dante coltrane

She's cold like a cadaver I'd do anything to have her She treats me like I don't matter She don't know that I'm a lone survivor

[dantecoltrane]

⟨ jacob anderson. cismale. he/him. 28. ⟩  We just saw dante coltrane entering Harrods. I heard through the grapevine that they are a detective constable. Although they are [ law enforcement ], they can sometimes be obsessive, possessive, or even delusional but I’ve also heard some people say that they were sentimental, romantic and quite sensitive. — dani. she/her. 29. est. no triggers.

[dantecoltrane]

@lydiacaine

What was she thinking? What attracted her to him? Dirty, old man. Dante's eyes were burning holes into his temple, stippling practically forming from his gaze. He had heard her right. The only reason he had been left alone at the bar was because she needed a moment, walking off in the direction of the restroom, and guess who thought he had any right to try to follow her a minute later?

"Walk off." A glint of a gold badge goes a long way, especially in a place like this, where the cretins crawl out from under their rocks, evolving as far as mouth-breathers.

By the time Lydia returns, Dante has taken his place before he can return to his original corner, out-of-sight, the guardian angel she never could have known she needed so badly. She wouldn't even know who to pray to, a name unknown, just like his face was before now.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he begins, gentle as can be, a glance to the barstool with an empty drink to match, "was this seat taken?"

[camilo-whitely]

dantecoltrane​:

Silence. Dante’s lips draw in, a tight line forming against his shadowed face, a darkness to hide the one that lingers in his head. But his hands clasp together, here not for himself but for the one he’d do anything for, even in death. “Does God make mistakes?”

.

Camilo’s asked himself the same question many times before — does God make mistakes? It would be prudent to answer ‘no’. He ought to protect and cultivate people’s faith, not make them question it. That’s his job, the role he’s chosen for himself. Ultimately it’s what Camilo settles for, after a drawn out pause, despite his private misconceptions. What good is a priest to a sinner seeking penance if not a word of truth passes between them?

“He does not make mistakes. Our plight lies within the fact that we often do not fully understand His message.”

[dantecoltrane]

"That's BULLSHIT!" The eruption comes as quickly as it leaves, his own breath penetrating the thin wall that separates them like a shockwave. Dante's shoulders pull back like a dog that's been yanked on its chain before sucking in his lips, knowing that the leash is in the hands of someone of greater morality than God himself. "He made a mistake," he corrects after a minute. The priest is just oblivious to it. Not his fault. "He made a mistake when he took her."

[aureums]

late night vibes

WHERE: the train  WHEN: early evening WHO: open to anyone

The  train  had  been  a  few  minutes  late,  a  not  ideal  start  to  her  evening  really.  Freya  had  crashed  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  after  a  full  night  of  research,  note  taking,  filming  and  editing  and  queueing  for  publishing  to  her  youtube  channel.  She’d  changed  her  hair  and  makeup  and  outfit  three  times  so  it  didn’t  look  like  it  was  all  done  in  the  same  night  too  and  fell  asleep  at  her  desk.  By  the  time  she  was  conscious  again  she’d  groaned,  neck  and  shoulders  stiff,  hopped  in  the  shower  and  got  ready  to  run  some  errands  before  everything  closed  for  the  night  again.  Maybe  it  was  helpful  that  the  train  had  waited  for  her,  a  selfish  thought  as  she  sat  down.  It  was  just  the  next  stop  that  someone  thought  sitting  right  next  to  her  on  a  mostly  empty  train  was  appropriate  and  she  shot  them  a  look.  It  was  a  problem,  she  knew,  that  she  had  trouble  keeping  her  thoughts  and  emotions  off  her  face.  She  scooted  half  an  inch  farther  away  from  the  stranger  and  muttered  something  like  “arse”  under  her  breath,  not  expecting  to  be  overheard.

[dantecoltrane]

Why had this bloody train been delayed? He would've been where he was needed already had someone just done their job correctly. The bouquet in his hand could be felt wilting from the minutes that were being wasted, not to mention the spots that were taken up by people where the air was being wasted, drunkenly coming home from a local pub crawl from the looks of it, loud and obnoxious. It should have been seen as a favor for him to take the seat next to her, to show others not to mess with her, to take advantage, but what thanks did he get? None.

"Let me guess," he told her, "you have a 'boyfriend.'" Always the convenient saying for girls like her, as if everyone was interested. ""Do you think all of us are the same?"

[camilo-whitely]

who: open where: confessional at st. alban’s church

“You can speak freely here, you have my word.”

[dantecoltrane]

Silence. Dante's lips draw in, a tight line forming against his shadowed face, a darkness to hide the one that lingers in his head. But his hands clasp together, here not for himself but for the one he'd do anything for, even in death. "Does God make mistakes?"

[doctorjuliasato]

Her eyes scoured his face for any indication of his next move, the man an enigma who kept her on her toes to put it lightly. Erratic wasn’t even a word that covered he behaviour which was ironic since it was what most would use to describe hers as well but wow, she wasn’t a patch on Dante. Was there some kind of joke to be made about his name being Dante in association with the tenth circle of hell? Probably, but to her it was a hell she wanted to be continuously sucked into for the thrill of being near him. The way her body reacted to the crackling electricity that came from his, even now as his lips grazed across hers. Her breath easing in her chest as her hand smoothed down his chest to close a little against his shirt wanting to pull him closer to her and away from the carnage that was the altercation with this … painting hanger. She could bet he didn’t see this in his future when he’d signed up for task rabbet. But it seemed to be par for the course when you crossed paths with Zadie, nothing was ever smooth. 

“Not worth my time, not even for a second.” She breaths under her breath, shaking her head as his question tapered off into silence. The blank easy to fill in - any of the guesses probably being correct. She was known for being erratic with her love life but for once she’d not tried a single thing with the handyman, he wasn’t anywhere near her type. Dante should know that by now but no doubt his rage was clouding his judgment as it so often did. The red mist. They both fell foul to it more often than they’d like to admit that was for sure. 

The jolt makes her do the same, hand that is on the gun retracting quickly so as not to trigger anything, gaze locking with his, sending a bolt of heat ripping across her chest thanks to its intensity. Fuck he had a hold over her that escalated to dangerous levels at some point - now being one of them. Her desire to please him overtaking everything else she could comprehend just so she could be the subject of his adoring glances instead of the ferocious fury that engulfed him right now. 

Eyes flicking over at the cowering, now crying man, he looked pathetic, she lifted a hand to Dante’s cheek caressing it gently with her thumb. “I love you, I love you so much.” She breathed, desire to lean in and kiss him only thwarted by the gun that was still hovering by the nameless mans sweaty temple. “I love him.” She declared more explicitly as she directed the comment towards the other, hand staying where it was even as her face turned, eyes sharp. “I love him, and you need to get the fuck out of here.” They just needed Dante to let go of him - that was the one thing - and she knew he’d scamper into the wind never to be seen again. 

[dantecoltrane]

"You're worth infinities," he murmurs back, barely heard above his own heartbeat, the same rhythm that matches hers. Their breaths are unspoken poems, a thousand verses, endless expressions of devotion. How was it not obvious? How did the one with a gun hovering above his head not see the signs, feel the fortress that surrounds only the two of them, expecting a way in by digging beneath it? He's nothing more than a worm.

Dante's role is of a higher grade on the food chain: a dog being pet by its keeper, cradled in affection. The affirmations release every cell stored in his lungs, flaring his nose, parting his lips, a release that can only come from the heaviest weight being melted by the very heat of her words. I love you. I love you. The air from the depths of his chest strum along his vocal cords. Relief. Gratitude. Happiness in a shade so dark it could eclipse her blinding light.

"Go," he speaks, movement only in his lips, direction clear, even when his vision is stuck on Zadie. There's hesitation that responds back, breaking him from her finally, wrenching the volume of his voice. "SHE SAID GET OUT! SHE DOESN'T WANT YOU!" His body jerks forward, in tandem to the man scrambling away, knowing that a second longer will have him racing a bullet. The sound of ragged footsteps falls away in the background, leaving behind the fortress well-defended, as it always has been, always will be.

Gently, he turns his head back to her, a forehead leaning against hers while his hand, still clutching its weapon, brushes at her ear. "Say it again?" he asks, his one ask. "Please?"

[jack-seo]

who: @dantecoltrane​ where: team building gym

“You should have seen the way he walked in here like he fucking owns the place. Could’ve punched that smug grin right off his fucking face.” Shoulder muscles burning from exertion, Jack strains to lift the dumbbells one last time before dropping them onto the mat with a loud thwack. It’s cathartic to picture the weights crushing one of Colin’s body parts instead, the pent up frustration resulting from his recent interrogation by the DCI still fuelling an imaginative series of ways Jack might get his revenge. “Man has balls of steel and a brain of fucking straw.”

Eventually vacating the shoulder press with a shake of his head, Jack moves to pick up his water bottle. They’re alone in the gym which lends itself well to talking shit about Blackwood with little concern about someone accidentally overhearing. “He’ll probably try and crawl up your ass next, so be ready. Slippery little fuck.”

[dantecoltrane]

Fists pummel the bag in front of Dante, making it swing just as erratically as the thin wire in the man's mind, a pendulum shifting from one side to the other, a lever of emotions and the control switch that keeps them in place. The red bag takes on each impact, oblivious to how its face changes to its opponent with each strike. It could be the man at the bar he spotted last Thursday; the one he nicked at the corner shop; or was it the blond taking a stroll at two in the morning on a street that wasn't his? But they're not actually here. They're figments. Ghosts. Just as worthless as the cold air they cause. This is a safe space, filled with at least one other that he can consider rides along the same wavelength as himself, one that's not pictured between a hard surface and an oncoming freight train made of knuckles. Jack's words are enough to make him throw a final punch before releasing his breath, slow and steady like it's drenched in nicotine.

"He can try," he tells him with a head tilted up, letting the beads of sweat draw away from his face. "He's no different from all the other 'alphas' out there, marking their territory, proving their dominance." Only with a higher title than either one of them, and that was the infuriating part. "The best thing that ever happened to him was that shoot-to-kill from the way he acts. If one of us had done the same thing, you know what would have happened."

[lunacassidy]

Luna should have been home hours ago, but sometimes the late nights turned into early mornings and she did a veritable walk of shame through parts of the city on her way home. She never felt unsafe, mind you, because even when she was drunk she could fuck someone's world up, but it still didn't feel good to get the glare of the morning sudden in your eyes as you pass through the space between two buildings.

It was even less pleasant when someone loses their shit on their own phone like a lunatic and you catch it with your drunk-ass eyes and are trying to process just how shitfaced you got. Dante's actions were... spirited, to say the least. That wasn't any kind of accident, that was on purpose and she'd know because she'd destroyed more than her fair share of phones (hers and otherwise) in her lifetime.

"Yeah, gonna pass on that one, mate. You seem to have some rage issues going on and I'm not relishing the idea of replacing my phone because you got a bad response or whatever the fuck is going on. But uh.. are you like straight? You're going to be okay and not go off on a killing spree because I don't have the mental fortitude to perfectly remember your face when they pull me in for questioning and that would be a drag."

Luna was so cavalier about everything. You'd think she were immortal with the way she just spoke to people, but underneath it all the honest truth was that she didn't care enough about herself on a personal level to worry after her own safety. No matter how confident and sure of herself she was, part of that assuredness was in her own failures and the way she doesn't deserve good things.

"... I might throw up, for what it's worth... just as a warning. The sun's killing me right now." Luna didn't sound as drunk as she was, having perfected long ago the art of speaking like she always did even when blitzed; what a skill to know.

[dantecoltrane]

Once the rage was bled out of Dante's system, he was cleansed, brought back into a new light, refreshed. He underwent the kind of treatment prescribed by physicians of the middle ages, applying leeches to draw out his toxins, if only they could wriggle their way beneath his skull where his illness stemmed from. But was that really the truth? Was it him that was the problem? His deepest, internal sense of self? Or was the cause of his infliction from the outside? The root of his disease found in someone else's actions? Neglect, disregard, taking advantage of his kindness? To blame him was to blame the true victim in this unavoidable plight that came with love… the natural battlefield of pain.

This girl could never understand that. None of them ever could.

Dante's fingers sifted through the cheap phone, unable to jam out the sim while he listened to her, only to give up in the end. A new number could do him some good, anyways. Obviously, this one wasn't good enough.

"I wouldn't need to question you about myself," he told her, a trace of amusement in his voice as he looked up at her, pulling back the corner of his draped jacket to show the badge at his hip. London's finest shining in gold. Maybe now she could trust him. "But I don't blame you…" he went on, standing up before kicking the remnants of his phone to the side with soft force, just enough to let it slide beneath a dumpster. "It's hard to tell the good guys from the bad ones these days."

If he had to bet, he'd say she had her fair share of the latter by the look of things. He could just tell. Call it a talent.

"Do you live close by?" He shrugged off his jacket, holding it out for her to put around her shoulders like the chill of morning had something to do with her sickness more to do than the scent of alcohol pooling from her lips. "Let me walk you home before you make eyes with the wrong sort."

[doctorjuliasato]

What a drama queen, eliciting a roll of Zadie’s eyes as he exclaimed yet again on her doorstep, the muscle in his jaw tightening. She’d seen it enough times to know when the man was gritting his teeth - she also knew that it indicated his temper was escalating. As if the man hanging in his hand like a doomed rag doll wasn’t showing that all on its own. Why did looking at him enraged like this send a prickle of arousal through the model’s body with no regard to the actual life of the stranger hanging in the balance. The poor man who’d just been brought in to hang her new painting but now found himself in genuine peril. This was not the first for them nor would it be the last, there was something deliciously intoxicating about how his fury was emitted from every pore - moves jerking as her eyes widened for a second. 

“Not waiting, he was on his way out.” 

That wasn’t the right thing to say. The sound of metal against his side as he yanked out his weapon made her take stock, licking her bottom lip silently watching the performance. The dance. The peacocking. It had been what she came to expect from Dante but it was the fire they both had in them that made things so exciting. Collateral damage might disagree but whatever. Eyes flicked to where the roses lay lifeless near his shoes like the stranger may well be in a second if she didn’t do something however small to try and diffuse the situation.   Stepping forward off the stoop one hand carefully placed against his chest where she could feel the fright train speed of his heart hammering under her palm, even faster than her own. Swallowing hard, she had to tread incredibly carefully now. “Baby…hey…hey…” Her voice was soft as she entirely ignored the third person there, looking at him alone. “The roses are beautiful, but this fuckhead isn’t anything okay? He hung up a painting and then I told him to fuck off, we both know he’s not worth it. You want blood? We’ll get you blood but lets make it someone who’s fucking worth it, yeah? Not just some asshole who hangs paintings for a living.” Moving her face so close to his she could almost brush the tip of his nose with her own, breath tickling her lips. “Come inside okay?” The hand not on his chest reaching up incredibly slowly for the barrel of the gun in an attempt to get it lowered, no idea if that might trigger him further. Pun not intended. 

[dantecoltrane]

To say she hadn't said the right thing was an understatement. The moment the words unspooled, they stitched together the most heinous image in Dante's psyche. A hand brushing up her thigh, the wrinkles of a dress that must be still on the floor by her bed, or was it the couch? Did she let him in on purpose? Did he have it planned from the moment she called him? Did he get to hear her voice, how it could grow heavy in the air, the delicate breaks in it? Was it worth it? Was it all worth it? Didn't Dante already know he'd lay down his life for her if it meant that? Could he, this empty, soulless, shit?! Did he even KNOW what he had?!

Dante's nerves jackhammer through his body. Breathe out the wrong way and Zadie's frontstep gets bathed in red. His palm is already slick, the grip of his gun barely sticking to the dampened skin, not nearly as touched as the corners of his eyes. A bottle of emotions can only be shaken up for so long before it begins to explode.

And then she touches him, and there's a shift in the tide, there's a dam that begins to show its cracks. His chest nearly concaves from her fingers, a strength she probably doesn't even realize she has, as if he could be crushed by the gentlest brush of her. The mere presence of her could be enough to bring him to his knees. But she could never know that. Not truly. No matter those fleeting and darkened moments that lead him astray, that make him believe that skin is ice-cold, that she pulls his strings with malicious precision. No, in this moment, his trust is in the palm of her hand, taking his breath in a low exhale.

"He's not worth it…" he echoes back to her as his eyelids drift slightly before his vision is absorbed by her. "Or your time." His head tips forward, towards her lips, his nose stroking against them in the movement. "Did he try…" he whispers against her breath, the rest of his thought vapor in the atmosphere. Anything tried can fill in the blanks, enough of a reason for him to finish what he's already started, only to what degree? What punishment will fit the crime? The crime to think he's good enough to even try?

But he jolts back suddenly at the touch to his gun, staring directly at Zadie's eyes, sharper, attentive, wondering. Time stops, steeps in his gaze as he holds it with the woman who could tear his universe in two.

"Tell him you love me," he instructs. "Tell him"--Dante's mouth hovers over hers--"and I'll come in and prove it."

[dantecoltrane]

Ding

It had to be her. The mobile phone was glued to his hand, left an impression from how long it had been held, a callus forming in the pad of his palm from how many times it twisted around in wait. It twisted once more, screen up, lit up and dashing across Dante's face. Nothing. No. He heard that. He knew better. His thumb swiped at it, wild animal that's been taught one trick for the zoo, pouncing through the screens, closing them out, reopening, refreshing, reviewing, flicking off a speck of ash from the cigarette that dangled above by the edge of his lips with revolt.

Good morning

And no reply? It was noon.

Dante's cigarette was snatched away from his mouth, twirled between fingers, the smoke weaving through him. Once upon a time he hated the smell. Hated everything about it. Hated how it made his lungs feel like they were on fire. The cough that always lingered. But she liked it. The burning tip smashed into his thumb, baptizing the thin layer of skin that had covered over the old too familiar with the ritual.

SMASH

Good morning flickered, cracks formed from the impact against a brick wall, now lying helpless in the alleyway. Dante's breath was taken, siphoned out of him, a grey mist expelling his boiling point. For a moment, his mind cleared. He needed that, even if it was witnessed by another… a type of company that was unplanned for.

"I'm sorry about that…" he began, kneeling down to pick up the pieces. "I really have the worst luck..." Second burner this month.

Ding

Eyes glanced up, hovering up at the person for a moment before offering a breath of a laugh. "You wouldn't mind if I could borrow yours for a moment?"

[tarafitzgerald]

With her arms crossed over her chest, the long haired brunette threw the man a rather disgusted look. "Pathetic." With her one shoulder leaning against the brick wall that was just hit by the phone, her eyes traveled from Dante who was on his knees to the shattered pieces of the phone and back onto him. "No, you can't," returning a small smile as she heard his question colored with laugh, Tara walked over to where the phone was laying wondering for a moment what was the reason behind the whole scene. "What, they didn't text you back? Oh, boo hoo." Tara stood with her left boot on the remains of the phone as her eyes were still fixated on Dante who was still trying to pick up the pieces. "Do I have to say again how pathetic this is or will you stand up, Dante? You will get laid later.. I need you to do something for me."

[dantecoltrane]

Tara was not a credit to womanhood, not the kind of womanhood Dante worshiped. Sensitive, kind-hearted, gentle. She was cold, crass, hardened. He often wondered who had hurt her enough to make her the way she was, but in this particular moment he already had enough to keep himself busy. His eyes were trained on her for awhile, a burning distaste for her childish antics, the callousness she used as a shield to protect herself, probably built from the guy everyone told her was the wrong one for her. Who was the pathetic one, really?

"That explains it," he told her, refocused on what was important, as he yanked his phone from under her boot, even if it meant a piece of glass sliced open his thumb in the trade. What was a little blood sacrifice? "You know, the right guy doesn't think only about the sex. He actually values the girl for everything she has to offer him," he went on as he stood up, crimson dripping down and joining the glitter of a former phone screen. His hand shook off the droplets forming, the sting of the air giving another bite to the open flesh. "All I can say is sorry you're bad at choosing who you let in your bed."

[dantecoltrane]

@lrzadie

Dante's thumb smashed into her buzzer. Again. Again. Again. The noise was dragged, enough of an electric pulse from his touch to think the whole place could spark on fire. Faulty wiring they'd say. Lucky that it didn't happen sooner they'd add. Time to rebuild and put the past in the past. But like a man sentenced to spend his whole life locked away, Dante could only be trapped in the agonizing state of the present.

"Stop it," he hissed through his teeth before the door finally opened up, just in time for his hand to tighten around the neck of the one he brought with him. A dog with a bird in its mouth, laying it at her feet, a broken wing to go along with it.

"Who is this?" She would know, no matter what the other had to say, throwing him to his knees to shut him up. "What was he doing walking here?"

[doctorjuliasato]

There was only one person it could be. Only one person who had the audacity to treat her doorbell like a whack a mole where the prize was her glowering at him when she finally did open the door with a yanking ferocity. Looking livid as she finally stopped hovering with her arms folded not giving Dante what he wanted instead opening to find the horrifying but hardly surprising sight greeting her. 

“Jesus fuck, what are you doing?” The man dangling from her on again off again boyfriend’s grasp looking like he was about to shit himself, which was a valid reaction. He’d only left her apartment a matter of moments ago after helping her hang the new painting from the Liddell gallery only to seemingly be accosted despite his innocence. “My lover, obviously. You think I’m just siting around waiting for you?” Dicing with death, it was strongly exhilarating as Zadie looked directly in Dante’s eyes. His name always amusing at this point since his gaze was never far from an inferno. 

“He’s a fucking handyman, jealousy is a pathetic look on you, let him go.” Rippling two fifty point notes out of her nearby purse to thrust in the victims direction by way of silent apology for all this, still sneering at the man standing over him. 

[dantecoltrane]

"What do you think I'm doing?!" What did she think? Here he was expressing himself to her, laying his soul bare for her to see, seeing how far he was willing to go to show how he felt, and what was her response? Fear? Outrage? Ridicule? Dante's jaw clenched repeatedly, working front to back, practically chewing on what was being force-fed to him by her hand. Bitter words refused to be swallowed, one more rotted to the core than all the rest when it should have tasted the sweetest when prepared the right way: lover. It only made him dig his short nails into the back of the man's neck, a ripple of the world's imbalance surging through his fingertips. He strung him up like a marionette's doll, forcing only the head to be yanked up, on display for her. Her lover as she said.

"This is what you're waiting for instead? This?!"

If he thought that he'd be able to scramble for the cash and be on his way, he was mistaken. Dante's free hand snapped to his side, drawing out his own weapon, tip of the barrel scouring its path through his scalp like the block of metal that could crack through his skull with the pull of a trigger.

"How bloody pathetic is it now, huh?" His lips pursed, wetting them as the wave of adrenaline washed over, the calm it brought, the way it ebbed and had his blood rushing. "All I wanted to do was give you those roses," he told her, gesturing with his head to the side, the bouquet that got trampled the moment he smashed them down in favor of the man between them. "But now I can't! Because of THIS!" FUCK! He could do it right here. Right now! Try to stop him! TRY! No. No. No. Don't. He has to know. He has to know which one means more to her. FUCK! FUCK! The gun tightens in his grip. The thought that she'd choose wrong unbearable...

"Roses are red, and so is blood, Zadie… Which one! "

[dantecoltrane]

Ding

It had to be her. The mobile phone was glued to his hand, left an impression from how long it had been held, a callus forming in the pad of his palm from how many times it twisted around in wait. It twisted once more, screen up, lit up and dashing across Dante's face. Nothing. No. He heard that. He knew better. His thumb swiped at it, wild animal that's been taught one trick for the zoo, pouncing through the screens, closing them out, reopening, refreshing, reviewing, flicking off a speck of ash from the cigarette that dangled above by the edge of his lips with revolt.

Good morning

And no reply? It was noon.

Dante's cigarette was snatched away from his mouth, twirled between fingers, the smoke weaving through him. Once upon a time he hated the smell. Hated everything about it. Hated how it made his lungs feel like they were on fire. The cough that always lingered. But she liked it. The burning tip smashed into his thumb, baptizing the thin layer of skin that had covered over the old too familiar with the ritual.

SMASH

Good morning flickered, cracks formed from the impact against a brick wall, now lying helpless in the alleyway. Dante's breath was taken, siphoned out of him, a grey mist expelling his boiling point. For a moment, his mind cleared. He needed that, even if it was witnessed by another… a type of company that was unplanned for.

"I'm sorry about that…" he began, kneeling down to pick up the pieces. "I really have the worst luck..." Second burner this month.

Ding

Eyes glanced up, hovering up at the person for a moment before offering a breath of a laugh. "You wouldn't mind if I could borrow yours for a moment?"

[dantecoltrane]

@lrzadie

Dante's thumb smashed into her buzzer. Again. Again. Again. The noise was dragged, enough of an electric pulse from his touch to think the whole place could spark on fire. Faulty wiring they'd say. Lucky that it didn't happen sooner they'd add. Time to rebuild and put the past in the past. But like a man sentenced to spend his whole life locked away, Dante could only be trapped in the agonizing state of the present.

"Stop it," he hissed through his teeth before the door finally opened up, just in time for his hand to tighten around the neck of the one he brought with him. A dog with a bird in its mouth, laying it at her feet, a broken wing to go along with it.

"Who is this?" She would know, no matter what the other had to say, throwing him to his knees to shut him up. "What was he doing walking here?"

[dantecoltrane]

tw: death (multiple mention, including direct familial)

tw: gun mention

tw: murder mention (multiple mention)

tw: suicide mention

tw: familial issues

tw: domestic fighting mention

tw: drug use

tw: self-harm

tw: memory manipulation

tw: romantic delusions (constant mention. whole basis of the bio actually)

tw: questionable connections

tw: everything that'd make you go 'oh he's actually a creep!'

[spotify to accompany your reading]

The past is the romantic's greatest love for she can never be changed and she can never be touched, only spun and made soft.

Muddling the wrinkles of time are screaming matches. Parent versus parent. Mum versus dad. Dad versus mum. Little ears prick with their thorny sounds. The slam of a bedroom door. The roar of a car engine. The dead of night can only blanket so much.

You're too young to have homesickness trickle from your marrow, but your bones are brittle with loss. Sunsets were warmer, prettier, more vivid. The air was clean, fresh, the smell of rain tickled your nose. Now, it wrinkles it. The English countryside is replaced by car horns, streets sprawling to fit them all and failing. You fit inside the box they call home for you, a window to look down at to see droplets pour down on your dad. He's going to work. There's nothing for you to question when you see the shiny badge left on the bedside table. It glints and it sparkles, lights up those eyes that miss the sunny rays you're miles from.

L-O-N-D-O-N

A pinprick of skin traces around the letters. They're barely letters at all. They're lines and curves and symbols to make a mouth dance around. A giggle bubbles to try to learn their ways, and it brings with it your mum. Before she comes, you've found another toy, cold and heavy, a noisy thing you've found it to be.

Oh, darling past, your nightgown of memory is tattered, baring the bruises on your skin. Mend your lace, pull it closer, cover yourself from prying eyes. Make it hazy, make it blur, make it all go away in the crook of your dad's neck when he finds you. Kind past, she smiles on you and makes it disappear; you never can recall the details, their colors are grey, out of focus, you clutch to the warmth of your dad's arm and snuff out the rest.

You learn too young mothers sometimes do not want to be mothers anymore. Like silk, this is how memory is spun to you. It keeps you innocent. It keeps your dad's job. This must be the truth. It has happened so long ago that it has bred its own recollections, a gossamer veil over its face that you'll never peek behind.

She's ageless, the past is. Gone in an instant, always disappears too soon, missed so much she leaves scars behind.

Loneliness makes a boy very lonely indeed. A boy needs love to make him into a man. She comes in the form of a young woman, introduced as babysitter, molded by small eyes into everything he is missing. Zavi is her name. She forms a new religion with an apostle of one, who clings to her every move. There is no stronger bond that exists. Dante swears to take better care of her than his own mother, left behind with a blister the size of his whole thumb when he helps her with the oven. The discoloration will last him his whole life; he makes sure of it.

Angels are never meant to stay on earth, but they are never meant to be taken from it either.

It will be years later when Dante sees the pictures of Zavi's body in the state it was found. It shatters him more than the broken bones that are photographed. The news ruptures his soul more than his mother's passing, for this time it is not swept away like sands on the beach; he's too old for the memories to find someone else to inhabit; he is locked away with her smiles, her hugs, all that will never be.

A searing pain catches onto his thumb, reignites her face in his mind, the caring flash in her eyes, the redness that crept in her cheeks. Self-inflicted for the smallest of pleasures. Gone too soon, missed so much, only the scar left behind. His days will remain recycling the same feeling, a dog chasing his tail, an addict chasing his first high, a romantic looking for his first love. Aren't they all the same thing?

The one who took Zavi's life away is never found, but constantly looked for. She is everywhere he looks. The clues are all around us. He will find the answers that elude him at every step. The twists and turns of life are by design. His faith is still based on his childhood religion, ever the apostle, ever the believer, praying up to the face of an angel on the mural painted in his neighborhood. Saint Zavi.

His vow leads him into the police academy, falling into the same footsteps as his father before him. This could only be fate, the same fate that allows him to meet Zadie. Even her name is a sign from above, straight off of the wings of the one he can feel hovers close.

The past sometimes ripples outward, repeats herself, disrupts the future, unhinges the present, distorts herself in the process. As kind as she can be, she can be just as wicked.

He follows, a helpless man of make-believe, anointing a god of his own delusions, tumbling into purgatory instead of heaven, a common detour. Zadie's troubles become his troubles. Seduced by more than simple looks, he discovers another higher power by her hand, this one in powder form, one that makes him almost as loyal.

Armed with a badge, the law of the land on his side, he protects her in ways he wasn't able to with anyone else. Drugs that are found evaporate, disorderly conduct is erased, there is no blot too big that Dante won't pat dry, even if it stains his own clothes in the process. He's the figure of a gentleman, laying down his coat over a puddle for the woman to walk over instead of merely stepping aside to avoid. The hand on her back gives her that careful push to make it so. They enable each other whether they intend to or not, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. The weaker of the list is swallowed by Dante in one, starved bite; the taste of bile finds a way to chase each morsel, the indigestion of a fantasy bursting.

The salary of a D.C. is not large, but it's made smaller when spent on the girl he's sacrificed his sobriety for. It gnaws on his mind when the gifts are not returned in kind. The appreciation is not shown. The love is not reciprocated. It's mocked. It's ridiculed. It's downright thrown away. That bile flares, bitter acid that rots his teeth into sharpened points, fangs coated in disgust, ready to snap off in her flesh.

But he can't. She's the last on his list. Zavi can't-- Zadie can't be harmed. It's what's around her that becomes scorched, left with nothing at all, nothing to distract her, to take her, to keep her. This is the will of life itself, a proof so potent it's immortal, tested twice before with no room for a third.

[dantecoltrane]