I, CASSANDRA

the heart? ember, ash, or a flower.

[daredevildaily]

[derangedrhythms]

Margaret Atwood, Interlunar; from ‘Nomads’

[ofaguilar]

ODESSA ;

date: june 11 location: odessa’s office availability: closed to @ofaguilar​

Odessa had often thought about the similarities between her and Ramona. She could remember hearing the whispers of Ramona’s torture and how it had mirrored her own. She knew the two of them were seen as weaker members of the mob even as they continued to follow orders and fight for the Montague’s victory. She also knew how the two of them had orbited each other in their social circles. The two were like parallel lines— always close but never quite touching.

And yet, this assignment showcased their differences. Odessa’s role was a backseat position. She would strategize the plan, but she wasn’t to enact it herself. She would never see the traitor die by her methods. No, Ramona was tasked with being the executioner. They didn’t question whether or not to go along with the assignment. They didn’t question if abandoning the mob was truly worth such a death sentence. The only question that lingered between them was a simple question.

How would it be accomplished?

Odessa’s hands clasped together on top of her notes. She had thought about the different ways they could enact their plan. She knew the mission had requested that it be done quietly and away from prying eyes, and Odessa quietly thankful for the direction that allowed her. She had entered the mob as an emissary, had dealt with dealings and brokering peace far more than violent missions. A quiet, more discreet method far suited her strengths.

“I have an idea on how to tackle our task.” Her hands shifted to the sides of her notes as she gathered them together. Truthfully, she had been collecting these notes far earlier than the assignment, but she’d tuck that piece of knowledge away. “I was thinking we could use Reaper’s kiss for the job. It’s untraceable, discreet, and it shows off what the Montagues have been working on.” A pause fell between them before she allowed her eyes to focus on Ramona’s. “What are your thoughts?”

The weight of the upcoming mission anchored her where she sat, possibilities upon consequences upon horrors all bound to one another and strung along a chain-link that dangled from Ramona’s neck in a thick, rattling mass; spilling forth across the back of her seat and coiling into a phantom bolt nailed into the ground -- the inevitability of the predicament binding her to this point of no return well beyond the commitment she harbored towards it. Ramona swallowed against the brush of metal at her throat, then leaned into the weight.

Her reprieve didn’t survive the tremulous breath she snagged, however; cut down by the merciless tug on her neck at the resurrection of a nightmare that she had hoped would remain forever buried -- reaper’s kiss. Ramona couldn’t help the stiffening of her expression, soon ruptured by the slowly spreading fissure of a frown as Odessa began to relay the advantages of the infamous concoction. Untraceable. Discreet. Where Odessa saw subtle mastery, Ramona only saw pestilent brutality; contorted faces, foam-filled mouths, bulging eyes. Such was the unforgiving end marking the otherwise unblemished path paved by the reaper’s lips; branded onto the black walls of Ramona’s mind as though she had once received a kiss of her own, cold and bruising, pressed languorously to the crown of her head.

She had been among the soldiers tasked with monitoring the effects of the poison and ensuring its prowess in the early stages of production, back when Lady Macduff had been nothing more a shadow huddled into the crook of Damiano Montague’s charred wing. Ramona had never been the one to wield it, though, and the thought of doing so, especially within the realm of her cruel mission, left her scrambling to steer Odessa away. “I... “ Ramona paused, biting her lip as she struggled to imbue her words with composure. “I agree, it would definitely be efficient, but... is it really necessary?”

Eyes gleaming earnestly, Ramona leaned forward, hoping to appeal to Odessa’s sympathy as she sought out her gaze. “I’ve seen the effects of the poison firsthand, Odessa. It’s... horrible. The sort of anguish that’s beyond anything I could describe,” She muttered, looking away with a mild shake of her head. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, let alone one of our own. And for what? Making a choice?” Incredulous, she leaned back, though her gaze never strayed from Odessa’s. “The Don wants them punished, and so they will be. I understand that. We can’t stop it. But we can at least spare them the pain, let them die with some fucking dignity. For once, the situation is in our control, and I say that’s how we should use it.”

[wnq-writers]

Like the eyes, the heart too has a way of adjusting to the dark.

Adam Stanley  (via wnq-writers)

[ofaguilar]

KATARINA ;

She writes the first letter the night she decides to quit. Katarina spends half an hour staring at the blank sheet of cream stationary in front of her, the silence of her apartment broken by the incessant tapping of Auroloide resin against the top of her desk. She makes two cups of tea: the first goes cold between her hands before she can manage to write a word, the second absentmindedly finished before drawing the curtains shut. It’s been an hour. 

When she finally sets the nib to the page, the words flow from her more easily than she would have imagined, thoughts sealed in ink that spreads quickly across the page— her penmanship is a sharp, scrawling cursive and it’s only after she reviews the page she wonders if the recipient will find her writing legible enough to read. The few tear drops she quickly blots nearly prompt her to rewrite the entire thing, but she thinks it would seem disingenuous to rewrite a letter. 

Putting to paper all she can’t seem to speak aloud, the letter goes like this:

8 maggio 2019

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll wake up and realise it’s all just been a horrible dream. I’ll wake up and they’ll be right there, holding me through the aftermath of an awful night terror. They’ll call me silly, they’ll tell me I have nothing to be afraid of because they’re right there. They haven’t left me. At least I know I won’t forget them anytime soon. But how could you ever forget the people you love?

What does it feel like? Your grief? Will it feel like this for you, easier to admit how you feel as you write, rather than speaking it aloud? Maybe this is silly and overdramatic. Maybe you won’t write back at all.

I’ve never shied away from expressing my own thoughts aloud, but… The idea of verbalising how I feel… How I STILL feel… It seems too much to speak into the world. It seems too vulnerable a thing to do. And it feels awful, living without them. They should be here next to me. Half of me is missing, and what’s left of me doesn’t want to learn what it’s like to live without them. But, maybe that’s a selfish thought— everyone says that they’re in a better place now, that they can’t ever be hurt again. But I want them here next to me. I want them warm with laughter and flushed from wine, I want them to be with me. 

They say this program is to help manage and process grief. I wonder how that’s meant to work.

-L

She signs with the initial of her middle name, thinking it rude and finding the page looking terribly empty without a signature at the bottom. The letters are supposed to be anonymous, Katarina knows, but it seems wrong to not sign at the end of the letter, and writing the initial ‘K’ would be a little too obvious. Dropping the letter off at the center early the next morning, wondering if she’ll receive a response. And she wonders, too, if there’s a danger in any of this. 

@ofaguilar

Curled up on the couch, thumb pressed to her lips as she anxiously gnawed on the rough skin around it, Ramona eyed the pristine envelope at her side. She hadn’t expected to receive anything, especially as she had been certain that she would not be the one to write the first letter and initiate the correspondence. She hadn’t even wanted this -- not entirely. It had merely been an impulsive decision spurred on by her return to the bereavement group at the community center. It hadn’t meant anything then, and it shouldn’t mean anything now.

Except it did. In fact, the moment carried such magnitude that it left her daunted and fearful; so overcome that she couldn’t even bring herself to hold the letter for long, let alone open it. Yet soon enough, she found herself reaching for it regardless, tugged forward by the pull of some nameless emotion stirred deep within her heart. She read the letter, and within minutes, Ramona was fetching a notebook from her room and settling back on the couch with a pen held in a trembling hand. She took a deep breath, and then she began to write.

Dear L,

Funny. You didn’t think I would write back, and I didn’t think you would write at all. It’s interesting that we both ended up here, despite our doubts. Do you think that says something about us as individuals, or as people in mourning? I have no idea, to be honest. I often find it hard to tell which parts of me are defined by those I’ve lost and which parts are entirely my own. I hope that confusion isn’t something that we share.

You describe your grief as an absence. Mine doesn’t feel like that. It’s an overwhelming sort of presence, the kind where I can’t sleep without feeling those I’ve lost around me, can’t go anywhere without carrying them with me, can’t do anything without hearing their thoughts and reactions whispered in my ears. It seems like we share the inability to put it into words, though. I think this might be the first time in years that I’ve tried to describe it. I admit, it’s frightening to know that I’m sharing all of this with a complete stranger. I wonder if I’ll actually send this out, or if I’ll decide against it at the last minute. I guess we’ll both find out.

I get what you mean. Even though for me, it’s not about the vulnerability of it so much as it’s about all that it takes out of me. It’s hard enough to live through it day by silent day, so the thought of adding onto that by speaking about it is just... it’s draining just thinking about it. I’m so tired of being broken over it. Tired of the tears and the guilt and the pain. Believe it or not, I consider my grief a comfort in a lot of ways, but where I am now, it just feels heavy. Too heavy.

I know we’re strangers, but thank you for trusting me with your thoughts. You deserve to have your loved one with you. And I’m sure they deserved better than to be stolen away. I’m sorry you lost them.

- R

[lifeinpoetry]

This grief is a hurricane / that passes and passes. / The eye. The storm. The eye.

— from Chorus, eds. Saul Williams, Dufflyn Lammers & Aja Monet (via lifeinpoetry)

[ofaguilar]

PAOLA ;

JUNE 1 AT THE TWO GENTLEMEN — closed for @ofaguilar​

The legends of The Two Gentlemen preceded it. When she first dove into the murky depths of Verona’s history and gossip, it was one of the first Montague myths she uncovered. Once, it seemed to be all smoke and mirrors, a tale to enchant the senses while the truth ran free. She knew about the Tamora, the cocktail with enough pomegranate to summon Persephone from Hades’ cold embrace. She could only imagine the decadent lounges, offering enough privacy to commit a thousand crimes without suspicion.

Paola never expected to be a part of their lore. The rich scent of cigars put out long ago lingered in the air, thin wisps of smoke that cost more than her monthly rent still curling in the air. A place for a family gathering, she recalled one Montague saying, voice thick and warm with fondness she did not understand, you’ll know you’re one of us when you’re invited to The Two Gentleman for a drink.

That may be true,  but Ramona welcomed Paola to the fold long ago. She had been one of the first to extend their hand as Paola stumbled blindly in the tunnel, and Paola had yet to release it. Especially now, with the sight of Henry half-dead on the floor of his home. The sterile coldness of the hospital still clung to her. Perhaps the rich wood and warmth of The Two Gentlemen would force it away.

“We haven’t had the chance to talk for some time, have we?” Paola realized it too late, with Ramona standing before her and a million losses between the two of them. “How have you been?” She had heard through the grapevine that Ramona and Valentina had been close. “I thought I saw you at the party last week, but I lost track of you.”

She was more a Montague now than she had ever been, and yet she still didn’t belong. Even as she sat in the Two Gentlemen, caught in the strokes and coils of the very symbol of Montague comradery, Ramona felt as though she was merely standing on the outskirts, tracing it from afar. An observer. An outsider. A drop of blood shed and forgotten rather than an iron-woven string tying the strands of the Montague heart together.

But when it came to Paola, that conviction was only ever challenged. Unlike Ramona, she had been welcomed into the fold as though she were a wolf cub returning to the den with teeth flesh-speckled and freshly-bloodied -- as someone to be valued, embraced, and admired; as someone who had always been one of their own. Yet despite that, it always felt like Paola was hovering at the edge right alongside her, just as much of a stranger in the eyes of the Montagues, yet someone keenly familiar in Ramona’s.

They had always circled each other, from the moment they had stumbled into each other’s paths on a quiet night beneath the mournful Veronan sky, up to the moment they had stood at each other’s backs on a day of war, deep in the belly of the beast. It was for that reason that Ramona couldn’t help but smile upon being joined by the woman, wondering what had set Paola on her orbit this time.

When she spoke, Ramona hummed in silent agreement, gaze running over her glass alongside a wandering finger as she traced the engravings around it. “I’ve been well. Or as well as I can manage to be, but... it’s enough.” She shrugged, looking up and breathing a halfhearted chuckle at Paola’s following words. “Yeah, I didn’t stay that long. I waited for a chance to come and talk to you but then I just had enough of that party,” She rolled her eyes in glaring aggravation. “It wasn’t something that I wanted to be a part of, to be honest.”

“Congratulations on your promotion, though,” Ramona said, clasping Paola’s hand for a warm moment before she let go, expression sobering as she eased back. “Was it something that you wanted?”

[my-angel-my-stars]

[ofaguilar]

EVERETT ;

date: 05 June 2019 location: Cimitero Monumentale time: 23:34 status: closed for @ofaguilar

There’s something about graveyards half an hour to midnight.

The sticky heat of the Italian summer has long since peeled itself from the sun-baked city with torpid reluctance. A moonless sky drapes velvet-smudged high above city streets that sleep as fitfully as the dead. These are witching hour times in novels, when ancient things slink from evil slumber around the cracked foundations of mausoleums and sinless men slip into dreamless sleep safely tucked in bed. Once upon a time, Everett would have thought himself to be the latter, but nearly twelve years have passed since he guiltlessly walked the earth; the hard callus he’d grown over his heart to deny the fact untimely ripped from his flesh as he lay dying under Matthias Warren’s iron fingers.

And so, he stands.

It’s been a quarter hour since the mountains swallowed up the moon as she’d dipped too close to the horizon. The cemetery whispers quietly, like a lost channel on a radio, bare whispers of conversations flitting in and out of static. Everett listens silently over the soft white noise — the Adige rushing in the distance, music playing from an open window a few streets away, wind sighing in the birches — and imagines, for a second, that he can hear Maeve’s voice. He can’t. He knows this, standing at the edge of her days-old earth. He’s not sure why he imagines it, either, given that the attempt does nothing but twist his grief deeper in his chest — and yet there’s something refreshing about it, like the wide-eyed alertness spurred by the bite of winter wind.

Not enough to stay, he knows. Not enough to trust. And perhaps, if his ex-fiancée was correct, he was a detriment to Maeve until the end, the ghost of his fingers pressing against the girl’s as she’d slapped a magazine into her pistol. Everett crosses his arms over his chest, uncrosses them, then places a thin bracelet next to the now-wilting flowers that cover her grave. A token she’d left at the Penthouse once, one that brings him more pain than comfort.

“I’m sorry I’m late in returning this,” he murmurs softly, words sputtering out under the night sky to a girl who’ll never hear them.

She had always found sanctuary among ghosts. Even though it was rarely ever safe or peaceful, it was where she belonged. She had clung to the shadow of her father’s looming specter until she learned to find serenity in its vast emptiness. She had gathered the serrated curses and caustic accusations that spilled tar-like from her brother’s coal-stained mouth until she learned to plaster them across her skin and draw warmth from his punishment. She had swallowed the ashes trickling from Valentina’s gaping eyes until she learned to build her strength from their burning sustenance. She wasn’t sure she could even survive without the haunting of her loved ones. And perhaps that was why she was here -- as just another form of survival.

However, the same couldn’t be said for the man who lingered a few gravestones away; his drawn, mournful expression starkly at odds with the blankness of still, tranquil defeat that Ramona’s own expression had been wiped down to. Yet that wasn’t what had drawn her gaze towards him; instead, it was a faded sense of familiarity, a tug on her memory from a distant, far-reaching corner of her mind. It had continued to elude her with every skirting glance she stole until at last, she had recognized him. It was that Capulet from la purga, the one who had stood against his own comrades for the sake of helping her. She had come to know him as Everett Craven since then, as his was a name that rang with endless echoes within the ranks of Capulet emissaries.

It was strange to look upon him now, pulled from the grand heights of his title and reduced to a man not unlike any other in Verona, gripped by his loss and broken by the knowledge that it wouldn’t be his last. It made Ramona wish that she could comfort him somehow, despite the blaring warning of her heartbeat, which had waned into a distrustful stutter the moment she contemplated his allegiance. After all, they were suspended above the battlefield that marked them as enemies to one another. Here, they were simply two people seeking the company of the dead.

A moment of roiling reluctance, and then Ramona was slowly walking over and coming to a stop beside him, keeping a respectful distance between them as she looked down at the grave. Her gaze slowly drifted over the wilting flowers and the bracelet before coming to a stop upon the name of the person to whom they belonged. Maeve Petre. She didn’t recognize it, yet she empathized with the silent man at her side nonetheless. Taking a breath, she whispered, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

[theoptia]

Hilda Doolittle, from Helen in Egypt; “Leuké”

﹙ Text ID: the heart? ember, ash or a flower, you are Persephone’s sister; wait—wait—you must wait in the winter-dark;﹚

[ofaguilar]

at the center of a wound still fresh // @leonagw​​ june 13th, the cathedral, mid-afternoon

It wasn’t the first time that she was venturing into the nest of reapers huddled amidst the ruins of the Cathedral, and yet there was a heaviness to her footsteps; a hover in her stance and a dullness to her eyes -- as though she was cast into the vacuum of the deep with cinder blocks anchored to her feet, slowly and aimlessly sinking into the pull of her reckless decision to leap into the roiling waters before she could ever be dragged into them. Yet despite the irreversible path, the fall was ultimately her own -- and so was the surrender.

Although the destination was not within her control, it had been Ramona’s conscious choice to seek it out regardless, and such was perhaps the sharpest difference to cut into the boundary between this visit and the one that had come before it. Back then, Ramona had been driven by enforced obligation and the belief that she had no choice but to commit to it, whereas now she was being propelled into her firm, unrelenting strides by a conviction wholly her own, and a willing acceptance of the fact that she had been the one to cultivate it, not the Montagues nor the Capulets nor Verona and its wicked, winding games.

She had vowed to do whatever it took, and she aimed to keep that promise, no matter how difficult it was or how ugly it seemed.

As she made her way towards Leona, she remained trapped behind the same drawn, dreary visage, and indeed, she dreaded the notion of her purpose here and the daunting shackles that dangled from it -- yet the fact remained that she had taken all these steps without ever coming to a halt; she never stopped sinking. “Good afternoon, Leona,” She greeted as she came to a stop before them. “Ramona Aguilar.” She declared with a nod, ever-reluctant to claim her ill-fitting moniker. She hoped Leona would recognize her in spite of it, though she was quick to realize how pointless that would be. Although she was familiar with them through their product, Leona had no reason to be familiar with her -- or at least none that Ramona could imagine. “I need some of your poison,” She looked away, hands briefly clenching around her arms where she had them crossed against her chest. “I’ve been ordered to use it in my upcoming mission.”

[megairea]

“when I am asked whose tears these are I always blame the moon.”

— Lucille Clifton, from moonchild; Blessing the Boats, 2000

[ofaguilar]

between one loss and another // @santodomingos march 28th, ramona’s apartment, early evening

The scenery of her living room breathed with the image of a night not unlike any other. The curtains shivered at the touch of the breeze as it trickled in through the open window. The kettle trembled atop the stove, the light crackling of its lid swallowed up by the hum of life beyond thin walls and the drone of the television on low volume. The light from the kitchen spilled outward, draping across the couch where Ramona lay in the dark, curled on her side, eyes trained on the window.

A night not unlike any other -- yet one need only glimpse the details of it to realize how deceptive the sight truly was. The window bore no light, offered nothing by the moonless night outside. The kettle carried a morose tune as it eased into a soft whistle. The kitchen light was faint, defenseless against the oppressive darkness pressing in all around it. And Ramona was both blind and numb to it all. She eyed the window. The kettle continued to whistle. She blinked slowly, aware of nothing but the sleep-eased rhythm of her breath and the blackness around her. The kettle began to shriek; she couldn’t hear it. She could only look to the sky, and mourn the absent moon.

Perhaps Valentina had stolen it in her passing. In a final retaliation, in a desperate farewell.

A knock sounded at her door.

Ramona blinked, startled at the sound of the kettle, then rose from the couch in a clumsy hurry. She shut off the stove, walked towards the door, then peered through the spyhole. It was Bellamy. Ramona leaned back, hesitated for a long moment, then opened the door. “Hey, Bell,” She greeted in a mutter, gaze lowering to the floor upon taking in the expression of solemn sympathy on the man’s face. She wished to embrace him, nearly allowed her body to be tugged into the impulse, yet ultimately denied herself the comfort. Rubbing her eye, Ramona stepped aside and gestured into the apartment. “Come in.”

[angria]

“MEDEA: Tiny ghosts live inside me. The ghosts of my own pathetic girlhood.”

— The Hungry Woman: A Mexican Medea & Heart of the Earth: A Popul Vuh Story, Cherríe L. Morage (via salemwitchtrials)

[ofaguilar]

BUNNY ;

A vast number of groups frequented La Scaligera, and to her credit, Bunny Du Pont had attended no small number of them. Perhaps boredom had driven her to such strange habits: one game of Othello had led to a society meeting on the cultural preservation of backgammon, and from there, she had stumbled upon a group on the woes of incontinence, and yet another advocating for low-FODMAP diets in the gut-sensitive. If the various associations and societies noticed a cherubic, golden-haired creature among their ranks, present one moment and absent the next, they paid her no mind.

It was not so much a matter of mockery, she thought, as it was a study in character. Given the proper material and the right medium, she could be an apt pupil, and so sitting through sessions at the recreation center had turned into something of a hobby, as well as a lesson in learning—a welcome transition from the more serious matters of the heart, though she by no means meant her own.

Bunny had recently switched her Fridays over to the Cat Fanciers’ Association. Though she didn’t fancy cats in particular, what she did fancy was attention. Katarina had adopted two cats. One had nearly bitten off her pinky before slinking away, and as someone to whom animals had always taken a shine, Bunny was more determined than ever to win him over. Upon reading the atmosphere of the room, however, it soon became clear that somewhere along the way, she had taken a wrong turn. This was no society of cat purists. No, she had stumbled, rather accidentally, upon a bereavement group, and as is characteristic of those who have not yet carried the burden of intense personal loss, Bunny found herself intrigued.

So she’d stayed through the session and observed quietly, while across the floor, another individual did the same; with the meeting concluded, it seemed it was only fitting that Bunny should approach her. “Some people are good at telling,” she replies, “and also at not telling.” She takes a seat in the adjacent chair, equal measures prim and proper, and begins to probe. Why hadn’t she spoken? What story did she have to hide? “I might have missed it, but is the proper etiquette for a newcomer to simply listen?”

As Ramona’s face fills with emotion, Bunny waits respectfully for the tears to subside. Her expression remains serene, even bordering on understanding, and yet a part of her can’t help hoping anyway that she looks prettier when she cries. (Does ugliness lend itself to authenticity?) Regardless, she accepts her thanks with the utmost grace. “You never know what kind of people you might come across here,” she muses, her voice thoughtful. She looks into her own cup, then offers Ramona a honeyed smile in return. “I do worry that someone might try to take advantage of a person’s grief.”

A dab of gold dripped onto the moist, murky surface of Ramona’s vision, molten stain spreading and thickening as Bunny came into view; all-encompassing and glaringly bright now that she was sitting right beside her. Ramona found her sight drawn away from her surroundings and tugged towards the stranger, and as Bunny’s lips parted around her cryptic words, Ramona’s focus was quick to follow.

The response wasn’t particularly strange, yet it wasn’t what she had expected to receive. An apology steeped in sympathy, a statement leaden with understanding -- such were the constraints of her expectations. Yet all Bunny seemed to offer was a serene acceptance of Ramona’s grief; a simple acknowledgement, and a space for the pulpy, gut-entangled mess of it to spill into without any attempt to quell its flow or cushion its fall. It was relieving, to feel as though she could once again allow her tears to come forth without any fear of them being bottled against her will and imbued with poison. Even if the reprieve was only meant to last for this singular moment, even if it was soon to be crystallized and then crushed by the malicious sweep of merciless reality, Ramona was going to hold it close until it slipped her grasp or was ripped from it. It felt like the first breath of fresh air that she had managed to snag since falling into Verona’s chokehold, and she could do nothing but embrace it.

Her gratitude slickened the curve of the dim smile she cast towards Bunny, dampening her skin in place of the tears that she began to wipe away with slow sweeps of her fingers. Silence settled between them, quick as an eager companion, and for a moment, Ramona thought that it was going to take the stranger’s place. Yet Bunny remained, still cloaked in her silent, unseen acceptance, turning towards her with an air of attentiveness and lively curiosity that Ramona felt almost helpless against. “I’ve attended the group for years, and there’s really... no etiquette to it from what I’ve seen so far,” Ramona answered, words stumbling over her hesitance. It had been a while since she had last committed to it, and even then she had been nothing more than a sullen bystander, too tangled up in her own mourning to see beyond it and look to the environment around her. “Sometimes newcomers are encouraged to speak up, but they don’t have to, or anything. It’s mostly up to you how you want to contribute -- or to not contribute at all if that’s what you want.”

As Bunny wondered aloud, Ramona looked around her, prompted to do so for perhaps the first time in years. “I’ve never wondered about the people here, to be honest,” She mused in return. “Mostly because I’ve never come here for the people... or even for the experience.” She paused, licking her lips as she mulled over the explanation poised along her tongue, before ultimately swallowing it down alongside her water, deliberately lingering with the cup held to her lips until she sensed that the vacancy of her unspoken words might have faded away.

“Really?” Ramona asked in response to Bunny’s statement, interest piqued. The notion of her grief being taken advantage of was a fear that she wrestled with in every waking moment, yet it had never occurred to her that she might need to drag such terror into the temple of remembrance that she had molded this group into. For many years, it had felt impenetrable in so many ways, untouched by the horrors that prowled beyond its borders in every other area of her life. A chill settled into her bones, dread sinking its frost into the grooves of her spine with a harsh, spike-riddled grip. Ramona looked around her again, dragging her gaze back to Bunny only when she realized that there was more she had aimed to say. “So is that why you’re here? To spot that and try to shield others from it, or just because of your own grief?”

[weltenwellen]

“(…) I admonished my heart: be careful, be quiet, do not hope, do not let joy flood you… It may be a dream…another dream.”

— Anais Nin, Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin, 1939-1947

[ofaguilar]

SANTINO ;

date: april 8th location: an apartment in montague territory closed to: @ofaguilar

The days began to blur together.

Santino couldn’t remember the last time he went outside. He used to enjoy the way sunlight soaked into his skin, used to spend hours outside before forcing himself back to whatever makeshift home they had claimed for that day, but he found himself shying away from it all. There was a guilt that ate him up inside. There was a sorrow that made a home in his chest and refused to leave. It rooted him to the house. It hid the key from him, and eventually he gave up on the search for it.

Let him stay in this house forever. Let him never enjoy the outdoors again, for if his twin could no longer feel the grass beneath her feet, why should he? A voice in his head told him he couldn’t wallow forever, that she would want him to move on, but how could he? Her funeral was in a couple of days, but it still felt like things were moving too fast. It still felt like the Capulets and Montagues learned to move on already, and he was left to grieve her loss by himself.

Muddled thoughts melted away at the sound of a knock. Santino contemplated leaving it, but it echoed again. Was it the Capulets looking to brag about their accomplishment? Was it the Montagues looking to assign him a mission? Or perhaps it was Valentina ready to claim it all was a bad dream. He didn’t want to think about any of those options. He wanted to go back to bed, but he forced himself to shift away from the couch and approach the door.

“Ramona?” The door was cracked open slightly, and hazel eyes flicked downwards to see a familiar face. It took him a second, but he eased the door open a bit more. He found himself a bit of a shut-in after that night, but there was something about Ramona’s eyes that caused him to motion her inside. Perhaps it was because he knew she shared the same grief as him. Perhaps it was because, for once, he didn’t find himself wanting to be alone. 

What was Valentina’s passing, if not a kindred loss to all the others that Ramona carried? What was Valentina’s memory, if not one chain-link out of many to dangle from the albatross ensnaring Ramona’s neck? Her best friend could so easily be lost to the fuming, coal-charred abyss of her remembrance; as just another smear of black to meld into the sea of dark, grievous and vivid, yet no more distinguishable than any other scar marring the infinite, inscrutable space.

But the simple truth was that Valentina had been like no other, in life or in death -- and the loss of her was no different.

There was no greater testament to that than the aftermath. When it came to her father, or her brother, or even the mother she barely remembered, Ramona was left in tatters; torn apart and strewn about like breathing wishes at the bottom of a well that had long since shriveled and dried. Curled up against damp, scathing stone, shedding bountiful tears both in helpless grief and in the hope of filling up the empty space and raising herself towards the light. Yet when it came to Valentina, Ramona was at the peak, staring down the void, one foot propped up against the edge and another doubtfully anchored to the ground as she set out to willfully take the plunge -- and a hundred more, a thousand more, as many as it would take to ensure that she and her loved ones survived Verona.

Valentina had always given her strength, but this time, Ramona meant to seize it with everything she had. She aimed to do so by gathering herself up after the collapse -- and helping those around her do the same for themselves. Such was the path that had cast her upon Santino’s doorstep, and such was the power that steeled her spine and steadied her gaze as she waited for him to answer her call. Time trickled by, and Ramona began to wonder how long she would have to stand there before the door finally opened. Yet just as she decided that she would stay here all night if need be, Santino appeared, shielded by the door and the slew of memories that lay beyond it.

“Hey, Santi.” Ramona muttered in gentle greeting, wringing her hands as she contemplated what to say next. But then Santino spared her the agony of stumbling over useless, meaningless words, stepping aside and granting her entrance into the apartment. She entered, lingering until Santino opened the door and turned towards her before walking up to him slowly and engulfing him in her arms. She held him loosely yet fervently, running her hand down the back of his neck in what she hoped was a soothing manner before whispering, “Doing any better?”