( I have a work party to attend today. Anyone want to write tomorrow? )
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Claire Keane
Xuebing Du
Three Goblin Art
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
KIROKAZE

PR's Tumblrdome
occasionally subtle

if i look back, i am lost

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Discoholic 🪩

pixel skylines

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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
will byers stan first human second

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JVL
hello vonnie
wallacepolsom
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@origina1sin
( I have a work party to attend today. Anyone want to write tomorrow? )
ANTAGONISM — APATHY
"What do you want?" "You're still here?" "Heartless bastard." "Empathy, heard of it?" "Why should I help you?" "Beg, and I'll consider." "Why do you think I care?" "You won't even listen to me!" "Are you seriously this cold?!" "Why waste your energy on them?" "Why feel so strongly about this?" "Boohoo, my heart's breaking for you." "Save your words for someone who cares." "Is there nothing you won't do for money?" "Just this once, please, I need your help." "You think you deserve my help? That's rich." "Coming from you? I take it as a compliment." "Please, I don't have anyone else to turn to." "Don't know, and I don't care to know either." "Don't you get tired of every fruitless attempt?" "Go cry somewhere else, I'm tired of hearing it." "… And? You expect me to do something about it?" "Don't come at me with your self righteous bullshit." "You may think me cruel, but I do what must be done." "You could be dying in a ditch and I wouldn't help you." "So what? You'll just turn your back on an old friend?" "Their lives were a necessary sacrifice, you know that." "You're seriously just going to ignore me? Real mature." "I cannot cry for every death. You understand that, yes?" "I'm not ignoring you. That implies I think about you at all." "If you want to survive you have to turn your heart to stone." "I've got lax morals and I'm easily swayed by cash, what can I say." "I haven't paid attention to a single word you've said this entire time." "One day you'll need my help! And I'll give you the same answer you just gave me!"
Florence held his heart. While he collected others.
Such exquisite finesse belonged to a young man whose mind was a cauldron brimming with artistic ambiguity, laid to medical drawings in his other life while expressing with corpses in the shadows. He had begun to see his signature entwined with the printed words of the newspapers that chronicled his exploits, accompanied by the label they had ascribed to him:
'Monster'
He had been picking up the newspapers with self satisfaction. Initially mere snippets, these articles bloomed into expansive narratives occupying nearly half a page.
'Once again, the countryside is gripped in fear at the hands of a murderer. This monster draws inspiration from Italy's cherished artistic heritage, those timeless masterpieces that proudly exhibit the nation's cultural wealth—a grotesque representation, a mockery!'
The audacity of the journalist’s words struck him as unwarranted, an affront to his artistry. With a deft hand, he inscribed the journalist's name in his black pocketbook. Above the journalist's name were small details of other murders in the areas, ones that he did not put his name to—of course, the media did.
These grisly events held a peculiar allure for him, far exceeding the whispers of fear that rippled through the streets. He felt it was a calling card and to answer, he had to produce a few of his own. They all held subtle clues that spoke to other corpses not slain by his hand. Like lovers, writing their fancies in the form of pen-pals. A courting.
The chapels welcomed all under God's eye. After the recent murder of their beloved Francesca there had been a shift in that motto. Hannibal, rarely inclined to revisit the sites of his past transgressions, felt an inexorable pull drawing him back to the place where the bells tolled with solemnity. Even now, the resonance of their thunderous chimes reverberated in his chest, striking against his ribcage like a heartbeat of its own, sending a surge of adrenaline coursing through him and urging him to lift his gaze—just as a body plummeted from above.
A glimpse, but undeniable. A flash of the familiar uniform every devotee of the Lord wears here. His eyes narrowed, absorbing the contours and details of the scene while the struggling of a life takes its last breath. An eerie symphony unfolded, as the harmonious peal of the bells fused with the heavy, choking exhale of life extinguished—an irony. The pocketbook slips back into the slot inside his lapel; eyes transfixed on the last seen movement in the tower.
He must move too. The area is a cacophony of screams, a voice ringing out.
"Ha colpito ancora! Dio abbia pietà!! Dio abbia pietà!!"
The bells continue to toll as a light pattering of rain begins.
As other sisters scrambled towards the chaos of bells tolling, there was no need for me to hurry. Even as they barreled towards the steeple, there was no earthly (or otherwise) reason for me to be afraid.. In fact, he turned away before I did. Though, I understood why. He had just made the paper again, after all. When he had gone from view, and as a hoard of sisters beat down the wooden door, which was old and splintering even under their hapless hands—- they would find nothing but an empty room. Well, that and another poor woman of the cloth, lifeless and soaked in her own piss and shit as she loomed over the stone ledge. She and Francesca were the best of friends. It was, fortunately, very easy for the convent to settle into the idea of her suicide, rather than search... for her killer. And, as I tucked the newspaper print away nearly in with my 'unmentionables' —- alongside the articles detailing his other murders—- my eyes rolled back, gaze now a pure, white... and I saw him... following the man who wrote this (I knew that, felt it in my bones) and, from the street view, I knew also where he was. So, my Magick carried me there, eager to see for myself... how this Monster would lord his revenge... over one he considered rude. I watched from the shadows, this time up close, as he choked the man on his pens... stuffed him so full of ink that it driveled out the side of his mouth. It was a quick death, especially compared to his others, but also... clever. A work of art in a tempest of furious cruelty. He knew I was there, too. I could sense his awareness. Like a predator who respects another. He did not stop. Did not even flinch. Good. "It's a shame that you should feel so rushed... that you wouldn't feed yourself," I purred, still half-obscured by the shadow. "Still, the poetry of it... that he was killed by the very ink from which he spewed those ignorant lies." I sighed, an unmistakable ecstasy in the sound. "It's perfect."
A shape of white emerged completely from the Darkness: unashamed as I stood before him in my nightgown. I was a nun, sure, but also... the First Whore, Created by the hand of god... to be seen. Desired. Regardless of what I wore. Or didn't. "I've been following your work. Admiring it. What you do takes real rage. True Evil." I shuddered. Tingling with pleasure, rather than Fear. "It's such a joy to see someone revel in their Cruelty... to be without Fear. For one's immortal Soul."
Il Mostro di Firenze uccide ancora —- Questa volta l'assassino prende di mira una suora! The Monster of Florence Kills Again —- This Time, Setting His Sights on a Nun! For once—- beneath the incense that smogged up every inch of this goddamn place—- the whole Convent heady with an entirely new scent. A sweet bouquet that tickled Me... much deeper than the eternal Sin of Bernini's Santa Teresa in that smutty, little sculpture of his. Far sweeter than all the daisy-fresh cunts of the should-be Virgins I'd devoured in my time among them Fear. Fear that god had abandoned them... that Satan 'himself ' had come to roost! Lying in wait around every corner. Steeped into every, last nook and cranny of this crumbling pile. Of course, I was, but!—- not in the Flesh they'd expected. Of course, I'd killed here before... but I'd made it look like an accident. Francesca was no accident! What he had dome with her took patience, practice, and confidence... the brash, impulse of youth, paired with the Natural Elegance of an experienced hand... A man unafraid of the Fate that awaited him on the other side. Perhaps, who even believed himself to be the Devil. The thought got me all juicy, that level of shameless Pride. That sweet, sweet arrogance. My favorite sin of them all. I just had to meet Him. The elegant, brilliant Monster who had freely spilt innocent blood—- holy blood—- the scent of it still heavy in the air. Like iron. With a shuddering intake of breath, one that wound the strings tighter from my head down to my toes, there came... another scent just beyond the door. It smelled of Tuscan tobacco, subtle notes of vanilla, and scented parchment. It was very refined, and very secular. Something out of place here, amidst the sheep of Christ. Hurrying from the breakfast table, I climbed several flights of stairs, to the bell tower... and then, looked down... meeting his gaze even as he hid himself well amidst the shadows. And then, with him watching—- I used my Power to bend the will of another sister to this floor... and then, deftly hooked a noose around her neck... shoving her over the ledge of the tower. I didn't have a handkerchief handy, but... a struggling sister, frantically kicking her feet as she dangles fifty feet above the ground… works just as well.
@il-mostrc
IMMACULATE (2024) dir. Michael Mohan
⸸ཀ( music thrums through quietened heartbeat, poisoned by its rushing adrenaline. The crescendo is coming, teasing with heightened notes of wailing violin and thoughtful baritone. The symphony celebrates its soloist, a singer from Lebanon who notably captures attention with his origins first before his talents are recognized. Americans are like that. Lestat looks over the gilded railings of the house of music. This symphony hall barely holds the cacophony of screaming instruments. The acoustics bouncing from the dome-like ceiling create a whirlwind of sound. A gasp from the audience becomes a part of the performance. Lestat beams as he observes expressions of the nameless audience. They are captivated, seated next to each other, but barely present with their companions. With each dramatic pause comes lethal silence. Lestat nearly wishes to applaud the etiquette lest he steals the entire show. He wouldn't mind it, actually. His hands lift just a bit off his lap, and the singer, seemingly aware of the scheme, resumes his song. Lestat flashes a grin, and before he is discovered, he vanishes from the box.
The year is 1939, and Hollywood is covered head-to-toe with glittering scandals and revolutionary dramas. Lestat walks out of the cinema, pleased that the Americans are finally doing something right with their booming inspiration. Although Lestat misses the gaudy freedom of art deco in the roaring twenties, the classics of noir bring a kind of romance that lavish champagne parties could not quite capture. The boulevard is full of spotlights that show off the biggest names in the industry. His eyes are set on MGM following the recent release of Gone with the Wind. Aside from its two halves, the movie captivated Lestat. The colorful depiction of tragedy, the unfairness of life, and its cruelty. The female lead is so bright that her male counterpart wears the face of a pawn for the rest of the movie. Lestat had seen the four-hour endeavor thrice. He writes about it in his column, a gazette that he started to get into the industry. New issues are released only at night and make it to the front porch of all the notable, branded giants by morning. Some even pay extra to get it at dusk.
Midnight Gazette is a gathering of Lestat's honest thoughts. He is an actor first and a critic second, alas, he had to make it as a latter before he defended his opinions by being the former. Dreams of the big stage are attainable with his likeness and talent. He decides why not take up a profession in giving advice for a change. He is cruel and honest; some actors call him a phony, and others praise his efforts as he lowers their competition. Gradually, he accepted a gifted office from Paramount. It is a bribe to get their movies over to his good side. That same night, Lestat ripped French Without Tears to shreds. He kept his office, and Paramount apologized for the terrible depiction of the Southern French countryside. Lestat, in his usual manner, forgave them by praising Typhoon, even though he thought that the male lead was a virgin.
It is upon one of those shivering nights that Lestat found himself in a theatre, sitting in a cushioned seat of an earlier screening. Around them, suited critics poked their noses into their notebooks, writing down the formatting of credits. Lestat's notebook is nowhere in sight as he looks up to the screen to see the film's introduction: Niagara. Lestat has been to the falls, and he laughs against his wrist as the roaring water fills up the theatre with heavy drumming and static. It does not take long to meet the awaited star of the entire movie. An angel's face carries a subtlety of an uncanny presence that only one man in that cinema can recognize. Within seconds, Lestat is grinning. Around him, critics miss the lingering gaze of a profound woman. In a passing moment, the vampire holds her gaze as she averts her gaze from a husband she does not love. Cunning girl hides beneath the sheets, pretending to be asleep. Lestat muffles his laughter by holding his mouth with his cold hand. Oh, he knows a monster when he sees one.
That night, he writes in a fresh column of the Midnight Gazette:
"If not for the undeniable miracle of the lead's stage presence, the movie would have been better off in the underground dog fights. Inconspicuously, the grinning fool tries to steal the show but leaves it to the demonized to save the screen from rotting fruit. If only I had a papaya to toss at the lethargic use of the scenery. I had to bother a colleague who sat a row away from me for the next part of the rest of the cast. And it is really not your fault that your director lost the meaning of the plot. You have a broken marriage, and you only think of fixing it through death. Divorce is worse than death, and yet you miss out on the drama, substituting it for a cheap distraction of a couple who cannot enjoy the view of the Niagara Falls until one of them is chased by a ghost in a raincoat, nearly to death. Leave the man to skeddadle elsewhere with another man, oh, did you think I'd miss that innuendo? Getting wet together? I was prepared to leave the theatre with my imagination finishing the movie, but here comes my savior: Mary, the lead I have been missing for nearly an hour. And the director takes her from me by murder beneath the tolling bells. I sat in silence, mesmerized by the sudden rush of symbolism as she collapsed, lifeless, onto the powerful strip of light. Between her and that wretched man is a shadow cutting sharply a wedge between them, and yet in this brief moment, it feels like the Grand Canyon, a Babylonian Abyss. In awe, I stared at her, her saddened eyes. In them, I read betrayal. Oh, how familiar I am with that feeling. She captivates me, she gives the movie its soul before she rips it away. And what does the director do? He kills her moment by showing me that wretched man again. What a boring end. Mary, if you are reading this, dear, I beg of you to go off script next time and stab that bastard in the face! A knife is always present on set. You know what I mean."
Lestat finishes his review with his signature as he adds his address as if to provoke the myriad of cinema cultists that disagree with him. This risk is aimed at a single pair of eyes, and as Lestat spends a bit more money on the gazette's export, he watches the sun rise before climbing into his coffin. The main tableau announcing his proximity announces that the Midnight Gazette is only open from eight in the evening until the late sunrise. In a cushioned abode hidden from the curious eye of his resenters, Lestat lounges with coffee that has long lost its effect on him. He cradles a book in his hands, thumbing through the pages as he reignites his longing for medieval horror. He drinks, flips the page, and waits.
@origina1sin
Miss Mary Cherrie gives a performance in Niagara that is a good deal less impressive than her bust measurement. The insolent leer and the pouting lips, both this actress's trademarks, become monotonous and distasteful after 20 minutes. Her apparent inability to act means that her range is limited to poses and grimaces. The implications of immorality surrounding her character are disturbing and lurid.
She steals the gaze of the picture with an uninhibited demonstration of the way a wet blouse can cling to every curve. Her character is quite evidently limited to the projection of desire and the evocation of lustful responses. and the film is more concerned with the amorous adventures of this nitwit nymphomaniac than the thunderous downpour of six million cubic feet of water per minute!
If you're looking for a movie with lush scenery to ogle, stick to a National Geographic special. The falls are at least nice to look at, and Mary's wriggle is well up to snuff.
The newspaper singed at the edges, folding in on itself until the whole page was nothing but ash. Good-bye to the drivel of bitter, pencil-dick men who were afraid of strong, sexually confident women. And their Lust for them... Men. They were all so much like Him. It was pathetic.
All except one, perhaps. A long, talon-like nail traced the only page that escaped the pyre—- under the printed line of his name. Lestat de Lioncourt.
I knew of him—- as I knew of all of god's cruelest children—- but, knowing of someone is hardly the same as knowing them personally. Actor. Musician. Critic. Auteur. Vampire. Now, if this were just any admirer, I'd send a flower and perhaps a signed napkin; however... this one called for a far more personal touch. He did risk leaving his home address, after all. Gliding over to the liquor cabinet, I took the Cartier Tudor Diamond Decanter from its place... and slit my own wrist, humming as a steady trickle of red spilt down the neck of the bottle. Only when the blood was dangerously close to the tippy-top did the wound run dry.
Then, still humming, I wrote: You've been ever so generous with your words, M. de Lioncourt. Allow me to be generous as well, with a little something from my private cellar. The decanter is made of Cartier diamonds, and the drink, well—- you'll be sure to let me know how it tastes... When we have dinner tomorrow night. Not to worry, my assistant will prepare the menu, specially for you. I do wish I knew what color you'd like on me. Then again... I'm marvelous at guessing games. Tomorrow at 9PM. 882 N. Doheny Drive.
Come famished, darling. —-—- M. Cherrie
Despite what my note'd said, I knew he'd prefer to see me in red. And who could blame him? I was ravishing in every color, but especially the one made for Sin. And sex. I sent my assistant along with the decanter after placing it in a red velvet box with gold-leaf trim. And waited for tomorrow evening. @eladead
If this is not the will of God, why does God not stop us? IMMACULATE (2024) dir. Michael Mohan
the ever familiar pout seems to settle on her pale, lightly freckled features as doe eyes peer upwards towards mary, blowing a bit of hair from her face as she leans back into the chair, her arms crossing against her chest. "because i didn't like the lady admitting me. her vibes were off. just one of those people who shouldn't be working in the medical field," her eyes don't leave mary as she gives a quick roll of her eyes. if she hears hippy-dippy one more time.
everything in her body and mind is screaming at her to run. RUN, RUN, RUN! YOU'RE IN DANGER! though, she knows she can't. she could run out of this office and down the hallway, only to be manhandled by some orderly and drugged with a needle. though, she can't help but feel like that just might be better than what she might be experiencing right now. she can't help but clench her jaw, goosebumps raising on her skin.
she stays silent, not wanting to feed the fire. so, she just stares at her with her wide eyes, occasionally narrowing them at some of the comments that she made. she wanted to argue, but a part of her knew better than to dig herself into a deeper hole. her mouth opens to speak, but nothing seems to come out. if anything, she swears she heard herself squeak. she lurches forward whenever the cane hits her behind her knees, her body crashing into the desk in front of her. before she can even get her bearings, the cane is slapping against her thighs. "FUCK!"
the hits seem to come swift and fast. she can't help but feel tears forming at the corner of her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. she'll finally gasp for air, not realizing she had been holding her breath. she feels the nun lean forward, her breath on her ear as she speaks. her words cause her to cry out with frustration as she kicks her legs backwards.
"get away from me!"
Well, what do you know? Silence. Even if she wanted to speak—- no, even though she wanted to... it was obvious—- that for Lennon, the fear of Pain was stronger than the fear of offending. A note... to be tucked away, for safe-keeping. "No matter what you do," my voice burrowed into her skull, nesting its spider's eggs of Cruelty. "No matter what you say—- how sweetly you cry..." I dragged in a slow breath, sampling the taste... of her sweet torment. "Or. How. Prettily. You. Beg." This time, each word was punctuated by a swish of the cane before the bark connected with flesh. Ached in the bone. All at once, the blows were interrupted as my body molded over hers, caging her in as the flames of my breath licked at the shell of her ear. "You will Suffer greatly," another deep, blissful exhale poured out against her skin. With one of my slippery, little fingers skirting against the outside of her pinky. "Such is the nature of attrition, Miss Mathews." Attrition, not to be confused with contrition. Contrition would require a godly mind to begin with. Something Little Miss Sunshine wouldn't know anything about. Thanks, in-part, to her grandmother (or some great, great, great) partaking of My Blood. Le Sang Noir. The root of the Sight Within her. Instead of pulling back at her hiss, I pressed closer for a moment. "But... well, we mustn't spoil all of my fun in one day." With that, I stood straight, landing one, last thwack that ripped through the air as sharp as the nail that pierced Christ's own hands—- a single, rivulet of blood trickling down the backs of her thighs. Suddenly blowing into the whistle around my neck, I stopped when Carl stumbled in, his pants too-low on his hips with whatever shit he was up to with Shelley. Not that I cared.
"Take this one to the nurses' station and have her looked at. Then, place her in solitary until further notice. Her perversions would set a bad example for other patients... We can't have that."
A smirk. "Oh, and Miss Mathews?—- Welcome to Briarcliff."
her intention is to find a seat without drawing much attention to herself; billie is cocky as rooster waking up the whole damn farm in every other aspect of her life ... but she's never been one for academia. her diction is sloppy, her handwriting poor, and no one wants to hear her read anything aloud to the class.
it's humiliating, and worse than that, it's one of the few things in life that burrows under billie's skin. sister mary is awful nice, but she sees how the other girls look at her. like she's some ... some dumb hick that doesn't know anything about anything.
why, if billie had her pocket knife, they'd be sorry they ever fuckin' sneered at her. life's not that way here, however, and there is nothing billie can do do make these bitches sorry without getting a caning again.
her gaze follows mary's hand and it's only then (how? how could she have missed her?!?) that billie realizes louisa's been sitting here all along. a gasp is ripped from her throat, without care of who hears, and she throws her arms around the elder abney gleefully after rushing to her seat.
billie can't remember the last time she hugged louisa so tightly, and in turn louisa nearly squeezes all the breath out of her sister. she buries her face into louisa's shoulder and tries not to cry. babies cry, and she's not been a baby in a very long time. that'll just give her another thing to be embarrassed about in front of the other girls. so her tears stay instead and her sobs remain shuddered breaths against scratchy cloth.
it's a miracle that the two sisters ever let go of each other; there's not much talk between them, besides reassurances everything is alright. they have always had a bond that relies on few words, they know each other too well.
there's something important that must be done, however, and there's little wiggle room for when to do it. since class has not officially begun, billie rises from her seat and crosses the room to sister mary. for once, billie looks something of a proper young lady, with her skirt smoothed and her hands folded at her front.
she clears her throat before speaking, "sister mary?" her voice is unbecomingly timid. "i just wanna uh ... i wanna thank you." she lowers her shoulders and raises her chin.
"... you're the only'body here that's been nice to me, sister mary."
@bachelorsgrovecemetery Nothing? My voice, musical and apple-sweet threads through Billie's mind like a spider's web. Or, like the most luxurious silk in the whole, wide world. Nothing at all you can think of... ? The voice was like a Church bell, clear and ringing in her thoughts, To get those awful girls out of your way? I'm sure she could hear the click of my tongue. That slight edge of disapproval. You're clever-er than that, Billie. So much smarter than they are. You've seen it... how cruel the world can really be. I smiled at her, lips unmoving, even while the voice kept coiling inside her head. All they've seen is the back of a nun's hand, a few missed dinners. Nothing compared to what you've seen. What you've sacrificed—- to protect yourself. Protect your family. As the other sister slinked away, my hands suddenly went to Billie's shoulders, guiding her towards Louisa... allowing this tender moment of reconnection. All the better to earn her loyalty with. Later. "Yes, dear?" I said, pausing mid-way through a neat, sharp line of cursive that spelled out the morning's dictation. Suddenly, bending down to her level... gently tapping her nose, I smiled. "You're welcome, Billie. You're under my charge now, you understand?" My voice lowered, "That means no punishments." Again, I brushed her shoulder. A loving, tender touch. "Unless another sister can prove that you've done something to deserve it." There was the spark of something there. A promise, made flesh. "I know things may be difficult for the first few days, too, but... well, try your best." And so, the day began, with Billie behind much of the other students, but also showing a willingness to learn. A willingness that, by the end of it, earned her a sweet... and a small pair of scissors, slipped into her pocket.
I stayed up until 5am last night, working 16 hours. If I don’t collapse as soon as work is over today: I will happily do some writing 🖤✨
††† Ave Satani ††† under co. character info available per request. ††† dead dove themes explored . usfw . minors DNI
I dont know if u need to hear this but I love YAPPERS. I love reading 7 paragraph headcanons. I love to read your stuff.
she should have known that she'd end up in a place like this. well, she thought she'd end up working at a place like this at some point but not necessarily being a patient. granted, her lifestyle had decided to catch up to her, didn't it? it wasn't like every hippy got admitted to an asylum but she had been a nurse. it was frowned upon at her job. not to mention, she had been a little too honest. too many people had thrown her under the bus about her abilities. something she's been suffering with since birth. it wasn't like it her fault. though, whenever she had been diagnosed with schizophrenia? she couldn't help but laugh out loud. if only it was that simple, right? though, she knew she just made people uncomfortable. especially whenever she knew way too much. things she shouldn't know. maybe it was best for her to be locked up? easier to lock away the scary thing than face it, right?
she can't help but bite back a grin, icy blue eyes rolling to the side as she avoided eye contact for a second. though, it doesn't take long for her eyes to snap back towards mary, head tilting to the side as wide, doe like eyes seem to narrow slightly, very observant of the other woman's body language. "miss mathews is fine. i don't really care, either way---...." she'll give a dismissive wave of her hand as she crosses one long leg over the other, leaning back further in her chair. attempting to look relaxed even though the nun in front of her made her hair stick up on end.
she can't help but grin whenever she mentions her crime, though it's sweet. her once narrowed eyes become doe like once again. "i am decent, but i don't believe in the restraints given by society." tongue clicks loudly on the roof of her mouth as she pushes long, unruly hair behind her ear. the nun raises from her seat, circling her like a predator. lennon's eyes remain focused on her without needing to move her head all that much, always hypervigilant. she'll tense up as she drags a hand over her shoulders, turning her head to look up with her with a grin.
"careful, sister. i might think you're coming on to me," she'll take a deep breath before looking forward. "oh, i hear the whispers. though, i think you do whatever you think is best. let me guess, i'm getting an ice bath? or am i going to get electroshock therapy?"
"Don't you?" My eyebrows rose up into my hairline. "Then why make such a fuss over it while you were being admitted? Lashing back at the inevitable, perhaps?" A sneer, "That's so like you hippy-dippy types. Agonizing over your Secular Revolutions, Sex Parties, and The Environment." All things I was in favor of, by the way. Not for the fact that these freedoms were moral or right—- oh, don't be so ridiculous!—- but the fact that they took so much focus off of one, particular point. Namely, god. "As if picking daisies is going to make even the slightest bit of difference, when you're the one facing down the barrel of a gun." A smirk. "Or maybe you're more of the 'twirl naked under the full moon' kind of gal." As my palm grazed her shoulder, and the sass-back broke between each click of the heels, I only smirked wider. "I don't need to be careful of anything, My Child,'' and then, without Little Miss Mathews fully understanding the where or how, a cane swished through the silence, catching hard at the back of her knees: unyielding as she fumbled toward the desk with enough force to drag its legs against the floor. "Even with those Gifts of yours, I think you'll find it difficult to cross me." Another thwack! landed at the meaty part of her thighs. Not a place at all advised to hit—- if safety were a concern. "Those?" I purred, lingering close behind before a series of blows landed with cruel precision, and even crueler intention, drawing blood with the final strike of the bunch. "They seem so impersonal, so clinical." And then, right against the lobe of Lennon's ear, I whispered, "If I'm as much of a degenerate as you claim, whatever would stop me?" A wicked tongue flitted across the shell of her ear. "From coming this close?"
a street dog is not so easily pet; billie flinches from the sister's touch, turns her head as she tries to scoot herself back. her bleeding flesh makes contact with scratchy fabric, and billie lets out a labored wail. she grits her teeth and breathes heavily through her nose as mary wipes away tears both fresh and old. quivering grunts are both an expression of protest and agony; billie does not try to worm her away out of mary's grasp again.
her fists clench and curl up to the sides of her head. billie's fingers knot in already tangled hair and hover above her ears, as if to block mary out. she doesn't want to hear what anybody in this shithole has to say — fuck the whole lot of 'em, no matter what sweets they bring her.
she wants her sister, oh god does billie want her sister. billie's never gone so long without louisa before coming here, not a day in her life. and it's only with the mention of the elder abney that she tunes in to what mary is saying. billie's hands slide from her ears down to her cheeks as she locks eyes with the good sister.
"... you talked 'ta louisa?" her tone is hopeful. it has only been two days since the last time billie talked with her sister, but that's more than enough to have her chest aching. then, she recalls the question she has been asked. billie nods in confirmation; with a sniffle, she wipes the snot from under her nose.
"i like billie better," billie confides as she wipes her hands on her thighs. there is something comforting about a gesture so small; a piece of home in a place so unlike what she is used to. billie is herself again, if only in a partial way. she decides it's worth giving mary a chance.
they are not wolf and lamb, violently opposed — mary may be just a shepherd instead. so against her usual, defiant nature, billie listens. she cleans her wounds as she has been instructed, thank fuck she's had experience treating something so nasty. admittedly, listening to mary is worth it; the salve provides a desperately sought relief. for her troubles, she also nibbles on a few pieces of candy. billie's had a sweet tooth her entire life, but it's never satisfied here.
her belly is full and her bottom no longer throbs — it's enough that when the nun returns with fresh linen, billie is open to sleeping, something that seemed impossible an hour ago. being tucked in adds an additional comfort to her soul, and though it still takes some time after mary leaves, billie does finally sleep that night.
in the morning, her routine shifts. billie is not easily accommodating of change, but she's excited to switch classrooms. anything to get away from the thwap! of a ruler against her knuckles ... sister mary eunice wouldn't do that, right? not after being so kind to her the previous night. no, it's not brute punishment that billie's afraid of today. the trouble is, her writing and literacy are still poor. it's never been a shame of hers until coming to briarcliff, and now no one will let her forget it.
"good mornin', sister mary." billie greets quietly. in her last class, she was hit for not pronouncing her 'g's correctly, as well as avoiding eye contact. her diction isn't fixed, but she does lift her chin to face the sister.
( she wants her sister, oh god does billie want her sister. )
The plea for him from her thoughts wormed its way into my skull, like maggots burrowing beneath dead flesh. ( Silly girl, THERE IS NO GOD FOR YOU HERE. ) Still, I didn’t want to frighten her, yet. So, ignorance it is. Or, else: kindness.
They were practically the same thing, weren't they? After all, what was kindness other than mind-numbing stupidity? "You must miss her terribly!" I soothed, offering the next, little tidbit with an ' apple sweet ' smile. The smallest sliver of hope, dangling on the hook—- "Well, of course you do!" As before, I leaned in closer, conspiring, but with the voice of an ANGEL. "What a silly thing to even ask..." Cupping her face before I again tapped the tip of Billie's nose, I smiled. Far more Red Riding Hood than The Wolf... A crucial distinction to the game being played, between us girls. "The poor dear; she practically worries herself to death." Choosing that as the endnote to leave the girl alone with her thoughts... and her wounds. Only when I'd returned, and after properly tucking Billie away, did I drip more of the dizzy, sweet ear-worm she was so desperate to hear. "I just know she'll be glad to see you there as well! Ever so much." I beamed, our lady of perpetual ' light '. "You're all she ever talks about." As eager as she was to see her sister, I knew she was even more beat from all those canings. So, she'd have to wait for tomorrow. "Good morning, Billie," I smiled, encouraging her with a palm-out gesture to the empty seat. Right beside Louisa. "Now, since it's your first time seeing each other in a few days..." I paid no mind to the other Sister glaring my way from behind Billie. "You're free to talk amongst yourselves for a few minutes while I prepare today's lesson." I looked to the rest of the class. "That goes for all of you. Just until I've got everything settled." I knew that a gesture like this would only endear her to me further. Burrow me deeper into her mind: until I was the god she called to in times of trouble. Hail Mary, Full of disGrace!
🌺 send this to ten muns you think are wonderful 🌺
I really needed this positivity after the week Angelenos have been having. Thank you so much, my darling.
Billie is one of my favorite muses ever, and you're one of my favorite muns ever! I'm sending you all ze kisses, Ashley (which, incidentally, is one of my favorite names in the whole world. Someone very dear to me in my family was named Ashley. She's passed on, but every time I see her name, I smile a little. Of course you would be such a lovely human, to share a name with her.) Thank you again, sweetheart! @hilllbillies
//: I’m currently in a touch-and-go situation with the fires here now. Love you, my friends.
The Horror Film Fright Festival right at the peak of the holiday season was an iconic activity here for Adelaide. For whatever reason, she had become drawn to being scared. The exorcism films were almost too much for her; she tried her best to avoid those as they brought out a side of her she didn't often experience so viscerally. As with many traumatic events for anyone, they were simply triggering for her — whatever that meant.
Addy had just settled on her blanket next to a tree, a good backrest. She was looking down at her phone — scrolling, scrolling, scrolling — when hands covered her sight from behind. She let out a nervous laugh as she determined who it might be behind her. After a moment of reflection, Adelaide smiled and replied, “It must be Mary.”
She giggled and asked, “Did I get it right?” She turned to, in fact, see Mary behind her. “Did you come to catch The Babadook too?”
I was promised an evening filled a with fire, Sex and the death of Christians. What I received was this Babadook business... That, and something called ' Midsommar. ' It's not to say that each of these didn't have their merits, but... I was everso looking forward to a little Taste—- of Heresy. Even through a screen, it's delicious... the way it drips into the hearts and minds of the weary and dejected: a slow, palatable poison to all those... who are tortured. Those, like Adelaide herself.
Swatting her shoulder, I gasped: "Oh! But, how did you know? I whispered just so, so you wouldn't know." After flashing the other a radiant smile, I shook my head, slowly... shyly.
"Oh, no. I'm afraid I don't know much about these sorts of movies. I only thought..." The sweet, little sister facade was all anxious fingers and tugs at my skirts. "... well, that it was worth attending, because you'd be here."