@lieslikescars → closed starter.
Thin lips inhaled the content of a single Marlboro Red, trained eyes both observing and analyzing his own surroundings as confusion seemed to pass through Thredson’s mind. As expected of any Halloween night -- or post, for that matter -- people could be seen wandering around in costumes; some in a clear attempt to become frightening and others shockingly enough for the psychiatrist to classify those individuals as nymphomaniacs ; or to have a tendency for such. Nevertheless, there was something different about the place’s aura, modern equipments that he was never familiarized with before. He’d try to understand, to place every single action.
A haunted house it was, with foolish representations of ghosts and monsters. That very same date had, by all means, the most ironic meaning of them all. Humans dressing up as creatures they’d endlessly fear and try to hide from just oh so much. Yet, the young doctor did not seem to answer his very own questions over how certain objects of this area appeared to be so technological, neither how, and he’d think of it with a certain hint of disgust, so much skin was being shown. For him, it was something almost sacred ; a part of the human body that should have a proper kind of care, the right amount of touch and by no means it should be overexposed to the sun. Ah, but an overexposed epidermis was by all means despicable.
Footsteps were given forward, the tip of his cigarette almost burning to it’s middle. Oliver Thredson felt, as in a very, very rare occasion, controlled. And oh, how he absolutely despised such a thing. To not have the slightest idea of current happenings was something to be inflicted upon his victims, not himself. A small glimpse of interest, perhaps some kind of conclusion, appeared on his eyes as soon as he spotted someone. Not just any person, however ----- he knew her just so well to be true.
Ah, now she was the one that got away. The one he’d once thought to be the one to tell his story ; no, he knew she would. Lana was too ambitious to ever let the opportunity to tell the story about the infamous Bloody Face simply slip through her fingers. All he needed to discover was how she wrote it. To see yet again the one responsible for his demise was something he’d craved for far too long, albeit the doubt of his return to life still remained unanswered. Clearly, Oliver was not amused.
“Such as the ultimate cosmic joke, there you are... We meet again, Lana.”
He knows you would return.
theartofmadeline
stormborns
discoholicmusic
origamiaround
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
