THE ONLY THING I DO IS SIT AROUND AND KILL TIME

I'm just young enough to still believe, but young enough not to know what to believe in. Jack Farrell. 22. Gravemaker.

[lauradaltuin-blog]

Location: Ray’s Diner Time: 2:30 am Status: Open

Laura had to get away from all of it. From the vigil, the revelation, death, everything. It felt like she drowning in it and she couldn’t reach the surface. She hadn’t felt like it since the day she found out about her parents. The vigil was two days before, but Laura couldn’t shake it. The Morgue even felt like it was suffocating her, the place she called home felt like it was out to get her. That was how she ended up at Ray’s. It had become her escape from the chaos since her freshman year. She set herself up in a booth by the door, laying out her laptop and a textbook even though she knew no work would get finished.

The news blast from earlier that day kept flashing in her mind. The Red Avenger. Who could it be and why did they decide they would be Lovell’s masked vigilante? How did they know who did it? The door chiming caught her attention and made her raise a brow when she noticed who it was. She plastered a smile on her face, pushing whatever thoughts were plaguing her to the back of her mind. 

”The seats open if you want it. But first, you have to answer a riddle. A box without hinges, lock or key, yet golden treasure lies within. What is it?”

[farrelljack-blog1]

Jack had tried to leave any thoughts of the Vigil in Front Square with Marcus’ defaced portrait. It was easy enough to do: he’d lived side-by-side with death for the first however many years of his life. It was even easier to ignore it when it wasn’t his own family bringing it about, when no one was looking down their nose at him wondering what was wrong with him, that he couldn’t.

He ignores unpleasant things. It’s just what he does. He’d put his entire world through a funhouse mirror before, learned how to crack jokes in the depths of hell, and while he hadn’t thought that he’d need to lean on that skill quite as much at Lovell and away from his family, doing it again feels like nothing more than muscle memory.

The Marcus Abernathys and Red Avengers of the world don’t keep him up at night. No, what drives him to Ray’s Diner is the same thing that usually does: he’s drunk, he’s hungry, and it’s open. The most pressing thing on his mind is whether he wants a burger or pancakes.

“A riddle?” He says. And then, because it didn’t seem to capture the depths of his unimpressed state, he repeats: “A riddle? I like you, Laura, but not enough to be taking pop quizzes for you. So can I sit or not? Or, if I sit, are you gonna try and wrestle me out of this booth?”

[julescortes-blog]

Location: Campus, Fellows’ Square Date: January 25th Time: dusk (open to all)

Julian hated getting impatient, but he’d meandered around the Fellows’ Square almost twice now, and the whole thing was getting ridiculous. He was supposed to sell thirty minutes ago this sophomore kid, ‘friend of a friend’, but of course it could never be that easy. He should’ve just went home, but this tardiness and uncertainty was the nature of all drug deals, and Julian hated it. Hated when other people were in possession of his time.

Especially when he had other shit to be doing. Like fixing his car, editing a paper, hell getting up to something if any of his fellow members weren’t busy getting over that circus act of a vigil.  Anything other than shuffling around a bunch of buildings trying not to draw attention and checking his phone constantly. Security wasn’t letting up either, not after the whole ordeal that night. Julian held his animosity toward Abernathy for that reason alone. He couldn’t just go quietly. Death is unfortunate, murder much more so, but everyone who knew Marcus knew that his actions might have…gotten him into a situation he couldn’t get out of. The young man figured, if it were Queens, a guy like Abernathy would’ve crossed many with the means to hurt him. 

Julian resigned to a bench outside one of the old halls, eyes glancing at the pinkish light cast by the setting sun, then pulling out his phone once again. No new fucking messages… gritting his teeth, he sighed. When a figure approaches him fairly quickly he looks up at them wide-eyed expectancy, then lower with a hint of disappointment. Not him. “Hey.” he greets quickly. “You, just gettin’ out of class?”

[farrelljack-blog1]

The campus feels busy, loud. The added security, nosy reporters, and police can’t be that many, all told, but it’s like everyone’s vibrating on a higher frequency, taking up more space. Everything feels tense and neurotic and Jack—hates it. Wishes that everyone would just slow down, chill out. Stop worrying about things they can’t control, can’t change: The Jack Farrell Way.

“Did I go to class?” He replies, the question entirely rhetorical. His GPA and his prospects for graduating in four years certainly don’t thank him for it, but Jack has always taken a kind of lackadaisical approach to college. He never thought he’d end up here, and he still isn’t convinced that his presence is anything more than some great cosmic joke.

And so, a defense mechanism he’d perfected a long time ago: putting in the bare minimum amount of effort so that, should he fail—(or when he fails)—he’ll be able to just shrug it off. It wasn’t like he tried. It wasn’t like he hoped.

“I want a burrito.” Another obvious statement: Jack pretty much always wants a burrito. “What’re you up to? Because if you’re just sitting around, then I’ve got a proposition for you, and it’s—wait for it—burrito.”

[farrelljack-blog1]

thomas-oshea:

“If you want to see it like that,” he replied with an uneasy shrug. This was one of those times when Thomas couldn’t know for sure if Jack was teasing, or if he was being serious. He hated it, absolutely loathed it because he couldn’t figure out whether he’d said something wrong or not. It was unnerving, not knowing exactly what to do.

Thomas glanced at Jack out of the corner of his eye. Not even a proper look, he didn’t want to risk showing the confusion. To make matters worse, he was pretty sure he was fully blushing now, and that Jack would be able to see it unless either of them turned their back on the other. Great.

“You are not fair,” Thomas finally mumbled, the words nearly being drowned out by the noise around them. Nearly, but not quite. With a deep breath, he finally turned towards Jack and gave him his very best attempt at a smile. “You are you. That’s the only kind of person you can be.”

It was a stupid thing to say, he knew it. And he’d probably earn himself a teasing for it. But at least then he would know for sure the meaning of Jack’s words. There would be no doubt about whether it was teasing or seriousness.

Though it hardly ever seems liked it, Jack listens as much as he talks, watches as much as he listens. Studying people is a habit with many uses: the best humor is rooted in truth, in the kind of quick and incisive observations he can make of people; and sometimes, even if it’s only rarely, it lets him know when he should stop joking and shut up.

Now it tells him to back off a little: Thomas is uncomfortable and shifting, and he isn’t going to give Jack what he wants, besides what he takes at tacit confirmation that, whatever Thomas does think about the kind of person Jack is, it’s not entirely kind.

He isn’t sure how he feels about that, someone kind harboring unkind thoughts about him. If he’s offended—if he wants someone to think well of him, even though he knows it wouldn’t be true. Or if it’s a good thing—if he should be somehow proud that Thomas seems to have some kind of self-preservation, the ability to see the world and people as they are and not look through rose-colored glasses, to not be blinded by flirtation and whatever else there is between him and Jack.

It certainly makes Thomas a lot more interesting, to think that he knows that Jack’s no good and is choosing to still hang around him anyway. Jack doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Okay, so,” he says, changing topics obligingly, though he does nudge Thomas with an elbow, silent acknowledgement that, yes, he is doing Thomas a favor in doing so instead of pressing the issue—or, at least, pressing this issue. He’s got no problem pressing another one: “What do you think of this whole Abernathy thing?”

[dvoyd]

What separates the wolf from the sheep is not a matter of good or evil. We all have teeth— but only some of us are willing to use them.

you either bare your fangs or your throat | m.a.w (via dvoyd)

[grayfischer]

Location: Front Square Status: Open  Time: End of the vigil, directly after the portrait was shown

   Most of Wesley didn’t want to be looking when they pulled the tarp down - she’d hated every second surrounded by her fake peers, in this fake silence, giving fake fucking care - the whole vigil was bullshit, her hands were frozen, and the black hoodie didn’t retain nearly enough warmth. 

  Wesley had been miserable ever since her curiosity had dragged her from her room, down the steps reluctantly, and into the chilly winds of the vigil. She’d kept her head down, hands stuffed into her black denim pockets, hair in her face - hood pulled low. Wes wanted to be as much of a ghost as Marcus now was, floating through her classmates, in a sickening silence.. until-

  “Jesus, fuck!” Wesley jumped, heart leaping into her throat and a hand flying to her mouth as she jerked backwards, slamming her shoulders into the poor person directly behind. Her gaze ripped from the blood red words to glare at the person she’d damn near knocked over. “Fuck, some personal space, maybe?” 

  No apology was given, but Wes was clearly shaken, and she only hoped the other couldn’t hear the thudding in her heart drumming through her ears. The picture they’d chosen was shit, even without the vandalism, and all Wes could think was - Finally,Marcus. A secret you never told me. Who did kill you?

[farrelljack-blog1]

With so many students crammed into Front Square, it was easy to get lost in the crowd. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces, it was suddenly easy to remember a fact that he usually forgot: that the Gravemakers were but a small percentage within Lovell, vastly outnumbered by those that lived normal lives rather than one shrouded in secrets and mystery, and a history of even more of the same.

It was kind of nice, in a strange way. He was used to being set apart, but he was also used to people knowing it. In high school, his classmates had had some idea of what it meant to be a Farrell, even if it was just that that Farrells were bad news, and it had only compounded his isolation, to be a pariah both within his family and without. 

Here, it’s different. If he’s set apart—Farrell, Gravemaker, some combination of the two—not everyone knows it. In this crowd, he’s just another body, knowing as little about this mystery as everyone else around him, just as surprised by this act of vandalism as everyone else.

Surprised, maybe, but not as surprised. Not as affected. He looks around him for the expressions of his classmates and peers, studying them, but feels very little himself: this is not the first time that a life that has vaguely touched his has been snuffed out. He doesn’t know the feeling of blood on his hands, but it’s hard not to feel like he has it elsewhere. Another death now doesn’t rearrange his world in any fundamental way.

And, when a body slams into his front, he doesn’t miss a beat in retorting, just as he would on any other day, in any other circumstance: “What about my personal space, maybe?”

[princesconsuela]

[farrelljack-blog1]

s-terlingsilva:

     “Oh, you need me, do you?”

The words are practically a dare, catered directly to her artificially inflated ego, her pride at being the life of every party, the most savage of the beasts that made up their little society. She shifts in her seat a little, closing the thick book around a green highlighter to mark her page as she sits up on her knees and turns to fully face him, a little bit of a grin on her lips, a little bit of a challenge behind her smile. 

She’s not sure when her life turned into every Gravemaker begging her to go do dumb shit with them, but she knows she’s earned a well-deserved reputation for livening up any shitty event, and she has to admit that even if she knows he’s putting on a show to convince her, she’s flattered nonetheless.

She is the best at making fun of people, a kind of remorseless glee that comes naturally to her, that she’s kindled with years of practiced indifference.

     “Well if you need me, how can I say no? Oh, right: no, sorry. We can make fun of it from here, if you’re that keen. I bet Yaz is going to be livestreaming it to his fuckin’ instagram, I can text him and make him find all the people we hate.” 

“Yeah, Silva, I do,” He says, giving her his best puppy dog eyes, then taking it over-the-top—his favorite place to be—with a couple bats of his lashes. He’s pretty sure that she wants him to beg, and he’s definitely not above it: clowns don’t have dignity, and so he’d left his beyond a long time ago, that is if he even had any to begin with.

If it’s a game between them—him cajoling and flattering, her denying him just to see how far he’ll take it—it’s a game that he’s well-poised to win. He’s a natural flatterer, when he wants to be: there’s that aforementioned lack of dignity, and then there’s also his loose relationship with the truth.

And, in this case, it isn’t even untruths, just blatant exaggeration—delivered with the most deadpan, sincere expression he can muster—in the name of making Silva laugh, and then hopefully cave. “I will literally die if you don’t come with me. You don’t want me to die, do you? Come on, I know I’m your favorite after Beaux.”

He doesn’t know that, actually, but as far as he’s concerned he’s everybody’s favorite—placing Beaux ahead of him is just a concession to the exceedingly obvious. And, besides that, he’s banking on the fact that if Silva takes the opportunity he’s offering her to insult him straight to his face, she’ll at least get a kick out of it: “I am, right?”

[farrelljack-blog1]

thomas-oshea:

Sometimes, when Thomas allowed himself to think of it, he wondered if his high school self would have ever gotten as close to Jack as he was now. Most of those times, the answer was no.

Talking to people was hard, some more than others, and Jack had not been the exception in the beginning. But now, Thomas found it easy to talk to him. At least during those few times when he wasn’t mocking or making fun. Which, he knew, weren’t many, but still.

High school Thomas would have never gotten close to him, he didn’t think so anyways.

“Maybe in your room? I don’t know,” he said, looking slightly to the other side. He could feel the warmth creeping up his cheeks and he would do his best to try and keep Jack from noticing. “I just didn’t take you for the kind of person to come to something like this.”

“Is that an insult?” He asks, eyebrow raised, a smile on his face to remove any of the sting that might otherwise have been in his words, show that he isn’t taking any of this too seriously—as if he ever takes anything seriously at all, let alone too seriously. “What ‘kind of person’ am I?”

Though there is, still, a part of him that wants to see Thomas squirm a little. See how much he’ll blush and look away. How much he’ll let Jack get away with. Because Jack doesn’t know and so he can’t help but keep testing. It’s a habit he formed when the consequences were much steeper, when the price for going too far was usually paid in violence. When he found it by cheerfully stumbling over the line that divided what someone could tolerate and what they could not.

He doesn’t know how far he can push Thomas with his own brand of teasing. Has no idea what a person like Thomas would do when pushed too far.

And there’s another part of him that’s just honestly curious. Jack knows who he is—(or thinks he does, at least)—but different people are like different mirrors held up to him: it’s not so much that he changes but that his reflection does. His view of himself does. And it’s novel: for long he’d only seen one thing, and taken it for absolute truth. Now that truth seems more variable: he can be one thing in someone else’s eyes and something else in another’s, and maybe life just about finding the reflection of yourself that you can live with.

And he doesn’t know, yet, how Thomas sees him—so isn’t the nice thing to do to ask?

[pleasantlylostinwonderland-deac]

Visit Original Link

[farrelljack-blog1]

I would swallow my pride, I would choke on the rinds But the lack thereof would leave me empty inside I would swallow my doubt, turn it inside out Find nothing but faith in nothing

[farrelljack-blog1]

Location: Front Square Date: January 23 Time: After the Vigil (@natalbany)

There’s something strange about it: Lovell was supposed to be his escape from his father’s kingdom, a place ruled by guns and violence and death. That death has followed him to Lovell would almost feel like his fault, somehow, if only for the fact that he knows as little about what happened to Marcus Abernathy as anyone else.

There’s something almost unsettling about it: Jack had learned a long time ago to stop crying about the terrible things in the world he couldn’t control, but surrounded by mourning, he almost wishes he could feel more. What he does feel, however, is something that has long since become familiar, almost compulsive: he can’t look at a sea of serious faces without wanting to lighten the mood. He doesn’t know how to let tragedies like this—(if this even counts as one)—touch him anymore.  

When he’s reached his limit, he knows exactly who he’s looking for. Jack is a creature of big laughs and good times, and he’s learned to gravitate towards the people who reflect that same energy right back at him, don’t force him to create it wholesale himself the way he always used to have to, laughing like he didn’t care if anyone laughed with him. 

Nat is one of those people, and so he doesn’t give much care to the last few people he has to shoulder out of the way to make it to her side. After the reveal of Marcus’ portrait, they’re all milling around like gaping fish, anyway. “There you are—thank god. You about ready to get the fuck out of here? I need a drink.”

[thomas-oshea-deactivated2018090]

@farrelljack

Thomas tightened his arms around himself to keep some of his body heat as he glanced around the Square. He wasn’t going to lie, he found the whole idea of a Vigil deeply disturbing, especially considering what had happened to the student they were all there to mourn. He’d spent several hours before the Vigil pacing his room, trying to decide whether to go or not. The idea of just staying in his room was too appealing to ignore.

He’d ended up going anyways. It didn’t feel right not to go, though, even if he’d never known the guy, even if he didn’t like the gloomy atmosphere surrounding the campus.

With a sigh that allowed him to see his own breath, Thomas turned to look around him until his eyes catched a familiar figure standing near to where he was. He moved towards Jack, doing his best not to disturb anyone.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Thomas whispered once he got to his side.

[farrelljack-blog1]

Nothing is absolute. Everything is relative. It’s something he hadn’t appreciated, growing up in a black-and-white world, so certain that he knew what he was and so certain, too, that there was no hope of that ever changing.

But you change the scenery, and everything else looks different. Away from his father and his siblings, Jack looks different. So used to being the lamb in a den of lions and wolves, there’s a part of him that can’t help but relish the opportunity to be the one with claws and teeth. The one that could hurt, if he wanted to, instead of being hurt. Laughing it off. Always laughing.

Thomas is sweet. It’s the only word that Jack can think of to describe him. Jack’s been described as a great many things: weak, soft-hearted, useless, pathetic—but he doesn’t think anyone has ever described him as sweet. It makes Jack feel like he’s doing something wrong, just talking to him, just being next to him. If he wasn’t a member of Pax Aurea, he probably wouldn’t. There’s a truce between their two societies, sure, but that doesn’t mean that Jack can’t play his own games.

“Looks like most of the student body is here,” he says, looking around, a lazy and ever-present half grin tugging at his mouth, the kind that says that if he isn’t making fun of you now, he could be in a second. “Where did you think I’d be?”

[farrelljack-blog1]

s-terlingsilva:

     “Mmm, tempting, but you know I have a very low tolerance for sad people. Walsh couldn’t find his favorite t-shirt this morning, so my quota’s all used up for the day. Maybe next time.” 

She grinned behind the words, the full brunt of it only spilling out at the end of the statement – if anyone could make going to a candlelit vigil for a dead asshole sound tempting, it was Jack, but even with the promise of something as exactly catered to her priorities as stealth pictures of people we hate crying, it was going to be hard to get her to budge from this seat. Usually, her priorities involved not being sober, ruining someone’s day, and having a laugh at someone else’s expense.

But today, she’d really been looking forward to a little peace and quiet.

Ideally, he’d join her. Some company while she went through the tedious process of finding quotes for her paper, somewhere in the mess that was her heavily annotated book. She could use some light conversation, while she worked, and Jack pretty damn close to  the very top of her list for ‘people she’d like to talk to while she was supposed to be working on her dissertation.’

     “Just snap me one of Roswell looking pathetic, if you can find her.

When it comes down to it, Jack isn’t really a rebel. More often than not, deliberately doing something other than what he’s supposed to takes effort he doesn’t really care to expend. He didn’t feel any real need to go to the vigil, didn’t think he’d get anything out of it, but hadn’t even really considered not going until Silva put the idea in his head.

It’d just seemed easier to go with the flow, make what fun of it he could. 

And now, after a truly inspired off-the-cuff idea, he’s convinced that he needs Silva with him for that fun. Sure, there are probably a couple other Gravemakers he could talk into his scheme, but Silva has a special level of viciousness to her that Jack can’t help but admire, want to surround himself with whenever possible. He’d always been taught that words were weapons for the weak, for people like him that didn’t have any others they could wield. But Silva doesn’t make words seem like a lesser weapon. Part of him hopes that, if he spends enough time around her, that might rub off.

“Rude, Silva,” he says, really getting into it now, working up to a truly impressive whine: “Come on, you know it’s no fun to mock people alone. I need you.”

[farrelljack-blog1]

THERE THEY GO, THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE DAMNED....

1. Szerencsétlen Venetian Snares 2. The Other Side Woodkid (I was shaped for the fury now I pay the price) 3. Pays To Know MyPet (Oh, I got you where I want you nowhere to go) 4. The Garden Mirah (Don’t tell me the truth, that your heart has hardened) 5. Glitter & Gold Barns Courtney ( Do you walk in the valley of kings? Do you walk in the shadow of men who sold their lives to a dream? Do you ponder the manner of things in the dark?) 6. Hajnal Venetian Snares 7. Sing It Back Moloko (Now you can't help it if you have been tempted by fruit hanging ripe on the tree) 8. When The Lights Go Out The Black Keys (Don't it hurt so bad, standing in the sun? The bottom of your heart, you don't love no one) 9. Machine Gun Portishead (If only I could see, you turn myself to me and recognize the poison in my heart) 10. Lose Your Soul Dead Man’s Bones (Oh, you’re gonna lose your soul tonight; oh, you’re gonna lose control tonight) 11. Cherry Tree The National (Loose lips sink ships, loose lips sink ships, loose lips sink ships) 12. Everybody Wants To Rule The World Lorde (Acting on your best behavior, turn your back on Mother Nature, everybody wants to rule the world)

LISTEN || ROLEPLAY

[farrelljack-blog1]

👀how are you so cute?

“What can I say? It’s a gift.”

[farrelljack-blog1]

yaz, matias and rachel

YAZ; does social media influence the way you see the world?

“As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t follow me on Instagram, you’re fucking dead to me. Does that count?”

MATIAS; can anger be useful, or does it lead to destruction?

“For some people, destruction is useful. Depends on what you’re destroying. The thing that you’re angry at, or yourself. Personally, it hasn’t ever worked out all that great for me.”

RACHEL; Do you believe that found families share a bond as strong as blood relations?

“Stronger, even. My family thinks I’m a disappointment and a liability. The Gravemakers don’t.”

[s-terlingsilva]

location: the common room of the Morgue date: 23 January time: late evening      ( open ) 

     “Please don’t tell me you’re going to that dumb fucking vigil.”

She’d watched, honestly, more Gravemakers than she’d expected, head out of the house in order to go to the bullshit candlelit vigil from her perch on the windowseat in the common room, where she was sat with an ancient and heavily annotated copy of Thucydides and a rainbow of Beaux’s highlighters, and she still didn’t understand the appeal. None of the lower classmen had known Marcus, and the upper classmen like her who had knew that he wasn’t shit. Wasn’t worth mourning, from what she’d heard about him, from the little she’d seen freshman year of the way he interacted with people, they were all better off he was dead. 

She hadn’t even humored the idea, honestly; she’d heard about the vigil, sure, but had settled in for a normal evening getting some much-needed work done on her dissertation. She’d been neglecting it all week in favor of the Netflix account someone had left open on the house TV, and her advisor was starting to get antsy. But the sound of yet another person heading out of the house was enough to pull her out of the book in front of her.

     “Seriously?”

[farrelljack-blog1]

There was something paradoxical about it: to grow up so surrounded by death, so steeped in it, so as to become inured to it, but still be so completely incapable of carrying it out. Marcus’ death isn’t strange to him. It doesn’t touch him. He wasn’t at Lovell when it happened, didn’t know Marcus at all. The only thing that is strange about it is all this mourning—the grief and the tears and the fear, and the reminder that, for some people, for normal people, this may be the first time that death has touched their lives.

In a perverse way, he’s almost excited about the vigil. Just as a bit of playacting, the kind he’s been doing ever since he stepped out of his father’s world and into this one: Look, I’m a real boy. Horrified rather than horrible. But when that mask gets put on, it will be outside of the walls of the Morgue. Inside is where he’s unfiltered, where he’s less concerned about what his lack of concern may say about him. Where he’s not the odd one out, certain that there are others that feel just as he does.

Like Silva.

“You’re not?” He says to her, his tone and his raised eyebrows rife with faux-scandal, like this is nothing more than another juicy piece of gossip. “Come on, if you come, we can take stealth pictures of people we hate crying.”

[ofhotheads-blog]

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