Too costly for repairs. @river-blane - Tumblr Blog

[Arthur moves through the halls, absentmindedly moving around the sparse patients he encounters. He’s a small stack of files in his hands- and mounds more in his office. Rosewood is sadly understaffed- he can understand, who really wants to work at an insane asylum?

'You do.'

'Shut up, brain.'

Anyhow, much of the work falls on him. He hasn’t even managed to have any sessions yet.

He is roused from his work-induced stupor soon enough- as he doesn’t quite manage to maneuver around someone. He looks up, intense eyes focusing on the other’s face.] I am so sorry.

river-blane

[It isn't as if the oncoming collision is much of a startle to River. The girl, with her eyes fixated very pointedly at a bird, through the sheeting glass windowpane, hardly blinks as she stumbles past.

There is, as expected if not uncharacteristic as it could have been, the tinge of annoyance. Which startles her more than the intrusion itself.

How these days have changed her world view.]

No need for apologies. The world will keep turning. [Hah.]

#convo #arthur #izzzyyyyyyyy #say hello to rivah #also i apologize for her everything she loves is dead she's been through a lot so she's gonna be a jerk

quincy-d

[He’s never felt that. And of course, it is different from person to person, but he knows. Knows that he has not felt that. The closest he’d ever felt was when he spent the early mornings in Ethan’s library. He’d sit, nose shoved in a book, fingers gripping the edges of the pages like the only thing that anchored him to where he was and he couldn’t even travel. He didn’t possess the ability to. Only the ability to step further and further out of himself.

And for too long he had simply felt suspended on Natalia’s tongue. A word ready to drop like a bomb from her lips — to stop time, to stop him, to stop it all.

All until the word did drop in one harsh wail. A month and a half of waiting to know what freedom might feel like, and instead he felt like a monsoon had washed over him alone. His own, personal, hurricane to drench his clothes, his being, his soul.

The ax had come down, it’s arc wide and picturesque, and he hadn’t felt any lighter for it. He’d simply let Maudie call the cops.]

Where did it go?

river-blane

[It went. It went like blinding light flashes in your eyes before you can smile for the camera. And then it's there -- with it's concrete proof that it had existed, but never anything to wrap your fingers around. Only to stare at when the nights were heavy and the words did less than you thought they might.

Like constellations on her skin or the deep scars that couldn't be seen -- but felt like embers burning beneath the layer that covered her. Where fingers had touched and done no more. Imprinted.

It went without question and without knowing but not before spilling secrets and creating something that was knowledge beneath the jagged fingernails of the girl. Those like to tell tales of the abandoned because it is romantic to feel pain.

And she has been left -- left by the one and the other, and the blade, and the teacup, and the illumination. But none had stung like the real thing she held in her hands and formed bond over like pariahs do. None left this empty feeling so unwilling to be ignored.]

To tend to its world. It's a busy job, harvesting. No tool to be made out of moondrop girls and their broken sky.

#convo #quincy

quincy-d

[He thinks whatever moment she had must have been imagined; or at the very least, made up of the seconds a stain takes to truly seep in. Quincy thinks her moment must have been the one that she became a splotch on a page, because he never had one. Sure, there was a time — years even — that he felt himself, but that did not make him accompanied. That did not mean that he was not abandoned and left to rot in his own time. But then, perhaps abandonment wasn’t the right word. What could not be abandoned by what never had been to begin with.

Gone away like the stars. He knows that if he wishes to wiggle his fingers, that he can. That just because they don’t feel his own doesn’t mean that they aren’t. All the same, her words make him wonder if the stars were ever really real to begin with.]

What was that moment like for you? [Was it wrong to want to taste it off of someone elses tongue? To give flavor to words that were not, and never again would be whole?]

river-blane

[It stings like a fresh blade slicing across her quivering, nerve-ridden thigh. The way the skin broke so evenly, so sensitive as bundles of nerves send bundles of messages and split open blood vessels over such young, new skin. She isn't new -- and she isn't young. But she feels that way, deeper now than is comfortable for her. Like a child -- naive and telling in all the ways that opening up and allowing something to flood you makes the ribcage crack -- the heart quake.

But before. The moment. Like dull light muted red beneath a lampshade, that which takes the rest of the world and shuts it out for a brief, clouded moment. Head-high and marked poor-decision making skills from the drunkenness of knowing pre-abandonment. The before.

Well. That felt like something she should be ashamed to have felt.

But she isn't. Only wounded.]

Like a daydream. All the wisp in the world in my pocket. Mine. [But it wasn't -- isn't. Not anymore.]

#convo #quincy

quincy-d

We were abandoned to begin with. [An absent thought. Stray from his lips like wisps on wind.]

river-blane

[It's almost a laugh that huffs from her lips. Abandoned to begin with; isn't it funny to find a light and watch it burn out?] Not always. Mostly, yes. But briefly... for a moment.

Gone now, anyway. Like the stars. I really should find out where they went.