i, carrion (icarian) @eclvpses - Tumblr Blog

⸻ maya hawke, 26, cis woman, she/her ; ] … the photo on the missing poster is of ROSA SAMUELS. they are TWENTY SEVEN, and have been missing for A MONTH. when the sun rises, they work as a PRESCHOOL TEACHER. rumors in town say they can be JUDGMENTAL and PERSPICACIOUS. they chose to live in THE TOWN-HOUSE, and have an uncanny resemblance to ARYA STARK (game of thrones), JOHN MCCLANE (die hard), & LISBETH SALANDER (girl with the dragon tattoo). can they survive another night ?…⸻ overalls splattered with glue and paint, being tough as nails with tears in your eyes, scoffing the second a man opens his mouth. [ ⸻ bri, 27, est, they/them, n/a;

please be cautious, below are mentions of religion, cancer, death, and missing persons!

#helltownfmsintro #religion tw #cancer tw #death tw #missing person tw #HEHEHEHE IM SO EXCITED

baarra

Her flaxen stitch-work mantles itself raw. Hemming every which way before returning, waned in sight of the body’s cloth-hook cross, to the frays that pulls undercast gaze aboard. To make hackled pelt of winter wool. A wolf gravitates in its laconic disquiet, all the same, to this cornered storm-song. Her locust-eaten nerves seethe within her untouched eyes. The smooth shroom-cap of her salt-water film. It barely remembers its groove: a birth-welt that must reside there, and collect from spilling lashes. At tear’s behest, for the urge becomes you: to shed salt-water from its duct. Something long flattened and contracted by your darkest solstice. Painted with needle-point, by a father-pinch and his bitten tongue. Right at the pupil’s centre. Weaving moon-silk into each ebb of light. To let sight in, unfettered, like the gum-gaps of a mutineer’s teeth. Their slow-peeled lip, bereft and atilt, among the neck’s breath-drowned valley. Sin, making a chamber of its echoes. Your eye would scream, eternally, once exposed to its closed chin. But for his careful hand, that could cradle little else. Hushed. Rocking. At every daybreak, its sharp rays on the windowed morning dew, you would steady his butcher’s knife. You would level wrinkles from his bedsheets. For him, you would walk his forgotten aisles, and flick his heavy-heat stove off. All of this to coalesce, finally, into a trifurcated rule. I KNOW YOU. The un-suffered contuse that exceeds your body from itself. And, once again, disrespected by a hasty reprise. She is capable, only, of a raw contact, like a twice-molted rattlesnake. How her graven hiss shudders — vulnerable to its continuous invoke of him — lowering to a decibel that precedes tooth and char. Beyond even bone and root and air. Beseeched by her sylph screech. Quiet, yet pervasive. For whom the wind-wisp tolls.

Ah, another seared chant, bodily sung. A hand on the forehead, over the heart, and upon each shoulder. You and I, it would hum. These overlap, again and again, until they crack in finger-joint intervals. You, I, and. And I— you. It’s a mad scramble over each other, gorey and knobbled, on the woodland ground, like their bedraggled, blithe distant cousins: ivy and rot. And worse, it unmakes the uttered you into a verb, gestating the fine petals of potential. Adither. Bespoke. Tethering you back to the failed I. Her, hewn here to what you’ve started. What you must finish.

She leadens her tone. She aggravates the branch-post, shackled by rope once-called a leash for this unmade dog, where there should be restraint. The entrails’ detour from husk to wooden shed. The tree brush awakens. It would swallow her, gulpless, like a lamb to spitty bog. But. What more could she say from the bear-trap? And more importantly, what could you do but quell that mutton hunger? THIS WON’T HURT. With your own hands, you splinter the rule to suit a living language. Follow her gall with nocturnal absolution. It chokes a chuckle from you. One, two, three crests, petering into each other. HA, Ha, ha. Dense like skin. Mocking her half-light. ‘ That right? You know me. ’ A cursory shake of his head. His eyes widen a fraction, derisive, as his stride enters her breathing space. To make a nest of her storm-front, the hearth of frantically shattered twigs underfoot. THIS WON’T HURT. Like his footfall could offer comfort. His head cants, unabashedly genuine in its question. ‘ What do you know? ’ He jerks his head back to the carrion. ‘ That I share my food? That I won’t leave you in the light, alone? How monstrous of me, to be kind. ’ She couldn’t be alone when scruffed. A bare three strides separate them now. He won’t pass the threshold. He would need a third invoke. ‘ Know me, then. What have I done— or will you only guess at what I’ll do now? ’