#wretchedhearted

the familiar routine ( early afternoon tea and chit - chat , enjoying the last blades of sunlight before the darkness inevitably swallows everything ) finds her gaze glued to her mug , recoiled from this civilization that barely feels like home anymore — shying away , much more engrossed in the swirls of smoke from her coffee than the whereabouts of morton’s folks . oh , but she heard her words — eyebrows furrowed , a scowl is aimed at georgie as she pulls her teabag in and out of the mug . “ hey —— ” , glare only removed once she’s setting down the bag in a square tissue , an arrangement so perfectly symmetrical anyone else in her same line of work would have to over - analyze . an over - compensation for sure — for georgie’s words sound like she’s being reprimanded , and her reaction to criticism is always the same — order , and quiet . but she smiles — a sundown - flavored shade of a smirk , ‘cause deep down she does enjoy this bluntness of hers , sharp and invigorating like a drop of lemon on the tongue . “ we can’t all play the filter - less femme fatale , can we ? someone’s gotta be the quiet kid . ”

his voice hangs in the air between them , hovering : threateningly so , almost dagger-like and ready to cut . like all sharp edges inching closer to her skin , it amuses her : there is a generous amount of curiosity in her gaze , preying on him in a discreet way , maintaining the advantage of penumbra , as if it could somehow shelter her ( as if it could prevent the cuts ) . her fingers keep toying with a coaster , twirling it around her hand to feign the appearance of a regular , harmless conversation , and conceal the much more blatant ( and treacherous ) hidden meaning of her demeanor : if he’s fancying himself a sort of poison , she’s far too eager for intoxication . creative self - harm , after all , was always her kingdom : always looking for more ways to cut herself up in pieces , eat herself whole , digest her soul and spit out a shadow , a ghoul of her . seems fitting , doesn’t it ? he always sort of looked like a demon . morgan clicks her tongue and makes way for a smirk , hiding her lips behind a long sip of her beer , and adding : “ great . i’m no lady . ”

been a while since she’s seen her : camille only becomes aware of the concept of time when she sees georgie on her front porch , different and yet frozen in time , like a memory extracted from her brain and then rearranged to display the mark of time . being back home is odd — surreal at times , vaguely nauseous on most days . but this part , she’d forgotten : the non - threatening warmth of company , a smile that is so easily reciprocated it needs no conscious effort of the brain . though these days are heavy and she misses the feeling of being on the road , seeing georgie is a good thing . eyes wide with surprise , and yet not hesitating to wrap arms around the others , fully embracing the old , summer - like scent of sisterhood .“ george — no , i’m glad you did . ” an un - filtered answer is as rare as sunshine with rain , and yet it flows freely in spite of all her training , as special agent thomas morphs back into next - door ‘ milly ’ with the weird lines and the weirder best friend . pulling back , her eyes are sun - filled and loving , some maternal hint of unprovoked concern that comes from caring about someone and yet being far too aware of the things lurking around them . ( did she stay here , all these years ? among the bodies , and the graves , and the ever thicker smell of rot in the air ? ) . unwanted speculations are shoved back into a corner that she won’t ( though she can ) access right now — camille steps aside , signaling for the other to enter . the faint buzzing of her mother’s television slithering from the living room , so camille points to the kitchen , instead . “ how’ve you been ? it’s been so long — hasn’t it ? ”

      oh ——— what did he see ? one question alone , and she feels called out : did her eyes betray the emptiness of her , how she’s been filling herself up with horror , drop by drop , to convince herself that to learn is to conquer ? did he see her getting conquered instead , thick black tendrils wrapped around ankles and wrists , caught in a web of her own making ? eyes scanning his features with a sense of urgency — fears she is missing something , a hidden meaning behind this odd twilight encounter : it is an overwhelming sense of amnesia that suddenly turns her mind foggy and makes her wonder — is this an experiment in becoming her mother , or is this simply a dream unraveling itself , the way her dreams never do ? she is staring at the man now , though he’s less man and more fog , a shadow - like presence at the edge of existence : she stares , trying to remember the seed of a thought that fled from her before she could even name it . on the tip of her tongue , just dissolving : something that has to do with the sadness pouring from his eyes , flooding everything … it’s gone . with childlike frustration she turns away , lets not the anger but the still sharp blade of the last rays of sunlight sting her corneas . somewhere out there is her father’s grave , half - hollow , now . the day he’d died they told her he’d stay with her , and she’d spent the night awake , staring at the ceiling expecting a white sheet man hovering above her . now , he is living in her , that is true : but the way a ghost lives in a house and haunts it , and sometimes pieces of her mother joins him and together they dance , and wail , and sing around her bones . is this what he meant ? the echoes … 

         “ it’s terrifying” . her admission is extorted without her consent by the force of this thought : how carefully she avoids turning the lenses to herself , and how excruciating it is now . “ it’s loud , and you begin losing yourself in the sounds : you don’t know who you are any more , if not for the sounding board of something that’s dead and gone” . as the last shade of yellow gets buried behind the horizon , camille instinctively wraps her arms around herself and resents the stranger for bringing such cold with him —— it is this town , she tells herself , and all the grief that’s drenched in its grass and cobblestone : there is no escaping ghosts in their territory . as a single enraged tear peeks out of her lashes , camille rubs her cheek and turns to him , hardened : “ why are you asking me this ? ” , though the question against the floor of her mouth is different — she needs to ask , why does he look so familiar ? like his sorrow and hers have a similar taste , like he knows . still that question , she does not feel safe with — one single curiosity she won’t satisfy , an irrational fear of what the answer might mean , and so she turns away yet again , recoiling :“ i have no idea who you are” .

this note of sorrow in her voice — unexpected , as unexpected as it can be for a storm to carry rain — camille feels it . it echoes somewhere inside of her , in her ribcage , where words can’t reach and she fails , constantly , all her promises to herself and the world . and in her ribcage she is sorry for her friend — even more because if she can’t name her ailments she can’t fight them , or rationalize them out of the picture . what is it , that thing they say ? the one enemy you should be afraid … the one you don’t know ? a concerned gaze watches as georgie’s features wrap around her words , and she’d love to raise this anguish from her like a veil , but sorrow is a personal thing , she knows , and every human is entitled to their fair share of it . still , a touch : an unspoken gesture for the sake of remembering — they are here , unalone and able to live through their youth . “ one thing i’ve learned , dreams are far too morbid and out of order to be any comfort from real life ” . her smile seems to suggest her words are supposed to be a joke of sorts : it just comes out twisted . “ but there’s something to say about life and the fighting chances it gives us , so —— tell me what’s wrong . we’ll work it out . ”