IT'S ALL THE GOOD THAT WON'T COME OUT OF US.

which would you choose : good or yourself?

[retrbution-blog1]

i Am still planning to write here i just wanna wait till i catch up & have a chance to rewatch a bit and rly get angelas voice down

[retrbution-blog1]

@initcne      :       you are familiar and strange at the same time.       *

who is angela?       really,       at her core       —       (   i am the same as i ever was,       i am stronger,       i have a purpose and it is good   )       where has she gone?       the turning point is clear but the road back is less so,       and she sees only the way forward and then the rewind,       the making - things - whole of it all.

darlene doesn’t get it because darlene doesn’t know the plan.       darlene has not seen,       and angela cannot fault her for that       :       she looks at her like she’d look at a cat wandering the alleys of manhattan,       equal measures endearment and pity.       (   whiterose has done a thorough job here,       turning childhood friend into poor unfortunate soul.   )        still       —       angela shakes her head,       because in her bright - bright - bright eyes this is all a change for the better,       because nothing has collapsed yet and everything feels holy.              ‘   i’m the same person i’ve always been,       darlene.   ’              the words don’t match the tone       :       something cold and detached to it,       too - smooth,       airbrushed.

[retrbution-blog1]

my angela playlist? extremely valid

[psychexch]

❛ what did i know then ? what do i know now ? ❜

HE LETS HIS HEAD REST AGAINST THE DOOR AGAIN, staring up at the dim ceiling of her apartment building. red. blood red. that color, leaking around inside of his brain. there has been so much death because of them – and not just because of him, or her, or tyrell individually. them. all of them. they all get to shoulder that weight. the funny thing is that it was mostly bloodless death. people getting pulverized under rubble. for the first week he dreamed of red, of blood, of bones pushing through skin, of rubble coming down on skulls and making them break. then during the next week he just dreamed of dark, of his own breathing, of the slow pressure of something pressing down on his ribs, on his back, crushing him.

in the dream, he started screaming at some point. no response. suffocating under concrete and steel. all that sound, going nowhere.

he woke up gasping for air, staggering into the bathroom and dropping his gaze from the shattered remains of his mirror towards the reassuring porcelain of the sink.

since then it’s been pitch black. nothing. and somehow that’s worse. he would prefer the torture of those other dreams. at least then it feels like he’s paying for it in some tangible way. that he didn’t just get away with it at the expense of two good people.

elliot can’t hear her breathing through the door, but he imagines he can. they did something like this once, after her mom died. she had hid in her bathroom, and he sat down against the door in the hallway while her dad was downstairs and they just sat in silence like this for a long while.

does she still believe it? does she still believe whiterose? has she bought into a future that can’t exist? that doesn’t exist? he’s afraid to ask. he’s afraid of the answer. he’s afraid, so he doesn’t ask, because this shouldn’t be about fear. he used to hate that dickinson poem, the one about hope being a thing with feathers. maybe he understands it now. the flutter and the thump of his heart against his chest, the way he can hear it in the silence.

his hand, flat against the floor. he wishes he could reach over and hold her hand, like they did when they were kids, her fingers folding in his. no matter what happens, we’ll be okay. then he went home and magda dug her fingers into his wrist until he screamed again, that crushing feeling in his chest, and he got up the next morning and the days just kept going.

but he still believed it, when they were kids. knew it. that they were going to be okay. now it’s harder. to imagine the knowing.

❝ i know you want to go back, ❞ he says quietly. ❝ to when it was a lot easier to believe we were going to be okay. but – angela. i don’t think i can do this without you. here. now. i can’t… i still need you. so i’m here if you are. we can’t just give up on everything. we can’t just… give up on this world. ❞

i won’t give up on you is what he isn’t saying, the words birdlike in his throat, if you won’t give up on me.

[retrbution-blog1]

@psychexch​       :       where does it come from, the thread that ties us together?      *

it’s one of those easy moments.      angela’s not sure when they got so rare      —      there was a time she knew elliot better than the back of her own hand,     so why now does she need to beg just to sit around with him and watch a movie?     forget about the world for a while.     she’s had a fight with ollie,     so she’s made the executive decision that elliot’s apartment is now a movie theatre showing only the classics     :     tote bag filled to the brim with the old vhs’s she’d taken from her dad’s house when she moved out,     the ones they used to watch as kids.     (   —     simpler times,     she wants to say,     but were they really?   )

so they’re in between movies,     and she’s scrounging his kitchen for something edible she can fix them for dinner     —     angela’s no great cook,     but compared to elliot she may as well be gordon fucking ramsey.     she’s not sure how he survived college.     she’s settled on delivery as the most viable option     (   seriously,     elliot,     would it kill you to have a single vegetable in your home?   ),     nodded to herself and returned to the barely - divided area that counts as a living room,     and finds he’s being     . . .     philosophical?     doing that thing he does,     at least,     where he thinks too much and analyzes too much and leaves too little room for anything else.

so she sits herself on the sofa next to him,     scrolls ubereats as she does     —     there’s a good indian restaurant somewhere around here if she can remember the name.          ‘   i don’t know,     fate?   ’          angela isn’t sure she believes in fate.     she believes in choice.     she believes that when things happen,     it’s because you’ve made them happen     —     and fate be damned,     she’s planning to make a lot happen.     it seems like an easy answer,     but she tries again.          ‘   shared trauma?     that seems more likely.   ’          she elbows his side,     gently,     in a way that’s meant to say whatever our thread is i’m glad i know you,     you’re my best friend,     you know without the words.     some things are best understood in silence.          ‘   what are you feeling for dinner?   ’

[remainrun]

in that dream i had, when i was being drowned? it was when i stopped fighting it, when i finally let go and stopped struggling so much: that’s when i survived.

[retrbution-blog1]

angie has an aesthetic sideblog now !

[retrbution-blog1]

btw i’m goin iconless here for now bc its too much effort to make them and i dont have a psd i really like for angela yet

[resours]

a   sentence   starter   inspired   by    “ MABEL ”    a   podcast   about   ghosts ,   family   secrets ,   strange   houses ,   and   missed   connections   written   by   becca   de   la   rosa   and   mabel   martin.   /   part   2.

did i dream you?

i think i conjured you.

you laughed, and i fell in love with you.

i love only you. only you. only ever you.

sometimes loves isn’t enough.

you are familiar and strange at the same time.

i  thought you were beautiful: a thing i could never touch.

sometimes i think i would eat you if i could.

it is not uncommon for us to want to eat what we love.

we consume what we love.

where does it come from, the thread that ties us together?

you know some of my secrets, i know some of your secrets.

i always thought the worst thing in the world was repetition.

do you know who i am? or are you only looking in the mirror?

i am different. i am not the same as i was.

you don’t strike me as the kind of person ever to have been afraid of the dark.

even the dark needs things to eat, things to love.

the dark was hungry. the dark is always devouring.

i never used to step on insects. it would make me cry.

nothing in this universe is what you think it is.

i have only anecdotal evidence for this, but it’s true nonetheless.

entropy, come to devour all.

would they be horrified if they saw my hands, do you think?

my touch has always ruined everything, hasn’t it?

i am unwilling to change for any purpose except my own will, my own apotheosis.

[retrbution-blog1]

      𝐢 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 .

[zsww-moved-to-pillowfort-deacti]

[retrbution-blog1]

this is canon

[resours]

a   sentence   starter   inspired   by    “ MABEL ”    a   podcast   about   ghosts ,   family   secrets ,   strange   houses ,   and   missed   connections   written   by   becca   de   la   rosa   and   mabel   martin.   /   part   2.

did i dream you?

i think i conjured you.

you laughed, and i fell in love with you.

i love only you. only you. only ever you.

sometimes loves isn’t enough.

you are familiar and strange at the same time.

i  thought you were beautiful: a thing i could never touch.

sometimes i think i would eat you if i could.

it is not uncommon for us to want to eat what we love.

we consume what we love.

where does it come from, the thread that ties us together?

you know some of my secrets, i know some of your secrets.

i always thought the worst thing in the world was repetition.

do you know who i am? or are you only looking in the mirror?

i am different. i am not the same as i was.

you don’t strike me as the kind of person ever to have been afraid of the dark.

even the dark needs things to eat, things to love.

the dark was hungry. the dark is always devouring.

i never used to step on insects. it would make me cry.

nothing in this universe is what you think it is.

i have only anecdotal evidence for this, but it’s true nonetheless.

entropy, come to devour all.

would they be horrified if they saw my hands, do you think?

my touch has always ruined everything, hasn’t it?

i am unwilling to change for any purpose except my own will, my own apotheosis.

[rosources]

—   ask meme   :   ANGELA CARTER,   THE BLOODY CHAMBER.

i remember how, that night, i lay awake in a tender, delicious ecstasy of excitement.

at this very moment, my mother would be moving slowly about the narrow bedroom i had left behind forever.

are you sure? are you sure you love him?

i’m sure i want to marry him.

i had gladly, scandalously, defiantly beggared myself for love.

he left his wife and child a legacy of tears that never quite dried.

our destination, my destiny.

i was forced always to mimic surprise, so that he would not be disappointed.

elsewhere, i might see you plain. elsewhere, but where?

i know it must seem a curious analogy, a man with a flower, but sometimes he seemed to me like a liy. yes. a lily.

possessed of that strange, ominous calm of a sentient vegetable.

oh! how he must want me!

not by virtue of its violence but because of its very gravity.

her face is common property.

the whispering crowd parted like the red sea to let us through.

i thought: i must truly love him. yes, i did.

how my circumstances had changed since the first time i heard those voluptuous chords that carry such a charge of deathly passion in them!

i thought: my cup runneth over.

a red ribbon like the memory of a wound.

for the first time in my innocent and confined life, i sensed in myself a potentiality for corruption that took my breath away.

into marriage, into exile.

i sensed it, i knew it — that, henceforth, i would always be lonely.

i felt, all at once, a sharp premonition of dread that lasted only as long as the match flared.

he kissed me and left me and died.

that lovely, sad, sea-siren of a place!

here, it would be easy to be content.

in the prim charm of this saint, i saw myself as i could have wished to be.

enough! no more!

anticipation is the greater part of pleasure, my little love.

perhaps i had seen your face without its mask, and perhaps i had not.

the silent music of my unknowingness, like clair de lune played upon a piano with keys of ether.

i hardly recognized myself from your descriptions of me, and yet, and yet — might there not be a grain of beastly truth in them?

what is that key? the key to your heart? give it to me!

surprise me for dessert with every ice cream in the ice box.

no, nothing is the matter. i have gold bath taps.

i had let them down again but i did not care.

there must be a great deal to conceal if you take such pains to hide it.

i was alone, but for my reflection.

i had the brief notion that my heart, pressed flat as a flower, crimson and thin as tissue paper, lay in this file. it was a very thin one.

the supreme and unique pleasure of love is the certainty that one is doing evil.

i wanted to know still more, and the means to discover more fell in my way.

i took the forbidden key from the heap and left the others lying there.

yet the skull was still so beautiful.

i heard you walking about, up and down, and some intuition told me you could not sleep.

how could i know, indeed? except that, in my heart, i’d always known.

i had been tricked into my own betrayal.

the secret of pandora’s box; but he had given me the box, himself, knowing i must learn the secret.

i had played a game in which every move was governed by a destiny oppressive and omnipotent, and i had lost.

lost, as the victim loses to the executioner.

i would have strangled him, then.

the atrocious loneliness of that monster!

prepare yourself for martyrdom.

i can be of some comfort to you, though not much use.

who can say what i deserve or no? i’ve done nothing, but that may be sufficient reason for condemning me.

i only did what he knew i would. like eve.

courage. when i thought of courage, i thought of my mother.

do you think i shall lose appetite for the meal if you are so long about serving it?

the puppet master, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, impotent at the last, saw his dolls break free of their strings.

the king, aghast, witnesses the revolt of his pawns.

we lead a quiet life, the three of us.

i never heard you cry before. not when you were happy.

[unrealunearths]

Well that’s certainly a creative way out of this.

[alienwlw]

to  d e s t r o y  you

[retrbution-blog1]

TAGS 02 .