a painted hand and bloody canvas

You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming.

[sorrylocks-blog]

[lori-taylor-blog1]

She was on her way back to the house when she saw her, laughing maniacally and hand moving against a scrap of paper. She was… She was sketching. Clad in clothes that could only be described as pyjamas. As Lori gained some distance, she noticed the telltale signs of a hangover. Even closer, she could smell the alcohol on her breath. “Augustine?” Lori asked, voice rising with the wind. Tears stained her cheeks, but suddenly she’d stopped– she no longer felt like she needed to cry, but like she needed to spew out violent words, release the images she’d been exposed to earlier that morning. People had died, people were… People put their lives on the line– and there Augustine was, fingers wrapped around a pencil, grin etched on her face– she hadn’t done anything to help out. Not in the slightest. This… She was something Owen had lowered himself to? “You’re disgustin’.” Lori said through gritted teeth, narrowed eyes. She tore the piece of paper out of her hands, ripped it into pieces. It blew away with the wind, and the rain started to pick up again. “Do you even care about anybody but yourself?” Lori shouldn’t’ve been surprised. “Owen got shot, y’know. While you were sittin’ here with your wine and your lunacies, Owen got shot.”

[augustine--stankic]

Owen got shot.Was she for real? That couldn’t have happened. Augustine knew she would have felt something -- anything -- if something happened to him. Him. He was the strongest coward she knew. But here was the blonde. The idiot blonde, the one who liked to pretend Owen was the love of her life. Augustine snickered, turned to her, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re a fucking idiot.” Kurvin sin. Son of a bitch. She rarely switched to Serbian anymore, thus to avoid the thoughts of “home” but this was as good a time as any. She looked back down at her paper, covered in lead and strong lines. Pencil in hand, she stabbed a hole in the paper, spinning it around the tip. “You’re this paper, see? Trying hard to keep it together but I can see right through you. He’ll never love you. He can fuck you fine, keep you happy, and smile your way but, jesus fucking christ, Lori, he will never love you. Never love me either but here we are. Pretending to notice something that doesn’t exist.” Owen got shot.

[augustine--stankic]

[taeilpark-nbearchive-blog]

In the attempt to ease his mind after the stormy, disastrous day, the South Korean decided to take a walk. He wanted to make sure he didn’t go too far away from the clinic, however, at least not until the doctor confirmed that Liam had regained consciousness.

With the burned house located just a few buildings away from the clinic, his curiosity brought Taeil to the atrociously disintegrated ruin. When he arrived, a woman the teenager identified as “the boozer” – for that was the only thing he remembered from her: alcohol – already stood there. He had never really interacted with her, never really heard of her actual name, and honestly? He didn’t care. The brunette was definitely someone Taeil would rather keep outside his circle.

Originally, the young man had no intention to make today an exception, but when her crazy laughed echoed throughout the area as if she was conducting her own opera concert with the broken property as her stage, Taeil just couldn’t ignore it.

“What’s so hilarious?” his tone was intense, and so were his frowning eyebrows. There was nothing funny about the nightmare everyone had just gone through; not the scratch he’d got from falling while trying to keep up with Matt’s pace, not this house that had been set ablaze when everyone had been having everything else to worry about, not a single part of it. Yes, the attack team had brought home victory. Yes, their old wounds had at least been paid off. But it didn’t change the fact that people were injured; some even got it worse than the others, and among that some was a guy – a friend that clearly didn’t deserve it.

Then why did this woman– why did this woman whose outfit didn’t even seem appropriate to be worn in a broad daylight think she had the right to cackle at the reminder of their pain? And he thought he was the dead weight.

When his question was only answered with silence and the woman began to work on her sketch, Taeil was too upset to hold back any longer. “What is wrong with you?!” he snapped, steps inching closer to the woman. Never before in his life had he ever such a strong urge to confront someone for something that mattered to him.

[augustine--stankic]

Her hand was furiously digging across the paper. Edge to edge, she moved. It was such a strong urge, beauty being crushed by flames and dirt and blood. If only she had paints. Some kind of...paint. There were red pools lining the sidewalks. No. That was heinous. Gross and immoral. But was this the time to be moral? To make choices that benefited anyone but her?

There was a voice behind her that broke her thoughts. Her head snapped around and she was quickly blinded by the sun. His hair pulled at the ends of the light and his eyes made sure she would not be breathing. He stared at her. What is wrong with you? Where could she begin? Oh, you know, my father was an abusive drunk. I’m a walking cliché. Yes, that would be definitely something she would share with a stranger. 

She looked back down. This was an easier solution. Pretend he didn’t exist. Pretend this wasn’t happening. Pretend her head wasn’t about to explode with tears and frustration and hangover. Did anyone care? Anyone realize what was going on? She could take acid and pour it down someone’s chest but they were guilty. Guilty and royally fucked up. These people -- the people dead and hurt and crying -- could never deserve it. Everyone needed to know. Everyone should know.

“People need to know.”

[augustine--stankic]

Augustine stared. All around her-- everything around her -- was in one way or another, totally and completely destroyed. A building had burnt to the ground. Debris was damp and stuck to the concrete sidewalks. It was...beautiful. A beautiful disaster. Something Augustine could paint. Something she wanted·to paint. Did she really sleep through this? Her head throbbed with moments of the night before. It was a blur. A phenomenal blur but a blur all the rest. And it wasn’t unexpected for her to have fled. It made perfect sense. Hauled up in her room with two bottles of shitty wine and her sketch book. This is what she called a party. A battle and a fiesta paralleling each other. But this was the aftermath. People were injured and blood was staining the roads and a hint of smoke was in the air. She crept a smile on her face. And then a laugh escaped. And then another and another and another. It was ridiculous. This happened? This actually fucking happened? And she slept through it. She looked around her and examined everything further, the laughs still escaping her throat. It was perfect. Exactly what she had expected and more. Then, she began to draw. A pen on a scrap of paper from the ground. Someone might as well record it so why shouldn’t it be her?

[fortunesfalco]

“Already ten steps ahead but feel free to try and catch up.”

[augustine--stankic]

“You’re my kind of girl. What’s your poison?”

[augustine--stankic]

urge

There was never a clear way to describe the need Augustine had. The urge to take a life, take a heart, take a breath. It was always just fun to see and fun to live and fun to take. It was a painting, sprawled out across a kitchen or couch or bed. Of course, there had only been one urge that had a completion. But still, she felt it. Every time she smiled and laughed and breathed. It was there and oh, man, it was delicious.

[augustine--stankic]

“Want to get drunk?”

[lori-taylor-blog1]

Augustine was finally starting to hit her where it hurt. Lori laughed lightly, screwing the cap back on her water bottle before readying herself to walk out of the kitchen. “You don’t know nothin’ about my relationship with Owen, or what I imagine– or even what he imagines, or what he wants. You’re an idiot if you think that sex automatically equates somethin’ more, or somethin’ greater. Makin’ someone come means nothin’. You’re wrong about that.” She had her hands curled around the door frame now. “And y’know what, Augustine? I’m here, and I’m not goin’ anywhere. So you’re goin’ to have to get used to me. Suck it up, and stop bein’ such a bitch. I haven’t done anythin’ to you. I haven’t taken anythin’ from you. So cut the attitude. I’m sick of it, and so is Owen.”

[augustine--stankic]

The smile crept back onto Augustine’s face. She could see Lori’s anguish and frustration and anger. It was better than sex. Better than booze. Better than fucking stabbing someone. “I’m sorry, did I miss the memo where you became Owen’s fucking publicist? Did I miss the part where you reverted back to being a goddamn middle school student? ‘Bitch?’ Really? That’s the best you’ve got? What about a big girl word? Twat? Or cu--?” She knew she should stop. It was better to stop, quit while you’re ahead. She laughed and turned on her heel. “Fuck you, Lori,” she yelled over her shoulder. 

[hunterjaeger-blog]

“Letting what happen?”

[augustine--stankic]

“Just all of it. Everyone knows what is really happening. Here in Falls City. In the country. In the world. Why even bother? Just let it happen.”

[crisroe-blog]

“Then why don’t YOU fucking do something about it?”

[augustine--stankic]

“Unless you have a brilliant idea, no. Fuck you.”

[augustine--stankic]

End

Augustine avoids ends when possible. She avoids finishing things. Avoids dead stops in the road. Except when there is no other way out. They tend to come in handy. In this day in age, in this fucked up universe, in this city, she finds her self more and more faced with ends. Ends of different shapes and sizes. Ends of doubt and happiness. Ends of her own picking. Ends that don’t make sense for anyone else but make sense for her. 

[augustine--stankic]

Morality

Morality is flexible. Subjective. Twisty. That’s at least how Augustine likes to see it. She views morality as a thing that anyone can hold in their hand and pull apart. It isn’t just something light and fluffy. It’s hard and sensitive and sticky. That’s probably why Augustine avoids following any moral path when given a chance. Why should she get her hands dirty? 

[augustine--stankic]

“There really is nothing you can do. I’m just here. Letting it happen.”

[rpmissionboard]

Put a word in my ask and I will write a Headcanon about it for my Muse.

Nightmares

Humanity

Guardian

Torture

Insanity

Slaughter

Order

Morality

Loyalty

Promise

Betrayal

Epiphany

Apathy

Memories

Loss

Lies

Death

Love

Plans

Pawns

revenge

Monster

Time

Waiting

Laugh

Trend

Alliance

Natural

Pretence

Urge

Impression

Critic

Accent

Stranger

Judgement

Delirious

Instinct

Damage

Illusion

End

[hopingly]

Sometimes, I feel like ripping apart my skin, and searching for a reason for why I feel this empty. Maybe my veins are tangled, or something is lodged in my ribcage. Because it feels like something inside of me is missing or broken.

Unknown (via lexophil)

[terrasilas-deactivated20160817]

Terra thought about this briefly and realized that the girl had a point. She would not trust anyone’s drink either. Nodding casually, she took a good sip of her poison. It burned her lips and her tongue, all the way down her throat. A disgusting feeling. Then she pushed the same glass across the table and nodded towards it. “This is how you can trust it. Or you can watch me drink it by myself. Not that I would mind that.”

[augustine--stankic]

It was easy to watch her taste it. Watch a liquid slide down her throat and her pupils widen. But Augustine’s mouth salivated. Alcohol. Easy and quick. “I’ll bite. Share, please.” Augustine reached forward and touched the girl’s hand as she took the drink.