kind of a mess, kind of a messiah

to breathe the acid of the world, to spit it out and still smile, to beg for more: is it folly or is it holy? ( vaughn 'fizz' fitzgerald / 28 / artist )

[fizz-gerald]

ophelia.

“i try to.” try being the operative word in nearly every situation. in her head she might be able to accomplish any number of tasks, but then reality set in. “i like it because of that—the peace.”  he was right to say so, it was the first thing that had drawn her into the shop, and now it was one of the few places she might dare to go. “i’m not a city girl.” as though it wasn’t obvious from nearly everything about here. she was sure it flashed around her like a neon sign. that she did not belong, never would. “do you?”

Vaughn nodded politely, despite the pounding of his head; Ophelia was kind of person that inadvertently settled his nerves, drawing him out of his shell as much as he felt it was safe to. Perhaps it was because they were both quiet -- both not really city types, he smiled shyly at that, remembering how overwhelming even Cambridge had been when he lived there. “Yeah, um -- I used to come here a lot. It’s good for painting.” That was probably the most he’d said to anyone in a while, gaze quickly dropping in case she decided he wasn’t allowed to speak anymore.

[fizz-gerald]

headcanon list

BASICS ―

full name: vaughn ellis ‘fizz’ fitzgerald

birthday: 3 march

age: 28

zodiac sign: pisces

religion: raised atheist/hindu

religious level (1-10): nope

birthplace: london, england

current residence: new york, usa

height: 5′ 10

hair colour: dark brown

eye colour: brown

sexuality: bisexual, demisexual

love/romantic preference: demiromantic

relationship status: single

languages known: english, marathi and conversational spanish

DETAILS ―

car: nope!

phone: also nope!

music genres: old-school eg. sweet caroline; a touch of gentle classical; nature sounds

wardrobe: anything oversized and soft; alternatively, anything your granddad would’ve looked good in 50 years ago

estimated net worth: probably nothing

ransom value: camilla sold him for $5,000 so,,,,,

BLOODLINES + CONNECTIONS ―

david fitzgerald ― father

rajani fitzgerald ― mother

camilla julia marcella ― muse, torturer

tomas de visser ― friend, flatmate (not really, it’s tomas’ flat lkjflk)

ophelia james ― bakery buddy

LEVELS ―

drinking: 8; more than he looks 

swearing: 2; only on special occasions

smoking status: 1; tried it once of twice in school

drugs: 9; has tried practically everything under the sun, but not of his own accord

cooking proficiency: 5

intelligence: 8; eton baby!

emotional/social intelligence: 3; too trusting and shy

creativity: 10

temper: 1; an unbelievable pushover

[fizz-gerald]

wynn.

the sound he was making was unmistakable, the sign of someone still getting used to their work. “if you’re going to throw up grab a garbage bag!” she pointed to the neat black roll on the table. “cleaning that up would suck.” her tone was still easy, she wasn’t mad. it simply was what it was. “if you can just do the feet real quick, i swear we’ll stop.” she could do the big joints with a saw a little bit later. rigor mortis mattered less then. a knee was always a knee. it was the fine details that had to get done now. and he’d already finished his hand.

“don’t be sorry.” it didn’t do much good to waste time assigning guilt and blame, and more over she didn’t really see the problem. bodies were predictable, running processes that could only be trained away with time and practice. “it doesn’t help.” as though everything could be sorted so easily. into whether it would make a difference for the task at hand. she meant it in the same calm way one might discuss a new paint color. the difference between eggshell and cream. “and we’re on the fence about god right now. but not about the hot chocolate—i didn’t forget!”

Vaughn did as he was told, dropping the secateurs in favour of snatching one of the bags. There was hardly anything in his stomach to throw up, only bile and throat-burning stomach acid; he retched desperately, shame rushing up through his chest, tears welling up and spilling over from the exertion. “Sorry -- sorry,” he choked out, glancing up at Wynn with wide, terrified eyes. Expecting some kind of punishment -- he frowned in dizzy confusion at the promise of stopping, almost unable to believe what he was hearing. 

He almost apologised for being sorry, catching himself and only nodding instead. Picking up the secateurs again, Vaughn started working on the toes. They came away all too easily, plop plop plop onto the sheet; somehow he managed not to drop it, despite how badly his hands were shaking. Despite how sickened he was, hardly able to think straight through the haze of nausea and exhaustion -- the only words of her sentence that really hit home was hot chocolate, head snapping up hopefully. “Really?”

[fizz-gerald]

ophelia.

“you’re welcome.” she smiled, softened at the display, mirroring something in herself. a delicate sadness, some vague feeling that was all too much. she would have done it for anyone, but the return was unexpected and all the more appreciated. “it’s not my place but—i offered.” hospitality at all times, it was all she knew. if a situation was ever uncertain, it was easy to simply default to hospitality; to give pieces of herself, or an extra dessert. “and they deserve the business.”

Vaughn had begun to relax a little, settling into his seat. Ophelia was quiet and kind, not nearly as overwhelming as the rest of New York, rushing by -- it was easy to feel at ease around her. He could even muster a shy smile, nibbling at the edge of the brownie. “Yeah, it’s -- peaceful in here.” Releasing a shuddering breath, he decided to risk a little boldness; it would be easy enough to pass off as polite conversation. “Do you come here often?” The question was tinged with shaky apprehension.

[fizz-gerald]

wynn.

“practice makes perfect!” she chirped as if it had any bearing on the situation that she’d created. she looked at the cuts he was making, careful to mimic their pattern, lest police suddenly get wise and realize two people had cut up the body. that was assuming they ever found it. it was better if it was one clumsy person; a fledgling killer as it were. she liked to cover all bases. it was still somewhat easy work with the body malleable.

“it’s totally fine. really.” wasn’t this friendship, reaching out across the void. here are my hobbies, and don’t you like them too. right and wrong only mattered if she was trying to perform some technical feat, and for what it was worth, she would not have invited vaughn to that. not yet at least. “i just didn’t want to do it all myself.” she looked at his teary eyes, studying him, waiting for it to spark any emotion in her. if there was supposed to be a feeling, it did not spark yet. she waved her own cutters for a moment, as if it was supposed to be inspirational to see that she wasn’t either.“it doesn’t have to be right just don’t stop!”

Practice. Vaughn hated the implication that this wouldn’t be the last time she’d ask him to do something like this -- then again, if this was what it took to make Wynn happy,  he’d take it. If this was what it took to earn her praise; he was so pathetically desperate, he’d take the rolling nausea and the blood beginning to stain his gloves over shivering on a street corner.

He was almost done with the hand; one last crunch and the last finger digit fell to the floor. The secateurs barely fit around the wrist -- Vaughn could smell the burgeoning decay, blood seeping from Clyde’s wrist as he fought to close the secateurs, snap through the bone. It was the same smell that permeated the artists’ rooms in the club, festering wounds and those who weren’t lucky to make it, blurring his vision with tears and stirring the nausea until it all became too much to bear. Gagging, he almost dropped the secateurs, clinging on desperately as he fought back the urge to vomit. “God -- sorry --”

[fizz-gerald]

ophelia.

“oh no, me either.” she twisted a corner of her lip as if it was supposed to be the attempt at a smile. two pastries was a little on the decadent side, but she was only trying to be a good host. forever ingrained in that little southern girl. “but that’s alright.” she made no motion to take it back, assuming he was just being polite, and took a bite of her own. “the point of a bakery is to indulge, right?”

She probably didn’t mean that, not in the way he meant it, at least -- but Vaughn still glanced up, hopeful. The fact that there might’ve been others like him had never crossed his mind, but somewhere in him there was an aching need for companionship. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he murmured, not wanting to contradict her. “Thank you --” two cakes, it was more than he could hope to eat in a few days, choking him with tears at the thought of how little he deserved it.

[fizz-gerald]

tomas.

“Absolutely, let me get that settled,” Tomas moved towards the cluttered spare room - that’ll be something to fix up tomorrow - arms full of a duvet and pillow to settle along the pull out couch, “make yourself at home.” Tomas lightly shrugged, gesturing to his apartment, “sorry.. if I might be shuffling in and out to get some work done.” Watching Vaughn, there was so much he couldn’t recognise or understand, just what happened and why. But the only thing he was certain was that Vaughn was tired, and he deserved to get some rest away from Tomas’ curious questioning. “If you need me, I’m either up here or down at the shop,” he started to clear the dishes, leaving the washing to later and flicked off as many lights as possible, living just one small lamp on, “sleep well Vaughn.” You’ll be okay, I promise.

“Whatever Vaughn was going to say died in his throat, he was so unused to having people allow him to do things. To having people help him -- Tallulah was different, they were sharp enough to make getting a good night’s sleep and an IV feel like an order, but Tomas was just so kind. It was almost overwhelming. “No, no, it’s okay --” Vaughn was just so painfully grateful to have somewhere warm to sleep; he stumbled over to the couch, dizzy and shaky, practically collapsing onto it. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over again, burrowing under the duvet with a shaky sigh. Just the fact that he had a duvet, a pillow, a mattress to rest his aching body almost made him burst into tears all over again -- but the call of sleep was too powerful, pulling him towards the abyss. “Mmm, goodnight. Thank you.”

[fizz-gerald]

tomas.

Even though Vaughn nodded along, the expression on his face didn’t seem to agree with Tomas, and so he stopped pushing it, his own opinions didn’t matter here. He was here to make him feel safe, feel better, not feel worse about what had happened. He couldn’t help some form of aching in his chest simply just hearing the tangled sob from the other across him, only giving Vaughn a brisk glance of concern yet not wanting to put pressure on him to explain any of it. He stared down on the table after placing the pot back down, a silent few seconds passed before Tomas looked up with a soft smile, “I think we should rest after we’re done, it’s getting late, and you must be exhausted,” he stood up to pull out the couch and fashion into a bed, a mental note to be extremely quiet when he woke up in the middle of the night to go back down and start prepping for the morning. But he sat back down across the table, joining Vaughn and taking his own time with his own bowl until they were done, it’s the little anxieties that he was attuned to and wanted to avoid causing. “I’m glad you came by. You’ll always have a place here.”

Vaughn knew he was being pathetic -- knew he should never have come here, he didn’t deserve to take advantage of Tomas’ kindness. But he was so tired, still so cold even in a warm apartment, eating a hot meal. He wasn’t strong enough to say no to that, even if giving in only proved how pathetic he was, how unworthy of his muse. It was only compounded by the offer of rest; he couldn’t help glancing up hopefully, exhaustion evident in the way his posture sagged, the pulsing headache not making it much better. Anything would be nicer than passing out in an alleyway, the night digging its freezing fangs into his skin: the offer almost tipped him over the edge of tears again, only managing a hesitant nod. Everything was a little too much -- all he really wanted to do was sleep, but he tried to stand as well, wanting to help, til a rush of dizziness forced him back down into his seat.

He glanced up again at Tomas’ words, almost disarmed by their sincerity. “Thank you,” Vaughn murmured, the end cut off by a body-shaking yawn. “Can I -- can I sleep now, please?” It was more of a whisper than a question, painfully hesitant.

[fizz-gerald]

tomas.

It always came back to muses. It always came back to the desperate need for them that Tomas couldn’t comprehend, that artists needed them to made amazing art. But perhaps because Tomas wasn’t an actual artist, that he didn’t belong in this world, that he wouldn’t ever truly understand why Vaughn would’ve seemed out one and accepted the circumstances. “That’s.. that’s fucked up,” Tomas muttered, “you shouldn’t have to prove that.” It didn’t sound like some simple 6 month internship or something. Tomas didn’t want Vaughn to feel any shame about that, considering they burned his home for it. “Not to people like that.” Tomas paused after refilling the bowl, wanting to chuckle to make light of a joke, “I don’t think my clothes will be able to fit you outside of home comfort,” but he picked up on the panic that seemed to settle on Vaughn’s face, “hey– no worries, we’ll figure out what you need another time.”

Vaughn’s head dropped, staring at his lap as shame crawled up his throat. He shouldn’t have told Tomas that, shouldn’t have made out like he was the victim, because he wasn’t, he was just a failure who couldn’t do what was expected of him. He nodded at Tomas’ words all the same, polite, but people like that -- people like that were divine, were the only true way he could express what was bursting from inside him, the need to create. The need to make something that reflected the terrible beauty of the world. Now he could never do that; the corrupted bond still held, a toxic ache in his chest telling him unworthy, unworthy, unworthy. He’d polluted something sacred, and now he’d never be worthy again -- a pathetic sob tore from his throat, even as Tomas refilled his bowl. But Vaughn didn’t deserve that, either: he didn’t have any claim to grief for something he’d done himself. The only thing he could truly call his own was the bone-aching tiredness. “No, I’m sorry, um -- we can do it now, if you want.”

[fizz-gerald]

tomas.

The look on Vaughn’s face said enough at the reaction to seconds, if only to confirm the hunger that sat in him, Tomas was glad he subconsciously made a little more than he would’ve. “Arson is still a little much of a punishment for just a debt..” Tomas couldn’t imagine landlords being that angry considering its their own property, and he wondered just what debt it was, money probably. “You know you can always come here if you need help, to pay off your debt,” Tomas wasn’t loaded or anything but he had any rainy day savings, everything meticulously calculated for on his second attempt at a business after the dumb one at 20. And helping out a friend was just part of the calculation. Especially for a friend who’s lost everything. “Maybe after you get some rest, we’ll figure out what you need,” Tomas stood up only the bring over the whole pot with the ladle, setting it down for Vaughn, already refilling up his bowl for him, “some clothes.. a phone..”

A little much. A little much. The words kept revolving in Vaughn’s mind, almost nonsensically; how long had it been since someone had told him he didn’t deserve so much punishment? Months, perhaps. And it was wrong, he deserved every bit, but -- more evidence of how bad he was -- he couldn’t help but cave to the reassurance. “Oh, no it’s not -- it’s not money, you don’t have to --” He was quick to jump in, perhaps too quick, but he had to let Tomas know he wasn’t going to be a burden. “My- my muse, we made a deal.” Taking a shaky breath, he tried to bite down the panic that came with revisiting that night. “I had to last six months in there, to prove I was worthy of her.” And that was all he could say about it, glancing shamefully at his lap. He’d failed, he wasn’t worthy of anything more than what he’d been left on the streets -- certainly not more soup, his eyes wide with surprise when Tomas refilled his bowl. They grew even wider, tinged with fear, when he started talking about clothes, phones, more things he didn’t deserve. “It’s okay, really -- I don’t --” Now Vaughn felt slightly sick, too much, too fast. “I don’t need that.”

[fizz-gerald]

tomas.

The downplay was easy to sniff out just by his smile, his words, because he would’ve been the same way, brushing it off as nothing too bad. Tomas simply gave an empathetic smile in return, in the unspoken underlying saying, I understand. It was bad. It was nice seeing Vaughn enjoying his food, rewarding even, just to know he could feed people, make a difference, bring some joy even if it was just a bowl of soup. “I’m glad, there’s more in the pot if you want seconds,” Tomas gestured back to the stove, leftovers were simply going to go into the fridge for a meal he wouldn’t have time for to eat. He quietly ate, listening as Vaughn began, “no one deserves to watch their home go up in flames..” He wasn’t sure how much he could drill that in before it backfired, a deep concern running through counting the number of times he’s said that. “I am surprised though, that they didn’t try to contact you about it.”

The longer Vaughn sat there, the more the warmth of flat and soup penetrated his frozen, aching bones. The less on edge he felt, no longer stiff and wary, but melting into the warmth of the chair. He didn’t deserve this -- but his mind had already come up with an excuse for what his body so desperately desired: Tomas wanted him to stay, so it was his job to fulfil that want, just as he fulfilled the muses’ every desires. Mentioning seconds had him glancing up, hopeful, wondering if he’d done enough to earn them; his bowl was already half-empty, Tallulah’s warnings about eating too fast on an empty stomach gnawing at the back of his mind, but easily forgotten. “I haven’t paid my debt,” Vaughn murmured, a little reluctantly; if Tomas knew how bad he was, he probably wouldn’t let him stay. “I think -- it might’ve been punishment for that.” He sighed, realising how far-off the person he used to be felt. Was that Vaughn even real, or just a mask he’d come to believe in? “I don’t know, maybe they did try. I didn’t have a phone or anything.”

[fizz-gerald]

tomas.

While his focus was on the soup, Tomas still paid attention from the corner of his eyes to ever so often catch a glimpse of the other, cautious to watch over him in case he fell over again. He didn’t, but instead stared at the fridge for quite awhile. Tomas went about his own thing, not wanting to pressure him, until a bottle a picked, “good choice, I made that smoothie this morning,” though he didn’t have the time to actually have it then, “uh– I hope you’re not allergic to anything.” Smoothies are such a mix bag of disasters when there’s too many ingredients. “It’s no problem at all,” Tomas flashed an understanding smile, noting the sheer amount of times he’s thanked him that night, while odd, he could maybe empathize with it. “That’s good, it’s still so cold at night around New York right now,” He commented as he gestured for Vaughn to dig in, starting himself with a stir and a lift of a spoon. Tomas couldn’t imagine how the homeless brave it through the winters. How Vaughn braved it through the winter. “Did you know.. how the fire started?” After a small break into a lull of a silence as they ate, Tomas tried to softly approach it again, why would anyone burn it all down.

Vaughn glanced up that the praise, some desperate, pathetic hope. He should thank Tomas, but there was a lump in his throat, so he nodded instead, quick and grateful “It’s not too bad,” he was quick to say, though his jutting ribs and exhausted smile said otherwise. It was bad, cold and dark and terrifying in a way he’d never appreciated before -- but it was also what he deserved, so he had no right to complain. Yet slowly, the comfort was chipping away at his resolve, the soup was warm and wholesome, eagerly accepted by his empty stomach. He hadn’t tasted something this good in months, not sure whether to drink it before it was taken away from him or savour it. “It’s -- it’s really nice, thank you.” The question about the fire gave him pause, though, remembering staring up at his building as it burnt. “I’m not sure.” Privately, Vaughn suspected arson, just another warranted punishment. “Maybe there was an investigation, but -- I wasn’t there for it.” He’d been sheltering in an alleyway, rocked by the loss of his paintings, a pain that cut deeper than anything the muses could do to him. “I don’t -- mind, really. I probably deserved it.”

[fizz-gerald]

wynn.

she only paid attention in the peripheries of her own work. the fingers would be quick work, done precisely and with little effort, especially not when compared to a knee or elbow. she glanced over after one finger was done to see that he was staring back at her with an emotion she couldn’t place. it was probably one of those sad ones, cropping up and ruining people from doing their work. she found it hard to distinguish the given humanity of a situation. clyde was dead but she hadn’t killed him, if anything she was making him more exciting. it took some getting used to.

“come on. don’t feel bad!” she took a stab at what it could be. not so much empathy as a clean solution to the problem that he was going to present if he didn’t actually cooperate. more accurately, if he backed out now. “he can’t feel a thing.” she poked the body, let it roll slightly with the force of her movement. dead weight, crinkling canvas and nothing more. “and i really did need the hand.”

“I -- I’m sorry,” Vaughn managed to choke out, fighting down nausea. He’d been bad, was she going to punish him? Images, sensations of the muses flashed back, glancing down shamefully at his scarred, fingernail-less hands. “I’ll do better,” he murmured, picking up Clyde’s hand again, shoving the next digit into the secateurs. If this was what he had to do to avoid punishment, to please her, he could do it.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Eyes closed, Vaughn desperately snipped the joints as best he could, refusing to let himself think about what he was doing. Mutilating a body, just like he’d been mutilated -- but he deserved it, he barely qualified as a person anymore, if ever, just a broken toy. Even though he knew that to be the truth, the thought still hurt, tears spilling past his closed eyes. When he opened them, he didn’t dare look at the body, or even the cold hand in his. “Is this right?” Despite the nausea, the dizziness, the bone-deep chill he still hadn’t shaken, he was so desperate to be good.

[fizz-gerald]

ophelia.

“a brownie. sure.” she gave a weak smile before standing up, returning to the counter once more. it was not that she wanted to give him anything he asked for, or that she was looking for something in return. it was because he remembered the brownies, thought that they were nice, that they were pulled from a better past. because the past was always better. “here you go.” she set the plate down, cluttering the table with her offerings of comfort. when in doubt there were always baked goods. “can’t go wrong with something to eat.”

Vaughn glanced up when she stood, half-thinking she was going to leave. He shouldn’t have asked for it, it wasn’t like he even deserved the tart in the first place -- but his breath caught when she placed the brownie in front of him. “Oh -- thank you.” Looking at it brought back memories of his past life, before his muse: now he could see how he’d never been worthy of that life. “I don’t -- I don’t deserve it, though.” Even those words came warily, watching her to see if he’d said something wrong.

[fizz-gerald]

tomas.

There was a relief in hearing the shower turn on, to know Vaughn was okay, and taking the offer. He tried to not let his mind wander too far into the why’s and how’s, knowing the overthinking would send him spiraling. Just season the soup, salt, pepper, stir, taste. Forgetting how long he hadn’t eaten either since that morning, but yet it couldn’t be as long as Vaughn had held out. He heard the shuffles from the door and Tomas flashed a small smile, seeing him looking better already, “oh you can leave your clothes in the laundry basket, we’ll do a wash tomorrow, and um– yeah, if you could pour us something to drink, whatever you want.” He nodded towards the fridge with two empty cups already sitting on the countertop beside it. While everything downstairs was business property, everything up here was free game. “Hope you like cream of mushroom..” Tomas turned off the heat to pour out two bowls of comfort, “it’s a lil secret recipe mixed with French onion,” creating this recipe back in the Paris days for those sick, cold nights when nothing seemed edible. Placing them on the small island, he brought over the sourdough bread that had been heating up in the pan. He took a good look at Vaughn finally as he sat down, not being able to help the laugh, “it really is too big on you, sorry.”

“Oh -- thank you,” Vaughn did as he was told, at least he could cling to that much instruction: clothes in the laundry basket, then he shuffled over to the fridge, pulling it open. Then, he faltered, blinking at the different available drinks. So much choice, this much agency was painfully foreign, and he felt his heartbeat begin to lurch as he tried to work out which one Tomas would like most. For a moment, Vaughn stood there, fixed to the spot by mounting anxiety, his vision tunnelling slightly. He couldn’t do it -- but he’d been told to. He had to. In the end, he just closed his eyes and grabbed the first bottle he found, hopefully a smoothie would be okay. Pouring the drinks, his hands shook dangerously, a mixture of anxiety and exhaustion, but through sheer determination he managed not to spill any. “Uh -- yeah, that sounds lovely,” Vaughn mumbled; his stomach flipped slightly at the sight of it, yet it smelled so delicious, the promise of food enough to overcome the nausea of an empty stomach. “Thank you.” Even if it was perfunctory, a reflex drilled into him by the muses, he meant it this time, sliding into his seat with a small smile. “No, it’s alright -- I don’t mind. It’s warm.” 

[fizz-gerald]

tomas.

Tomas tried to be tentative with his movements and voice, conscious of the trembling and jumpiness from Vaughn, almost a complete shift from the Vaughn he first met. What the fuck happened? His mind reeling at all the terrible possibilities, even as he told the other not to worry. “yeah? I think I have some really good mushrooms..” Tomas carefully led him to the bathroom as he quietly thought aloud, flicking the light on and grabbing a fresh towel. Cooking was the one thing he could do right, it was easy to fall back into it if there was nothing else he could give, he could always give food. “Take your time in the shower, the soup might take about 20 minutes, and– holler if you need anything..” he gave Vaughn a reassuring smile before giving him the privacy. Soup was easy, everything on auto pilot for the recipe he already had in mind, slicing mushrooms and dicing onions, always keeping an ear out for Vaughn just in case. The apartment was quick to have the aroma waft through - of mushrooms and caramelised onions and toasted bread.

“Okay...” Vaughn whirled around as soon as the door closed, but it was too late. He was alone again -- probably for the best, but the numb loneliness came rushing back, even worse than before. Turning the shower on, he didn’t bother to wait until it warmed up; he didn’t even deserve to be there, let alone use up the hot water. Even the cold was soothing, the dirt sliding away from his skin and dribbling down the plughole. Looking down at his body, Vaughn felt a twinge of shame: his ribs jutted out under his skin, hipbones far too sharp and prominent, lined with scars. Most were from the club, burn marks on his stomach, the whip scars on his back twinged painfully as the water began to heat up. Each one was a token of his suffering, but now a token of his weakness, unable to pay the price his muse demanded. Some of them were from the streets, fresh cuts that dribbled blood down his legs.

Once the shower was off, he dried himself, biting down a wince as the towel ran over his cuts. Vaughn took a shaky breath, glancing at himself in the mirror -- he looked tired, haggard, but at least clean. And as much as he didn’t deserve it, it was a relief. The clothes were too big, yet soft; he found himself tearing up at the feeling of comfort, gathering up his old clothes and stumbling out. “Do you -- need me to help with anything?”

[fizz-gerald]

wynn.

“of course you don’t!” she laughed, how was he supposed to know if she didn’t show him. she knew it wasn’t everyone’s favorite hobby, but the fact he was so willing, that was good enough for her. “choose your weapon…” there were plenty laid out. she took a pair of pliers that looked suitable for yard work. she sat down next to the body, pulling the hand onto her lap, bending the still movable fingers. “feel for where he bends, and then you just—” she pulled the first knuckle of the index finger in between the blades and then snap! the tip of the finger fell onto the canvas. “the big joints might require an electric saw. but we can save those for last.”

that’s why there were two of them after all. “ideally there would be 360 pieces but, i’ll forgive a few inaccuracies with this guy. he’s more of a fledgling killer’s first foray than anything serious.” just to see if it was possible, if it would be worth the effort to stage a body in such a precise way. or maybe she’d through him in a pool. there was time to make such decisions. “make sense?” she held the pliers out expectantly, as though because it was her first choice it would naturally be his. “or do you need another demonstration?”

“360 pieces.” Vaughn repeated it numbly, still trying to take it all in and not give in to the urge to gag, heavy at the back of his throat. The worst part was that it did make sense: Wynn had given him a set of instructions, so he would carry them out, even if his hand trembled as he took the pliers.

Glancing down at Clyde, Vaughn’s stomach rolled all over again. He couldn’t do this -- but he had to, even as his vision began to spin he picked up the other hand, feeling for a joint. Pinky finger. Easy. No worse than dragging the bodies of his friends out of the club; Marlowe liked to make him bury them, seen as he sometimes survived. But they never made him mutilate them, never made him shove the joint between garden secateurs and --

Crunch. He heard something plop onto the canvas, opened one eye to see the tip of Clyde’s finger lying on the canvas, small spray of blood beneath it. That was the last straw. Suddenly, Vaughn felt like someone was forcing their hand up his throat and he gagged, reflexively clamping his lips shut. His desperate eyes said sorry, but he didn’t trust himself to speak, only stare at what he had done, fear, disgust, guilt all bubbling with the nausea that swilled in the pit of his stomach.