* / GRACELESSLY.

[blvssomed-a]

lalit.

One could never, never, never go wrong with a little Rui Macher Jhal. Especially after a day of chattering 3 year-olds, 4 year-olds, and 5 year-olds struggled to contain the excitement at the encroaching holiday. With all the rain they had been getting, the school had decided to play it safe and call for a delay— with the possibility of a day off. The news had made its way around the school until it finally reached the LKG hallway. There had been no hope after that. Kindergartners made plans for their extra two hours of freedom and daydreamed about the luxury of sleeping in instead of finding the English capital letters he had painstakingly sprinkled in the fake bowls of alphabet soup.

Honestly, Lalit couldn’t find it in him to blame them. A break would be welcome, especially with the migraine he’d had pulsing behind his eyes this whole week. Snatches of foreign languages and flashes of strange plants and streets and buildings had been dogging him since early last week. Sleep offered no solace. If anything, it only gave him more confusing imagery to chew over. His slow descent into what felt like clinical insanity had him on edge, and really, what better to soothe his frayed nerves than his mother’s famous fish curry.

Hell, maybe the hot peppers and spice would clear out his head and stop from fluent Spanish seamlessly replacing Bengali whenever he cursed.

He cooked by rote, frying fish and adding cumin, turmeric, red chili, and garam masala to his browned onions. He moved with a quiet certainty, and was done within the hour. Whenever he cooked, the noise of the outside world faded away and for an hour or two he was able to carve out a simple quiet space in the noise and ruckus of Kolkata. Lalit quickly plated up his meal and shuffled into his living.

Sinking wearily into the worn cushions of his old, beat up couch he took his first bite, anticipating the full flavor of fish and bite of red and green chili.

Instead, he tasted garlic and chicken and oooookay definitely not his mother’s Rui Macher Jhal. And looking around, definitely not his couch. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. When he opened his eyes, he was back in his own tiny apartment, but his Jhal was still missing. A sharp intake of breath had him looking across his couch when he saw her.

“Where the hell am I?”

“Ah, well, my…apartment?” Lalit replied, dumbfounded. “And you appear to be holding my Jhal which I would really love to get back.”

He sighed, setting the bowl of…whatever on his coffee table and turned to face this strange woman fully.

“Listen, I am not a wealthy man, so if you’re here to burgle me, I’m afraid you’ll have better luck in another home,” he said. “You seem to be very good at breaking in to homes unnoticed. I don’t blame you. Times are hard. I have more Rui Macher Jhal in the kitchen if you need…”

He paused, taking in her face more fully— the elegant nose, the deep brown of her eyes, her aura radiating poise even as confused as she appeared to be.

“I… I know you. I know you somehow, don’t I?”

       his honesty startled her, direct and unaffected. even though he appeared to be right, and they were in his apartment ( it certainly wasn’t her home ) he reacted not with accusations, as he had every right to do, but with a confusion so mild in temperament it caught elisa off guard. she should have been anxious, but something in his voice kept her calm. and he was right, after all --- when she looked down in her lap, she saw a plate of what appeared to be some sort of fish had replaced her aji. “oh.” the noise was less intentional, more a subdued utterance of surprise. she placed the dish on the coffee table as he had, apprehensively, as though at any moment it might transform into something even more ominous. 

       antsy, she rose, less comfortable reclining languidly in a stranger’s home than she was in her own, and perhaps curious, too. “i’m not here to steal from you,” she assured him, the corners of her lips twitching at the idea as her gaze drifted throughout the small space. “in fact, i’m not sure i’m actually here at all.” eyes like wells drank in the sight, the strange unfamiliar that tugged at her mind like half-buried memories. a photograph caught her eye --- the man on the couch, though a few years younger, it seemed, with two girls who must be his sisters. all beaming broad grins. she could feel the warmth of the memory. 

       he was right again, though her rationality ached to admit it. “somehow…” she echoed in agreement, puzzlement pressing her lips into a tight line. she studied the photograph for a moment longer, trying to reconcile the faces of three strangers with the rush of affection she felt for the girls, the unfamiliar sensation of responsibility. the books in the room were decidedly strange, too --- they weren’t written in english, or any language she spoke, and yet she could read the titles with ease. turning back to him, she met his gaze apprehensively, still unprepared for the shock. it felt like looking in the mirror for the first time since getting a new haircut, familiar and yet entirely alien. “i’ve seen you before,” she told him, though it hardly answered their questions, trying to sound more confident than she was. “i’m elisa,” she offered after a moment. it seemed absurd, but if she was invading his home, she might as well introduce herself.

[blvssomed-a]

jimmi.

   twelve more hours for jimmi to finish her shift , the brunette’s throat aches as she takes another long sip from her fourth coffee of the day ( or night ? stuck inside for so long , she feels distanced from earthly affairs , not exactly a bad thing , she supposes . )  she sure knows it’ll only cause more heartburn , as the caffeine has stopped helping her after the first twenty-four hours . now it’s only a habit , a habit she insists on following , so that a part of her life stays the same . 

  a proud smile lingers on her porcelain face as she throws the cup away from distance , the short game of trash-can basketball giving her enough energy to go on . finding her usual pace , she walks down the empty and silent hallways , the distinct smell of the hospital gradually fading . the bright white walls disappear one by one , the patients she checks through glass doors seem to be disappearing as well . what the fuck , she thinks . “ someone must have drugged me . or did .. or did i faint ? ” a bitter taste effuses in her mouth ; the flashbacks of the last time she fainted strengthening her awful migraine . the not-so ironic smell of death leaving it’s place for something perfume like , she squints to get a clear view of the unfamiliar figure . a lost patient , is the first thing she thinks , but the clothes gives her away . “ you must be lost , ma’am . ” jimmi pauses only for a second , this .. this doesn’t feel right , but she firmly brushes the feeling off . “ looking for a specific patient , or doctor ? may i help you ? ” 

       the natural reaction to a stranger standing in your home is panic, particularly when you have a picasso hanging within arm's reach. then again, a thief skilled enough to gain access to the well-secured home would know better than to show up in broad daylight, appearing just as puzzled as elisa feels. that the woman insists she must be lost in her own home hardly even registers on the scale of bizarre shit she's seen and heard over the past weeks. “what are you --- ?” talking about ? she means to ask, a confused frown drawing a crease between her brows, as the scent of antiseptic fills her nostrils. the lights overhead flicker --- strange, considering they aren’t on --- and the walls close in. 

       it reminds her of the time she was in the hospital as a child, she thinks for just a moment before realizing she’s never been in the hospital. still, the memory is vivid, urgent, like it’s forcing its way into her brain. staring at the woman feels unsettling, as if her reflection has just waltzed from a mirror and started talking. maybe this hospital hallway is where she’s been this whole time; it certainly would explain the visions, the sensory confusion that plagues her --- but, contradictory as it may sound, she doesn’t feel mad. “where are we ?” she asks instead, picking on the woman’s accent.

[blvssomed-a]

dani.

      her fingers ache. she can’t remember the last time she took a break, but after macri’s new speech, dani has a plethora of information. the internet is alight and she can’t pull herself away. not now. as she clicks on another article, she scoffs. picking up her now warm redbull, she sloshes the rest of it down before wiping at her mouth. stick fingers press into her torn jeans as she wipes. the article is pissing her off. she feels the need to pace, her anxiety spiking. she can’t do anything about this, not right now and that leaves her uneasy. 

        “joder.” the curse passes her lips easily as she finally pushes herself up from her desk. her knees groan at the sudden change in position. all the hours spent marching yesterday were definitely taking their toll on her today. she paces the hallway for a few seconds before stretching down. hearing her back pop, she lets out a sigh of relief. but as she lifts herself back up, she notices something isn’t right. she isn’t in her worn apartment. it’s much cleaner, even the smell is better. “what the fuck?” she quickly twists her hair up into a messy bun as she takes a tentative step. did she fall asleep at her desk? the voice near the front door catches her attention and dani swears she knows this woman. she’s seen her a few times or… her mind can’t pull it together. “why are you freaking out?” she takes another step, her heart thrumming harshly in her ribcage. “who are you? where am i? am i asleep?”

       it feels like a balloon has been filled in her chest, the sensation too tight, yet somehow unbearably light --- like she can feel the impressions left by the other woman’s nerves. elisa’s first instinct is to ignore her, to trust what logic dictates and accept that she's seeing things. maybe she’s just exhausted, or maybe she’s having a nervous breakdown. but that’s not it, because the woman is not some apparition conjured by a broken mind. even if that contradicts everything else she knows, elisa is certain of this.

       “why am i freaking out ? you’re freaking out !” she says with some haste, as though she’s afraid of giving herself too much time to think. “you don’t look asleep.” no, you look familiar.  the answer isn’t exactly helpful. “we’re in rome.” and that answer isn’t exactly true. even as she says it, it tastes like a lie. “well, i’m in rome.” but beyond the marble floors and high ceilings, somewhere else was hidden, shimmering and almost visible beyond the physical confines of the house. the space is much smaller, light falling at a different angle from a window --- an apartment hallway, ringing with the distant, muffled sounds of a busy city. “where are you ?”

[blvssomed-a]

hey there, may i request some manu rios gif icons, pls ?

i’m so confused ... but this is an rp blog, not an rph ?

[blvssomed-a]

       exhausted, elisa sinks into a chair in the empty kitchen. her hair, still damp from the shower, leaves droplets on her neck. there’s an order awaiting completion upstairs in her studio, but her day had been long enough already, her eyes much too tired for the minute, detailed work. instead, she lends an ear to the evening news echoing from the adjacent sitting room, and forgoes the additional labor of cooking. the leftover aji had been meant for anton, but as was so often the case, he had forgotten it --- not that this bothers elisa, who is only happy to pop the tupperware in the microwave and pour herself a glass of chardonnay. 

       with the scent of garlic and peppers floating in her wake, elisa settles comfortably in the corner of the sofa, looking almost normal in a sweatshirt, eating leftovers --- only her surroundings betray her. her mother had taught her the recipe ( ‘a good woman should always know how to cook,’ echoes in her mind ) and she knows it inside and out, yet when she takes a bite, she nearly chokes, features contorted with a mixture of surprise and confusion. she’d made it only two days ago; how could it have already gone bad ? she never managed to make it perfectly, but this isn’t even reminiscent of her mother’s aji de gallina, tasting instead of strange spices --- even the texture is off --- and then she is somewhere else entirely.

       seated on a couch that isn’t her own, her eyes widen as she half-recognizes the man at the opposite end. with dark hair, kind eyes, he looks like a figure from her dreams, someone she must have seen before --- and he looks just as surprised to see her as she is to see him. “where the hell am i ?” she asks, the urgency in her voice barely masked.

@obladee-oblalit.

[blvssomed-a]

       a car idles in the driveway, the chauffeur beside it standing attentively, waiting to open the passenger door. with a tight-lipped smile, elisa allows her husband one last kiss on her cheek before he sets off down the driveway. perhaps it’s for the best that he’s away for the weekend --- the solitude will give her time to ... what ? figure out what’s wrong with her ? her psychiatrist’s business card is on her desk, but she hasn’t called. reason insists that it must be madness, but somewhere in the dark softness of her heart she knows it isn’t.

       she stands in the doorway for a moment longer, lingering alongside the scent of anton’s cologne until his car disappears from view. she turns to retreat, blinks once, and is no longer in her airy, sunlit foyer; blinks twice, and she’s home once more, yet in the hall stands a stranger. they’re pointedly out of place --- the light seems to bend around them strangely, as though it does not touch them. somehow, distantly, she recognizes their face. “oh, díos, no.” a tense breath escapes her, fingers pressed to her forehead as her eyes squeeze shut. “this is not happening, i am not going crazy, i do NOT have time for this,” she insists, opening her eyes to find herself still not alone. “---what ?” she probes, defensive, embarrassment rises pink in her cheeks.

[pmarie808]

[tamburina-deactivated20220820]

[flowersring]

Visit Original Link

[blvssomed-a]

i’m not the pawn to your king ! i’m not your w o r l d on a string ! i’m not anyone you’ll beat ! i’m not —… anything !

[rcleplayer]

natkelley: 🌍❤️ let’s be good to her… #earthday

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

— She’s in the window in her pink dress, radiant, transparent, lost —

Jack Kerouac, from Book Of Sketches (via violentwavesofemotion)