As much as I hold a high affection for Hwan I will be needing
a minor break from him, this is only because of a series of
circumstances that had occurred to him and myself. That being
said I'll be else where till my motivation has returned. -kari
You’d think the ground would be too solid to
get any real digging done, so why is there an
ugly mound of dirt right in the center of Hayley’s
backyard? That’s odd. It would be too much of
a hassle to get anything done out there in the middle
of February, so she’s very intrigued as to what could
possibly be lingering under the dirt.
Speaking of lingering, who’s that lurking around
the back fence? She definitely doesn’t remember
inviting anyone over. What is going on? The sky
is dark and it cloaks the person in nothing but a
deep shadow, but Hayley is still unafraid. Even after
she wanders out across her yard and sees the man
is carrying a shovel in his hands. Oh, got it.
This stranger has chosen her house as possibly
some sort of burial ground. Lovely. Didn’t even
invite her outside to watch the burial? Rude.
Her throat clears, her arms cross, and
she stands her ground.
❝Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?❞
'Sweetheart', it's what his Mother calls him. It's what she says
whenever he was in trouble so when he turns to look at where
that voice originates from he expects to see her. However he
doesn't, he never will. Since she hates him, despises him.
Disappointment sags on his face before it's buried inside him.
Now was a time to answer for he was a good man who had
nothing to hide. Yes, good. Gripping the handle of the shovel,
closer to him and farther from her.
"...leftovers?" It's not a lie, hell it might as well be the truth. Inside
were clothes, bones and miscellaneous bits that would serve their
purpose later...just not now. There was no room to spare at his
apartment, not when he already had little to no room in a place he
shared. "It's nothing, really." This time it's said with more assurance,
more charm. A smile for a final touch, only a hint of a strain in how
forced it was yet it was believing enough. Even if by a little, right?
He didn’t have to answer, she knew he wanted. Of course he wanted it. He was a boy who wanted the world, and everything he couldn’t have, and she was a girl who would do everything she could to give him _everything _she had. She steps closer, but he steps back. It cracks a smile across crimson painted lips, shocking in contrast to her porcelain skin. “Let’s not play cat and mouse just yet” she mumbles, but allows him another step.
Eyes busying themselves with his appearance, Arabella toys with the tips of her hair, spinning stray tendrils around her little finger, just how she’d like him. She only stops when he presents something so beautiful, so breathtaking, so ethereal.. Body motionless, words stolen from her throat, all she can do is stare. and stare, and stare until finally, finally she turns, albeit slowly, and gathers her hair away from the nape of her neck, a silent gesture for him to _crown _her with the bones of the dead.
No. Yes. NO. YES---- His body moved before he could settle a consensus on not to touch her, hands dropping the scarf and only holding onto ornament that would wrap around her slender throat. That sweet and perfectly bare neck, clear from anything except a few tendrils of her hair that weren't caught by her. His breathing hitches, voice caught in his throat as fingers graze against the bare nape. It took every ounce of control, every fiber in him not to grab hold of it.To see his fingers choke the life out of her, those dark eyes finally...NO! NO! NO! NO!
A blink and he was back to where he should be, in the present. Finally he adorns her with the collar, styled to her liking. With her back still to him, he is able to fix it and clip it securely around her. From her neck hung the bones of those who didn't get to live another day, of those they honoured by using every part of the, "Utterly beautiful."
Delectable he says. She smiles small. One day he’ll say the same thing about her. At least she hopes. Perhaps she’ll not be able to hear it, not in body perhaps no, but in soul, she’d watch as he licked his fingers clean of her, as he set her body free. He’ll uncage her one day, she hopes, but not tonight. No. Tonight they’d paint the town red together. Hand in hand.
”Hm—” it’s more like what’s yours is mine, what’s mine is mine, you are mine, these are mine, everything is mine. “Something like that.” she let’s him have it because he can’t have her. Her smile twitches, and curls wider, a brow piquing at the smell that beckoned them both towards the kitchen. She’s reminded of the mess she’d left due to the way he’d raked the mountains of his knuckles against her front door. She doesn’t want him to see, and so stands in front of it, and turns to glance over at him from over the slope of her bare shoulder. ”Wood will splinter” a comment directed to the way he brushed his fingers along her belongings. “Metal will rust.” a sorry excuse for the stink of copper.
But then he leans in, he leans in and she forgets to breathe. What are you doing, what are you doing, what are you doing? She keeps composure. Shoulders held high, chest forward, chin up. The rise and fall of her chest only resuming once he speaks, Soon after, she follows. “Want yours?”
It goes unnoticed by him that she was anything but composed or maybe it's an oversight he makes willingly because what they have is 'normal'. It's 'safe' and there is no way it would be anything more than that, unless it has to be. Unless it meant one of them crossing over to a side where only one of them could linger without the other. But he continues the charade, the act of two people able to coexists without one being d e v o u r e d.
"Yes, I do." I want a lot of things, but this will suffice. It's unsaid, it held too many strings attached and would tangle. He gives in to easy words, to easy actions. A step is taken back, or two (who's counting?). His hands needed to be busy, busy, busy. Shoved into his coat pocket, pulling out the scarf that encircled her actual gift. This time around he does not meet her gaze, instead it is focused upon what was in his hands.
Focus. Curling fingers around the cloth, being mindful not to allow to drop the contents onto the floor, he dangled it towards her. "For now take this, 'else it'll go to waste." With urgency now threatening to be heard, they needed to be distracted. Till they were back outside, then he couldn't care less of what was said or not said. What was done or not done. Only that they would strike, that they would destroy and that they were 'together'.
Often Hwan is plagued with blackouts, a habitual event that happened since his mother had died. And the occurrences had tripled when his father had passed as well, so it is to no surprise that one moment he found himself at his dorm then coming to at the edge of the woods late at night. There is no memory to be found, rather it was like a long deserved nap was taken. Except it came with it's own price, that price being that he was left dirtied and bloodied. There is no serious injuries sustained from what he could tell ( except the painful throb on his temple ), this isn't my blood. It's what keeps him calm for a few seconds albeit the insides of his stomach begin to twist in a nervous fashion. If it's not his, who's is it?
His breathing hitches, he can't see it but the crimson markings aren't only on his clothes and hands. It paints his face and coats his hair, he's a mess and he doesn't know to what extent. All alone in the great unknown without a soul to help him, without a soul to speak to him not even the dead. Or so he thinks. It's what he thinks, what he believes. That is until he finally accesses his surroundings, he's not alone. He never was. A girl was there and he was just a boy, just a boy. Without even thinking he blurts out, "What happened to me?" His accent is thick, despite speaking well in english which only adds more anxiety on his part.
It had been already several months since Hwan had found himself living with other people outside his comfort zone. A man who was kind or cheerful, he can't tell. Either way he's nicer than most, nicer than his usual companions so it takes him a minute to ever process what they say or do. And he lives with a woman, a woman who is never around for him to speak to. Thankfully. Yes, thankfully. Either way they were all a mix of people who lived in this apartment, keeping to themselves when they could. The only one he makes conversation is with the man, Yoseob was it? He calls him 'Seob, it's shorter. Easier.
Over time their bond had grown, a good friendship. Or whatever one could call it really. It's hard to call this a 'friendship', it's all advantageous for Hwan to connect with people and use them... right? Right. For he was unable to perceive what had been fabricated and what were honest feelings, what was an act and what was legitimate. Yet here he stands by the door of his 'friends' room, it took all his leftover energy to get there. To walk straight with falling to the floor, to not have a fit of coughs or laughter. It took strength that he did not know he had in him. All to place a single stupid flower encased in a jar by their door. It's not even a real flower, but a flower that Hwan had taken time to make with paper alone. A dedicated fool, a simple fool for doing such an act.
The flower was not perfection but it's meaning was, as it stood supported by it's own wires. What he meant to create was a single white Anemone. In the bible these sprung forth when jesus had died, though it was red rather than white. In most eras of history white meant the end of one life---- and the beginning of another. It was perfection. It was not to mean the Yoseob would die, oh no. It was a gift to leave behind for it mean that Hwan was well aware that his time was running short. It was a gift to be the prelude to that.
At least this artificially handmade flower would remain undying.
With that he retreats to his room, not bothering to leave a note or to knock the door. There was nothing left to be said, this was enough. This had to be enough.
She’s always taken his insults as a form of endearment, always will do, she expected he did the same, for when she called him dirt-mouthed bastard she really meant beautiful idiot. They just clicked like that. She wasn’t complaining, she enjoyed it, thoroughly. Ah but then his insult mutates into a compliment and she knows, she fucking knows he’s not talking about her any more. “I know, good enough to eat, right?” there’s a purposeful inquisitive tone, it’s somewhat mischievous and she lets the door swing shut behind him. It slams. Makes a statement. Lets the neighbours know who’s boss.
”That’s because we always make a mess.. and you know how I like to keep this place clean!” Still, there he stood, dirtying the place up, and there she was, letting him. Clair de Lune plays off somewhere in the background. She’s put it on, on purpose, always plays the same thing when he steps over the threshold. It’s their anthem.
”I’d say make yourself at home but—” she pauses, turning, only to gaze over the slope of her shoulder (she likes how she looks like that) down at the mess his shoes make. “you already have” it’s hushed, almost inaudible over the sound of her high heels clicking against the wooden flooring, but it grows quieter with each step she takes away from him, until hidden away in the kitchen. She suspects he’ll follow, if not her, than the smell of what kept him salivating.
"Delectable." The word slips out, dripped in hidden connotations that only she would be able to understand. Taking one last intake before a noise pricks at his ears, his attention now captured. The soft notes of a familiar tune surrounds him like a familiar blanket, it springs forth warmth and memories. It's a tune he knows well, knows by heart. Lids droop, his face mirrors that of one in rapture. The same same expression only ever seen late at night when crimson scores his face in splatters.
"I understand--- ah? It's not like you mind, right? What's mine is yours, what's yours is mine." That's both a lie and the truth, both were far too greedy to share much with each other yet they still did when they had to. Like now he was making her home his own, it would be dirtied in moments if she left him. A single arm outstretched, fingers long to destroy and discard. Twitched and twitched as they brushed against the furnishing of the home as he followed after her.
A haphazard curve now touches usually frowning lips, leaning close to her and the distance almost minuscule. "Want your gift?" It's pride that blooms in the crevices of his chest, pride because he knew that his gift was to die for. A tribute of unknowing devotion and he loves it for it represent everything she would like, or what he hopes she likes.
love is supposed to be raw, it's supposed to be dirty, it's a sin.
"No. You fucking lyin' serpent. In the bible it says 'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.' hm?"
He remembers every passage, every verse. It was battered into him, forced into his mind. If he had not been a mortician one would assume he was a priest. Though he was anything but that. Lips now curl up into a victorious smile, whites showing but it's too vicious to be kind. Too vicious to be friendly. It's who he is, a beast. And he knew what he was deep inside and not even Lucifer's messenger can say otherwise.
The first set of knocks are sudden (not to mention loud enough to wake the fucking dead) enough to startle Arabella. A reddish brown coated spoon clattering to the white tiled floor, signal enough that she was present. The substance drips from the silver of the spoon, pooling against the pristine white, and she hates it, until she sees the red, and it’s tainted, and she loves it. Takes a moment to watch it, even with him stood outside, waiting in the freezing cold, she takes a moment to acknowledge the smidgen of chaos amongst the orderly.
But then the voice she’s become so familiar with calls out to her, disembodied, clawing at her, to pull her closer to its source. Oh and she so willingly gives in. Steps soft, follow a voice so melliflous to her ears lead her towards the oak panelled door. Delicate fingers reach to the handle and she twists it left, then pulls back firmly, and sure enough it yields to her touch, obedient to her desires. “You look terrible” she lies through her teeth, the truth caught beneath her tongue. “get inside.”
" Yeah? Well you smell---- ah? you smell fuckin' good." It's not a lie, as most of what he says these days are lies. It's the truth. He knows this scent, it's the smell of happiness and fitfulness. It's metallic like iron yet all too appealing to him. Saliva begin to pool in his mouth, a reaction that is almost instinctual. God, how he would love a drink. Too soothe his always &constantly parched throat. Surely she knew that within an instant he'd pick up the heady smell that these two often find themselves covered in.
" I haven't been here in a while, usually we're at my place... or outside. " It's more to himself than to her, the inside of her place far more pleasing to the eye than he suspected. But of course this was not odd, Ara had always been a classical woman with a defined taste that set her apart from most. Enraptured he was, even as he automatically removed his coat once inside. Dirtied shoes kicked off and left by the door, already he would make himself at home. It was his nature to do so.
" NO. " It’s scream, or rather more like a rushed whisper. He can’t tell. Either way that would be a bad idea. That was always a bad idea. A very bad idea. After all his history is bad, his history is terrible. For his feelings would never reach heights of affection that most crave and there are several things that Hwan won’t ever give up.
I. What comes first to Hwan is mother dearest. Even if mother is never there. Even if mother hates him. Even if mother loves him. Mother is first and foremost his only love. No one woman will compare, for who can beat the image of someone who is dead? II. Second comes himself. He is first, he is his before he is if he is not his mother’s or anyone else. He won’t allow someone to label him as their own, he may lead them to believe so but he won’t agree to it.III. Thirdly, he is hungry. Always hungry. His need to eat, to eat the flesh and to drink sweet red nectar. His hunger now will be directed towards her and her alone if he even once allowed himself to commit. For what greater show of ‘romantic’ feelings ( if he has any to speak of, since he does not believe in having them ) is it when you eat the one you’re bound to? Don’t most want to become one—— to be together in one body? So if he eats her, if he devours her then he honours her. It’s not murder, it’s not murder. He’s done it before, to sweet Eunhee and loyal Jaeho. They wanted to be with him in their entirety. They make him whole but now he’s empty again. So will she be next?IV. And would her needs ever be met, if there are needs? He meets his by lodging a sharp blade into the gut of another. It’s sexual, it’s sinful. The insertion of smooth steel into soft flesh. Piercing skin, blood spilling. IT’S BEAUTIFUL. For people look most beautiful when they are dying. V. Lastly, he’s too dirty. He’ll always be dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Lucifer is trying to claim him and he is fighting a losing battle. She should not be dragged in, she’s already too dirty as it is. She surrounds him in his own filth, don’t taint her anymore. Because the filthy shouldn’t be roaming the earth. No, oh no.
But if he listens, if he listens to these voices what good will come of this?
I. He might be able to finally find the meaning of ‘two souls together’. It’s a line he’s heard from the widowed, from those who lost an important partner. II. He might be able to find out what’s been plaguing him because Ara has more answers than he does. And she would share everything with him.III. What good will come from this? She might kill him and end his misery. And since it’s not suicide, then God will let him pass the pearly gates to paradise, right? She might give him the solace he wants, he might be with his mother.
It’s a voice that belongs to no body, to no present being. It appeared and disappeared, left to the greater unknown. The voice is too mono-toned to be pin pointed, which only caused a bout of clammy hands and stomach left in twists. Was it his mother? Oh how he hopes it is, dearest mother. Was it one of the recently deceased who continue to plague him like they always had? Who was it? It made him anxious, Hwan was always gifted with answers before now he was left with nothing but questions and loud silence. But he responds, for he had always been one to obey to them. For now at least.
”Every rose has it’s thorn…so she’s a part of me.” It’s not a definite answer, there would never be one. For the concept of dating is horrendous but that does not mean there could be bonds built.
”A bond built from death and ruins.” that’s so fucking poetic isn’t it? she would have laughed. The answer is just that, as it was and he covers his ears with his hands. To silence them, he doesn’t like questions about himself. Doesn’t like them being personal. Because then if they dig a little more what if they found his weaknesses?
Knuckles hit against the wooden door, time tick into seconds as he wondered if he should have messaged his arrival to her. But a surprise would do good for her, after all it was a trophy. Often Hwan would never take a belonging from the dead, but this one was special. Really special. It had been taken from the very first 'meal' that they had shared together. Kept for a reason or another that he could not explain, not precisely anyways. But it had been tweaked, alterations made for his deadly thorn. The metal work replaced with the remains of the same body it came from, carved to to perfection. Coated with lacquer that made it look almost metallic, a trick of the eye if one was unaccustomed. But she'd recognize it, she'd see the difference.
" Yah...Ara I know you're behind this fuckin' door, answer it. " A pause, no answer yet even though he had knocked minutes ago. What could she possibly doing now of all times? It was fucking cold outside. "This gift is going to be thrown away." A threat but it remains untrue, still stuffed in his pocket wrapped in one of his scarves. Hidden till it would be the appropriate time to bring it out, if there would be a time for it. If there ever was one.
The room reeked of rotting corpses, of blood, of deprived hunger. Jin’s sense of smell had long ago lost direction of what smelled good and what smelled awful. He’s accustomed, he’s accustomed to it all. His body never once trembled in the presence of the dead, he never once flinched at the sound of bones cracking, his eyes never once hindered in focus. It never happened, not since he met Hwan. He’s devoted to that man in the long run and it showed in his work. Every puncture, every cut, every slice was clean and precise. He was a painter, his knives were his paintbrushes, and the bodies he came across were his canvas. Despite his small bouts of vocal distaste, he secretly enjoyed it. And he knew Hwan did too.
A direct order was made to perform a careful dissection, carving out a human heart and keeping it in perfect state. There was no difficulty in the task, Jin never found trouble when he worked with his hands. But if there was one thing he found taxing—it would have been the man resting on his shoulder. Hwan was impatient. He was needy and he was hungry. Hovering over him like a second shadow, constantly reminding Jin of what to do and how careful he needed to be was only making his concentration break. “..Sir, I cannot focus with you breathing down my neck. Be patient, I’m almost done.”
" You've been doing this longer than usual." An edge that shares similarities of a growl had peeked through, Hwan had not noticed that he was too close to his apprentice only that his annoyance was now paramount. Too close for either of their comforts, but more often than naught an empty stomach left one blinded. The constant ache clawed against his stomach as the scent of blood is pungent in the room. The smell of rot is noticeable but had offered only comfort, a smell that is the prelude to a soon to be sated hunger. There is one thing that Hwan had been time and time again had tried to perfect but failed at miserably. It was his patience, a virtue that he had lacked when 'meal time' appeared.
How Jin dealt with this remains unknown to him, though the younger does not refrain from reminding him that no one else would. But this left room for the other's words to be ignored, for when did ever make life easy for Jin? " Just make an incision over there. " More blood will gush, as if there wasn't enough in this room but Hwan was a glutton. More crimson till they could bathe in it, a desire that had to be met even if it would cause a mess.
It is LOUD as it is QUIET, a complex contradiction that would never be fully explained as it should be. Unable to wake up from this dream or trance (he can't tell). It felt surreal as if this couldn't possibly be happening, not while he was conscious at least. This was surely just one of his nightmares that had been plagued him for the past few nights but--
' GOD save me, save me. please. '
But who says that? Is it the man who's body shook or the person by his feet.
Who was it? The voice was too indistinct, there had been no certainty. &so
it was left to the unknown on whether he knew who it was or not.
' I don't want this to end here... '
It has to be the person on the floor, on their knees and prostrated in submission. On their knees as it dug into the cement with blood spilled over it, it stained them. Is it them who begged? Begged for a life that was surely outdated and no longer of use, a death would be a blessing to them. To their sorry being that held no purpose nor person to care about it. Death if anything would be a way to honour them, honor their FAILURES.
Why are they being so pitiful?
Isn't that just pathetic,
isn't that so fucking weak.
He laughs, but there is an uncertainty if it is him or not that makes such a distorted noise that is reminiscent to that of beast. Head thrown back, neck arched back &oh so vulnerable. A scratchy noise escaped from parted lips. It's like black static, it's spills &won't stop. Seconds pass and become minutes, then those minutes rolls into what feels like hours. The continuous laugh that heightens with each octave and melding of other noises was almost deafening. It won't fucking stop. MAKE IT STOP.
WHY WON'T IT STOP? IT'S TOO LOUD, IT'S SUFFOCATING.
Then it did, just as he wanted to scream it ceased to be. There is a moment of clarity. It's almost like it wasn't even happening as he watched his limbs go lax, the screams cease &there is an uninterrupted silence. Was it all imagined? Was he losing his grip again? These events seem to occur more &more, where scenes in his mind would play out but only nothing had happened. Surely this was the same then?
It was, it was, it was !
Right he was, right he had always been. This time, the setting shifts back into the embalming room of the mortuary home. The light bright as ever, the body placed on the porcelain table. Not a body he had touched, not a body he knew. No, oh no. It's far from that at this point. They were a man that is unrecognizable, a man who had obviously suffered a life of poverty and hunger. Not someone that he would have not even think to touch, they were too wild for his tastes. Yet there they were DEAD. And at this point Hwan did not have time for trouble, did not have time to piece together what his mind wanted to offer him. For his imagination was his weakness, it only offered false visions. Visions surely sent from Lucifer himself ! This was a trap that he would fall into, his faith in his only lord was too strong. The only thing mattered was that he had to dismiss it and get to work. Be diligent, be focused.
For once his hand stills as he applies his gloves on and starts the process that he knows all to well. With this it offers him a piece of information he had forgotten, this body was given to him as a gift to hone his skills. The details were unnecessary. It faded into the background with every necessary incision and intake of breathe. The air was stale with disinfectant and blood, it was comforting. It was soothing, it was like his mother's touch. There were no more fits of laughter or hands that quivered as if in fear. He was who he truly was, a mortician. More so as he slit them open, his scalpel did not make any unnecessary cuts. It was beautiful to see the beautiful colours of crimson, oh how lovely. Careful as ever, keeping in mind to give a six point injection, after all he had decided to remove the organs ( that he might have wanted to try ) and did not want to ruin his art in progress
That is until he reached the stomach. It was an oddity in it's own right. Bloated in a peculiar way, as if it would burst from the seems if anymore was in it. It couldn't just be food, that would be stupid to assume that, but then what was it? Delicately he used the sharp point of his scalpel, the blade was not dull and easily slide across the stomach. Using only precise movements, nothing unnecessary. Liquid spilled from it as do numerous amounts of pellets when fully opened, why in the world would anyone swallow this? One was brought up for closer inspection, twisted open to see the contents only to find white powder to which was probably not at the very least 'medicinal'. But what caught his eye was that on them was an insignia.
God, it caused his stomach to churn, brought forth memories of a complicated time of his youth. A time in which Hwan had lost as he had given, a time in where he would have been in all most cases been considered a 'normal' ( & good ) boy. He can't seem to remember it well, the memories have long faded out & burned in several areas. But...but he remembers that symbol, he'd seen it in a house. An old friend, a forgotten one.
For he can't remember their face, as if purposely smeared away. Anything from that time period should be earsed, including those who helped him remain some type of normalcy. But now that he had an idea of who owned this he wished he had never picked up the stupid body and made his companion work on it instead. His lust would be the end of his as well as the knowledge gained from inspection.
[ sms: rose. ] We both know that you’re not kidding.
[ sms: rose. ] chop chop, don’t keep me waiting.
She exhales a breath of warm air once her message sends, pockets the nifty little device as her breath fogs in the cold. She’s told him not to keep her waiting, but there she stands upon the patio, waiting, for what feels like eternity. Though in reality, has only been a matter of moments. Perhaps she’s nervous? The butterflies in her stomach beat their wings furiously until she feels almost nauseous from it. Her body shakes a little, she assumes from the cold—perhaps something else? She doesn’t bother to look into it. She does however, make an effort into scanning the streets below for sight of an old friend, until she spots him. Illuminated by the light of the moon. She can’t help but smile, and lean her body over the railing of the patio, her arm extending to present a curled finger, beckoning him up towards her silently.
The messages were read but never replied to, instead he stuck to remain halfheartedly hidden. Though he'd never admit it, too stubborn to do so &far too prideful, he found himself bound to listen to her. Maybe it was the fact that they shared a bond that transcends most, only crafted through a series of events. So when she beckoned, he 'obeyed' though it looked anything but that. There was no expression to be found except for the hint of a smile on terribly chapped lips and then after a while he found himself standing in front of her. Both of them obviously a little too cold but all there. How long had it been since these two saw one another? He could not fathom, only that it brought out a more childlike excitement in him.
" Ara." Her name just rolls of his mouth with ease, he keeps a good distance ( just an arm's length ) but this was the closest he'd be with a person. It's what their bond allows. " You look terrible. " But by terrible he means beautiful, by terribly he means divine. He just preferred to pick on her, a habit that came with years spent knowing one another.
{ sms - rose } because you didn't fucking cook it properly... I think i've got food poisoning.
( sms: thorn. ) i cooked it fucking well, fuck you. you'll live.( sms: thorn. ) maybe this is karma for destroying all my pants.( sms: thorn. ) i mean want me to come over? I'll take care of you.
