# 𝙰𝙱𝚂𝚃𝚁𝚇𝙲𝚃𝚂 . is a dependent , (currently) single-muse blog for 𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒇𝒎, written and ᴛᴏʀᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ loved by daiz ( twenty5 | she/her | est ) . 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 with any posts on this blog if you are not in redcreekfm.
𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒚 𝒊𝒏 ; the thin line between salvation and damnation , a heart hidden beneath bitterness , memories rising from the mud , the ache behind a smile , and a deep longing that may never be quenched .ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴀʜᴇᴀᴅ .
❥ 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨-𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐬 — the longing soul , twenty7 , mechanic & lead guitarist , michael cimino . 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐. 𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕. 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔. 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔. 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒔.
barbers sucked. at least in a small town like red creek, and in comparison to the places casio had been when he was on the road; which is why when he went to beauty & the barber he went to one of the hairdressers in the front rather than the barber in the back. they knew what to do with his hair a lot more than any of the barbers that’d worked in the place over the years. it was a whole routine. he’d start the day with a nice breakfast at dolly’s; five bacon strips, eggs over easy, waffles with ice cream and hot coco with extra marshmallows. then, he’d walk his way over to the hair salon, wait and read a book if he had one, then take his seat and relax…. it was a routine he and his mom established after his little five-year old self refused to cut his hair shorter than his shoulders and the barbers didn’t know how to do anything but shave and chop.
now it was a routine he did alone…
except, today. it wasn’t intentional, he invited charlotte out to breakfast and when he mentioned needing his hair done, one thing led to another and here they were.
“think imma need to hike off the rest of that breakfast later, had one too many waffles.” he laughed in his seat next to hers…. “how you doin’ lately?” it wasn’t necessarily a question about the events that transpired on halloween, but he wanted to check in on her, sure the stress of a newborn and everything else was a lot.
even as they stood here, with all options weighed, the crawling gazes, pupils blown under a space devoid of light, and the whispers that bit at his neck with the same urgency of starved summer pests, the rush heath felt, the uptick in beating heart and clenched fists alike, could be accredited to no one but who stood before him now. it made him want to scream, it made him want to run, it made him want to send nicasio home with a split lip — whether inflicted by the peak of his knuckles or his own biting mouth would be a matter for later, its inevitability maybe the scariest truth. of course, he had to get the last word in, diminutive as their sentences may be, with rehashed phrases swapped back-and-forth enough to fill airspace with nothing but spent, more-so wasted, oxygen. heath canted his neck, angling his mouth in the direction of casio's ear, hovering barely so. " a date, then, " he played back, a click of his tongue before retreating back to his original position.
in retrospect, it all seemed ridiculous, pettiness all the while danger seemed to loom by, blinded by his own paltry matters even as a tangible rot moved thickly through redcreek's air — a dense, malicious fog that sat like uncertainty for now, but will easily shift into the very fear he'd sworn to run away from. it's not that heath didn't care — he cared too much, with the impending breaking news sure to either break him, or have him stiffen up and continue on with normalcy to the point of complete burnout. but, more-so, this narcissistic, self-absorbed quality that comes with performance. with everyone but casio, he was his best self, dimpled smiles and diplomatic words that teetered on playful enough to be charismatic. he feared that himself around the other and all of the qualities that ensued — gritty, angry, hyper-vigilant, prodding — were a true reflection of his soul.
push back came in the form of minor sensibility, the crumbs that scattered throughout their attempts at conversation when fight-or-flight was held over their heads as a threat. " we're walking down memory lane now? " heath snapped, suddenly pulled taut between his own conflicting priorities, riddled with shame over his carelessness so much that it became a projection. but, he still looked, stilling his gaze amongst dense stalks, hoping to catch a sign of anything, as if praying to an empty god. he didn't exactly know what he was looking for — movement among the brush, maybe, something active but not threatening, the tell-tale signs of someone trying to sneak by into a vat of safety. " if i did, i would've told you by now. " even he knew that was a lie. " is that your plan? go around looking for her when you know there's a better chance we find the thorne kid than her? "
beneath the posturing; the heated glares and clenched fists— the blood rushing in his veins, chased by adrenaline, there was one undeniable truth. heath had gotten to casio. his voice burrowed into him like an earworm; irritating as much as it was addicting— a date then. said in his ear as if the other was claiming victory over this night’s petty feud; as if it was his to rightfully take, and worst of all, it felt as if he had won. that another tally had been added to heath’s side of the invisible score board, stolen before casio could make his counter move. eye twitching, fists flexing; casio was filled with the desire to punch heath, take him to the ground and make sure his “victory” came at a cost— or to grab him by the collar and claim a different kind of victory with his mouth.
rather than spit out another retort, casio simply tilted his head in acknowledgement, a bitter smile on his face. if he said anything more it would only serve to make him look pathetic, like he was floundering for a response. and in the presence of heath who was so much like himself, in front of someone who brought out all the things about himself he wasn’t proud of— casio had to take a step back or face things he had no intention to.
the snap from heath was a bucket of ice to casio’s heated blood— biting; so cold it nearly burned, nearly drew him to action. but, it wasn’t the time for that. heath could snap at him all he liked, tension riding his attitude, and casio wouldn’t let it distract him. refused to let it distract him. he needed wanted to find the visser girl. like a razor wire wrapped around his muscles, he felt the prickling pull beneath his skin that was anything but smart. but, he had to be smart about this. this wasn’t a game, or one of the thrills he chases. this was someone’s life.
“somehow, i doubt that, heath.” he wasn’t sure why the other did so, but casio could hear the lie in his words. a hand went to the back of his neck, scratching, digging in. the “we” of the other’s debate was noted and filed for later. snappish as he was, heath had included himself in casio’s intent to search. heath had a point. what was his plan? to run around the corn maze and possibly get himself lost? that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all heather. but, “it’s better than doin’ nothing, ain’t it?” he bit back; and if they happened to run into jacob, then perhaps he could be useful, if not having anything to do with heather’s disappearance, then some knowledge that’d help with the search.
he sighed deeply. he didn’t know what to do. “she’s only a kid” a whisper on the wind; he didn’t want her to end up being another young girl who never makes it home to her family— clenched jaw. compartmentalizing again, refusing the trauma that wanted to resurface in more obvious ways.
“unless you got any better ideas, i’m gonna—” in the distance, a megaphone sounded, the stereo that once played the monster mash cut out and the familiar voice of the sheriff. lockdown. his stomach bottomed out; why would they call a lockdown now and not when heather was first discovered missing?
it wasn’t even surprising at this point— nearly routine. casio could decide to go to the lake at exactly the time yaser was to work at the library, and somehow the two would end up here at the same time regardless. It was nearly supernatural the amount of coincidence that led them to seeing each other so often; or perhaps, the more likely option, they shared a similar routine somewhere.
casio was in the middle of setting up his tent for the night, a much needed break from people, when one of the poles jumped, which of course caused him to jump, which was more like a topple backwards since he was crouched. it WAS a topple backwards.
he fell.
“if ya couldn’t tell, i’m fighting this tent right now… and it ain’t lookin’ too hot for me. whaddya think i outta do? give up and call it a roughin’ it night or wrangle this thing into submission?” he smiled up at the man, holding a hand up for help.
there was no reason for the amount of overdue videos in casio’s hands except for the fact that he’d found them lying forgotten in his family home when he checked in on his dad. all kid movies; E.T., robin hood, the last unicorn, etc. he’d probably been reminiscing. not that casio cared. he did. he packed them up in a box after cleaning around the place, left for the video store, and sent up a prayer that they wouldn’t make him pay any late fees. money wasn’t tight right now, he just didn’t want to pay.
the little ding above the door gave away his entry, but the counter was unmanned. ding ding ding. he hit the bell an unnecessary amount of times as he placed the box down and glanced around.
“a little soon for horror movies, don’t you think?” eden was likely just passing by the section, but it was a good opportunity to poke fun. “here to get your daily fill of pops?” he flicked the jar of lollipops next to him.
👤 who: @autmors . 📍 where: red creek cemetery. ⌛ time: morning of heather visser's vigil.
mist was settled low to the ground, washing the cemetery in grey and making it appear like an old painting that hung in a haunted house. today was heather visser’s vigil. she’d be buried here now, or cremated. regardless, she was as dead as everyone else below casio’s feet, and she wasn’t why he was here.
“hola mama. lena.” he crouched down, placing his small box of tools down to the side, and touched a hand to each of their headstones. one of the things that ate at him when he ran, was how he never visited them. he knew they’d understand, but that didn’t matter to him. “te extraño.”
opening the box he brought, casio pulled out a trashbag and began to clean their plot. old flowers in one bag, saved for later, pruned weeds and leaves in another for the dump. new flowers placed on top. spritzing the stones with water and lightly scrubbing dirt away with a cloth. he could tell his papa had been here recently by the way there wasn’t much to clean.
crunching leaves alerted him to someone’s approach; aki. “you preparin’ for the vigil tonight? thought it was at the school?”
👤 who: @silkteared . 📍 where: red creek grocery. ⌛ time: afternoon.
fingers drumming against a worn red handle; a testament to decades worth of shoppers. mundanity like this was something casio was still getting used to. a shopping cart with jank wheels, grocery store music, the weird lighting and lack of voices.
it was weird, after spending four years living on the run the road.
trolleying along a familiar path, he could almost hear the laughter of his much younger self, weaving between aisles and towers of soup cans; his mama half-lecturing half-laughing at he and magdalena’s antics, his papa more lecture than laugh but on the same ship as cecelia. Weird.
and weirder still when that familiar path lead him to ayla. he hadn’t bumped into her, he wasn’t even in the aisle yet and she was at the very end. it was weird. she had kids now. twins. if lena was still around would she have kids? she certainly would’ve insisted on being the kids’ tia lena… he could avoid her if he really wanted. she’d yet to see him, trying to reach for something on the top shelf while appeasing her twins’ need for motherly attention.
the hell is her husband?
yes, things were in disarray with the atrocious events of halloween, but surely the deputy could spare some time to do the grocery shopping with her so she wasn’t handling two kids under two on her own with a full cart.
he could avoid her, but this was an excuse not to; he’d be an ass not to help her out and lena would hit him over the head for it. and if that meant a chance to feel her out; see how she’d change. if she was still the person he cut contact with for reasons. then that’s two birds with one stone.
“you look like a turtle strugglin’ to get it’s leaf.” he grabbed the item she was reaching for and put it in the cart for her. he belatedly felt this was awkward as hell and cleared his throat, tone a bit reluctant, “need help with the rest?”
tw: written depictions of anxiety attacks, death / dying, drowning, brief gagging/vomiting, and grief.
𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙨, 𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙥 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙖𝙡𝙢𝙨.
the coolness seeping into you like a tickle, a small grin playing on your face. the sun behind your eyelids, warm as a summer’s day. your fingers buried in the mud, digging for nothing but the feeling.
“casio you’re going to get dirty, mijo.” your mama’s voice, soft as a lamb’s ear, distant, a whisper on the wind.
“si, mama.” it takes some effort to pull your fingers out, the earth wanting to keep its grip on you, but you don’t get up quite yet. you’re not ready. you don’t want to. you love this feeling right here; the sun, the grass, the birds chirping in the air the bugs drilling in the wood. it’s perfect.
you chase your sister with bull’s whip, waving the slimy green like a lasso in the air. she screams and squeals louder than a pig at a slaughterhouse. you laugh like a devil taking candy from a baby, but…
“mama!” a wail.
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎.
you and magdalena duel using the largest sticks either of y’all could find as your parents set up for dinner around you, tents already made for the night.
“nicasio-guillermo.” you freeze, hand raised high, stopping just before the blow. your papa. stern. imposing.
magdalena thrusts her hand forward, stabbing you in the chest with her weapon, cheering out her victory.
“papa, she cheated!”
your papa’s gaze pierces you and you feel like you’ve done something wrong.
you feel like you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
you’ve done something wrong.
YOU'VE DONE SOMETHING WRONG.
he smiles at you. radiant. hands up in a free-of-guilt manner, “you were the one that got distracted, papas. never take your eye off the enemy.”
your jaw drops incredulously, “but but but but! YOU helped HER!”
the cicadas chirp. the fire’s roar is a gentle lull. magdalena is half asleep against your mama’s shoulder.
you’re roasting marshmallows, letting them burn black and peeling off the skin with your teeth to reach the gooey inside, all to roast them again. no one says anything.
it’s quiet, and no one says anything.
no one say anything.
“nicasio, una cerveza por favor.”
you look at the cooler with the beer.
there’s a droning in your head. you can’t move. your feet are stuck in the mud.
“nicasio-guillermo.” you wish he would call you by your nickname like he used to.
you try to move again, but your muscles have turned to stone.
“papito, what’s the matter? cat got your tongue?” your mama laughs.
it should be soothing, but a hole opens in your chest, black and bleeding.
“you mean cat’s got his legs.” magdalena is always correcting. was.
the hole grows wider. you feel like you’re sinking.
you stand up.
they laugh, but you stand.
you can’t move. your legs won’t move. you want to move.
you want to move.
you need to move. you try to move, but you WON’T move.
you pull and pull and pull and pull and pull and pull and pull—
your buried to your neck, the earth sucking you in, and they laugh.
deeper. and deeper and deeper.
your heart lurches. your stomach churns. you want to move.
you’re scared.
HANDS.
it was not the earth sucking you in, but hands gripping your legs. clawing, scratching, biting, dragging you deeper into the mud.
you’re scared.
you can’t ask for help. you never learned how. you wish they would know by the look of you, but they laugh, and you sink.
deeper and deeper.
you’re scared.
the mud fills your lungs and you sputter on the taste of iron.
choking. spitting. gagging.
dying.
the mud will never leave.
you can’t see them anymore. their voices muffled… muffled. muffled. muffled… gone.
the mud surrounds you; there’s no light.
you’re scared.
your legs move. you kick. you try to swim. try to fight the hands holding you, dragging you down, but it’s all mud. nothing but mud… and 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.
you don’t want to hear it.
you’re scared.
𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.
you want it to stop.
𝗺𝗼𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴.
you’re scared.
please stop.
silence.
stillness.
the hands disappear.
you’re scared.
you move, cutting through the mud like water.
your hand breaks through the surface first, grabbing hold of something solid. you drag yourself up. up and up and up.
and out.
you’re on your hands and knees, eyes shut, tears streaming as you cough; trying to get the mud out of your lungs, but nothing comes out.
you can breath, but the feeling of mud within your lungs remains, thick as molasses, cold and sinking.
you open your eyes.
you’re scared.
you’re not on your hands and knees. you’re in the back of a car. the car.
you want to leave.
you try to unbuckle yourself, but the seatbelt is jammed. it always used to do that, sticky mechanisms your mama called it.
you don’t care.
you’re scared.
you push the button again. it remains.
you push and it stays stuck. you stay stuck.
you want to leave. you need the car to stop.
you’re scared.
your mama, she’s driving. magdalena called shotgun.
you should’ve fought for it. you need to stop.
you’re scared.
you push the button again.
please stop.
nothing stops.
it never stops.
your mama she’s driving... she doesn’t know... none of you did.
you’re scared.
“STOP!” you scream at the top of your lungs, demanding, forceful. this is how you get people to listen. it doesn’t work.
“stop!”
you’re wailing. you’re hitting everything. banging against the window. kicking against the seat. pushing your feet against the floor as if there’s a break. prying at the window trying to pull it down.
you’re scared.
the rain starts. your efforts double. you’re shaking. cold. clammy, breathless. your head spins. your pulse is thready, skipping two beats at a time. but you try harder regardless.
you get up, peeling the blanket from your sweat soaked body like a sticker.
it’s always the same.
you walk to the bathroom. flip the light on.
your body is covered in scars; a jagged tear down your right forearm, a rough puncture just above your collarbone— near your shoulder and dragging back. it goes further back, all the way down, skipping some steps as if the glass that caused it couldn’t grab onto the skin in those places.
they don’t matter. they’re there.
they are here.
behind you. your mama. you don’t see her in the mirror, but you hear her voice in your head, her hand on your back; her blood running down. “get out!”
your sister’s there too, you don’t hear her, you don’t feel her. but she’s there, like a phantom sense you know she’s there somewhere. you just don’t have the privilege to feel her. you don’t deserve it.
redstone bar inventories violence the way an undertaker counts the rings in a felled tree — each wound marking another year etched into grain. one split lip inked in arterial crimson, two ring-stained tumblers oxidizing the lacquered oak like counterfeit halos, and three loose teeth — one of them still joey tern's, kicked out on a tuesday in '94, and left to rattle under the floorboards every time the door swings open with the hush of a bad decision entering late. zavian leans in against the rail, looking like a bad western gone worse. fake blood webs his hair, crusted into a snarl at the temple from clementine's handiwork. his vest, once dirt-road brown, now stiffened black, crusted stiff with gore, and his hat got lost somewhere between the carnival and here.
he brings the shot glass nicasio's poured to his mouth. the gin burns. doesn’t even hit bottom before his hand is in the ice well; water fountains up, cubes scattering like brittle dice across the barback’s graveyard of spilled spirits. the rag slaps across casio’s jaw like a misfired firecracker, wet and red with the memory of something worse. flecks of it reach zavian’s cheek. he doesn’t blink. not really. just that one slow tremble of lashes, like someone grazing the edge of a memory they wish they’d buried deeper. “ you’d be in the back of a cruiser right now if you had. ” he mutters, thumb pressing the rag under his chin, firm, like holding a bruise shut. “ charlie doesn't need much of a reason these days. window-peepers been complaining again. ”
the pain after a fight well fought was always nice; it didn’t feel good, but it felt satisfactory, proof you did good, a way of feeling alive and forgetting everything else. from the first fight he’d ever picked, casio had felt this way, blood rushing, adrenaline pumping— good. he’d gotten in many fights at the redstone before, christened the place with his blood and the blood of others on his twenty-first before he was hauled off, but this fight was different from his usual redstone brawl. this fight was not one of the fights that left you feeling good. someone had jumped him, a perceived slight casio made in the drunkard's eye (possibly a valid one had the man bothered to share them in more than a mumble). the pain of this fight only served to piss him off and leave him annoyed at himself for not seeing it coming.
“I’d like to see him try.” he huffed out, brows furrowed at the rag slapped across his jaw and held in place. it wasn’t a cocky ego thing, casio had problems being in the backseat of cars; it’d be easier on everyone to simply give him the perp walk all the way to the station, but charlie wasn’t always accommodating. “but you might have a point.”
he reached out a hand, swiping away the flecks of red that landed on zavian’s face, rolling his eyes, exasperated by the mention of the window-peepers. always a complaint as if they couldn’t mind their own damn business. “maybe we outta bribe em’ or something.”
she was only there to find someone to bring back to la with her . the words echoed in her head after each new drink she ordered , as she sat so still in the cracked vinyl seat it began to stick to her legs . it wasn't good to be back home . it was stifling . charlene was stuck in stage one of grief . denial . this was nothing more than a temporary set back . temporary . the most important part . her ex wasn't her dream . he was never in the picture in the imagined scenarios she used to lull herself to sleep . that was the problem . she'd lost sight of what she truly wanted . gotten side tracked and distracted, and now she had to take five steps backward to realign herself before she was ready to leave again .
head turned slowly as if she was ventriloquist's puppet . she spent more time in her head than she did on earth . narrowed eyes and a slight frown met his words . there was once a time when they would have brought her heartbeat higher than a sprint . a time when it would be blushes and smiles and compliments . but charlene had since learned her lesson . she could see her plans collapse and crumble into dust , blown away by the artificial air circulating the bar . a sigh and another sip of her drink before she way ready to respond .
" hm ? disappointed you can't see everyone making goggly eyes at you ? " a gentle , consoling pat on his shoulder before she folded her hands together in her lap . " i didn't know how rough you had it . " she didn't often have the conviction to be like this . rude . sarcastic . usually , charlene found it easier to just ignore something and move on , whether than wasting her energy on it . energy that would be better spent on some kind of project .
it wouldn’t be a mistake to say casio was surprised by charlene’s sarcastic, bordering rude, reaction to him. he wasn’t insulted by any means, the sarcasm game was something he loved to play, but he was curious. the way he remembered her was the starry-eyed freshman who had a crush on someone she had no good reason to try and be mixed up with. it had been entertaining to him back then, cute, similar to how it felt when a kid blatantly idolized someone. time changes a lot of things, and he could’ve chalked it up to that, but, he was feeling nosey at that moment.
“yeah,” he nodded his head solemnly, sarcasm tinting his voice, “it’s a real downer when your performin and ya can’t see folks goggly eye-ing you. it was dearly missed in presence of them masks.” he takes a swig from his drink, noting her own. “hmm.” time changes a lot of things. “it’s really something seeing you drink like that, i remember way back when, you tryna do a handstand on a keg, and your legs near flipped right over your head.” he laughs, genuinely, not mockingly, just a happy reminisce. “how’d califor-nigh-a treat you lil miss” a nickname he gave her after she kept popping up around him.
setting: outside your character's front door, a few days after halloween
bridget stands on the step with a smile stretched across her face -- bright, though a touch uncertain. it isn't doubt, she believes every word she carries. but she wonders if this is the right time to share it, when heather's passing split through the town. the townfolk rarely took well to this kind of thing on a good day. still, her parents insisted that made now as good a time as any to spread the good word. as the door opens, she braces herself, holding out a folded pamphlet with both hands. "hi! i'm with the redemption chapel, and i was wondering if you had a minute to talk about jesus christ, our lord and saviour?"
it was not the right time to be going around trying to deliver the message of jesus christ like a door-to-door salesman. especially to this door, when zavian and casio were meant to be keeping their occupancy there as under the table as possible in a small town. even more especially to a door answered by casio, who’d been in a sour mood since halloween. he highly disliked this type of approach from church folks. it was tastelessness compounded by the recent tragedy atrocity.
he hadn’t even heard the knock when he opened the door, he’d been planning to go for early morning hike to clear his mind. and then — jesus christ… the only reason he stepped out was because of the little mew that came from behind him. mitra, zavian’s cat, he wasn’t about to let the little critter escape, so he stepped out and closed the door behind him. be nice. “depends. can you hike in those jesus-given shoes of yours?” it was sarcasm, a smile that said he expected a negatory response as he moved past her. he wasn’t mean, but that definitely wasn’t being nice. oh well.
the hand barely touches the item before scott zooms past in a blur, careless and grinning, as he snatches it out from their grasp. "nuh uh, no can do." spoken in an easy drawl, too casual to argue with. he doesn't even break stride -- just tosses the item up, once, then catches it behind his back. "this isn't for sale," he lies. the item, which was the last one remaining, is tucked under his arm as he lifts his shoulders into a lazy shrug. "you'll just have to come back tomorrow."
hand frozen mid air, hanging there where his bag of marshmallows once was, casio had to take a careful breath in, before he entertained the idea of turning around. it was the last item on his list, a reward for doing his and zavian’s grocery shopping for the week. it was his.
sliding down the mask called charm, casio turned around with an easy smile on his face. “and why might that be?” casio didn’t play about his s’mores ingredients, “if it’s close to expiring I don’t mind none, I’ll be gobblin’ them up faster than a turkey cluck its last cluck on thanksgiving.” he held out his hand expectantly.
tldr : caleb & your muse find themselves at the redemption chapel , two souls meeting in dire times tragedy .
dawn befalls town , sickly glow to the clouds scattered across the horizon - there's an undeniable hesitancy in it , as well . as if the divine powers themselves unsure how to proceed from given circumstances . heather had been found , cold as the fear she held in her eyes . it had caleb wondering . . . but perhaps that wasn't the ultimate approach for someone of his profession , perhaps he was meant to believe - believe in a higher power , in a right fixing what had been wronged , to guide the herd through misery . albeit there was agony ever lingering , alike a thick coat of dust fighting to not bury everything all and beneath it . " awake so soon , child ? " , timber softly echoes through the rows of the near empty chapel . though almost too big . . . too raw for them both , it held a certain kind of comfort meant towards consolidation .
nicasio didn’t go to church. hadn’t at least, not for a long time. not since he felt his mama bleed out on his back, not since magdalena left only a shoe and bracelet he wore now behind. one of his first stops when he came back to town in a daze a year ago was the church. sat in the confessional without a word and left. Sometimes, since then, he’d stop by; either to hang out with caleb and try to convince him to relax the priestly act for a short moment of fun, or when he needed… well, didn’t know what he needed. heather visser wasn’t simply lost as he'd hoped on halloween, nor was she missing. she was dead. found at the fair, with no one that loved her to witness her last moments or be there for her in them. she wasn’t anyone deeply important to him, he knew her and her sweet as apple pie demeanor, babysat her once or twice, but a dead girl was a dead girl. one he couldn't do anything for when it mattered. and that alone was enough to bring up emotions he’d still not dealt with in the past thirteen years since their origin. she wasn't his responsibility, she wasn't his mom nor his sister, but nonetheless, casio couldn't help but feel a sense of failure towards her. his need to protect people in danger, a stupid complex.
“who said I been to sleep yet?” low, not a whisper, but near it, the kind of deep quiet that was oddly reserved for churches even when no one else was around. “awake so late, priest?” it was a jest, casio would never call caleb father— daddy-issues aside, it was weird to call a friend father. too formal. but he would call him priest when the other was being so... priestly, towards him. "couldn't sleep none, figured I'd stop by, sit or somethin'. smoke probably after."
