelain doll. she, too, cannot be repaired.

she reaches for him to help her up , not yet able to stand on her own two feet. but the anger has been planted, wrath rooted in envy, wrapping around her precious heart until someone is able to cut down the briars surrounding her soul.  he brings her to her feet. 

@warhaeds : ❛   i also buried a part of myself alongside them.  ❜  

𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢.    the catholic faith teachers teaches that everyone must die and at death the soul is separated temporarily from the body until the second coming of christ at the end of the world. one is to kneel at the bed of the dying and pray for their immortality. the memorial to kira washington is a beautiful one, one that evangeline has tended to every day since being allowed by the father, the son, and the fuming daughter. gentle hands, like shaking hands with an old friend, are what gently touch the memorial, removing the dust and the grime like one would brush out another's hair. perhaps, in another life, kira washington and evangeline st. claire are the best of friends.