;blood hound;

“do you really think we can heal after everything we’ve done to each other? what if it’s too late and we can’t?”

“i’ve always thought that the human body and mind had an uncanny ability to heal. although hope has always been too slippery for me. I want to believe it. or at least that this, this wound will only scar. i can live with scars.”

an unconscious touch to his stomach. a start or an end? he didn’t know which.

“we all can.”

#;ana

“that’s easier said than done and you know it just as I do.”

@crippledvirus || this.

#;fated complications #dissolvedshadows #;answers

“I always found the letting go part harder. the hurting is never the hard part. it’s when you try to heal. like the scarring wound and it’s maddening itch.”

#;ana

"I rearranged your kitchen. You're welcome."

“my kitchen used to be perfect. asshole.”

#drxjackson #;answers

"you taste like ashes..."

@dissolvedshadows

“our fires long been burnt out. we only have these ashes. I live in constant fear of when we have to scatter them. let’s savor them a while.”

@dissolvedshadows

Ana was dead. of course she was. he had killed her. he had put his hands around her throat and taken the life from her. he had stood over her body and just looked at her. he hadn’t moved for what felt like hours. too many long stretched out hours. he had counted the ticks of the clock though. tick. tick. tick. and it hadn’t been that long at all. minutes. mere minutes. he hadn’t wanted to leave. but why should he stay? why? he had no place among the dead.

he knew that she was gone. it wasn’t news. it wasn’t anything but the hole in his chest. and the noise of the clock in the living room. tick. tick. tick. he should break it. but he can’t bear to. he can’t bring himself to. every breath hurts though. every breath he lets out is filled with something acidic. and he thinks he can taste blood. but that’s funny, he hadn’t spilled any.

it’s been an hour. he knows from the ticking, from the way his head is still back in that place. with her. dead on the ground. when he closes his eyes he can see it. he can see her and then the two of them, lying together, dead. he can feel her pressed cold to his side. he feel the air of her last breath lingering above them. maybe he should have let himself die there beside her on the kitchen floor.

maybe he had. because he sits, he simply sits. that’s it. he sits there on the couch in his living room, staring at the clock he wants to break. he’s not counting time anymore. he’s not breathing. he’s sitting, watching. as if the world is passing him by. but there’s no world out there. there’s only the cold, there’s only Ana’s dead body on the kitchen floor. there’s only the tattered carnage of love he felt for her and how they were only the bearers of each others scars.

maybe he has new ones now. now that she’s gone he might have hers. everywhere. his skin feels stretched too tight. and he doesn’t think he can breathe. is he bleeding? no. she hadn’t bled. she hadn’t fought either. she let him kill her. and he had consumed her last breath. but was he breathing? no, he was sitting. he was watching.

Ana was dead.

and so was he.

#;drabbles #;fated complications #(i h8 chu)

dissolvedshadows:]

a brow lifts as she glances over at him, shutting off the water after washing her hands then reaching for a towel to dry them. “that’s an awfully convenient excuse. being a loner’s all well and good but isolation is hardly healthy.” as if she’s one to talk —— half the time she avoids being around people at all costs. a step closer to him enables her to kiss his cheek, a smile still resting easily on her features. “why thank you, I’m flattered. not every day I get a free pass after all.”

this is light. different. strange. but he’ll take it. moments like this never happen. they aren’t rare. they don’t exist. but he’s not reaching or grabbing. he’s simply still. letting it happen. because he wants it to. almost needs it to. “be careful. I might just take it back.”

#dissolvedshadows

;; and all the haunted

she’s not sure what she’s expecting the shop to look like after all these years; whether it’ll be the same as she remembers or completely different. it’s the closest one to their hotel and only a few minutes from the burial site that it’s always just been a matter of convenience over aesthetic appeal. some level of familiarity exists though, despite how infrequently she visits. or maybe it’s just nice to see one facet of her history’s still intact, the only change was in the displays. the various bouquets were still as bright and colorful, some organized by occasion.

choosing the ones for her mother and sister’s grave was easy, hardly sparing a moment to look at the price as she picked them out. a brief pause to consider the ones he had chosen, curious why he picked those. they were lovely of course, all the flowers in the shop were. but yellow ones weren’t what she had pictured adorning her own grave. they must have drawn his attention for a reason though. and she trusts his judgement. ( for the most part. wouldn’t have asked him to come with her if she didn’t. they’re doing this together and had the choice been her own, there wouldn’t be a third bouquet. )

a slight nod follows his decision, accepting the flowers. reaching again for his hand with her free one. she’s not usually this consistent in her need for assurance but right now it was difficult letting go of him. she was in the process of saying goodbye to old ghosts that she wanted to hold onto the one permanent thing left in her life. even if they have their moments of haunting each other, or completely dissolving in each other, he’s solid there next to her.

alive and real, just like she is. she needed proof of it now more than ever. “those will work perfectly,” she heard herself say, offering him a smile that felt tentative. not forced but not entirely whole either. fragmented. just like they are. like they’ve always been. before it all fell apart. before he hurt her and before she made him. before all the lies had come out when he couldn’t touch her without remembering. she needed his support, his hand in hers while helping her pick out flowers for an empty grave.

#dissolvedshadows #and all the haunted

she accepts the flowers and he nods at her as well. it’s quiet and strange. like it shouldn’t be happening. he wonders what kind he would have put on her grave. he wondered if he would have visited her at all? but it’s a question there in the back of his mind. it’s left there lingering and dark in the back of his mind. it’s something that will haunt him. like she haunts him.

he leaves the store when she makes her purchase. he knows that maybe he shouldn’t. he knows that maybe he should stay with her every step of the way. but he’s overwhelmed and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to feel. death is too close to them.

eventually she’s done and he’s unsettled by the next step. a little closer to where she has to go. a little closer to her past. he moves to her side but doesn’t reach for her just yet. if she needs him to touch her then she’ll have to do the reaching.

“ready?” and it sounds like such a strange question for what they’re doing.

;semiotic

it isn’t fair. she knows it and hates that she knows it but knowing it changes nothing. it doesn’t excuse willingly lying to him all this time. omitting certain details that would make this more clear to him. such as the fact that she’s died before. someone had beaten him to the punch centuries ago that it makes no sense why he would be put on this Earth to kill her when she can’t be killed. not again. not for longer than a few hours or a handful of minutes and certainly not by his own two hands. he’s only killed someone once but the number of lives she’s taken can’t be counted.

not one of them stands out so clearly as the memory of her own being taken away. she still remembered every second of it ––– the hunter that was compelled to kill her to initiate her turning had made it quick. a single gunshot to her heart had stopped it. quickly murdered the human portion and prevented the demon half of her DNA from healing the wound in it’s own time. the vampire blood already in her veins had kicked in before it could, putting her into transition as it battled the immune system all demonkyn have that sees any foreign matter as a threat. by all rights, she shouldn’t have woken up again. it was a 50/50 chance that the transition would’ve been triggered at all, due to her unique bloodline. some demons have been consorting with humans for a millennium but she was the first to die with vampire blood.

it’s never talked about because she’d rather forget about it. four hundred and some odd years later, it’s a wound that still smarts. still gives her nightmares. he’s woken her from a few of them. pulled her closer to his chest when she’s gasping for air and biting back screams. soothed her until she’s calm again, brought back to the present by the sound of his voice. he’s never lied to her by saying she’s safe after one of her nightmares. just told her over and over again that he was there ––– she’s okay. how badly she’s wanted to believe that was true. she’s not. hasn’t been since longer than she can remember and far longer than he’s even been alive. safety doesn’t exist and she’s never really been free from harm. the thought’s not as much of a comfort as she’s wished it was.

there’s nothing she can say to him that would make any of it better. the questions he’s asking brush against a subject she’s tried her damnedest to avoid letting him find out about. there had been moments where he’s almost caught on. when her guard had been lowered and something she said he’d noticed then pressed her on. she thought not telling him would make it easier. that covering his eyes would keep him protected. left in the dark where he’s far from those that would hurt him for what he knows. ignorance is better than knowing what will only get him killed and she’s wanted nothing more than to be able to say that she had saved him. it doesn’t feel like she had though. if she’d accomplished what she meant to do then he wouldn’t be here.

here and demanding answers she doesn’t want to give. his voice breaking on the words that are openly pleading. he’s right ––– she owes it to him to stop lying. to give him something more than what she’s already said so far. which isn’t that much at all. she was dead before she knew him. not a lie, yet not the full truth either. physically she had died centuries ago, becoming the only demon and vampire hybrid in existence. emotionally or mentally she’s been dead since she was a child. since the deaths of her mother and sister; some part of her was buried in the empty grave beside them in England. she’s dead in all the ways that have always seemed to matter except when it didn’t ––– when he touched her and she felt it burn her skin. leaving deeper scars that won’t fade as quickly as the ones on the surface.

“you don’t understand ––– it’s not that simple.” as if it’s a debt that can be repaid if she tells him everything. it won’t make him forget that he killed her. wrapped his hands around her throat after she told him do it and practically forced him to press down. asked and wanted him to do it so that she wouldn’t have to kill him instead. “the things I haven’t told you ––– you’re better off not knowing.”

he won’t believe that and she doesn’t really expect him to. not that sure she does anymore honestly. it’s the only rationalization she has left and she wants to believe that it’s true. if she tells him everything he might well and truly hate her but he’d still know. he wouldn’t be able to forget and it’ll be her fault how he handles it. the closer he gets to what she doesn’t want him to know, the more dangerous it’ll become. he’s already so close to losing his mind ––– anything she says now will only make it worse.

#semiotic #dissolvedshadows

better off not knowing what it was that had happened. better off being left in the endless mystery that surrounded her and how she’s alive after what happened. forever in the dark. and why bother ever let him inside anyways if she was only going to turn off all the lights? he knows it’s not entirely fair. he knows he hasn’t turned any of his own on either. but he has expectations and demands now that she’s back.

cruel? maybe. after what he did to her she should be running in the other direction. not explaining to him how it was that it didn’t work when he tried to murder her. but instead he’s here making demands and she’s telling him that she can’t give him any. but she’s not angry, she’s not harsh. she’s honest and raw in a way that he’s never seen her be.

maybe because she’s died by his hands and rose before his eyes. and there’s nothing more intimate than dying. there’s nothing more personal than the last breath and the last thing you’ll ever see. but she’s not open. she’s hiding still. and that makes him angry. makes him filled with a rage he can’t entirely understand.

because this isn’t possible. but she’s telling him to accept it as fact. that there’s nothing else to do but accept it as fact. and he’s not entirely sure if he’s willing to do something like that. because how can he? how can he know for sure that he’s not insane? what if she wasn’t really alive? or even worse what if he hadn’t killed her? and yet he doesn’t know how that one is worse. how can it be?

he’s filled to the brim with bitterness and anguish. and he would almost kill her again if he didn’t know how he couldn’t. how much he needed her to be standing there before him. he’s killed before. and he’s lost. and being the sole cause of both is too much of a burden for him to bear. selfish. he’ll wear his brand with little pride and a heavy heart.

“then tell me a lie that I can believe.” he says finally. his voice low and weak. not submitting. but trying to force the truth out of her. he remembers when he was working homicide back in Louisiana and he would do interrogations. they would start with demands and then tricks. the suspect would always give into the tricks faster.

was this what this was? a trick? could he trick her like that? hurt her? he doesn’t want to say yes. but what’s worse than killing her? nothing. and he was able to do that.

Future -crippledvirus

@crippledvirussend “future” for my muse to describe how they envision a future between our two muses.

she wants to believe that a future between them could be a happy one. seems normal enough to hope for when it comes to the person you love and intend to marry in the near future. except their relationship’s not normal. not even close to it and it never has been. there’s too many shadows between them, too much death. her own since it was by his own hands that caused it.

( forcing him to kill her was meant to give him a better future than any he could have had with her in it. she was meant to end his life which therefore implies he wasn’t supposed to have a future at all. a shared one with both of them alive would have been unrealistic. she was just the first to acknowledge that they couldn’t have gone on the way they were indefinitely. the first to do something about it, regardless of the cost. )

some part of her wants to think that they’re past that now. that his proposal might mean they have a chance at putting everything else to rest. all of his resentment and bitterness will be forgotten. that he wouldn’t hate her as much as he loves her. that he might reach for her without letting his hand fall away before it makes contact.

for him to be able to look at her and not feel any pain.

“I want our future to be better than what it’s been —— this endless cycle of hurting each other because of everything that’s happened. for these ghosts we carry to be laid to rest and that you and I can have the life we were never supposed to have.”

they were meant to kill each other. there should be something satisfying in the thought that they had cheated their fates. even if they both knew they hadn’t. killing her had killed a part of him in the process and she’s spent so long trying to keep him in the land of the living that she’d refused to let him stay with her among the dead. what future could they have in a grave?

"I made you coffee, did you want some Aspirin?" crippledvirus

his voice filters in slowly through lethargic haze, a soft groan coming from beneath the blankets in response. she’s not really looking forward to getting up and is tempted to stay in bed the whole day. but coffee does sound good ——— so does the aspirin for that matter.

it’s with that thought in mind that one corner’s lowered to permit her to peek over it at him, noting the light tone. she’s missed seeing him this way ——— without their usual heaviness attached. almost like how things used to be, before everything got all screwed up. those few brief moments when he’s not keeping her at arm’s length or tossing accusations at her.

mattress shifts as she sits up, gratefully reaching for the offered drink. bites back the comment lingering on the tip of her tongue regarding the irony of him making the coffee when hers was apparently poison.

a long sip’s taken, followed by a drawn out sigh.

“have I mentioned lately that I love you?”

a joking comment, with more truth in the words than extra weight. leaning against him to keep herself upright, she resists the urge to reach for his hand when it’s so close to her own. wanting to keep him here with her where it doesn’t hurt for once. settles instead for just having him near as being good enough.

——— they don’t have moments like this very often.

@crippledvirus

@crippledvirus

––––––––––––- he knelt for her.

this man who she had broken down so completely he thought she was a ghost sent back to haunt him is now on his knees before her, fingers curled around the harsh bones of her hips. pulling her to him. digging in and clinging as if having her there in front of him is a dream he doesn’t wish to wake from.

( more of a nightmare perhaps )

“will your grave have a name?”

questions he once asked now returns to her mind––- would he have given her one? a proper funeral, stone with her name engraved. a fake age with a fake alias since Ana is merely a fragment of who she is. the only parts of her he had known were the ones she’d chosen to share. anything else he caught a glimpse of was purely accidental: faded scars he’d memorized from wounds that took centuries to heal, the place where shadows met skin.

“will we justify it when we kill each other?”

isn’t that what they’ve been doing all along? looking for faults and flaws in each other that made death a fitting punishment for all of their crimes. he feared death but he’s never feared her. the contradictions in that statement burned the roof of her mouth and she wants to carve the taste of it from her tongue. forget that he was always gentle with her––- up to the point where he ended it. had looked her straight in the eyes and hated that his vision had blurred while hers remained clear.

“would you make me a victim, ana?”

she did, didn’t she? told herself (and him) that she wouldn’t until there was no other choice, prolonging death for as long as possible thinking they could find a way around it. that they would both come out of this alive. he’d killed her but she pushed him into it. twisted his strings she’d tangled him up in until he’d wrapped his hands around her throat and pressed down. not only did she make him a victim but a murderer.

––––––- and now he’s reaching for her.

two steps before sinking to his knees––- pleading, falling, asking her for forgiveness that she shouldn’t be alive to grant. he breathed out her name, a prayer to whoever would hear him. just one prayer for the murderer. “I’m sorry.” her hands that were resting in his hair were shaking, the words seemed to take forever to reach her ears. and she can’t respond. her mouth won’t open because there are no words that linger there, trapped between her teeth.

( she’s already forgiven him )

“the things we do make echoes.” -crippledvirus

there’s something almost familiar in the statement and she could swear she’s heard him say it once before. perhaps not. it’s hard to tell some days what he’s said and what remains silent between them. fragments of words left strewn across the ground beneath their feet.

they’re jagged ones ——— she’s cut herself on them several times. on him. trying to caress his sharp edges with hands that don’t remember how to be gentle. a desperate attempt to undo some of the damage she’s caused in the time she’s known him. ease some of his wounds she can remember opening, either by accident or on purpose.

can’t hurt him if she can’t touch him. he reaches more often than she does, letting his hand fall away before it makes contact with her skin. she’s not sure if he’ll ever be past that fear that keeps him from holding onto her again. or how to help him when all it reminds him of is death.

his. hers. a fate they’ve shared together in her kitchen when his hands had wrapped around her neck and pressed down. they b o t h died here that night and they continued to do so every time he looks at her now. she’s exhausted from dying all those deaths with him yet it’s a cycle neither one knows how to stop.

she’s tried. he doesn’t let her. asks her to stay then curses her for being there in the very same breath. torn between wanting her pressed close to him and as far as she can possibly get. if he’d let her go then he wouldn’t be suffering. it would have been over if he never came back.

the bitterness is absent from his tone and she wants to consider it a mark of progress. that he’s not hurling accusations at her is already one step further than they’ve managed to get in a while. they’ve done this so many times that she knows what comes next: the quiet sigh, a movement toward her, then his mouth on hers.

arguments abandoned for another day, when they aren’t quite so worn out. a need for a complete dissolve that’s kept them tied together on the evenings he should have been anywhere but here. peace that comes from resting tired bones. this grave’s their home and they’ve built it in each other.

he’s not wrong ——— there’s an echo in everything they do, all the things they don’t confess. echoes of eulogies from two ghosts in mourning. one for the murderer, one for the victim. strange how they sound so alike.

@crippledvirus

"Tell Me Why You Love Me" - crippledvirus

the request he makes isn’t simple. it comes with knives and weights attached that makes her feel like she’s suffocating with every word. six. just six words that create a sentence that lacerates her insides. a quiet and mostly unintentional murder he’s committed several times. she’s died so many deaths yet n o n e has ever compared to the ones at his hands.

especially the physical one he inflicted on her—- palms wrapped tight around her throat and pressing down until she stopped breathing. listening to her heart stop while blinking away tears she regrets that he shed on her behalf. she wonders now which of them had been the murderer. if they hadn’t made victims of each other, thinking they could find another solution.

it didn’t exist. one was always destined to die by the other’s hand and she chose him.

( her life had amounted to nothing. is it cruel of her to hope her death hadn’t? )

that sacrifice should mean something. she’d wanted it to. wanted a lot of things when it comes to him. quiet mornings with the sheets twisted around them, the taste of the morning sun on his skin. his hands in her hair or wrapped around her legs, fingers digging in until there’s no way to tell where she ended and he began. as if that didn’t exist either. just a trick of the mind, the two of them had always found more comfort in dissolving.

she could give him a list of reasons, if that’s what he wants to hear.

can point out each one as if citing them in chronological order. in some ways she would be. there’s a million instances that she had looked at him and found something new in him that she couldn’t help but love. that she had wanted to ignore since that was much easier for her to do. there’s a line in there somewhere but she can’t seem to find it, and not for lack of trying.

could trace the harsh line of his jaw with a softened expression, recalling every single time she had watched it tighten in annoyance. absently observed as his fingertips rubbed at it in an subconscious gesture that conveyed his anxiety. all of his mannerisms she’s memorized, cursing each one silently when they never failed to make her weaken. his voice sounds drawn out to her ears, weary and heart-sick from everything they’ve endured both together and apart.

seeking confirmation of her feelings. or is he looking for something to argue over? some irrefutable proof that how she sees him differs from reality since she really shouldn’t love him at all. should k n o w him enough to love him. she’d never actually seen him for who he is, he’s said that to her once. she won’t admit that he might have been right. if she does then it means acknowledging her perception of him is flawed. constructed solely of an impression that was formed to better keep him at a safe (ha) distance than allow him close.

not even sure she knows the answer to what he asks. or if it can be expressed in a way that’s anywhere close to being a d e q u a t e in her confused mind. does she love him? yes. in the same way that you love something you can’t explain or describe. without definition or limits since the emotion defies both. she loves him because it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. that’s ever scared her so much that she had chosen to let herself die if it meant he found a life he deserves. one she could never give him since she doesn’t know how.

“I love you because I don’t know how to do anything else.”

it’s quiet, her response. laden with previously unspoken truths that strip all her defenses away and leaves her bare. she’s tried to hate him. feared him and lusted for him. tried to befriend him. tried to let him go. she’s tried everything she could possibly do that all that’s left is loving him. even if loving him hurts worse than what they’ve done already. she doesn’t know how to love without leaving scars and he can’t touch her without causing more.

send “Tell Me Why You Love Me” and my muse will answer.@crippledvirus

“5 times we met” - crippledvirus

i.he shouldn’t be here. she shouldn’t be letting him in. the two statements contradict each other and she’s not sure which one to listen to. if either one is right anymore. she keeps trying to tell herself that he’s safer if he’s far away from her. but that’s a lie, isn’t it? safety’s a myth. they’re supposed to kill each other. another lie. she’s already dead. he’s already killed before—- garret jacob hobbs he said the man’s name was. she doesn’t remember the names. too many to remember. she remembers the last few minutes up until their lives are taken by her hands. the light in their eyes as realization dawns.

not so long ago she had asked him that if death is an inevitability, why fear it? she’s never feared death. longed for it and imagined it but never feared. death has always seemed too peaceful a thing to fear. he shouldn’t be here and she shouldn’t be letting him in yet he is so she does. a strained sort of silence settles over them in the time it takes for him to cross the threshold and for her to resent him for doing it.

unspeakably weary at whatever this visit will bring. either a conversation that weighs heavy on both heart and mind, or questions he asks in his quietly prying way that she doesn’t want to answer. he gives neither—- moving toward her before she can register what he’s doing. before she can tell her body to retreat he’s reaching for her: hands resting on her hips as if they’re not sharp enough to cut his skin. holding without clinging. and it hurts to breathe. to have him so close to her and be unable to pull away. to look in his eyes and see everything that she should rightly hate and for some reason doesn’t. she’s never feared death but she might be afraid of him.

ii.such a simple thing, going out for coffee. after her first invitation it became somewhat of a regularity between them. an attempt at lightness despite who and what they are to each other. a way to forget about it perhaps. except they can’t. it hovers as an unseen shadow over their heads, causing conversations to twist in darker directions than they started on. she wants to know him. not because she wants to learn his weaknesses or strengths to use against him later. just an attempt at understanding.

a foolish one? perhaps. he’s more closed off than she is at times. more resistant to the idea of spending time together when it involves talking. he doesn’t refuse however. agrees with very little persuasion involved and she’s always surprised. keeps her features clear so it won’t be obvious. pretty sure he sees it anyway. it’s almost a normal activity too, all talk of death aside. she wants to believe that they can be normal. if not separate than together at least. she’s found herself wanting to believe in a lot of things where he’s concerned, each as contrary as the last.

he exists there, in the hazy after-images of the chaos her mind is always falling into. a whispered voice close to her ear saying things she wants to ignore rather than dwell on. it’s almost easier when they don’t talk. almost but not quite. simple or easy don’t belong in the same sentence with him. there’s nothing simple or easy about their situation. once used to be both. before it was a simple fact that one would kill the other. no specifics as to who or even how. just that it would happen. it’s not simple anymore. never was to begin with and she won’t bother telling herself otherwise. what’s the point?

iii.they’re back here again, a glass held between numb fingers. gazes not meeting as if that might place distance between them. she’s tired of these meetings. when her solitude is interrupted by his knock on her door, late as if he hadn’t paid any attention to the hour before coming over. probably didn’t. he’s always a little more raw on nights like this. torn from his sleep by nightmares of killing her. a need to make sure it hasn’t happened. he always looks a little relieved when she turns the porch light on. doesn’t reach for her though—- just looks at her like he’s expecting her to disappear if he doesn’t. eyes drifting to her clothes, waiting to see blood staining them.

the sound of his glass meeting the linoleum of her counter can be heard, then a rustle of fabric as he moves toward her. a breath caught in her throat and the burn that follows. his movements were slow—- nearly h e s i t a n t. expecting her to pull away or wanting her to maybe. she can never tell which when he’s like this. still trapped in whatever horror he’s dreamt up this time that he needs to prove isn’t real. palms press against the material of her shirt, fingertips digging in. press. release. a hold that’s gentle despite warring impulses that seem to tell him not to be. a violence that resides somewhere in him that she catches a glimpse of when again her eyes meet his.

lost in them as his free hand that rests on her chin tilts it up to meet his. the taste of him is engraved on her mouth. recognized as familiar since it’s far from the first time he’s kissed her. she’s careful in how she responds: eases into the embrace without protest, not making any sudden movements. allows him to take whatever he needs from her in the hope it might bring him some measure of comfort. she really shouldn’t care about that. he was exposed in this moment with her and she should be using it against him. can’t. doesn’t want to. not sure which one it is, or if it’s both.

iv.everything’s different now. that silence that was strained before just feels oppressive. his anger is real and palpable, accusation in every exhale. he looks at her not with the same expression but a different one. with betrayal. all of her lies and vague half-truths brought into the light where he knows they’re false. questioning everything she’s ever told him. he never should have trusted her. he wanted to and she could see it every time he came over. that it wasn’t about having nowhere else to go but that he wanted to just be with her. in that space they’ve carved out for each other.

they made their bodies a tomb for each other. a final resting place to lay weary bones. no eulogies said for the murderers. would he have given her one? she’s had thoughts like that ever since she came home to find him after she was supposed to be dead. if he would have buried her here. left flowers on a grave she wasn’t even in. there’s a headstone in france that she does the same thing with. mourns for who she used to be, the human who died there and the monster she became.

he’s still mourning, isn’t he? he doesn’t look at her the same. can barely force himself to touch her. that violence is still there, lingering just beneath the surface. inner turmoil that she can see by watching him. regret tastes like ashes in her mouth, his own is forgotten in the sigh that comes out. why are you here? she keeps asking the question and he keeps evading. he doesn’t want to be. being here is worse than being away from her. being here is what’s killing him. she can’t help being angry with him for that.. she sacrificed her life so he can live his and he’s wasting it. he’s told her she’s wrong. that they’re both dead. that this is where he belongs, in a grave with her. maybe he’s right. she doesn’t want to accept it. his life is the only one she’s never wanted to take.

v.the cycle they’re on isn’t healthy, they both know that. in some ways it’s worse than the other one, before he knew the truth. before he killed her. so many before’s and she compares the two every time he shows up on her doorstep. every time he asked a question or makes a comment that’s meant to hurt her. wanting to lash out because she lied. so has he. in less direct ways. he doesn’t tell her much more than she’s ever told him yet he blames her for how things went. it’s not fair. she’s wanted to say so yet she doesn’t. bites back the words and lets them stain the roof of her mouth.

absently wonders if they have a certain flavor. if he swallows them when he rips the breath from her lungs as he kisses her. she’s an addiction he can’t resist and he hates her for it. hates for everything he loves her for. a line divides the two yet it’s not very clear. might not even exist, she has no idea. only knows that it should. if love is why she spared his life, then it wasn’t enough. it didn’t keep him away. is love what brought him back? she wants to put that exact thought into words yet lacks the ability to.

tells herself it doesn’t matter when he’s this close to her, blankets wrapped around them. his touch making her soften against him as it trails over flesh that’s bared to him. that he’s memorized, scars and all. he asks for the stories more often now. doesn’t look repulsed when she shares them. just listens quietly, letting her speak and being close as she does. which she’s grateful for. his presence makes it almost painless. an ironic thought to have since she barely remembers feeling any pain. she’s numb to it, completely unresponsive with the thought that she’s survived worse. have they survived each other? she may never know the answer to that, nor does she want to.

five times our muses have came into contact.@crippledvirus

disillusionedhumanityarchive

Only ghosts remain

arguing with him was a well-worn habit by now. denials to his claims come easier for her than anything else, that need to see things differently was all that had divided them before. if that goes away what else is there? she doesn’t want him to be right. admitting that they’re the same makes everything she’s done to keep him at a distance pointless. she can’t bear the thought that she might have failed him, even if she knew that she had.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” a lie. he wanted her to list all the things that set them apart. or for her to realize there aren’t any. yet what would that prove? he’s willfully condemning himself to remaining in this state of being that’s neither living or dead, suspended somewhere in between where she is. torn between not wanting to be with her but having nowhere else to go. he can’t blame that all on her when it’s a choice he keeps making though it seemed like he was determined to. “if I thought admitting it would change your mind I would —— it won’t.”