Behold Ozymandias, King Of Kings

An ask/rp blog for Actor Marc. Minors DNI. Mod is 27

[samesnakenewskin]

Intro Post!

I don’t really have a lot of rules for my rp blogs, but it’s always good to have them out in the open.

1. No discrimination of any kind, especially out of character. No warnings, I will block anyone who tries that shit.

2. No minors. No interacting with this blog in any form. Only 18 and up can interact, that’s it.

3. I do have work and school outside of Tumblr, so I can’t always respond. Please don’t just reblog the post to alert me. If I haven’t responded for more than three days, just send me a message in case Tumblr ate it. If I say I’m going on break, don’t keep pushing threads.

4. Fun! This is silly goofy here, and we need silly goofy times. Don’t take anything too seriously, just enjoy!

5. I will tag for gore, murder, dark themes etc. if there’s anything that needs to be tagged, please let me know.

[lost-soul-in-time]

The sharp bitter chill of the sea rushes over his feet now and although his body trembles with the exertion it takes for him to endure it, he still forces himself here in this very position. It's what he needed, to feel something, anything at all. It's also his punishment.

His comrades, their suffering, it was nothing compared to what Oliver felt now as the waves crashed in closer and whipped drops of its salty water onto his skin. With each interruption of the warmth clinging onto what it could of his body, the more he hoped it would have no where else to go. He wanted to be soaked down to the bone, he wanted to hurt, he wanted to pay for all he did and didn't do.

So many young men, smiling and laughing before reality hit them.

So many young men–

So many boys dead.

And he couldn't save them.

He couldn't save him.

Oliver gave him his coat, he made a fire, he held him close. He did all he could and all there was at his disposal, but it didn't work. He still died in his arms, recounting memories of his family and how happy he's going to be once he sees them again. He said he was so tired, he was just going to go to sleep for a little while and Oliver watched him sleep and never wake up. Oliver tried to do the same, but life had other plans. I always seemed that way. He just couldn't die.

But everyone else, oh they died. So quickly. You never realize how much blood a person holds in their body until they're shot and stabbed and blown up into pieces in front of you. You never know how useless you truly are until you leave the army only able to count the lives you saved on one hand and the others on hundreds of detached fingers that aren't your own.

Water gets on his face and his eyes begin to burn. The sea's doing, surely.

The ocean comes in closer, reaching his thighs and nearly dragging him in. He gasps for air in the midst of his distress, gripping the sand below his with shaking hands and feeling a horrible wailing sound escape his throat. His chest hurts, an aching settling deep inside the hollow space alongside his soul. He shouldn't be here. Why did he get to stay? What made him different from all the others? He definitely wasn't special, so why?

His knees move to bring him closer into the crashing waves, eyes screwed shut as his hand clutches the tag hanging from a chain, but he feels arms hurriedly pull him back and away from the shore before he can let it take him. No, no, no, no–

"–no, please, I need to!" His voice is raw and anguished, fighting against the hold on him with the strength left in his inept body until he can only collapse against the warmth of another one. "Please, just let it take me, I– I can't, I can't do it anymore, I can't..."

"I know. I know, darling, I know."

Marc feverishly holds him close as he lets tonight's anguish get the better of Oliver in the form of pain tearing through his throat as if for the first time. He breaks down again, just like he did the day before and how he will do tomorrow.

It hurts. Every part of him hurts.

he left them to die. he's a monster.

[samesnakenewskin]

“I didn’t plan on running into you here.”

God, he’d never be freed from the terrors of modern technology. As much as he tried, they physically couldn’t do the shoots analog anymore. Digital cameras, editing software, all promised to improve the film and reinvigorate Marc’s career. Flicking through another disaster of a script, he had prayed the dull flickering and buzzing was just the lightbulbs in the verge of burning out.

“No, neither did I. Have you decided to audition? I’ve heard about stars breaking out of the tv onto the big screen, but this is ridiculous.”

[v1rus1nth3ma1nfram3]

It hadn't shown itself quite yet, though it was much easier to draw power here. A set like this wasn't exactly his territory, but the technology that poured out of every part of the modern film process was much more familiar then that dusty manor. The sound of laughter fulled the room echoing off the walls at the idea auditioning. As much as it liked the idea of theatrics that wasn't exactly his speed. "You that desperate for new talent?" it mused its form solidifying on the other side of the actors desk s bottle of whiskey in hand. Green eyes scanned the other over before looking around the room its eyes shifted back to Marc before holding up the bottle, "Drink?"

[samesnakenewskin]

“You seem desperate for attention, don’t you have anything better to do? Don’t Damien and Celine have that TV station you could lurk at?” Marc barely felt presentable, half in his makeup and still in his robe. Curlers tightly wound in his hair and a layer of hairspray slowly settling. Cold and uncomfortably cast skin waiting to be concealed and to have life artificially pumped back in so the scenes aren’t too unnerving.

Analog was a difficult condition to maintain, even with the tantrums that he’d throw to directors and stage managers that the electricity ruined the energy of the set. “Is that mine, yours, stolen, or some eight bit concoction set on restarting my heart?” He’d drink it no matter what.

[v1rus1nth3ma1nfram3]

“Just got here and already trying to get rid of me? Thats no way to treat a guest.” It mocked hearing him mention Markiplier TV. A glass glitched on the desk not fully waiting for Marc’s response or perhaps just guessing that he would agree. “A gift or rather bribe from Dames to stay off their set while they work on their current endeavor.” A smirk curled on its lips as it recalled the interaction with Dark. “Bribe followed by a very colorful threat from you ex wife, she really knows how to talk to a man doesn’t she?” It poured the whiskey though it was playing more attention to how Marc would react.

It slid the glass over to Marc before taking a long swig from the bottle itself. “What’s with the lack of tech around here? You would think an actor like yourself would only be on sets with the best in flim…not on a set that looks 20 years past its prime.”

[samesnakenewskin]

“I swear to god, if he still has his sticky little fingers in my liquor cabinets, he’s losing his hands.” Damien had always been the one to finish the bottle after all, outdrinking their friend group, then drinking himself blackout drunk and crashing in Marc’s guest room. Picking at his hands, he unwinds threads of skin that are barely holding together.

Celine. He couldn’t help but blame her for everything despite his extensive meddling and the inevitable consequences of it. She kept them all alive so unfortunately. “It’s supposed to keep you out and I prefer the conditions. I miss my old sets.” Nursing the glass, Marc eyes the creature carefully.

[samesnakenewskin]

“I didn’t plan on running into you here.”

God, he’d never be freed from the terrors of modern technology. As much as he tried, they physically couldn’t do the shoots analog anymore. Digital cameras, editing software, all promised to improve the film and reinvigorate Marc’s career. Flicking through another disaster of a script, he had prayed the dull flickering and buzzing was just the lightbulbs in the verge of burning out.

“No, neither did I. Have you decided to audition? I’ve heard about stars breaking out of the tv onto the big screen, but this is ridiculous.”

[v1rus1nth3ma1nfram3]

It hadn't shown itself quite yet, though it was much easier to draw power here. A set like this wasn't exactly his territory, but the technology that poured out of every part of the modern film process was much more familiar then that dusty manor. The sound of laughter fulled the room echoing off the walls at the idea auditioning. As much as it liked the idea of theatrics that wasn't exactly his speed. "You that desperate for new talent?" it mused its form solidifying on the other side of the actors desk s bottle of whiskey in hand. Green eyes scanned the other over before looking around the room its eyes shifted back to Marc before holding up the bottle, "Drink?"

[samesnakenewskin]

“You seem desperate for attention, don’t you have anything better to do? Don’t Damien and Celine have that TV station you could lurk at?” Marc barely felt presentable, half in his makeup and still in his robe. Curlers tightly wound in his hair and a layer of hairspray slowly settling. Cold and uncomfortably cast skin waiting to be concealed and to have life artificially pumped back in so the scenes aren’t too unnerving.

Analog was a difficult condition to maintain, even with the tantrums that he’d throw to directors and stage managers that the electricity ruined the energy of the set. “Is that mine, yours, stolen, or some eight bit concoction set on restarting my heart?” He’d drink it no matter what.

[samesnakenewskin]

“I didn’t plan on running into you here.”

God, he’d never be freed from the terrors of modern technology. As much as he tried, they physically couldn’t do the shoots analog anymore. Digital cameras, editing software, all promised to improve the film and reinvigorate Marc’s career. Flicking through another disaster of a script, he had prayed the dull flickering and buzzing was just the lightbulbs in the verge of burning out.

“No, neither did I. Have you decided to audition? I’ve heard about stars breaking out of the tv onto the big screen, but this is ridiculous.”

[thunderousmemes]

𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 

(starters inspired by too many drinks, city lights, and the kind of honesty that only comes after midnight)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆

“You look like you could use another drink… or a bad decision.”

“Don’t tell me you came here alone.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m just—emotionally flexible right now.”

“One more round, and I might actually tell you what I’m thinking.”

“I didn’t plan on running into you here.”

“You’ve got that look—like you’re either about to confess something or start a fight.”

“You’re staring again. Should I take that as an invitation?”

“You ever think about how many bad ideas start with a shot glass?”

“You dance like you’re trying to forget something.”

“It’s way past decent hours—what are you still doing out?”

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆, 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓

“You can stop pretending you’re fine. Nobody believes it after their third drink.”

“I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“It’s funny—liquor makes you honest, but you still can’t say what you really want, can you?”

“You shouldn’t walk home alone. I’ll come with you.”

“You always talk like this when you’ve had too much.”

“You smell like smoke and regret. It suits you.”

“Let’s make a pact—we don’t talk about this in the morning.”

“You shouldn’t have kissed me. But I’m not asking you to stop.”

“You ever get drunk enough to think the world might love you back?”

“We’re both going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t we?”

𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑, 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? I’ll go first.”

“Tell me a truth—just one. The kind you’d never say sober.”

“You’re going to forget this conversation in the morning, right?”

“If I told you I missed you, would you blame the alcohol?”

“You keep drinking like you’re trying to forget something. Or someone.”

“I didn’t mean to call you. My hands just remembered your number.”

“Why are you crying? Don’t tell me it’s just the gin.”

“You said you don’t love me anymore, but you’re still here.”

“Do you ever wonder how we got this lost?”

“Sometimes, I think the night listens better than people do.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐖 — quiet streets, unspoken things

“I’ll walk you home. You can pretend you don’t need me to.”

“It’s too late for goodbyes, isn’t it?”

“We shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

“You can hold my hand. Just for tonight.”

“Do you ever wish you’d met me sober?”

“Don’t fall asleep yet. The world feels softer when it’s still spinning.”

“Stay until the city forgets our names.”

“You look different under the streetlights.”

“Promise me you won’t vanish when morning comes.”

“I don’t know what I’ll remember most — the taste of the drink, or you.”

[samesnakenewskin]

i think it's under my skin.

(from cricket)

God help them all. Somewhere between scenes, Marc had taken his eyes off of Louise Cricket. In between the hospital flashbacks and her finding every door locked, it’s like she’s vanished into the walls. Another house that’s swallowed her whole. Now as the boy next door who’s appearing sporadically in the house, Marc, Jameson now, is tiptoeing through the halls. Looking to find the sound of her crying. Cricket always cries the most, most volatile and most difficult to wrangle at the end of the day.

That’s all he hears. Crickets. Horribly silent aside from the knocking of each door, slowly creaking open as he glances around for her. “Cricket? Look, it’s me! I know you’re not…you’re not well. But I swear it’s me, just let me in.”

[mysweetlouise]

going mad. she was sure of that. crawling, buzzing feeling in her head and god those eyes were worming into her thoughts, her hands twitching on the bandages around her arms. she'd shut herself into one of the cabinets, one arm firmly in her mouth to muffle her sobs and the other holding the door closed.

she should be dead, she was dead and this was hell, she was in hell, she'd tried to call her family and they were gone, and that thing in her friend's skin - closing in, crushing her.

she wasn't well but this wasn't right.

god help her, she'd sink her teeth into whoever tried to get her.

[samesnakenewskin]

Cackling to himself, he drags his nails across cracking wallpaper, pulling himself forward. They’re still on camera, little fly in the wall shots catching Marc’s decaying body shamble forward. Uncanniness was demanded from both performers, letting his tendons loosen in every wild and sudden movement. “Come on now, there’s no good reason to be rude now, is there? I just want to make sure you’re safe after all.”

Disjointed, his fingertips peeling and catching across the unevenly plastered paper, he giggles with each shuffle closer. “Cricket, you’ll feel better in a minute. Let me get you your medicine, I’ll even let you have some pie afterwards.” Tapping the boney edges of his knuckles against the wall, good ear to the wall pressed to the wall. “If you stay in there too long, you’ll just suffocate!”

[mysweetlouise]

she clenched her fingers against the cabinet door. her fingernails - growing back, bit by bit, scrabbling against the wood. she'd... the originals had been peeled back in the accident. or the recovery. she couldn't remember anymore.

the bathroom had a window. if she could just make it there, lock the door, climb out - outpace that thing. the music, reverberating in her bones. the medicine wouldn't help. nothing would help.

go. now.

cricket burst from the cabinet, sprinting from the room and into the hall towards the bathroom, stumbling over her own feet.

[samesnakenewskin]

Simultaneously recording the scene and absolutely losing his mind, Marc claws at his aching jaw before shoving it closed. Absolute gold, but no one’s outside to stop Cricket from running out into the street and start screaming bloody murder. A picture nail snags into a small cut on his finger, slicing through without hesitation. Recovery would be a nightmare for the pair.

“Come on out~,” he giddily sings, watching the doors for the tiniest shudder. “It’s just not safe for you out of there.” Easy does it, leaning forward before the doors fly open. Armed with a pocket of loose pills and the prospect of a fantastic shot, Marc sprints forward, barrelling into Cricket as she tries crossing the hall.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket lets out an awful, terrified scream, toppling over and hitting the wood floor with a heavy thud. it wasn't human, wasn't human, wasn't human - she lashes out with those bitten down nails, further yelling and gibbering a mile a minute.

"you're not him, i know you're not him! your eyes - god, your eyes, i don't know what you are-" she kicks at him, trying to scramble back.

[samesnakenewskin]

Now this was the good stuff, cinematic gold and a little bit of bonus catharsis. Both hands wrap around her shoulders, forcing her into the floor even further. The spiny prickle of bone peeking through his flesh tries to lacerate through her skin. "Cricket, Cricket it's me! It's me, I swear it is! I don't know what you're talking about, but I swear it's alright!" he screams, laughing so violently that his jaw is nearly cracks open. She looked nothing like her or either of them, but Louise was damn near close enough to be them. Worked with him, followed around that false pretense of a man like a sickly animal.

"Come on, you know it's me. How else could I remember what you like? No one else would give up everything for you, no one ever would! I'm your only fucking friend Cricket, don't you dare forget that!"

[mysweetlouise]

the thing was fucking smiling, laughing and her stomach was churning. she was fine, she was sane and no head injury could do this to her and even if it did dear god she didn't deserve this. warmth in her shoulder, a bead of red soaking into her t-shirt sleeve. she clawed at his arms, kicking up at him and continuing to scream.

"you're not real! im not going away, i don't know what you did with him but i won't be that! i won't be you!" if she hadn't been in the hospital, maybe it wouldn't have gotten him, he wouldn't have been alone-

[samesnakenewskin]

"You won't ever be me and you know it," he cackles, wrapping his fingers tightly around her shoulders to try and stop her from wriggling away. Marcs arms are bare, every scratch down them peeling off thin layers of skin in heavy chunks. Blood coagulated so much it barely even bleeds, just shakes and sticks underneath Crickets fingernails like jelly. "Isn't this what you wanted? I told you I'd never leave, I'd never forget about you. So you can't leave me!"

Marcs hands are unwavering, but every hit begins to take off parts of this recrafted body. Bleeding through to his real face, pale and cold as it stares down at her.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd just wanted jameson to visit her in the hospital. she'd just wanted to see her friend, it wasn't making sense, was he dead?

"the - oh, god, it's not your skin!" something rotting. she let out another wild scream, this time flailing her head to bite into his arm and her leg to kick him away.

[samesnakenewskin]

Just a little longer, hold the uncomfortable shape until they can switch scenes. Marc barks out a laugh, uncomfortably dry as it crawls out of his throat. All the flesh is heavy, aching to be peeled off. Falling off the bone easily, the meat of his arm detaching and sticking in between Crickets teeth.

“It’s me! Jamie, your best friend! I know we didn’t see each other for a while, but look at us now!” Unravelling above her, like a ream of fabric dropping from a great height.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket gagged, immediately spluttering in awful revulsion and spitting out the hunk of his arm. she might be sick, the cold flesh that clung to her gums sending another shudder of disgust through her.

the smile wasn't his, the eyes weren't his.

she was going to die here.

"i don't know what you are, you're not jamie, you're not my friend, please don't kill me-" she gagged again, starting to sob.

[samesnakenewskin]

Uncomfortably thick blood and flesh lumping into one gelatinous mass slides off his bones, the skin slipping off with a sickly wet pop. More and more ligaments begin separating, fibrous tissues dry and snapping. Marc can’t afford time to repair this, leaning back while keeping a hand on Crickets soldier. “Why would I kill you? I’m not ever letting you go!” All she had to do was behave, nice and still, finishing up her medicine and it would all be an easy dream for her.

“Now, you know you can’t lie to me Cricket. And I can’t lie to you! I’m Jamie, through and through!” Flesh stapled and piled onto his own, layered until his skin disappeared beneath it.

[mysweetlouise]

the dissolving flesh did absolutely nothing to calm her, of course. bits of blood and gore pattering onto the floor like a localized rainstorm from hell. her mind raced. what was it faeries did to the people? kelpies gutted you, left nothing but intestines floating in some pond, hounds and the wild hunt chased you down in numbers, baying and screaming, will-o-the-wisps led you to cliffs and sinkholes, and poor people whisked away to the fae courts, faces incomprehensible, music that drove you mad. the voices were louder in her head, reverberating.

her hand reached up, splotched with red and shaking, to grab at his face.

[samesnakenewskin]

An emulsion of blood and meat not too far from the texture of cold, solid porridge splatters onto the ground opposite her head. Marc had admittedly not looked too deeply into the cryptozoology of the fae, his last impression of the contemporary fairy was from A Midsummers Night Dream. Not good enough, there wasn’t a point to the psychological tension without physical reward.

“Come on…how could you do this to me? After everything?” Marc grins, his skin thin and drenched in blood. It’ll need to be a full body destruction after this, replace all the torn pieces of skin with slowly scarring flesh.

[mysweetlouise]

red splatters across much of her face, dotted across her cheek, forehead, eye. the utter shock of it causes her to freeze, hand still in place, skin ashen. the dread, the pity and guilt of accidentally crushing a snail underfoot, of the squirrel running in front of your car too fast to hit the brake.

the tears spring to her eyes, and cricket lets out a strangled sob - of fear, anger for wherever jamie really was, no doubt hurt and scared, sorrow, pain. she breaks down proper immediately after, shielding her face with her hands as she cries.

[samesnakenewskin]

“My dear little Cricket, I don’t know how you can be so upset. You don’t want to be alone, right?” Cackling, Marc lets his head fall to the side and another rush of blood drips down onto the floor. Flesh squelching beneath her hand, softy caving into his skull. One of hand sneaks onto her shoulder, pinning Cricket in place as he pushes himself up.

Another bottle jingles in his pocket, pills rattling against each other, the capsules soft and papery. “Let’s go to bed, huh? You need to rest and you’re almost done with the antibiotics.”

[mysweetlouise]

she can't sleep, shouldn't sleep, she thinks, sniffling back more tears. the music is a spear through her eardrums, his words as if underwater sometimes, others bouncing around in her head like they'd overwhelm, the thought process of a nightmare.

"i don't need them! i don't - have an infection, i just hit my head, i'm not sick." jamie was sick, wherever he went. whatever he was now. she only felt sick because he was sick, because of all this blood. and it knew him well, it knew her name so she must be next.

[samesnakenewskin]

“You cut your head, it’s infected. Rotting all the way through you, inside and out.” Knocking on her head like a ripe melon, his bony knuckles rapping against a bruised skull. Still intact, but a writhing parasite waits dormant beneath the skin. Not ripe yet, but eventually she’ll crack. “We’re sick, aren’t we? I feel like my face is a bit swollen. Can you check for me, since I’ve done so much for you?” Marc pins her hand to his face, fingers buried between torn layers of muscle.

Leaning back, the hand wrapped around her shoulder leveraging Cricket to her feet. Dragging her along, letting her feet scuff against the ground. “Back to bed for you, before you hurt yourself again.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i didn't, i was... the crash, it was in the crash, i'm better! i swear, i'm better." cricket flinched, pain shooting in lightning sharp arcs through her cranium. why was she trying to reason? this thing didn't seek reason, made a mockery of reasoning.

her fingers dug into the muscle as she tried to steady herself, not letting go but god she couldn't look at the damage she was doing. she was going to die, or... no. go mad, it wanted her to go mad. they liked doing that, didn’t they? some traveler vanishing, turning up a gibbering mess besides a mound of earth or stone, or an old well. the music pulsed behind her right eye, like a stress headache.

[samesnakenewskin]

Rot fell into a gorgeous, continuous spectrum of disrepair. Uneven, fighting against the nature of symmetry until its very last moments. It was meant to be unknown; whether or not something truly went wrong in Crickets head. Unreliable narrators are very much in at the moment. “No need for squirming, you know I hate having to bring out the stronger stuff on you, it makes you the wrong kind of quiet.”

Whatever flesh scrapes beneath her fingernails slips away, just like dead skin is supposed to. A little closer to the right order of things. Marc had enjoyed plotting out this set, the tight upstairs hallway that made it seem impossible to escape from. Only a few strides until they’re back in the bedroom, where all corners of the furniture have been taped over.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd spent the first few days home like that. still coming down from that deep surgery-sleep, sitting up to eat and take more meds, water and pills and those damp wipes for that gash at her temple. she could only remember a heavy sadness on her shoulders, and that damned music.

half slumped like a corpse in her own right. she'd die in there, she was sure of it. too much of this or that, a pillow pressed over her face until it faded to grey. maybe it'd stop then. couldn't get any louder, at least.

she didn't deserve this. jamie didn't deserve it, jamie who called her bug and wouldn't hurt anyone, who always got scared first at horror movies. don't let this thing get to anyone else. her voice came out a choked sniffle.

"just tell me, please just - i know it, your face, the - i don't want to go away. people will know, i haven't called anyone since i got home-" not for lack of trying.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s easy to dump her into the bed, a lifeless and disjointed doll. They’re about two months into filming, day by day footage they’ll cut together. Sometimes, she figured it out quickly, the little spark of Louise still sharp through it all. Mivacurium was a hell of a drug, easy to administer and knocked her out just long enough for a break.

He’s eerily kind, tucking her beneath the sheets and slipping pillows beneath her head. Humming as she’s wrapped tightly, like she’s in a shroud. “What do you know? Don’t you think me and Jamie are the perfect match? Perfect doppelgängers. And people? Oh Cricket, if people did, wouldn’t they have come in? No one’s even knocked.”

[mysweetlouise]

she looks very small and very sad under all those blankets. her choppy, tangled hair sticks to a face red from crying, mouth pressed in a wavering line. she wants to itch at her face, pick off all the bits of dried blood and gouge her eyes out for good measure.

the music creeps up through her sinuses like a bad cold, thrumming in faint pain. "nobody has - they send people from the hospital to check up on people. they'll have to - stop by, they have to."

[samesnakenewskin]

Thin strips of flesh dangle from his face, detached from bone and muscle, clinging on by singular fibres. A few snap, crumbling onto the comforter and already starting to rot. Marc struggles to open his mouth fully, the muscles weak and tender. In between shoots, he’d had to glue this pieces back around a dozen times. Moulting like an aging insect.

“If you’ve been discharged into inadequate care, sure, they’d be around frequently. But you don’t remember the doctors coming in last week? They gave us that new prescription for you.”

[mysweetlouise]

last week. what was last week? was there a last week? she would've run for the door. why didn't she run for the door? she can't remember, that fucking noise was drowning everything out. get it out, get it out -

"don't know if they're real. i don't - a new prescription?" she squints, raising her head a little. going to die. going to lose her mind, her skull is going to crack, right in two. he's lying.

"i didn't sleep through it?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Patting down the dried out patches of flesh, Marc continued to pinch and pull at his skin like he could stretch it back in place. He’d considered a medical consultant for the production, but the paperwork and convincing needed to prove Cricket was a very invested method actor seemed tiresome. “Yes, well, you were a little out of it still. Those sleeping tablets really have been doing numbers on you.”

Whistling as he worked his way across the room with his fingers tugging at the weakened muscles of his jaw, he eventually perched on the edge of the bed and stared towards her. “You’re not well.”

[mysweetlouise]

those glassy green eyes of hers just stare at him - though she's more a rabbit scared into staying still than anything. just please don't hurt anyone else. if i end up this way, let me be the last. poor jamie.

"i'm - not crazy. just, i just got hurt. im not crazy," she tries to say calmly, but her voice keeps trembling and she just sounds even worse. not even at home when at home, and no one else sees it, just her. maybe she'd hit something in her head hard enough to clear her sight. or the way a mouse sees the shadow overheard right before being torn apart by beak and talons.

it knows, she knows, and it knows she knows.

not dead yet, but maybe only because she's not scared enough yet.

"what'd you do to him?"

[samesnakenewskin]

“I never said you were crazy, just that you’re not well. If that’s what you think…well, crazy people don’t think they’re crazy, right?” She’d be the heroine of course, but some manic, wide-eyed frightening one caught stumbling down the side of a highway. Skittish and wide-eyed at the littlest of things, then enraptured and still as headlights stared back at her. What little spark that used to shine through Marc’s eyes had died off somewhere in-between the decades, but they twitch and jump around his skull like they’re trying to find a source. 

Poor Jamie. He’d been so excited to get such a role, letting slip how it would be his first big role since moving away from home. Carrying that same grin Marc had in his old deployment photos, the ones just before he was sent straight back after being declared unfit. There’s a large chunk of him left, somewhere in the theatres floorboards. “Oh, he’s not that far away. He’s still in the house, I suppose.”

[mysweetlouise]

he's dead. cricket's arms spasm up to clutch the covers, as if she'd hide from him, from the thought of a body sealed in a wall, a chimney, a closet.

"god, no. no, no - no, poor, poor jamie," she sobs.

dead, dead for sure and it isn't going to leave. it's looking at her. but she's not going to die, maybe she'll lay here until she... starves? was she a pet, did they keep pets? it wouldn't want to be her friend, it'd want her scared, or dead, or something. she doesn't want to find out what this thing did to friends. she should run. she's exhausted, more than anything, but she can't fall asleep. can't look away, can't let it get into her dreams.

[samesnakenewskin]

Jamie would be recycled, face recaptured and reused a few more times. There was a comforting youth to his face, one he’d only been able to recreate in the small space in between death. A better jaw that he planned to integrate permanently after filming. Marc didn’t mind the effort he needed to do to for a little more beauty. “Shh, I’m not looking for new vocals, so don’t go auditioning.”

Grabbing at another bottle of medicine, syrupy and sickly sweet, he started slamming his hand down across the dresser for the wooden spoon. Instead, his skin made contact with a metal spoon, an audible sizzle entering the room. “Fucking bastard thing!” Marc dropped the bottle, the glass shattering and the syrup seeping into the floor. “Don’t move-god dammit!” Clutching at his palm, he slinked out of the bedroom.

[mysweetlouise]

she watches him leave with wide eyes, then slowly, silently wriggles her arm out from under the covers. it's right there. she slides out of bed, keeping her feet as close to it as she can and grasping for the spoon herself. she's mostly sure, but she brings it up to her mouth to make certain.

tastes like blood. iron.

it slips easily into her pocket, and cricket creeps to the hallway door, listening. she could make for the bathroom again, or try and get the lock off the front door. she wishes she could remember where she keeps the first aid kit.

[samesnakenewskin]

The set dressers will never see the light of day after this shoot. There was supposed to be a pair of dainty sewing scissors that he would brush his fingers against and lightly scald the skin. Instead, a real spoon with iron somewhere in the alloy had been left in place of the woody one.

Washing his hand underneath the bathroom tap, Marc grimaces and pinched at the splitting skin running down his palm. Burnt into his hand was the shadow of the spoon, warping the layers of carefully crafted skin. This better do well.

[mysweetlouise]

she pokes her head into the hallway, carefully searching the dresser drawer before producing the holy grail - a bobby pin. she hasn't picked a lock before, but she can try. she can absolutely try.

cricket takes stealthy steps out of the room, keeping her feet as close as possible to the walls. get the lock open and run. up the drive, down the road, towards town and the police station. burn him, only if she has to. an odd little smile, at the idea of holding someone at spoonpoint. what a funny thought! the music is back, humming.

one step at a time.

[samesnakenewskin]

“Cricket! We have to get on with our finale now, don’t we? You’re on your last dose now, then you’ll be all better.” Marc carefully shuts off the tap with his elbow, the indent in his hand pulsing in tactile memory. If she does manage to get out, it’s a fine ending. Crew would be able to catch her before she got too far in character, he hoped. The kitchen drawer should’ve been left slightly ajar to reveal the armouries worth of cutlery sitting there. If not, it would be a full turnover in staff.

“It’s such a shame you’ll be leaving so soon, you won’t even get to say hi to Jamie! He’s coming back so, so soon.”

[samesnakenewskin]

i think it's under my skin.

(from cricket)

God help them all. Somewhere between scenes, Marc had taken his eyes off of Louise Cricket. In between the hospital flashbacks and her finding every door locked, it’s like she’s vanished into the walls. Another house that’s swallowed her whole. Now as the boy next door who’s appearing sporadically in the house, Marc, Jameson now, is tiptoeing through the halls. Looking to find the sound of her crying. Cricket always cries the most, most volatile and most difficult to wrangle at the end of the day.

That’s all he hears. Crickets. Horribly silent aside from the knocking of each door, slowly creaking open as he glances around for her. “Cricket? Look, it’s me! I know you’re not…you’re not well. But I swear it’s me, just let me in.”

[mysweetlouise]

going mad. she was sure of that. crawling, buzzing feeling in her head and god those eyes were worming into her thoughts, her hands twitching on the bandages around her arms. she'd shut herself into one of the cabinets, one arm firmly in her mouth to muffle her sobs and the other holding the door closed.

she should be dead, she was dead and this was hell, she was in hell, she'd tried to call her family and they were gone, and that thing in her friend's skin - closing in, crushing her.

she wasn't well but this wasn't right.

god help her, she'd sink her teeth into whoever tried to get her.

[samesnakenewskin]

Cackling to himself, he drags his nails across cracking wallpaper, pulling himself forward. They’re still on camera, little fly in the wall shots catching Marc’s decaying body shamble forward. Uncanniness was demanded from both performers, letting his tendons loosen in every wild and sudden movement. “Come on now, there’s no good reason to be rude now, is there? I just want to make sure you’re safe after all.”

Disjointed, his fingertips peeling and catching across the unevenly plastered paper, he giggles with each shuffle closer. “Cricket, you’ll feel better in a minute. Let me get you your medicine, I’ll even let you have some pie afterwards.” Tapping the boney edges of his knuckles against the wall, good ear to the wall pressed to the wall. “If you stay in there too long, you’ll just suffocate!”

[mysweetlouise]

she clenched her fingers against the cabinet door. her fingernails - growing back, bit by bit, scrabbling against the wood. she'd... the originals had been peeled back in the accident. or the recovery. she couldn't remember anymore.

the bathroom had a window. if she could just make it there, lock the door, climb out - outpace that thing. the music, reverberating in her bones. the medicine wouldn't help. nothing would help.

go. now.

cricket burst from the cabinet, sprinting from the room and into the hall towards the bathroom, stumbling over her own feet.

[samesnakenewskin]

Simultaneously recording the scene and absolutely losing his mind, Marc claws at his aching jaw before shoving it closed. Absolute gold, but no one’s outside to stop Cricket from running out into the street and start screaming bloody murder. A picture nail snags into a small cut on his finger, slicing through without hesitation. Recovery would be a nightmare for the pair.

“Come on out~,” he giddily sings, watching the doors for the tiniest shudder. “It’s just not safe for you out of there.” Easy does it, leaning forward before the doors fly open. Armed with a pocket of loose pills and the prospect of a fantastic shot, Marc sprints forward, barrelling into Cricket as she tries crossing the hall.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket lets out an awful, terrified scream, toppling over and hitting the wood floor with a heavy thud. it wasn't human, wasn't human, wasn't human - she lashes out with those bitten down nails, further yelling and gibbering a mile a minute.

"you're not him, i know you're not him! your eyes - god, your eyes, i don't know what you are-" she kicks at him, trying to scramble back.

[samesnakenewskin]

Now this was the good stuff, cinematic gold and a little bit of bonus catharsis. Both hands wrap around her shoulders, forcing her into the floor even further. The spiny prickle of bone peeking through his flesh tries to lacerate through her skin. "Cricket, Cricket it's me! It's me, I swear it is! I don't know what you're talking about, but I swear it's alright!" he screams, laughing so violently that his jaw is nearly cracks open. She looked nothing like her or either of them, but Louise was damn near close enough to be them. Worked with him, followed around that false pretense of a man like a sickly animal.

"Come on, you know it's me. How else could I remember what you like? No one else would give up everything for you, no one ever would! I'm your only fucking friend Cricket, don't you dare forget that!"

[mysweetlouise]

the thing was fucking smiling, laughing and her stomach was churning. she was fine, she was sane and no head injury could do this to her and even if it did dear god she didn't deserve this. warmth in her shoulder, a bead of red soaking into her t-shirt sleeve. she clawed at his arms, kicking up at him and continuing to scream.

"you're not real! im not going away, i don't know what you did with him but i won't be that! i won't be you!" if she hadn't been in the hospital, maybe it wouldn't have gotten him, he wouldn't have been alone-

[samesnakenewskin]

"You won't ever be me and you know it," he cackles, wrapping his fingers tightly around her shoulders to try and stop her from wriggling away. Marcs arms are bare, every scratch down them peeling off thin layers of skin in heavy chunks. Blood coagulated so much it barely even bleeds, just shakes and sticks underneath Crickets fingernails like jelly. "Isn't this what you wanted? I told you I'd never leave, I'd never forget about you. So you can't leave me!"

Marcs hands are unwavering, but every hit begins to take off parts of this recrafted body. Bleeding through to his real face, pale and cold as it stares down at her.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd just wanted jameson to visit her in the hospital. she'd just wanted to see her friend, it wasn't making sense, was he dead?

"the - oh, god, it's not your skin!" something rotting. she let out another wild scream, this time flailing her head to bite into his arm and her leg to kick him away.

[samesnakenewskin]

Just a little longer, hold the uncomfortable shape until they can switch scenes. Marc barks out a laugh, uncomfortably dry as it crawls out of his throat. All the flesh is heavy, aching to be peeled off. Falling off the bone easily, the meat of his arm detaching and sticking in between Crickets teeth.

“It’s me! Jamie, your best friend! I know we didn’t see each other for a while, but look at us now!” Unravelling above her, like a ream of fabric dropping from a great height.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket gagged, immediately spluttering in awful revulsion and spitting out the hunk of his arm. she might be sick, the cold flesh that clung to her gums sending another shudder of disgust through her.

the smile wasn't his, the eyes weren't his.

she was going to die here.

"i don't know what you are, you're not jamie, you're not my friend, please don't kill me-" she gagged again, starting to sob.

[samesnakenewskin]

Uncomfortably thick blood and flesh lumping into one gelatinous mass slides off his bones, the skin slipping off with a sickly wet pop. More and more ligaments begin separating, fibrous tissues dry and snapping. Marc can’t afford time to repair this, leaning back while keeping a hand on Crickets soldier. “Why would I kill you? I’m not ever letting you go!” All she had to do was behave, nice and still, finishing up her medicine and it would all be an easy dream for her.

“Now, you know you can’t lie to me Cricket. And I can’t lie to you! I’m Jamie, through and through!” Flesh stapled and piled onto his own, layered until his skin disappeared beneath it.

[mysweetlouise]

the dissolving flesh did absolutely nothing to calm her, of course. bits of blood and gore pattering onto the floor like a localized rainstorm from hell. her mind raced. what was it faeries did to the people? kelpies gutted you, left nothing but intestines floating in some pond, hounds and the wild hunt chased you down in numbers, baying and screaming, will-o-the-wisps led you to cliffs and sinkholes, and poor people whisked away to the fae courts, faces incomprehensible, music that drove you mad. the voices were louder in her head, reverberating.

her hand reached up, splotched with red and shaking, to grab at his face.

[samesnakenewskin]

An emulsion of blood and meat not too far from the texture of cold, solid porridge splatters onto the ground opposite her head. Marc had admittedly not looked too deeply into the cryptozoology of the fae, his last impression of the contemporary fairy was from A Midsummers Night Dream. Not good enough, there wasn’t a point to the psychological tension without physical reward.

“Come on…how could you do this to me? After everything?” Marc grins, his skin thin and drenched in blood. It’ll need to be a full body destruction after this, replace all the torn pieces of skin with slowly scarring flesh.

[mysweetlouise]

red splatters across much of her face, dotted across her cheek, forehead, eye. the utter shock of it causes her to freeze, hand still in place, skin ashen. the dread, the pity and guilt of accidentally crushing a snail underfoot, of the squirrel running in front of your car too fast to hit the brake.

the tears spring to her eyes, and cricket lets out a strangled sob - of fear, anger for wherever jamie really was, no doubt hurt and scared, sorrow, pain. she breaks down proper immediately after, shielding her face with her hands as she cries.

[samesnakenewskin]

“My dear little Cricket, I don’t know how you can be so upset. You don’t want to be alone, right?” Cackling, Marc lets his head fall to the side and another rush of blood drips down onto the floor. Flesh squelching beneath her hand, softy caving into his skull. One of hand sneaks onto her shoulder, pinning Cricket in place as he pushes himself up.

Another bottle jingles in his pocket, pills rattling against each other, the capsules soft and papery. “Let’s go to bed, huh? You need to rest and you’re almost done with the antibiotics.”

[mysweetlouise]

she can't sleep, shouldn't sleep, she thinks, sniffling back more tears. the music is a spear through her eardrums, his words as if underwater sometimes, others bouncing around in her head like they'd overwhelm, the thought process of a nightmare.

"i don't need them! i don't - have an infection, i just hit my head, i'm not sick." jamie was sick, wherever he went. whatever he was now. she only felt sick because he was sick, because of all this blood. and it knew him well, it knew her name so she must be next.

[samesnakenewskin]

“You cut your head, it’s infected. Rotting all the way through you, inside and out.” Knocking on her head like a ripe melon, his bony knuckles rapping against a bruised skull. Still intact, but a writhing parasite waits dormant beneath the skin. Not ripe yet, but eventually she’ll crack. “We’re sick, aren’t we? I feel like my face is a bit swollen. Can you check for me, since I’ve done so much for you?” Marc pins her hand to his face, fingers buried between torn layers of muscle.

Leaning back, the hand wrapped around her shoulder leveraging Cricket to her feet. Dragging her along, letting her feet scuff against the ground. “Back to bed for you, before you hurt yourself again.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i didn't, i was... the crash, it was in the crash, i'm better! i swear, i'm better." cricket flinched, pain shooting in lightning sharp arcs through her cranium. why was she trying to reason? this thing didn't seek reason, made a mockery of reasoning.

her fingers dug into the muscle as she tried to steady herself, not letting go but god she couldn't look at the damage she was doing. she was going to die, or... no. go mad, it wanted her to go mad. they liked doing that, didn’t they? some traveler vanishing, turning up a gibbering mess besides a mound of earth or stone, or an old well. the music pulsed behind her right eye, like a stress headache.

[samesnakenewskin]

Rot fell into a gorgeous, continuous spectrum of disrepair. Uneven, fighting against the nature of symmetry until its very last moments. It was meant to be unknown; whether or not something truly went wrong in Crickets head. Unreliable narrators are very much in at the moment. “No need for squirming, you know I hate having to bring out the stronger stuff on you, it makes you the wrong kind of quiet.”

Whatever flesh scrapes beneath her fingernails slips away, just like dead skin is supposed to. A little closer to the right order of things. Marc had enjoyed plotting out this set, the tight upstairs hallway that made it seem impossible to escape from. Only a few strides until they’re back in the bedroom, where all corners of the furniture have been taped over.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd spent the first few days home like that. still coming down from that deep surgery-sleep, sitting up to eat and take more meds, water and pills and those damp wipes for that gash at her temple. she could only remember a heavy sadness on her shoulders, and that damned music.

half slumped like a corpse in her own right. she'd die in there, she was sure of it. too much of this or that, a pillow pressed over her face until it faded to grey. maybe it'd stop then. couldn't get any louder, at least.

she didn't deserve this. jamie didn't deserve it, jamie who called her bug and wouldn't hurt anyone, who always got scared first at horror movies. don't let this thing get to anyone else. her voice came out a choked sniffle.

"just tell me, please just - i know it, your face, the - i don't want to go away. people will know, i haven't called anyone since i got home-" not for lack of trying.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s easy to dump her into the bed, a lifeless and disjointed doll. They’re about two months into filming, day by day footage they’ll cut together. Sometimes, she figured it out quickly, the little spark of Louise still sharp through it all. Mivacurium was a hell of a drug, easy to administer and knocked her out just long enough for a break.

He’s eerily kind, tucking her beneath the sheets and slipping pillows beneath her head. Humming as she’s wrapped tightly, like she’s in a shroud. “What do you know? Don’t you think me and Jamie are the perfect match? Perfect doppelgängers. And people? Oh Cricket, if people did, wouldn’t they have come in? No one’s even knocked.”

[mysweetlouise]

she looks very small and very sad under all those blankets. her choppy, tangled hair sticks to a face red from crying, mouth pressed in a wavering line. she wants to itch at her face, pick off all the bits of dried blood and gouge her eyes out for good measure.

the music creeps up through her sinuses like a bad cold, thrumming in faint pain. "nobody has - they send people from the hospital to check up on people. they'll have to - stop by, they have to."

[samesnakenewskin]

Thin strips of flesh dangle from his face, detached from bone and muscle, clinging on by singular fibres. A few snap, crumbling onto the comforter and already starting to rot. Marc struggles to open his mouth fully, the muscles weak and tender. In between shoots, he’d had to glue this pieces back around a dozen times. Moulting like an aging insect.

“If you’ve been discharged into inadequate care, sure, they’d be around frequently. But you don’t remember the doctors coming in last week? They gave us that new prescription for you.”

[mysweetlouise]

last week. what was last week? was there a last week? she would've run for the door. why didn't she run for the door? she can't remember, that fucking noise was drowning everything out. get it out, get it out -

"don't know if they're real. i don't - a new prescription?" she squints, raising her head a little. going to die. going to lose her mind, her skull is going to crack, right in two. he's lying.

"i didn't sleep through it?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Patting down the dried out patches of flesh, Marc continued to pinch and pull at his skin like he could stretch it back in place. He’d considered a medical consultant for the production, but the paperwork and convincing needed to prove Cricket was a very invested method actor seemed tiresome. “Yes, well, you were a little out of it still. Those sleeping tablets really have been doing numbers on you.”

Whistling as he worked his way across the room with his fingers tugging at the weakened muscles of his jaw, he eventually perched on the edge of the bed and stared towards her. “You’re not well.”

[mysweetlouise]

those glassy green eyes of hers just stare at him - though she's more a rabbit scared into staying still than anything. just please don't hurt anyone else. if i end up this way, let me be the last. poor jamie.

"i'm - not crazy. just, i just got hurt. im not crazy," she tries to say calmly, but her voice keeps trembling and she just sounds even worse. not even at home when at home, and no one else sees it, just her. maybe she'd hit something in her head hard enough to clear her sight. or the way a mouse sees the shadow overheard right before being torn apart by beak and talons.

it knows, she knows, and it knows she knows.

not dead yet, but maybe only because she's not scared enough yet.

"what'd you do to him?"

[samesnakenewskin]

“I never said you were crazy, just that you’re not well. If that’s what you think…well, crazy people don’t think they’re crazy, right?” She’d be the heroine of course, but some manic, wide-eyed frightening one caught stumbling down the side of a highway. Skittish and wide-eyed at the littlest of things, then enraptured and still as headlights stared back at her. What little spark that used to shine through Marc’s eyes had died off somewhere in-between the decades, but they twitch and jump around his skull like they’re trying to find a source. 

Poor Jamie. He’d been so excited to get such a role, letting slip how it would be his first big role since moving away from home. Carrying that same grin Marc had in his old deployment photos, the ones just before he was sent straight back after being declared unfit. There’s a large chunk of him left, somewhere in the theatres floorboards. “Oh, he’s not that far away. He’s still in the house, I suppose.”

[mysweetlouise]

he's dead. cricket's arms spasm up to clutch the covers, as if she'd hide from him, from the thought of a body sealed in a wall, a chimney, a closet.

"god, no. no, no - no, poor, poor jamie," she sobs.

dead, dead for sure and it isn't going to leave. it's looking at her. but she's not going to die, maybe she'll lay here until she... starves? was she a pet, did they keep pets? it wouldn't want to be her friend, it'd want her scared, or dead, or something. she doesn't want to find out what this thing did to friends. she should run. she's exhausted, more than anything, but she can't fall asleep. can't look away, can't let it get into her dreams.

[samesnakenewskin]

Jamie would be recycled, face recaptured and reused a few more times. There was a comforting youth to his face, one he’d only been able to recreate in the small space in between death. A better jaw that he planned to integrate permanently after filming. Marc didn’t mind the effort he needed to do to for a little more beauty. “Shh, I’m not looking for new vocals, so don’t go auditioning.”

Grabbing at another bottle of medicine, syrupy and sickly sweet, he started slamming his hand down across the dresser for the wooden spoon. Instead, his skin made contact with a metal spoon, an audible sizzle entering the room. “Fucking bastard thing!” Marc dropped the bottle, the glass shattering and the syrup seeping into the floor. “Don’t move-god dammit!” Clutching at his palm, he slinked out of the bedroom.

[mysweetlouise]

she watches him leave with wide eyes, then slowly, silently wriggles her arm out from under the covers. it's right there. she slides out of bed, keeping her feet as close to it as she can and grasping for the spoon herself. she's mostly sure, but she brings it up to her mouth to make certain.

tastes like blood. iron.

it slips easily into her pocket, and cricket creeps to the hallway door, listening. she could make for the bathroom again, or try and get the lock off the front door. she wishes she could remember where she keeps the first aid kit.

[samesnakenewskin]

The set dressers will never see the light of day after this shoot. There was supposed to be a pair of dainty sewing scissors that he would brush his fingers against and lightly scald the skin. Instead, a real spoon with iron somewhere in the alloy had been left in place of the woody one.

Washing his hand underneath the bathroom tap, Marc grimaces and pinched at the splitting skin running down his palm. Burnt into his hand was the shadow of the spoon, warping the layers of carefully crafted skin. This better do well.

[samesnakenewskin]

i think it's under my skin.

(from cricket)

God help them all. Somewhere between scenes, Marc had taken his eyes off of Louise Cricket. In between the hospital flashbacks and her finding every door locked, it’s like she’s vanished into the walls. Another house that’s swallowed her whole. Now as the boy next door who’s appearing sporadically in the house, Marc, Jameson now, is tiptoeing through the halls. Looking to find the sound of her crying. Cricket always cries the most, most volatile and most difficult to wrangle at the end of the day.

That’s all he hears. Crickets. Horribly silent aside from the knocking of each door, slowly creaking open as he glances around for her. “Cricket? Look, it’s me! I know you’re not…you’re not well. But I swear it’s me, just let me in.”

[mysweetlouise]

going mad. she was sure of that. crawling, buzzing feeling in her head and god those eyes were worming into her thoughts, her hands twitching on the bandages around her arms. she'd shut herself into one of the cabinets, one arm firmly in her mouth to muffle her sobs and the other holding the door closed.

she should be dead, she was dead and this was hell, she was in hell, she'd tried to call her family and they were gone, and that thing in her friend's skin - closing in, crushing her.

she wasn't well but this wasn't right.

god help her, she'd sink her teeth into whoever tried to get her.

[samesnakenewskin]

Cackling to himself, he drags his nails across cracking wallpaper, pulling himself forward. They’re still on camera, little fly in the wall shots catching Marc’s decaying body shamble forward. Uncanniness was demanded from both performers, letting his tendons loosen in every wild and sudden movement. “Come on now, there’s no good reason to be rude now, is there? I just want to make sure you’re safe after all.”

Disjointed, his fingertips peeling and catching across the unevenly plastered paper, he giggles with each shuffle closer. “Cricket, you’ll feel better in a minute. Let me get you your medicine, I’ll even let you have some pie afterwards.” Tapping the boney edges of his knuckles against the wall, good ear to the wall pressed to the wall. “If you stay in there too long, you’ll just suffocate!”

[mysweetlouise]

she clenched her fingers against the cabinet door. her fingernails - growing back, bit by bit, scrabbling against the wood. she'd... the originals had been peeled back in the accident. or the recovery. she couldn't remember anymore.

the bathroom had a window. if she could just make it there, lock the door, climb out - outpace that thing. the music, reverberating in her bones. the medicine wouldn't help. nothing would help.

go. now.

cricket burst from the cabinet, sprinting from the room and into the hall towards the bathroom, stumbling over her own feet.

[samesnakenewskin]

Simultaneously recording the scene and absolutely losing his mind, Marc claws at his aching jaw before shoving it closed. Absolute gold, but no one’s outside to stop Cricket from running out into the street and start screaming bloody murder. A picture nail snags into a small cut on his finger, slicing through without hesitation. Recovery would be a nightmare for the pair.

“Come on out~,” he giddily sings, watching the doors for the tiniest shudder. “It’s just not safe for you out of there.” Easy does it, leaning forward before the doors fly open. Armed with a pocket of loose pills and the prospect of a fantastic shot, Marc sprints forward, barrelling into Cricket as she tries crossing the hall.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket lets out an awful, terrified scream, toppling over and hitting the wood floor with a heavy thud. it wasn't human, wasn't human, wasn't human - she lashes out with those bitten down nails, further yelling and gibbering a mile a minute.

"you're not him, i know you're not him! your eyes - god, your eyes, i don't know what you are-" she kicks at him, trying to scramble back.

[samesnakenewskin]

Now this was the good stuff, cinematic gold and a little bit of bonus catharsis. Both hands wrap around her shoulders, forcing her into the floor even further. The spiny prickle of bone peeking through his flesh tries to lacerate through her skin. "Cricket, Cricket it's me! It's me, I swear it is! I don't know what you're talking about, but I swear it's alright!" he screams, laughing so violently that his jaw is nearly cracks open. She looked nothing like her or either of them, but Louise was damn near close enough to be them. Worked with him, followed around that false pretense of a man like a sickly animal.

"Come on, you know it's me. How else could I remember what you like? No one else would give up everything for you, no one ever would! I'm your only fucking friend Cricket, don't you dare forget that!"

[mysweetlouise]

the thing was fucking smiling, laughing and her stomach was churning. she was fine, she was sane and no head injury could do this to her and even if it did dear god she didn't deserve this. warmth in her shoulder, a bead of red soaking into her t-shirt sleeve. she clawed at his arms, kicking up at him and continuing to scream.

"you're not real! im not going away, i don't know what you did with him but i won't be that! i won't be you!" if she hadn't been in the hospital, maybe it wouldn't have gotten him, he wouldn't have been alone-

[samesnakenewskin]

"You won't ever be me and you know it," he cackles, wrapping his fingers tightly around her shoulders to try and stop her from wriggling away. Marcs arms are bare, every scratch down them peeling off thin layers of skin in heavy chunks. Blood coagulated so much it barely even bleeds, just shakes and sticks underneath Crickets fingernails like jelly. "Isn't this what you wanted? I told you I'd never leave, I'd never forget about you. So you can't leave me!"

Marcs hands are unwavering, but every hit begins to take off parts of this recrafted body. Bleeding through to his real face, pale and cold as it stares down at her.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd just wanted jameson to visit her in the hospital. she'd just wanted to see her friend, it wasn't making sense, was he dead?

"the - oh, god, it's not your skin!" something rotting. she let out another wild scream, this time flailing her head to bite into his arm and her leg to kick him away.

[samesnakenewskin]

Just a little longer, hold the uncomfortable shape until they can switch scenes. Marc barks out a laugh, uncomfortably dry as it crawls out of his throat. All the flesh is heavy, aching to be peeled off. Falling off the bone easily, the meat of his arm detaching and sticking in between Crickets teeth.

“It’s me! Jamie, your best friend! I know we didn’t see each other for a while, but look at us now!” Unravelling above her, like a ream of fabric dropping from a great height.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket gagged, immediately spluttering in awful revulsion and spitting out the hunk of his arm. she might be sick, the cold flesh that clung to her gums sending another shudder of disgust through her.

the smile wasn't his, the eyes weren't his.

she was going to die here.

"i don't know what you are, you're not jamie, you're not my friend, please don't kill me-" she gagged again, starting to sob.

[samesnakenewskin]

Uncomfortably thick blood and flesh lumping into one gelatinous mass slides off his bones, the skin slipping off with a sickly wet pop. More and more ligaments begin separating, fibrous tissues dry and snapping. Marc can’t afford time to repair this, leaning back while keeping a hand on Crickets soldier. “Why would I kill you? I’m not ever letting you go!” All she had to do was behave, nice and still, finishing up her medicine and it would all be an easy dream for her.

“Now, you know you can’t lie to me Cricket. And I can’t lie to you! I’m Jamie, through and through!” Flesh stapled and piled onto his own, layered until his skin disappeared beneath it.

[mysweetlouise]

the dissolving flesh did absolutely nothing to calm her, of course. bits of blood and gore pattering onto the floor like a localized rainstorm from hell. her mind raced. what was it faeries did to the people? kelpies gutted you, left nothing but intestines floating in some pond, hounds and the wild hunt chased you down in numbers, baying and screaming, will-o-the-wisps led you to cliffs and sinkholes, and poor people whisked away to the fae courts, faces incomprehensible, music that drove you mad. the voices were louder in her head, reverberating.

her hand reached up, splotched with red and shaking, to grab at his face.

[samesnakenewskin]

An emulsion of blood and meat not too far from the texture of cold, solid porridge splatters onto the ground opposite her head. Marc had admittedly not looked too deeply into the cryptozoology of the fae, his last impression of the contemporary fairy was from A Midsummers Night Dream. Not good enough, there wasn’t a point to the psychological tension without physical reward.

“Come on…how could you do this to me? After everything?” Marc grins, his skin thin and drenched in blood. It’ll need to be a full body destruction after this, replace all the torn pieces of skin with slowly scarring flesh.

[mysweetlouise]

red splatters across much of her face, dotted across her cheek, forehead, eye. the utter shock of it causes her to freeze, hand still in place, skin ashen. the dread, the pity and guilt of accidentally crushing a snail underfoot, of the squirrel running in front of your car too fast to hit the brake.

the tears spring to her eyes, and cricket lets out a strangled sob - of fear, anger for wherever jamie really was, no doubt hurt and scared, sorrow, pain. she breaks down proper immediately after, shielding her face with her hands as she cries.

[samesnakenewskin]

“My dear little Cricket, I don’t know how you can be so upset. You don’t want to be alone, right?” Cackling, Marc lets his head fall to the side and another rush of blood drips down onto the floor. Flesh squelching beneath her hand, softy caving into his skull. One of hand sneaks onto her shoulder, pinning Cricket in place as he pushes himself up.

Another bottle jingles in his pocket, pills rattling against each other, the capsules soft and papery. “Let’s go to bed, huh? You need to rest and you’re almost done with the antibiotics.”

[mysweetlouise]

she can't sleep, shouldn't sleep, she thinks, sniffling back more tears. the music is a spear through her eardrums, his words as if underwater sometimes, others bouncing around in her head like they'd overwhelm, the thought process of a nightmare.

"i don't need them! i don't - have an infection, i just hit my head, i'm not sick." jamie was sick, wherever he went. whatever he was now. she only felt sick because he was sick, because of all this blood. and it knew him well, it knew her name so she must be next.

[samesnakenewskin]

“You cut your head, it’s infected. Rotting all the way through you, inside and out.” Knocking on her head like a ripe melon, his bony knuckles rapping against a bruised skull. Still intact, but a writhing parasite waits dormant beneath the skin. Not ripe yet, but eventually she’ll crack. “We’re sick, aren’t we? I feel like my face is a bit swollen. Can you check for me, since I’ve done so much for you?” Marc pins her hand to his face, fingers buried between torn layers of muscle.

Leaning back, the hand wrapped around her shoulder leveraging Cricket to her feet. Dragging her along, letting her feet scuff against the ground. “Back to bed for you, before you hurt yourself again.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i didn't, i was... the crash, it was in the crash, i'm better! i swear, i'm better." cricket flinched, pain shooting in lightning sharp arcs through her cranium. why was she trying to reason? this thing didn't seek reason, made a mockery of reasoning.

her fingers dug into the muscle as she tried to steady herself, not letting go but god she couldn't look at the damage she was doing. she was going to die, or... no. go mad, it wanted her to go mad. they liked doing that, didn’t they? some traveler vanishing, turning up a gibbering mess besides a mound of earth or stone, or an old well. the music pulsed behind her right eye, like a stress headache.

[samesnakenewskin]

Rot fell into a gorgeous, continuous spectrum of disrepair. Uneven, fighting against the nature of symmetry until its very last moments. It was meant to be unknown; whether or not something truly went wrong in Crickets head. Unreliable narrators are very much in at the moment. “No need for squirming, you know I hate having to bring out the stronger stuff on you, it makes you the wrong kind of quiet.”

Whatever flesh scrapes beneath her fingernails slips away, just like dead skin is supposed to. A little closer to the right order of things. Marc had enjoyed plotting out this set, the tight upstairs hallway that made it seem impossible to escape from. Only a few strides until they’re back in the bedroom, where all corners of the furniture have been taped over.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd spent the first few days home like that. still coming down from that deep surgery-sleep, sitting up to eat and take more meds, water and pills and those damp wipes for that gash at her temple. she could only remember a heavy sadness on her shoulders, and that damned music.

half slumped like a corpse in her own right. she'd die in there, she was sure of it. too much of this or that, a pillow pressed over her face until it faded to grey. maybe it'd stop then. couldn't get any louder, at least.

she didn't deserve this. jamie didn't deserve it, jamie who called her bug and wouldn't hurt anyone, who always got scared first at horror movies. don't let this thing get to anyone else. her voice came out a choked sniffle.

"just tell me, please just - i know it, your face, the - i don't want to go away. people will know, i haven't called anyone since i got home-" not for lack of trying.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s easy to dump her into the bed, a lifeless and disjointed doll. They’re about two months into filming, day by day footage they’ll cut together. Sometimes, she figured it out quickly, the little spark of Louise still sharp through it all. Mivacurium was a hell of a drug, easy to administer and knocked her out just long enough for a break.

He’s eerily kind, tucking her beneath the sheets and slipping pillows beneath her head. Humming as she’s wrapped tightly, like she’s in a shroud. “What do you know? Don’t you think me and Jamie are the perfect match? Perfect doppelgängers. And people? Oh Cricket, if people did, wouldn’t they have come in? No one’s even knocked.”

[mysweetlouise]

she looks very small and very sad under all those blankets. her choppy, tangled hair sticks to a face red from crying, mouth pressed in a wavering line. she wants to itch at her face, pick off all the bits of dried blood and gouge her eyes out for good measure.

the music creeps up through her sinuses like a bad cold, thrumming in faint pain. "nobody has - they send people from the hospital to check up on people. they'll have to - stop by, they have to."

[samesnakenewskin]

Thin strips of flesh dangle from his face, detached from bone and muscle, clinging on by singular fibres. A few snap, crumbling onto the comforter and already starting to rot. Marc struggles to open his mouth fully, the muscles weak and tender. In between shoots, he’d had to glue this pieces back around a dozen times. Moulting like an aging insect.

“If you’ve been discharged into inadequate care, sure, they’d be around frequently. But you don’t remember the doctors coming in last week? They gave us that new prescription for you.”

[mysweetlouise]

last week. what was last week? was there a last week? she would've run for the door. why didn't she run for the door? she can't remember, that fucking noise was drowning everything out. get it out, get it out -

"don't know if they're real. i don't - a new prescription?" she squints, raising her head a little. going to die. going to lose her mind, her skull is going to crack, right in two. he's lying.

"i didn't sleep through it?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Patting down the dried out patches of flesh, Marc continued to pinch and pull at his skin like he could stretch it back in place. He’d considered a medical consultant for the production, but the paperwork and convincing needed to prove Cricket was a very invested method actor seemed tiresome. “Yes, well, you were a little out of it still. Those sleeping tablets really have been doing numbers on you.”

Whistling as he worked his way across the room with his fingers tugging at the weakened muscles of his jaw, he eventually perched on the edge of the bed and stared towards her. “You’re not well.”

[mysweetlouise]

those glassy green eyes of hers just stare at him - though she's more a rabbit scared into staying still than anything. just please don't hurt anyone else. if i end up this way, let me be the last. poor jamie.

"i'm - not crazy. just, i just got hurt. im not crazy," she tries to say calmly, but her voice keeps trembling and she just sounds even worse. not even at home when at home, and no one else sees it, just her. maybe she'd hit something in her head hard enough to clear her sight. or the way a mouse sees the shadow overheard right before being torn apart by beak and talons.

it knows, she knows, and it knows she knows.

not dead yet, but maybe only because she's not scared enough yet.

"what'd you do to him?"

[samesnakenewskin]

“I never said you were crazy, just that you’re not well. If that’s what you think…well, crazy people don’t think they’re crazy, right?” She’d be the heroine of course, but some manic, wide-eyed frightening one caught stumbling down the side of a highway. Skittish and wide-eyed at the littlest of things, then enraptured and still as headlights stared back at her. What little spark that used to shine through Marc’s eyes had died off somewhere in-between the decades, but they twitch and jump around his skull like they’re trying to find a source. 

Poor Jamie. He’d been so excited to get such a role, letting slip how it would be his first big role since moving away from home. Carrying that same grin Marc had in his old deployment photos, the ones just before he was sent straight back after being declared unfit. There’s a large chunk of him left, somewhere in the theatres floorboards. “Oh, he’s not that far away. He’s still in the house, I suppose.”

[mysweetlouise]

he's dead. cricket's arms spasm up to clutch the covers, as if she'd hide from him, from the thought of a body sealed in a wall, a chimney, a closet.

"god, no. no, no - no, poor, poor jamie," she sobs.

dead, dead for sure and it isn't going to leave. it's looking at her. but she's not going to die, maybe she'll lay here until she... starves? was she a pet, did they keep pets? it wouldn't want to be her friend, it'd want her scared, or dead, or something. she doesn't want to find out what this thing did to friends. she should run. she's exhausted, more than anything, but she can't fall asleep. can't look away, can't let it get into her dreams.

[samesnakenewskin]

Jamie would be recycled, face recaptured and reused a few more times. There was a comforting youth to his face, one he’d only been able to recreate in the small space in between death. A better jaw that he planned to integrate permanently after filming. Marc didn’t mind the effort he needed to do to for a little more beauty. “Shh, I’m not looking for new vocals, so don’t go auditioning.”

Grabbing at another bottle of medicine, syrupy and sickly sweet, he started slamming his hand down across the dresser for the wooden spoon. Instead, his skin made contact with a metal spoon, an audible sizzle entering the room. “Fucking bastard thing!” Marc dropped the bottle, the glass shattering and the syrup seeping into the floor. “Don’t move-god dammit!” Clutching at his palm, he slinked out of the bedroom.

[samesnakenewskin]

don't open the door. please.

“Now now, Louise, I just have to, don’t I? You make it sound so intriguing. Let me see…haven’t I earned it?” Marc laughs, currently buttoning up his dress shirt. A poorly done, bulging Y incision scar has been redone. In his defence, the autopsy had been interrupted.

[mysweetlouise]

louise squeezed her eyes shut, bracing as much of her whole weight against the door as she could manage - even as blood smeared into the painted wood where it soaked through her shirt. inky, slick where she wasn't entirely put together, her hand pressed hard into her stomach.

"marc, i mean it! i can't, you don't want to see this, really, i just - ill clean everything up, it's fine, just don't, please don't come in, marc, please."

[samesnakenewskin]

No matter what the manor threw at her, he knew that it wouldn’t ever be as bad as what he’d endured for so long. Something had been festering beneath its skin, so unfortunately Marc had felt it. That useless little doppelgänger had invaded in and intruded in much more than he’d expected. Found her and didn’t bother sneaking by like he should’ve. Murdock will never get another role again.

“Louise, you know you have to let me in. I see that open window, so what on earth have you been up to?” Laughing lightly, letting it ring out clearly through the crooked doorframes, Marc begins knocking his cane against the door. “I have had such a long day, and now I can’t come into my own home and see my friend?”

[mysweetlouise]

god help her, she'd forgotten to close it. the puddle on the floor, the track to the wall where she'd pushed herself uprjght... and all those nice things, gone. gone. why had she tagged along like that? bored and desperate and stupid, stupid louise.

"unexpected - company." covering her mouth to keep more blood in. "trashed the whole house, really, the - took the good wine, too." she needed to sit down.

knock, knock, knock. her heart ached, or perhaps her solarplexus.

"wanted to - see me?"

[samesnakenewskin]

What a useless little burglar the man had been, unable to sneak through the house or even attack correctly. One day, Marc had planned to used him in a future project, a serial killer thriller with his friend as the final girl. But no. When the drop came, he’d leave Murdock with a freshly broken nose and a few nights in limbo. Served him right.

“What? No…no no! Did you see them? Let me in, now.” There was a vague awareness of the movement in the house, then something shattering. Marc keeps banging against the door, dragging his hand down the door handle. “Why else would I come here? I even had a present.”

[mysweetlouise]

"some - giallo film looking man. he said his name was murdock, but i, i don't know if it was real."

a pause, and her voice was even more strained.

"said he'd take my eyes."

she finally cracked the door open, revealing her blood soaked shirt and a bruised face from where she'd fallen. louise's hands trembled, tears in her eyes.

[samesnakenewskin]

How unfortunate, Marc hadn’t exactly been expecting a surge of violence. It was at least confined to the house, just another bad memory in the history of such an unfortunate manor. Fingers tight around the head of the cane, cursing out his poor casting. “Oh you poor, poor thing…let me in.”

Sneaking his fingers in the crack of the door, he glances her over before shoving his cane into the bottom of the door to wedge it open. “Louise, I’m so sorry. Let me in, it’s not fair, is it?”

[mysweetlouise]

louise lets out a quiet sob, the pain in her neck rearing it's ugly head to choke back her words. she doesn't know if it's even real, if her head's getting to her, or the house, and the words let me in makes her stomach churn like it can always, always get worse.

she tries to step back, weight unsteady on her feet, and the world tilts under her as she nearly falls with the door, just barely backpedaling to catch herself. praying, hoping against hope it was actually him because she couldn't handle anything else right now.

[samesnakenewskin]

Hooking his cane around the crack in the door, he holds it in place to spare him a few extra seconds. Glancing at the frosted glass to check how patchy his makeup has become, smoothing it out with a few gentle taps to reform the deathly tint to his skin. Marc had no business in doing his own makeup, he belonged in the comfortable armchair with artists fawning over him to fix every blemish.

“It’s alright…don’t worry,” he whispers, crossing the threshold and slamming the door behind him. Things always ran out of ajar doors, look at him after all. As the light cuts through the windows, Marc sighs as he sees the latest attack to Louise. “It’s me, it’s ok. Come on…you know it’s just me.”

[mysweetlouise]

louise does her best to brace herself against the wall, heaving a shaky breath as more blood wells up from her throat. she just stares, for a moment, before breaking down entirely, sobbing softly and wobbling a bit in place.

"don't know why he, nobody's even supposed to know and he just - i did everything he asked!" just like everyone else, her hand pressing to the wound in her stomach. "please don't, please be you i can't be scared right now. please."

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s another tear in the canvas, every layer of ink revealed in the radial dissection. Marc could almost see the mangle of characters beneath her taxidermied skin, bleeding out through her stomach. A little to the left, a nice low angled shot, something to add into an ending. There wasn’t a time she didn’t look nice ambiguously deceased. Murdock had done something right, but lacking in performance. Elegance. Anything that could get an audience interested.

“You poor thing. I promise, it’s just me. I don’t know-,” he sighs, stepping forward until his cane nearly bumps into her knee. “No one knows, it’s just you and me and…them. Tell me what happened, it’s alright.” Pressing his hand into the wound, Marc faintly grimaces.

[mysweetlouise]

the blood was icy cold, just like the rest of her. inside the house, no heartbeat but she could bleed just fine. go figure. her hand moved to grasp his arm, clinging with tight, desperate fingers like she was drowning. the blood welled up between her teeth, and a comically polite part of her covered her mouth so it wouldn't be quite so gross.

"we'd had... a nice talk and at some point he just - he changed, he decided it. he went to take all the nice little things, and i, im so stupid, and i went downstairs for him so he wouldn't get gutted and - and then we were upstairs, and he had me take the clock and he just - grabbed my arm and it hurt. and he... i had the lighter and i should've just done something, i - he marched me back down here with everything and i think my hands broken now, actually, but i dropped everything out the window and he stabbed me and it's so distracting, i forgot how... i just wanted to play some music, i thought tonight would be okay."

[samesnakenewskin]

All the nice things had been delivered, dropped off behind a bench at the corner of a hotel and a shuttered theatre. Now, it was all decorating a decrepit dressing room. Glass painstakingly placed in the face of the clock, one bottle uncorked and the other stored behind the mini fridge. Home comfort without all the mess. Marc might have to spare the man for now, just to seek out a few more bits and pieces. Everything was fixable, after all.

Beneath the suit jacket, greying and bruised skin sloughs off from Louise’s nails. Like an overripe peach being peeled. Just as his own tug at the edges of the gaping stab wound. “I know, it’s not fair, is it? Sit down, don’t worry.” Grasping at Louise’s shoulder, he starts to slowly march her over to the piano room.

[mysweetlouise]

a slight slump sideways, and she leans into his support. one step at a time. stay steady. it's going to be fine. she tries to ignore the pain in her stomach, her hand, the way choking on blood always tends to leave her throat and voice raw.

just to rest for a while. that's all she needs, to rest and recover. she still has the one hand, that'd be good for a melody. nothing is fair. never was, never would be. she doesn't deserve fair.

[samesnakenewskin]

More management was needed to keep the balance between her and the house. It couldn’t get worse like this, or eventually she’d start asking to go outside more. Marc had it worse, he’d convinced himself of that long before the deal with his producer. Poor, poor Marc. The broken home, ragged beginnings, struggling up into his dream; he was built to be a star. Suffering through the house and spirits burrowed in his bones, it couldn’t ever be comparable.

He just had to be sure they both saw it like that.

“You want some tea? Wine? We can just relax and enjoy ourselves for a bit, be grateful we’re not stuck out there.” Crossing the threshold, Marc’s ankles are scratched by an invisible wrist, trying to drag him back to the basement. On the carpet, it never reaches him.

[mysweetlouise]

"no - no wine. sorry, i... went down there earlier. think it's still mad at me. im scared it might try something." always will.

no one would've even noticed if he hadn't stopped by. only, maybe, if she dreamed it. sometimes she let herself imagine a hospital, doctors and nurses buzzing around like bumblebees. thank god you're here, breathing. can't you see how everyone missed you? scared us half to death.

"just... just tea. tea's nice. i'm sorry."

[samesnakenewskin]

In the beginning, the start of his real career, he had every playmate he wanted. Childhood best friends and every handsome and or beautiful performer he encountered. Staff and servants and interns fetching him drinks and cigars. They always came back, never breaking underneath Marc’s stories. But it couldn’t be his fault that they all forgot their places, broke out of the toy box and ruined everything. Louise was his salvage, like a second hand toy left behind on accident.

“Tea, we should have some in the kitchen. I’ll get Ben-…I’ll go make it myself then.” Squeezing her hands, Marc guides her into one of the armchairs (he used to sit there and talk with Marc. They’d planned so much.) “You’ll be safe here, you know it loves to start showing off once I walk in.” Patting the top of her head before he turns, dragging his fingertips across the piano.

[mysweetlouise]

it's just the broken hand that has tears in her eyes. that's all. not her managing the fail the only one who even tolerates her anymore. she settles into the chair, curling up and cradling it to her chest like a fragile animal. she wasn't a guest, or an occupant. little house mouse, wriggling pathetic dead thing in a trap. and she couldn't even play to make herself less of a nuisance.

the hand on her head almost sets her sobbing again, and she plays the song in her mind, watching the keys.

in the stillness of the night,

in the silence of the moon,

where the ocean meets the shore,

come and open up my door,

i'll be waiting there for you.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s like a mouse struggling out of its trap, tailless as it bleeds out through the crawl spaces and rafters of the house. Rotting and rotting but still crawling and ruining the carpet. Marc barely glances back at her, shutting the door to the lounge as he leaves. It wraps around his fingers, metal warping and melting through his hand. Stepping through the shadowed halls, it scratches down his back and whispers in the seers voice. “Too much noise…”

He should’ve had the foresight to get rid of Celine’s body too. He’d hoped something else could take her, the detective or the police who took the assortment of swapped bodies to the morgue.

Into the kitchen, it squeezes each fragile rib until they creak. “Stay…it’s not fair. One isn’t fun anymore.” Kettle whistling, Marc pulls at the edge of his skin.

[mysweetlouise]

instantly colder without him around. she wanted to take out her brain, wash out all these sad thoughts and put it back in, good as new. she fiddled with her tie, loosening it and idly wrapping it around her hand. it'd brace it, a little. maybe she could play then.

she layered the cloth, bit by bit, around and around. it wouldn't meddle for a moment or two, it'd be distracted. something good in being the black sheep.

some little mind trick - what else would comfort her when she was alone like this - droned the steps she vaguely could remember. joints above and below, so wrist, bruised knuckles. no proper splint for this one, something it could jam into her arm. good job. tie the loose ends, tuck into the bands.

don't think. think too hard and you'll cry. the rest hate you already, don't give them reason. she pulls herself to her feet, hobbling and sitting in a bloodied heap on the piano bench.

don't think. play some music.

dirge of the spirits, duvair yaughton.

[samesnakenewskin]

Halfway to a boil, he’s doubled over against the kitchen counter as it slowly presses a hand through the drainage scars and reaches around to the internal cavity of his chest. Nails scraping away the thin outer layer of bone and piercing into marrow. Marc is nearly sick, gagging into the back of his hand as the sharp edges of its fingers threaten to pierce through the valves of his heart. “Not the right screaming. Pitiful show. Fix. It.” Fingers plunge through his heart, hooking around the muscle and ripping it down.

“Stay. Just a little longer. I want fun.” It slowly retracts the hand, wiping down the blackened innards down his back before climbing back into the wall. Whistling. Dragging his hand forward into the flame, Marc rips the kettle off the stove. Flesh melts onto the cast iron, sticking to the cups he pours the water and drops the teabags in. No milk. Hacking up on the inside of his suit jacket, he staggers back towards the lounge, shoving the door open with a shoulder.

[mysweetlouise]

she's focused on the keys, how it still hurts her hand but she can still wriggle her fingers, a little. tinkling, meandering melody, slow. one at a time. block out the rest, at least she's safer, repeat the motif. flutter, drop. smaller songs in the background.

she jolts, hearing him barge through the door, hand hitting a wrong note with the ring finger. turns to look at him, eyes wide. slowly, she draws her hands back again, settling them in her lap.

"...are you okay? it - you didn't fall or anything, right?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Thickly swallowing the accumulation of blood and liquified flesh being traced up through his throat, Marc stumbles towards a table and sets the tray down. Shoving the melted hand into his pocket, he sinks into an armchair beside the piano. Throat flared out as he awkwardly situates himself without pressing against the reopened drainage scars. It was a such a nice chair, he couldn’t stand the idea of ruining it.

“No, it’s fine. Burnt my throat testing the tea, outta milk,” he grimaces, scratching his neck with his clean hand. “Go on, keep playing. Haven’t heard you in a while.”

[mysweetlouise]

a pause - she can't remember the last time she's played for anyone. at least a year or two. something calming, not as moody. can't really go wrong with chet baker, right?

not as tense, gentle lilts down and up. i fall in love too easily.

louise quietly whistles in place of the vocals, steady enough in spite of her hand and everything else. she needed to get a few newer scorebooks the next time they were out and about, some more modern stuff.

"sorry. i think - they have stuff to deliver food and things like that now, right?"

[samesnakenewskin]

A suckered and uncomfortable squishing sound emanates from his back while he tries to adjust in the armchair. Both the back of his dress shirt and dinner jacket suctioned to the open wounds, whistling as Marc exhales. “Mhm, yeah. Barely any shops open, it’s terrible out there. I’ll order some stuff to the house, can’t have you starving to death now can we?” Too slow, too boring.

Shutting his eyes, he squeezes at the arm of the chair and tries to hum in tune. Nausea bursts through his stomach, dragging its heavy limbs up and down his esophagus. “More of your parts should play, that’d be nice. Didn’t you used to play at the parties?”

[mysweetlouise]

"if it's not too much trouble. the, ah - what's it called. the ramen's worked like an absolute charm for - a lot of it. it really does come together just like that."

she'd played a painter before (and tried her best, though she felt like any work from that seemed so mediocre). it'd be nice to do something she felt she was good at.

"sometimes. i mean, if they had a piano, of course. i feel like that got me invited to more parties than i deserved."

[samesnakenewskin]

“One of the only things they’ve gotten right in this century, decent instant food. God,” he chuckles, picking the skin from the side of their cups. “Do you remember when we had to eat rations during the next war? Nasty little loaves of sawdust bread with half a teaspoon of butter each?” Only when he’d visited the manor did he stoop to such a pathetic diet. His star needed to be fed, but she didn’t need to have it good.

Half a decade of frustration, reminded how he couldn’t even make the draft the first time around. Damien, Damien of all people was a medic with his twisted hip, and Marc declared unfit to serve. Spending his time outside looking for every underhanded way to find decadence, a lot of acts thankfully scrubbed from the record.

“I think…he’d requested them at all my parties to make sure you came. Conniving little thing.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i thought it was a bit fun, actually. one of my uncles had this fishing cottage up north we used to visit, and we'd have sort of - camping food, i suppose. lots of fish and sandwiches. i'd pretend i was on the frontier, so it reminded me of that." a bit of play pretend that was just her, just louise playing at something. it even got her to look out the windows without being quite so sad.

she nearly missed a note at the last bit, breath catching in her throat. what? no, she couldn't have heard that right. no one would, not on purpose. right? but if anyone, maybe he would. her stomach started to hurt again.

"oh." a pause. "that's - that's really nice. i don't think i realized that." don't start down that path again, lou. you'll just start spiraling again. he just felt bad for you. you needed to get out more. that's all. that's all. she bit down on her tongue. wanted her to be there, why would he be so nice and then everything - one note, then the other. focus. not anymore. don't think about it.

[samesnakenewskin]

Idly stirring the lukewarm tea with a rusted over spoon, Marc scowls at the thought of the former inhabitant of his body. As long as the entity has ahold of him, he never can quite remember what Damien was like. Just how he left, abandoning him in the manor after Celine and William…they’d destroyed him. What had she even seen in him? Gripping the handle of the cup, it nearly snaps between his melted fingers.

“All that imagination and you were a lawyer first. Such a shame really, but then I wouldn’t have you for all my films, would I? My star, leading actress in every picture even when you’re someone else,” he pauses, sipping at the mildewed tea. “Such a shame, old Damien used you for show. Never saw the extent of your talent.”

[mysweetlouise]

she'd wanted to go into law, she wanted to say. she wanted to help people. she wanted a good life. to be someone good, for her life to mean something. to be someone worth liking, having around.

wait, no. was that after everything?

was anything before, anymore?

just a pretty face. she paused for a moment, just... staring into space.

she wouldn't have done well anywhere. not then. not now. not ever. at least she couldn't lose pretty now. someone's scribbled over paper star. shining in an aquarium.

"do, uh, you have any song requests? i can play pretty much anything we have on the records."

[samesnakenewskin]

There’d been so much beauty. Escaping from the dreaded business of accounting with vaudeville shows, dropping out of university once he’d signed that contract. It’s still fuzzy, a hand wrapped around his to steady it while the pen scratched against the paper. Then it all went a bit funny for a while, finding himself suddenly standing at the edges of roads, bridges, the fireplace. Worth it for something, in the end.

“Can you do Dies Ire? I’m sure I’ve heard in here before.” Maybe it had been on vinyl, a smooth continuous melody that drifted through the manor halls. All those little promises whispered in between notes, blessed so quietly by a forked tongue.

[mysweetlouise]

louise hesitates, just for a moment. music for a funeral. she vaguely remembered mass - gentle and reverent at christmas.

but he'd asked.

her fingers found the keys again, slow and cautious. shoulders tense, eyes on her task. "must be one of the records. i usually play, um - softer." to soothe herself. she didn't get a lot to herself, but her chet baker, aretha franklin, sinatra, martin were there for her in the records and songs she played. her reaching out into time, speaking softly. i'm here, hello. i feel the same. i am the same.

her hair fell a little in front of her face, those glassy eyes. just the same. just fine.

[samesnakenewskin]

“One of my records, think I gave it away in fifties. Shame really.” Over the years, his beautiful collection has slowly bled records, occasionally by choice. Eventually, it’d gotten bored melting them against his skin, shooting them out to see how far it could lodge in his neck. Even replenished, he didn’t look at them as fondly. Nothing as good as the original.

Swinging his legs over one of the arms, Marc leans back, head pointed towards the piano. Even now, one of his ears is functionally decorative. “Not very fond of the newer stuff. I’ve just started to stomach the idea of Elvis Presley. I can’t believe they didn’t get a decent band for my funeral, just the damn church organ player.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i feel like - it'd be fun, a little. the one, um - oh, what was his name. johnny cash? can't quite remember what we were out for then, but his stuff was so nice." she'd been whistling folsom prison blues for a month or two afterwards.

a frown darted across her face for a moment. "...you got to go to your funeral? i mean, they - well, if they wanted to go traditional on it - who organized it? family?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Country music, what a scourge. It clawed beneath his skin, something in the chords vaguely unnerving as it crept between fascia. All he saw was a coked up group of hicks playing in the back of the stables, with the occasional tolerable song. Marc has some sense about Cash, a performance they'd caught sometime between films. It might've been when they debuted Cricket, that frightening woman, layered in accessories and sobbing endlessly when they left set. Something about it kept her stable enough to coax back into the car.

"What?" Clutching the teaspoon, his eyes quickly dart away before settling on the window. Right, he was supposed to be far more tragic, trapped in the manor and constantly fighting to stay on the outside. Struggling with the weight of the entities brutality, sparing Louise from the true horrors. "Well, no, of course I didn't. I saw the little pamphlets they made, like they would do for theatre shows. Saw the music they had lined up, that's all. I think it was family arranging it, my mother was still alive, could've also been some of my friends from production."

[mysweetlouise]

louise didn't know much about country music, but she'd liked the little she'd heard. it felt warm, ballads and songs meant for dance halls and summer evenings. cricket had found comfort in it - she'd grown up with it, maybe - and it'd drowned out the maddening tune and whispers bouncing around in that head of hers.

"oh! that sounds nice, honestly. a celebration of life, with - family, all that. i think they would've done well honoring you. flowers, music, all that." a pause, focusing on the music. "...i wanted to have dancing at mine. like i wanted people to be happy i lived, not sad i was gone. i heard in new orleans, they have these big band processions, walking to the cemetery. i always liked that idea."

[samesnakenewskin]

“I’m sure it was, but I didn’t end up seeing it.” He had to pop his head in to pay the last of the mourners. Closed casket, they couldn’t completely fix the massive hole blown through the side of his head. If only Will hadn’t been so trigger happy, then he could’ve had a milder death. Back when the entity was still happy to piece him back together, solder together bones and stitch skin seamlessly.

Rubbing at the plasticy sheen of his burnt skin, Marc hums to himself. Something big and beautiful, dance and song. “Well, you never know. Could’ve been there. I’m sure you were missed, at least.” The church hadn’t been flooded with mourners, but not one had to be paid.

[mysweetlouise]

"it'd be nice to be. i feel so bad, everyone was doing so well, too. my aunt had her birthday, ellie and horace their seventh anniversary... i hope little bea got that train set i bought her for christmas. it was so hard finding one in purple, for some reason." if only she hadn't put a damper on things by going and dying.

"...sometimes i wonder if anyone's still in parson's-by-the-sea, to be honest. it was so small even back then, and since spa towns aren't as much of a thing anymore-" was anything still standing? "you'd like it there, i think. it's so pretty in the winters."

[samesnakenewskin]

Something bursts in his chest, a rotten chunk of flesh likely giving out and detaching from bone. Louise had something, and he hadn’t planned on anything happening to her. Really, Marc hadn’t given her a second thought. Just a witness, unwilling audience to the grand death of a star. Goes home after the show, lets the story live with them and dies with it.

“We could model set after it, if you actually wanted it.” Picking up the other cup and shoving his burnt hand into his suit jacket, he rests it on the top of the piano. “Maybe it’s still standing, if it could be a good place for the shoot.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i sure hope so. actually, i tell you what. if we go, and it's still standing, i'll show you everywhere on the boardwalk, the old lighthouse - oh! and don's. like the café. they had this apple pie ice cream... never had anything like it, it was so nice."

she was smiling, properly, still following the tune on the keys.

"maybe they'd even have up some of those old murals. there was one with some pretty island scene and a mermaid, and i always thought she was just the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen when i was little."

[samesnakenewskin]

A better man would’ve tried to remember for the sake of knowing. Hold onto the only person left semi intact from everything, mourn what they once were and tough it out through the world. Marc idly thinks of the sets they could make, maybe a mermaid deep sea horror if they could get the budget for it. Bemused, sliding both hands across the lid of the piano and miming the motions of the keys.

“We’ll make it a research trip then, little something in between it all. Think that you can stay in your head for a while? And I mean properly, no character work or anything.”

[mysweetlouise]

"without a character... well, id do a better job there than if i tried it anywhere else. id hardly be thinking about any of it, there'd be tons and tons to talk about. it'd probably be tough shaking me from any happy reminiscing. even with the whole cliff thing."

a pause, fingers shakily fluttering through a set of notes. "i didn't tell you about that, did i? thats technically the first time i ever cheated death."

[samesnakenewskin]

Skin sticks to the polished surface of the piano, a finger nearly ripping off as he fails to follow along with the melody. Marc hums but gradually slows, blinking a few times before turning back to her. A little rotten muscle tries to beat in his chest, something he can just about remember palpitating years prior. Neither of them die, even what was supposed to be their deaths might not have counted in the grand scheme of things. They'd beaten it, Marc clawing out of Hell and Louise contorted through limbo.

"I didn't even know you lived near a cliff. This was before, I'm guessing. How'd you do it then?"

[mysweetlouise]

"that's the funny thing. i don't entirely remember." she flutters her fingers on the keys idly.

"i think i was seven, or eight. but i used to love climbing the shorter cliffs near my house, over the water. well, one time i go out to go swimming and don't come back. my aunt is worried out of her wits, and a bunch of people go looking for me- and they find me, perfectly well, sitting on the shore. my jacket, though, washes up the next day, absolutely shredded by the rocks. i don't remember a thing after hitting the water, except somebody carrying me. we always joked that was my guardian angel."

[samesnakenewskin]

A graft of skin starts to peak back, Marc scratching it back as he forces himself to start paying attention outside of his own mind. Other people, they needed to stay tied together. He’s a little surprised that she’s actually survived death once before, given how often Louise has shattered one way or another.

“Lord…how’d you do it then?” Like it was a magic trick, waiting to be revealed. “Where did they find you then? Did you just walk back home?”

[mysweetlouise]

"i haven't - the foggiest. i just came to, and my cousins were all running up with lights, and someone bundled a blanket around me to help keep warm. i think my cousin florence mentioned that they'd checked the spot before, too. i must've washed up at just the right time."

ironically, that must've been the safest she'd ever felt. scooped up and carried to the house, that odd peace sliding around her head like it'd been full of water too. one of the last memories of uncle paul, how he'd gotten her and elise hot chocolate and stayed up with them, reading to the two of them into what must've been the next morning.

"always did have strange luck, i think."

[samesnakenewskin]

Carried off, out of death like a kid falling asleep at a party. Nothing else, no strange limbo in and out of living, just drifting off and waking back up again. Rocking gently, cradled in someone’s arms. Saved. Marc thinks his first death was in the water; his last one certainly was. Icy, shattering before dragging him deep, deep down. “I think that’s…nice. Nice to make it out like that when you’re supposed to go.”

“Drink your tea before it gets cold, the kitchens going to be off limits the next couple of days.” Its eyes still burrow into the rotten flesh beneath his scalp, quietly whispering and waiting for him to turn around.

[mysweetlouise]

"it was nice. it was happy. i think... that's how, if i had to end, i'd like to. just somewhere quiet and warm, you know?" she probably wouldn't. maybe one day she'd just stop, finally fade into the void, thoughts drifting to oblivion. don't think about that right now.

"oh! i'm so sorry, i almost forgot." she finally lifted her hands from the keys, gently picking up the cup and taking a small sip. "...well, damn. i was planning on trying to make up that soup tomorrow. that - he didn't steal the silverware, did he? i hope - i didn't see him take it, but i didn't see him come in, either."

[samesnakenewskin]

Drifting off seems like the nicest death, slipping into the endless abyss with an exhale. Marc had found the best way to almost get there; laced wine, warm bath, and a deep breath. Marc lasted about twenty or so hours, unconscious and nearly perfectly dead.

“No, most of it’s been left alone. But he’s made a mess of it. Your blood is all over the place, I don’t think you’d want to see that. Poor thing,” he mutters, glancing back at the door. All burned into the iron of the stove, it’ll need to be scraped clean.

[mysweetlouise]

she took another drink of her tea, averting her eyes from almost embarrassment as if she had a mild, if intensely painful cold instead of a hole in her abdomen and blood seeping into her shirt.

"sorry, i- really should've tried to clean it up or something. i think because it was a person, everything just really shook me up and i got so woozy. i mean i always get woozy, but maybe it's the eyes thing. i think that really got me too scared. i'm sorry."

[samesnakenewskin]

“Hm? Eyes?” Marc reaches around to pinch at her cheeks, slipping his thumb down to nudge her head towards him. Both eyes the same, ever glassy and preserved inside Louise’s skull. There would’ve been more of a fuss kicked up if she’d actually lost an eye. “You got both of them still, what are you worried about?” Dropping her head and turning, Marc looks over to the window. Still closed, thank god.

“You shouldn’t go in there, he made a bloodbath of it in there. Did he end up stabbing himself or something?”

[mysweetlouise]

her eyes often looked so tired, distancing and focusing like any old camera. "i know, it's just - been awhile since i've gotten a threat where he so clearly meant it. he was so, so sure. i can't lose that-" she hadn't seen, the first hunk of time in the mirror. a claustrophobic darkness, without balance or form. the crushing horizon of a black hole.

"i don't know. i... uh, okay, went to the cellar and i got into a tiny tussle, but didn't bleed. i passed out, came back to after he stabbed me by the window. i can't remember. maybe i went to get some water after? i don't think i did. if i wasn't awake... i didn't see anyone else. geez."

[samesnakenewskin]

By now, the flesh has surely melded into the cast iron stove and the kettle stained copper. If Louise bled buckets, Marc always bled one more. A true tragedy. “I don’t think he could, you wouldn’t have to worry.” They’re so glassy and unmoving, Marc is easily convinced that her head is filled with nothing but smooth porcelain. Dark and empty, waiting to be filled with new ideas.

“Is it still down there? I was sure it would’ve moved on after a few months. Did you want me to pick up something from the store to tide you over?”

[mysweetlouise]

"it - knows when i need to go down there. it knows i get scared down there, and it waits." too predictable of her, but she can't help it much. you can only switch up your routine so many times, and it caught on every time. she takes another sip of her tea, savoring the warmth as much as she can.

"i... if it's not too much trouble, i mean. since the kitchen's a mess. i guess it'd have to be all pantry ready made stuff, right? or, wait, i could cook things in one of the fireplaces, that'd be fun! like a campfire sort of thing. i remember doing that once, the power was out for a whole week and i rigged up one of the fire pokers as a toasting fork."

[samesnakenewskin]

It was a reprieve, the entity temporarily dumped into the manor while he scurried out into the real world. Every space between his ribs were made temporarily hollow again, filling with stale air. Not setting a monster upon Louise, he was finally taking a rest from the onslaught of creature crawling throughout his body. “If you think it’s fun, then sure.” Marc will simply learn to endure with this saddening attempt of cooking, for however long he’s kept in there.

No one could ever pry his methodologies from his dead lips, how exactly he’d gotten so much food during the war. A secret kept between him and his servants, now they’re both long gone. Not dead but not in reach.

[mysweetlouise]

she falters, for just a moment, then tries to backtrack. "i mean, if - it's okay with you. just because we can't use the kitchen, and - it's nicer than a hot plate, honestly. it's prettier. cozier, right? we can warm our hands and read ghost stories," she adds with an awkward smile.

louise looks down into her tea, contemplating. "i'm sorry. i'm not terribly exciting when i'm just myself, i suppose. i'd like to be. maybe... i should learn more. i think that'd help."

[samesnakenewskin]

Right, he’s staying here. No gentle reprieve, no skulking back to the abandoned theatre and slowly watch his skin thread back together. Stuck in the manor with a discombobulated spirit and the entity looking to pluck apart his rotting flesh like he’s a medical carcass to be separated and studied. Hell was one just one other person.

“Oh no, no you’re fine,” he says flatly, keeping his hands pressed against the lid of the piano. It had that awful squeaky leg whenever it was dragged out into the main hall, blasting through his brain like a well aimed pistol. “Just not looking forward to the food.”

[mysweetlouise]

"we could find recipes and things for it. um, like - people make cobbler and things like that in skillets over fires, don't they? we'll be like - cowboys on the frontier, or travelers taking shelter in some gloomy castle. just like in the novels!"

she puts on the brightest smile she can, given the circumstances. "and - i suppose if it comes down to it, we can order something. though i don't really know if people would deliver all the way out here this time of night."

[samesnakenewskin]

Delivery people. The poor things. Sometimes they managed to get out with treatable injuries, but didn’t last longer than a few years after. No one’s ever meant to truly visit, leave without a string attached. Sometimes it was that thing, snatching them through the door and crushing their little tablets under the floorboards. Marc had his fun too, when one had the right look about them. Such beautiful skin, strong beating hearts, eyes wide and clear.

“You really like those books don’t you? Fancy that. We’ll get that library shuffled soon, some new stuff in there. Can’t have you going crazy on me.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i do! more than - well, about the same as the records. that's how i spend most days." reading, rereading, blaring jazz and trying to dance when she couldn't sleep. as best she could when her head hurt or she'd twisted her ankle on the stairs again.

"half the time it's just like - being someone else, but i get to notice it properly too. and it's like comfort food. lots of times they walk off into the sunset with someone, or get to lay under the stars. sometimes i remember a constellation or two. like ariadne on her little island."

[samesnakenewskin]

Marc only partially forced out a laugh, digging his heel into the creaking floorboards. That obsession with character work could make a delightful thesis on the severance of his personality. He could afford the excuse for covering mirrors in the manor, but his vanity in the theatre stayed cracked.

“I’ll find you something decent then. Nothing too modern though, I wouldn’t want to subject you to the vile drivel they’re writing now.” Nothing made after the 80s, it kept the boundaries intact.

[mysweetlouise]

"i... im fine with anything, really. i don't want to be a bother. just anything i can leaf through and maybe fall asleep reading when i need to." somewhere happy. someone safe at rest. sometimes, when she curls up asleep in her dusty guest bed, she's in a summer night's clearing, nestled in dead grass, or a rainy loft apartment, or any other number of soft, warm spaces.

louise needs to stop staring vacantly into her tea. another sip. she's silent for a moment. "just an island. im sorry, i don't know why im like this."

ariadne got to sleep in the sand.

"being like this, i mean."

loved and a whole crown of stars.

"i definitely, i only got stabbed, ill get better."

no one would. not her. she gave and gave and gave and got to be a deadbeat self pitying ungrateful wretch and her only friend hated her-

some of it had spilled out of the cup. her hand was a bit red.

"any happy books, sorry. keep me from bad dreams, you know? maybe... maybe ill write something. like poetry. poetrys nice, it doesn't even need a plot, just thoughts and words to put them in."

[samesnakenewskin]

What choices did people like them have? A century of his own self-pity had him convinced that his choices did nothing. Whatever control was in reach would only be temporary, so he had to grasp and pull at it until it snapped. He could make her miserable and grateful at the same time. Force her through show after show after show, confining her to the script.

“I could give you some old scripts that didn’t make the cut. You could have a chance to pitch it to me, make them better.”

[mysweetlouise]

her eyes meet his again, hopeful, uncertain. she sets down the cup for a moment, putting pressure back on her stomach where it started bleeding again. "i could? i could! maybe, um. i can't say they'll be all that good, but - i'd, i could absolutely take a crack at them."

whatever ideas bounce around in her brain.

"i don't know how you do it. i feel like it's just blood up there, for me most of the time. half my ideas are just images. or something like that."

[samesnakenewskin]

Half of those drafts had been sitting in on the floor of the theatre since VHS's were the latest home viewing tech. Abandoned, useless little scraps of story that even Marc --- a man who could be rejected from the casting of Frankenstein for his stitching appearing 'too much' --- couldn't stitch them together into a working narrative. They were kept just in case they could mean something, fit into the grand scheme of things.

"You'll do perfect, won't you? You're thinking something, just slowly. Like a good silent movie, just let it keep turning." Even if it began to burn out

[mysweetlouise]

"i'll try to," she adds with an odd smile. "it'll be something you like, i promise. even if it's not full movies, we've done short films before... maybe another anthology? though it'd be entirely yours in this case, compared to last time. or - have we done a series before? maybe a miniseries."

louise bounces her leg, thinking. "until it's perfect. maybe could even fill in time between the full movies, yknow?"

[samesnakenewskin]

“That’s it, it’ll be fantastic won’t it? Nice and busy, no worries or anything for a while.” Marc could feed the entity with it, small rotating casts from short films that were as easily distributed as film reel used to be. There’d have to be a little more selection, which he’d let Louise into and which he’d pretend to discard. Someone had to stay in the manor, more than a month and he would find himself being dragged kicking and screaming through the floorboards.

Marc drags his hand across the lid of the piano, nails clacking across the top as they scrape unevenly. The melted chunk of skin moves slightly, clinging to the interior velvet. “You’ve got ink for the typewriter?”

[samesnakenewskin]

An extra hour has been spent fussing over the herd, since two disappeared without a trace three nights ago. No blood, no broken fences. Just Misty and Dusty missing out of the paddock when she came in for a morning feed. Marcys considered sleeping out beside the herd to keep an eye out, but lord above does it make her back ache and jaw click to spend a night on the dirt like that. Another set of tag checking and kissing them all goodnight, and she sets off towards the house. Not hers, of course. A little antebellum set near the flat of the hill, where a candle remains lit in the top window. Waiting patiently, with a rope ladder caught between the sash and sill of the panes.

She wasn’t made for that house; she spent her time in a caravan set far back enough from the house it wouldn’t be an eyesore for the people of the house. She still climbs up the hill.

Striding across the hill, a quiet whistle is replaced by the bristling strike of a match. Euphorically groaning as the cigarette lights, lips tightly wrapped around it before sighing out her first puff of smoke. She couldn’t smoke in front of the herd, for some reason she’d ascribed herself to. Seemed wrong, letting it burn into the backs of their innocent eyes.

It was horrifically fascinating, when a cow died. Their eyes, the back of them at least, would burn up in the last colours they saw. She’d found it false when going through the slaughterhouse, and their eyes still shimmered in the iridescent blues of the sky they once saw. Marcy still couldn’t smoke in front of them.

Both of the spurs spin and click against themselves as she starts to climb the wall, pausing at the second floor as someone shifts through the hallway before returning to bed. Marcys nails grind against the flat tile, blooming a new callous against her left palm. She could’ve used the ladder, but it was still fun. Rapping her knuckles against the glass, she snakes through the window.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

[samesnakenewskin]

Easy does it, she whispers to herself, gradually twisting her wrist as her hand pulls away from in between Olives thighs. Her eyes stay a little unfocused, gradually searching across the extent of her tunneled vision until she meets the side of Olives head. Dazed as she tries to figure out where the rest of it's gone, laughing as the line of kisses start travelling across her jaw. Marcy tilts her head, checking the parking lot to find it as empty as before they'd arrived. "You alright down there?" A good head shorter when her girlfriend (?) was in heels, it's only because she's pressed against every inch of her she's gotten a height advantage. Light spills in and out of the mouth of the bar, people quietly making their way back home on foot.

"Haven't been in my caravan yet, have you? I promise it's nice and tidy, just for you." Clutching the back of her head and brushing off the little brick dust that might've settled in her hair, Marcy feels herself being brought into an embrace. It's new in a way that burrows through her aching heart. "I love you too honey, c'mon. We better take this on home." One arm wraps around and squeezes her shoulders, the other dangling at her side. Still soaked, she sneaks her fingers up to her own mouth and licks them clean. "You look a little lost right now."

[lost-soul-in-time]

Olive manages to give a hum and a nod, confirming to Marcy that she was feeling alright. Alright had to be the understatement of the century. Everything felt perfect, she felt perfect, and her brain can't begin to imagine how it could get any better than this feeling. Yet that's just what the other woman had in mind. Somehow, she'd make her feel this same feeling again and make it tenfold. How? She can only wait and see, and as Marcy allows her to lean against her, a part of herself hopes the wait isn't long.

She's only miraculously pulled from her inner thoughts as Marcy speaks once more, another soft hum leaving her as she takes advantage of the close proximity to lean into her. "Well, at least you're here to guide me..." Olive attempts to make a lighthearted comment, a small smile twitching the corners of her lips as she looks back over to her darling. She's so smitten. It's something she can think of even now. "Lead the way?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Even after being pressed up against her and begging Olive right outside of a crowded bar, the afterglow has made her shy, of all things. Cleaning off her hand, eventually settling her hands around the seams of the sundress. It’s started to hit peak hours, leaving the parking lot a graveyard of cars and the bar a buzzing hive mind. “Always and forever honey,” she murmurs, chin reaching to fall onto her shoulder. A whole inch lift in her nicest riding boots does nothing to give her a little edge on her height.

“C’mon, before we freeze to death out here.” And before they’re back for round two remains caught in her throat. Not now. There’s still a half a dozen bars she hasn’t caught a full reputation in, they’ll find their space. Sauntering towards the truck, Marcys arm staying closely wound around her wildflower. “I haven’t actually done…done that before. Like that.”

[lost-soul-in-time]

Even in her own mind currently invaded with slow-drifting fog, she still feels her own fondness grow at the sight of Marcy so sheepish, as if she hadn't just pinned her to the nearest wall and wrung out the strongest– um, you know, out of her with people still crossing in and out of the very same building. Olive promises to make sure her darling cowboy gets the same level of attentive affection the moment the opportunity arises, such as right now when she doesn't resist planting one more lipstick-stained kiss to her cheek.

Tentatively making sure no passerby's catch sight of them by swiftly looking around them, she moves to fix her dress yet falters when she takes in her words. Never? Her tilts down to look at her, curiosity and a hint of shame interfering with each other by fighting for dominance. “Oh. I never would've... I expected that any woman would have jumped at the chance to– especially with you... I'm sorry if I came off as attempting to force you into this.”

[samesnakenewskin]

There’s been numerous types of flushes across her face. Dusty pink across her nose and the apples of her cheeks after a few too many drinks. Hot and cartoonishly red when she’d been caught in the back of a bar with a lovely lady on her knees. Nearly magenta as she screamed and cried at Charlotte when she’d broke the news. Marcy’s never had a blush that perfectly matched a lipstick shade like Olives. But every kiss draws just the right amount of blood under her skin to make her the perfect testing card.

Marcy was a ladies girl, she wasn’t shy about that. There’s been wild moments, getting caught in the bathroom, under tables, more than once in bed when their husbands would walk in. Somehow she’d never ticked off ‘outside a bar’. “What? Well,” she pauses, wondering how eloquently she can word the fact that she has had a lot of women jumping onto her. “Just makes it all the more special for us, doesn’t it? I think that might’ve been the hottest thing I’ve ever done.” Outside the truck, she opens the passenger door for Olive. No one could say she wasn’t a gentle butch.

[lost-soul-in-time]

Olive can't help her incredulous laugh at the last comment Marcy adds, her smile back on her face and cheeks lightly flushing at how unexpected it had been. "Well, how will I ever surpass that if it was the 'hottest thing' you've ever done?" She playfully returns, her free hand fixing her dress and quietly thanking Marcy when the passenger door is opened for her. So thoughtful, so gentle, and always so good to her. No matter how reckless and immature it may sound, she's already sworn herself solely to her.

"I find it unfair I've never gotten to see the caravan until now. You've been to my house plenty of times." Olive says as she gets comfortable in her seat. Well, as comfortable as she could bring herself to be when she was still alight with excitement. She could practically feel the energy racing over her skin, crackling like lightning and leaving goosebumps in their wake. The car ride back would be an interesting one.

[samesnakenewskin]

Women would play with her, maybe give a little bit back, but they’d seemed to love the role of the endlessly blushing femme. Marcy never minded too much, she’d advertised herself as the sturdy, suave butch after all. Then she’d been shocked to see Olive return it so often, usually stunned into silence with her mouth left hanging open. Her face still burned the same shade as she closed the car door, taking advantage of the short walk around to the drivers side to try and cool down.

“Honey, you’ve been the most attractive woman that I’ve ever laid eyes on, let alone lain with.” Marcys hand snaked across the console to reach for hers, slowly starting the ignition up letting her head hit the headrest. “Well, I’ve not had a nice enough bed for you, or space really. I’m terrible at unpacking, boxes everywhere. I just got it finished, so there’s plenty of room for you.”

[samesnakenewskin]

i think it's under my skin.

(from cricket)

God help them all. Somewhere between scenes, Marc had taken his eyes off of Louise Cricket. In between the hospital flashbacks and her finding every door locked, it’s like she’s vanished into the walls. Another house that’s swallowed her whole. Now as the boy next door who’s appearing sporadically in the house, Marc, Jameson now, is tiptoeing through the halls. Looking to find the sound of her crying. Cricket always cries the most, most volatile and most difficult to wrangle at the end of the day.

That’s all he hears. Crickets. Horribly silent aside from the knocking of each door, slowly creaking open as he glances around for her. “Cricket? Look, it’s me! I know you’re not…you’re not well. But I swear it’s me, just let me in.”

[mysweetlouise]

going mad. she was sure of that. crawling, buzzing feeling in her head and god those eyes were worming into her thoughts, her hands twitching on the bandages around her arms. she'd shut herself into one of the cabinets, one arm firmly in her mouth to muffle her sobs and the other holding the door closed.

she should be dead, she was dead and this was hell, she was in hell, she'd tried to call her family and they were gone, and that thing in her friend's skin - closing in, crushing her.

she wasn't well but this wasn't right.

god help her, she'd sink her teeth into whoever tried to get her.

[samesnakenewskin]

Cackling to himself, he drags his nails across cracking wallpaper, pulling himself forward. They’re still on camera, little fly in the wall shots catching Marc’s decaying body shamble forward. Uncanniness was demanded from both performers, letting his tendons loosen in every wild and sudden movement. “Come on now, there’s no good reason to be rude now, is there? I just want to make sure you’re safe after all.”

Disjointed, his fingertips peeling and catching across the unevenly plastered paper, he giggles with each shuffle closer. “Cricket, you’ll feel better in a minute. Let me get you your medicine, I’ll even let you have some pie afterwards.” Tapping the boney edges of his knuckles against the wall, good ear to the wall pressed to the wall. “If you stay in there too long, you’ll just suffocate!”

[mysweetlouise]

she clenched her fingers against the cabinet door. her fingernails - growing back, bit by bit, scrabbling against the wood. she'd... the originals had been peeled back in the accident. or the recovery. she couldn't remember anymore.

the bathroom had a window. if she could just make it there, lock the door, climb out - outpace that thing. the music, reverberating in her bones. the medicine wouldn't help. nothing would help.

go. now.

cricket burst from the cabinet, sprinting from the room and into the hall towards the bathroom, stumbling over her own feet.

[samesnakenewskin]

Simultaneously recording the scene and absolutely losing his mind, Marc claws at his aching jaw before shoving it closed. Absolute gold, but no one’s outside to stop Cricket from running out into the street and start screaming bloody murder. A picture nail snags into a small cut on his finger, slicing through without hesitation. Recovery would be a nightmare for the pair.

“Come on out~,” he giddily sings, watching the doors for the tiniest shudder. “It’s just not safe for you out of there.” Easy does it, leaning forward before the doors fly open. Armed with a pocket of loose pills and the prospect of a fantastic shot, Marc sprints forward, barrelling into Cricket as she tries crossing the hall.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket lets out an awful, terrified scream, toppling over and hitting the wood floor with a heavy thud. it wasn't human, wasn't human, wasn't human - she lashes out with those bitten down nails, further yelling and gibbering a mile a minute.

"you're not him, i know you're not him! your eyes - god, your eyes, i don't know what you are-" she kicks at him, trying to scramble back.

[samesnakenewskin]

Now this was the good stuff, cinematic gold and a little bit of bonus catharsis. Both hands wrap around her shoulders, forcing her into the floor even further. The spiny prickle of bone peeking through his flesh tries to lacerate through her skin. "Cricket, Cricket it's me! It's me, I swear it is! I don't know what you're talking about, but I swear it's alright!" he screams, laughing so violently that his jaw is nearly cracks open. She looked nothing like her or either of them, but Louise was damn near close enough to be them. Worked with him, followed around that false pretense of a man like a sickly animal.

"Come on, you know it's me. How else could I remember what you like? No one else would give up everything for you, no one ever would! I'm your only fucking friend Cricket, don't you dare forget that!"

[mysweetlouise]

the thing was fucking smiling, laughing and her stomach was churning. she was fine, she was sane and no head injury could do this to her and even if it did dear god she didn't deserve this. warmth in her shoulder, a bead of red soaking into her t-shirt sleeve. she clawed at his arms, kicking up at him and continuing to scream.

"you're not real! im not going away, i don't know what you did with him but i won't be that! i won't be you!" if she hadn't been in the hospital, maybe it wouldn't have gotten him, he wouldn't have been alone-

[samesnakenewskin]

"You won't ever be me and you know it," he cackles, wrapping his fingers tightly around her shoulders to try and stop her from wriggling away. Marcs arms are bare, every scratch down them peeling off thin layers of skin in heavy chunks. Blood coagulated so much it barely even bleeds, just shakes and sticks underneath Crickets fingernails like jelly. "Isn't this what you wanted? I told you I'd never leave, I'd never forget about you. So you can't leave me!"

Marcs hands are unwavering, but every hit begins to take off parts of this recrafted body. Bleeding through to his real face, pale and cold as it stares down at her.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd just wanted jameson to visit her in the hospital. she'd just wanted to see her friend, it wasn't making sense, was he dead?

"the - oh, god, it's not your skin!" something rotting. she let out another wild scream, this time flailing her head to bite into his arm and her leg to kick him away.

[samesnakenewskin]

Just a little longer, hold the uncomfortable shape until they can switch scenes. Marc barks out a laugh, uncomfortably dry as it crawls out of his throat. All the flesh is heavy, aching to be peeled off. Falling off the bone easily, the meat of his arm detaching and sticking in between Crickets teeth.

“It’s me! Jamie, your best friend! I know we didn’t see each other for a while, but look at us now!” Unravelling above her, like a ream of fabric dropping from a great height.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket gagged, immediately spluttering in awful revulsion and spitting out the hunk of his arm. she might be sick, the cold flesh that clung to her gums sending another shudder of disgust through her.

the smile wasn't his, the eyes weren't his.

she was going to die here.

"i don't know what you are, you're not jamie, you're not my friend, please don't kill me-" she gagged again, starting to sob.

[samesnakenewskin]

Uncomfortably thick blood and flesh lumping into one gelatinous mass slides off his bones, the skin slipping off with a sickly wet pop. More and more ligaments begin separating, fibrous tissues dry and snapping. Marc can’t afford time to repair this, leaning back while keeping a hand on Crickets soldier. “Why would I kill you? I’m not ever letting you go!” All she had to do was behave, nice and still, finishing up her medicine and it would all be an easy dream for her.

“Now, you know you can’t lie to me Cricket. And I can’t lie to you! I’m Jamie, through and through!” Flesh stapled and piled onto his own, layered until his skin disappeared beneath it.

[mysweetlouise]

the dissolving flesh did absolutely nothing to calm her, of course. bits of blood and gore pattering onto the floor like a localized rainstorm from hell. her mind raced. what was it faeries did to the people? kelpies gutted you, left nothing but intestines floating in some pond, hounds and the wild hunt chased you down in numbers, baying and screaming, will-o-the-wisps led you to cliffs and sinkholes, and poor people whisked away to the fae courts, faces incomprehensible, music that drove you mad. the voices were louder in her head, reverberating.

her hand reached up, splotched with red and shaking, to grab at his face.

[samesnakenewskin]

An emulsion of blood and meat not too far from the texture of cold, solid porridge splatters onto the ground opposite her head. Marc had admittedly not looked too deeply into the cryptozoology of the fae, his last impression of the contemporary fairy was from A Midsummers Night Dream. Not good enough, there wasn’t a point to the psychological tension without physical reward.

“Come on…how could you do this to me? After everything?” Marc grins, his skin thin and drenched in blood. It’ll need to be a full body destruction after this, replace all the torn pieces of skin with slowly scarring flesh.

[mysweetlouise]

red splatters across much of her face, dotted across her cheek, forehead, eye. the utter shock of it causes her to freeze, hand still in place, skin ashen. the dread, the pity and guilt of accidentally crushing a snail underfoot, of the squirrel running in front of your car too fast to hit the brake.

the tears spring to her eyes, and cricket lets out a strangled sob - of fear, anger for wherever jamie really was, no doubt hurt and scared, sorrow, pain. she breaks down proper immediately after, shielding her face with her hands as she cries.

[samesnakenewskin]

“My dear little Cricket, I don’t know how you can be so upset. You don’t want to be alone, right?” Cackling, Marc lets his head fall to the side and another rush of blood drips down onto the floor. Flesh squelching beneath her hand, softy caving into his skull. One of hand sneaks onto her shoulder, pinning Cricket in place as he pushes himself up.

Another bottle jingles in his pocket, pills rattling against each other, the capsules soft and papery. “Let’s go to bed, huh? You need to rest and you’re almost done with the antibiotics.”

[mysweetlouise]

she can't sleep, shouldn't sleep, she thinks, sniffling back more tears. the music is a spear through her eardrums, his words as if underwater sometimes, others bouncing around in her head like they'd overwhelm, the thought process of a nightmare.

"i don't need them! i don't - have an infection, i just hit my head, i'm not sick." jamie was sick, wherever he went. whatever he was now. she only felt sick because he was sick, because of all this blood. and it knew him well, it knew her name so she must be next.

[samesnakenewskin]

“You cut your head, it’s infected. Rotting all the way through you, inside and out.” Knocking on her head like a ripe melon, his bony knuckles rapping against a bruised skull. Still intact, but a writhing parasite waits dormant beneath the skin. Not ripe yet, but eventually she’ll crack. “We’re sick, aren’t we? I feel like my face is a bit swollen. Can you check for me, since I’ve done so much for you?” Marc pins her hand to his face, fingers buried between torn layers of muscle.

Leaning back, the hand wrapped around her shoulder leveraging Cricket to her feet. Dragging her along, letting her feet scuff against the ground. “Back to bed for you, before you hurt yourself again.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i didn't, i was... the crash, it was in the crash, i'm better! i swear, i'm better." cricket flinched, pain shooting in lightning sharp arcs through her cranium. why was she trying to reason? this thing didn't seek reason, made a mockery of reasoning.

her fingers dug into the muscle as she tried to steady herself, not letting go but god she couldn't look at the damage she was doing. she was going to die, or... no. go mad, it wanted her to go mad. they liked doing that, didn’t they? some traveler vanishing, turning up a gibbering mess besides a mound of earth or stone, or an old well. the music pulsed behind her right eye, like a stress headache.

[samesnakenewskin]

Rot fell into a gorgeous, continuous spectrum of disrepair. Uneven, fighting against the nature of symmetry until its very last moments. It was meant to be unknown; whether or not something truly went wrong in Crickets head. Unreliable narrators are very much in at the moment. “No need for squirming, you know I hate having to bring out the stronger stuff on you, it makes you the wrong kind of quiet.”

Whatever flesh scrapes beneath her fingernails slips away, just like dead skin is supposed to. A little closer to the right order of things. Marc had enjoyed plotting out this set, the tight upstairs hallway that made it seem impossible to escape from. Only a few strides until they’re back in the bedroom, where all corners of the furniture have been taped over.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd spent the first few days home like that. still coming down from that deep surgery-sleep, sitting up to eat and take more meds, water and pills and those damp wipes for that gash at her temple. she could only remember a heavy sadness on her shoulders, and that damned music.

half slumped like a corpse in her own right. she'd die in there, she was sure of it. too much of this or that, a pillow pressed over her face until it faded to grey. maybe it'd stop then. couldn't get any louder, at least.

she didn't deserve this. jamie didn't deserve it, jamie who called her bug and wouldn't hurt anyone, who always got scared first at horror movies. don't let this thing get to anyone else. her voice came out a choked sniffle.

"just tell me, please just - i know it, your face, the - i don't want to go away. people will know, i haven't called anyone since i got home-" not for lack of trying.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s easy to dump her into the bed, a lifeless and disjointed doll. They’re about two months into filming, day by day footage they’ll cut together. Sometimes, she figured it out quickly, the little spark of Louise still sharp through it all. Mivacurium was a hell of a drug, easy to administer and knocked her out just long enough for a break.

He’s eerily kind, tucking her beneath the sheets and slipping pillows beneath her head. Humming as she’s wrapped tightly, like she’s in a shroud. “What do you know? Don’t you think me and Jamie are the perfect match? Perfect doppelgängers. And people? Oh Cricket, if people did, wouldn’t they have come in? No one’s even knocked.”

[mysweetlouise]

she looks very small and very sad under all those blankets. her choppy, tangled hair sticks to a face red from crying, mouth pressed in a wavering line. she wants to itch at her face, pick off all the bits of dried blood and gouge her eyes out for good measure.

the music creeps up through her sinuses like a bad cold, thrumming in faint pain. "nobody has - they send people from the hospital to check up on people. they'll have to - stop by, they have to."

[samesnakenewskin]

Thin strips of flesh dangle from his face, detached from bone and muscle, clinging on by singular fibres. A few snap, crumbling onto the comforter and already starting to rot. Marc struggles to open his mouth fully, the muscles weak and tender. In between shoots, he’d had to glue this pieces back around a dozen times. Moulting like an aging insect.

“If you’ve been discharged into inadequate care, sure, they’d be around frequently. But you don’t remember the doctors coming in last week? They gave us that new prescription for you.”

[mysweetlouise]

last week. what was last week? was there a last week? she would've run for the door. why didn't she run for the door? she can't remember, that fucking noise was drowning everything out. get it out, get it out -

"don't know if they're real. i don't - a new prescription?" she squints, raising her head a little. going to die. going to lose her mind, her skull is going to crack, right in two. he's lying.

"i didn't sleep through it?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Patting down the dried out patches of flesh, Marc continued to pinch and pull at his skin like he could stretch it back in place. He’d considered a medical consultant for the production, but the paperwork and convincing needed to prove Cricket was a very invested method actor seemed tiresome. “Yes, well, you were a little out of it still. Those sleeping tablets really have been doing numbers on you.”

Whistling as he worked his way across the room with his fingers tugging at the weakened muscles of his jaw, he eventually perched on the edge of the bed and stared towards her. “You’re not well.”

[mysweetlouise]

those glassy green eyes of hers just stare at him - though she's more a rabbit scared into staying still than anything. just please don't hurt anyone else. if i end up this way, let me be the last. poor jamie.

"i'm - not crazy. just, i just got hurt. im not crazy," she tries to say calmly, but her voice keeps trembling and she just sounds even worse. not even at home when at home, and no one else sees it, just her. maybe she'd hit something in her head hard enough to clear her sight. or the way a mouse sees the shadow overheard right before being torn apart by beak and talons.

it knows, she knows, and it knows she knows.

not dead yet, but maybe only because she's not scared enough yet.

"what'd you do to him?"

[samesnakenewskin]

“I never said you were crazy, just that you’re not well. If that’s what you think…well, crazy people don’t think they’re crazy, right?” She’d be the heroine of course, but some manic, wide-eyed frightening one caught stumbling down the side of a highway. Skittish and wide-eyed at the littlest of things, then enraptured and still as headlights stared back at her. What little spark that used to shine through Marc’s eyes had died off somewhere in-between the decades, but they twitch and jump around his skull like they’re trying to find a source. 

Poor Jamie. He’d been so excited to get such a role, letting slip how it would be his first big role since moving away from home. Carrying that same grin Marc had in his old deployment photos, the ones just before he was sent straight back after being declared unfit. There’s a large chunk of him left, somewhere in the theatres floorboards. “Oh, he’s not that far away. He’s still in the house, I suppose.”

[samesnakenewskin]

don't open the door. please.

“Now now, Louise, I just have to, don’t I? You make it sound so intriguing. Let me see…haven’t I earned it?” Marc laughs, currently buttoning up his dress shirt. A poorly done, bulging Y incision scar has been redone. In his defence, the autopsy had been interrupted.

[mysweetlouise]

louise squeezed her eyes shut, bracing as much of her whole weight against the door as she could manage - even as blood smeared into the painted wood where it soaked through her shirt. inky, slick where she wasn't entirely put together, her hand pressed hard into her stomach.

"marc, i mean it! i can't, you don't want to see this, really, i just - ill clean everything up, it's fine, just don't, please don't come in, marc, please."

[samesnakenewskin]

No matter what the manor threw at her, he knew that it wouldn’t ever be as bad as what he’d endured for so long. Something had been festering beneath its skin, so unfortunately Marc had felt it. That useless little doppelgänger had invaded in and intruded in much more than he’d expected. Found her and didn’t bother sneaking by like he should’ve. Murdock will never get another role again.

“Louise, you know you have to let me in. I see that open window, so what on earth have you been up to?” Laughing lightly, letting it ring out clearly through the crooked doorframes, Marc begins knocking his cane against the door. “I have had such a long day, and now I can’t come into my own home and see my friend?”

[mysweetlouise]

god help her, she'd forgotten to close it. the puddle on the floor, the track to the wall where she'd pushed herself uprjght... and all those nice things, gone. gone. why had she tagged along like that? bored and desperate and stupid, stupid louise.

"unexpected - company." covering her mouth to keep more blood in. "trashed the whole house, really, the - took the good wine, too." she needed to sit down.

knock, knock, knock. her heart ached, or perhaps her solarplexus.

"wanted to - see me?"

[samesnakenewskin]

What a useless little burglar the man had been, unable to sneak through the house or even attack correctly. One day, Marc had planned to used him in a future project, a serial killer thriller with his friend as the final girl. But no. When the drop came, he’d leave Murdock with a freshly broken nose and a few nights in limbo. Served him right.

“What? No…no no! Did you see them? Let me in, now.” There was a vague awareness of the movement in the house, then something shattering. Marc keeps banging against the door, dragging his hand down the door handle. “Why else would I come here? I even had a present.”

[mysweetlouise]

"some - giallo film looking man. he said his name was murdock, but i, i don't know if it was real."

a pause, and her voice was even more strained.

"said he'd take my eyes."

she finally cracked the door open, revealing her blood soaked shirt and a bruised face from where she'd fallen. louise's hands trembled, tears in her eyes.

[samesnakenewskin]

How unfortunate, Marc hadn’t exactly been expecting a surge of violence. It was at least confined to the house, just another bad memory in the history of such an unfortunate manor. Fingers tight around the head of the cane, cursing out his poor casting. “Oh you poor, poor thing…let me in.”

Sneaking his fingers in the crack of the door, he glances her over before shoving his cane into the bottom of the door to wedge it open. “Louise, I’m so sorry. Let me in, it’s not fair, is it?”

[mysweetlouise]

louise lets out a quiet sob, the pain in her neck rearing it's ugly head to choke back her words. she doesn't know if it's even real, if her head's getting to her, or the house, and the words let me in makes her stomach churn like it can always, always get worse.

she tries to step back, weight unsteady on her feet, and the world tilts under her as she nearly falls with the door, just barely backpedaling to catch herself. praying, hoping against hope it was actually him because she couldn't handle anything else right now.

[samesnakenewskin]

Hooking his cane around the crack in the door, he holds it in place to spare him a few extra seconds. Glancing at the frosted glass to check how patchy his makeup has become, smoothing it out with a few gentle taps to reform the deathly tint to his skin. Marc had no business in doing his own makeup, he belonged in the comfortable armchair with artists fawning over him to fix every blemish.

“It’s alright…don’t worry,” he whispers, crossing the threshold and slamming the door behind him. Things always ran out of ajar doors, look at him after all. As the light cuts through the windows, Marc sighs as he sees the latest attack to Louise. “It’s me, it’s ok. Come on…you know it’s just me.”

[mysweetlouise]

louise does her best to brace herself against the wall, heaving a shaky breath as more blood wells up from her throat. she just stares, for a moment, before breaking down entirely, sobbing softly and wobbling a bit in place.

"don't know why he, nobody's even supposed to know and he just - i did everything he asked!" just like everyone else, her hand pressing to the wound in her stomach. "please don't, please be you i can't be scared right now. please."

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s another tear in the canvas, every layer of ink revealed in the radial dissection. Marc could almost see the mangle of characters beneath her taxidermied skin, bleeding out through her stomach. A little to the left, a nice low angled shot, something to add into an ending. There wasn’t a time she didn’t look nice ambiguously deceased. Murdock had done something right, but lacking in performance. Elegance. Anything that could get an audience interested.

“You poor thing. I promise, it’s just me. I don’t know-,” he sighs, stepping forward until his cane nearly bumps into her knee. “No one knows, it’s just you and me and…them. Tell me what happened, it’s alright.” Pressing his hand into the wound, Marc faintly grimaces.

[mysweetlouise]

the blood was icy cold, just like the rest of her. inside the house, no heartbeat but she could bleed just fine. go figure. her hand moved to grasp his arm, clinging with tight, desperate fingers like she was drowning. the blood welled up between her teeth, and a comically polite part of her covered her mouth so it wouldn't be quite so gross.

"we'd had... a nice talk and at some point he just - he changed, he decided it. he went to take all the nice little things, and i, im so stupid, and i went downstairs for him so he wouldn't get gutted and - and then we were upstairs, and he had me take the clock and he just - grabbed my arm and it hurt. and he... i had the lighter and i should've just done something, i - he marched me back down here with everything and i think my hands broken now, actually, but i dropped everything out the window and he stabbed me and it's so distracting, i forgot how... i just wanted to play some music, i thought tonight would be okay."

[samesnakenewskin]

All the nice things had been delivered, dropped off behind a bench at the corner of a hotel and a shuttered theatre. Now, it was all decorating a decrepit dressing room. Glass painstakingly placed in the face of the clock, one bottle uncorked and the other stored behind the mini fridge. Home comfort without all the mess. Marc might have to spare the man for now, just to seek out a few more bits and pieces. Everything was fixable, after all.

Beneath the suit jacket, greying and bruised skin sloughs off from Louise’s nails. Like an overripe peach being peeled. Just as his own tug at the edges of the gaping stab wound. “I know, it’s not fair, is it? Sit down, don’t worry.” Grasping at Louise’s shoulder, he starts to slowly march her over to the piano room.

[mysweetlouise]

a slight slump sideways, and she leans into his support. one step at a time. stay steady. it's going to be fine. she tries to ignore the pain in her stomach, her hand, the way choking on blood always tends to leave her throat and voice raw.

just to rest for a while. that's all she needs, to rest and recover. she still has the one hand, that'd be good for a melody. nothing is fair. never was, never would be. she doesn't deserve fair.

[samesnakenewskin]

More management was needed to keep the balance between her and the house. It couldn’t get worse like this, or eventually she’d start asking to go outside more. Marc had it worse, he’d convinced himself of that long before the deal with his producer. Poor, poor Marc. The broken home, ragged beginnings, struggling up into his dream; he was built to be a star. Suffering through the house and spirits burrowed in his bones, it couldn’t ever be comparable.

He just had to be sure they both saw it like that.

“You want some tea? Wine? We can just relax and enjoy ourselves for a bit, be grateful we’re not stuck out there.” Crossing the threshold, Marc’s ankles are scratched by an invisible wrist, trying to drag him back to the basement. On the carpet, it never reaches him.

[mysweetlouise]

"no - no wine. sorry, i... went down there earlier. think it's still mad at me. im scared it might try something." always will.

no one would've even noticed if he hadn't stopped by. only, maybe, if she dreamed it. sometimes she let herself imagine a hospital, doctors and nurses buzzing around like bumblebees. thank god you're here, breathing. can't you see how everyone missed you? scared us half to death.

"just... just tea. tea's nice. i'm sorry."

[samesnakenewskin]

In the beginning, the start of his real career, he had every playmate he wanted. Childhood best friends and every handsome and or beautiful performer he encountered. Staff and servants and interns fetching him drinks and cigars. They always came back, never breaking underneath Marc’s stories. But it couldn’t be his fault that they all forgot their places, broke out of the toy box and ruined everything. Louise was his salvage, like a second hand toy left behind on accident.

“Tea, we should have some in the kitchen. I’ll get Ben-…I’ll go make it myself then.” Squeezing her hands, Marc guides her into one of the armchairs (he used to sit there and talk with Marc. They’d planned so much.) “You’ll be safe here, you know it loves to start showing off once I walk in.” Patting the top of her head before he turns, dragging his fingertips across the piano.

[mysweetlouise]

it's just the broken hand that has tears in her eyes. that's all. not her managing the fail the only one who even tolerates her anymore. she settles into the chair, curling up and cradling it to her chest like a fragile animal. she wasn't a guest, or an occupant. little house mouse, wriggling pathetic dead thing in a trap. and she couldn't even play to make herself less of a nuisance.

the hand on her head almost sets her sobbing again, and she plays the song in her mind, watching the keys.

in the stillness of the night,

in the silence of the moon,

where the ocean meets the shore,

come and open up my door,

i'll be waiting there for you.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s like a mouse struggling out of its trap, tailless as it bleeds out through the crawl spaces and rafters of the house. Rotting and rotting but still crawling and ruining the carpet. Marc barely glances back at her, shutting the door to the lounge as he leaves. It wraps around his fingers, metal warping and melting through his hand. Stepping through the shadowed halls, it scratches down his back and whispers in the seers voice. “Too much noise…”

He should’ve had the foresight to get rid of Celine’s body too. He’d hoped something else could take her, the detective or the police who took the assortment of swapped bodies to the morgue.

Into the kitchen, it squeezes each fragile rib until they creak. “Stay…it’s not fair. One isn’t fun anymore.” Kettle whistling, Marc pulls at the edge of his skin.

[mysweetlouise]

instantly colder without him around. she wanted to take out her brain, wash out all these sad thoughts and put it back in, good as new. she fiddled with her tie, loosening it and idly wrapping it around her hand. it'd brace it, a little. maybe she could play then.

she layered the cloth, bit by bit, around and around. it wouldn't meddle for a moment or two, it'd be distracted. something good in being the black sheep.

some little mind trick - what else would comfort her when she was alone like this - droned the steps she vaguely could remember. joints above and below, so wrist, bruised knuckles. no proper splint for this one, something it could jam into her arm. good job. tie the loose ends, tuck into the bands.

don't think. think too hard and you'll cry. the rest hate you already, don't give them reason. she pulls herself to her feet, hobbling and sitting in a bloodied heap on the piano bench.

don't think. play some music.

dirge of the spirits, duvair yaughton.

[samesnakenewskin]

Halfway to a boil, he’s doubled over against the kitchen counter as it slowly presses a hand through the drainage scars and reaches around to the internal cavity of his chest. Nails scraping away the thin outer layer of bone and piercing into marrow. Marc is nearly sick, gagging into the back of his hand as the sharp edges of its fingers threaten to pierce through the valves of his heart. “Not the right screaming. Pitiful show. Fix. It.” Fingers plunge through his heart, hooking around the muscle and ripping it down.

“Stay. Just a little longer. I want fun.” It slowly retracts the hand, wiping down the blackened innards down his back before climbing back into the wall. Whistling. Dragging his hand forward into the flame, Marc rips the kettle off the stove. Flesh melts onto the cast iron, sticking to the cups he pours the water and drops the teabags in. No milk. Hacking up on the inside of his suit jacket, he staggers back towards the lounge, shoving the door open with a shoulder.

[mysweetlouise]

she's focused on the keys, how it still hurts her hand but she can still wriggle her fingers, a little. tinkling, meandering melody, slow. one at a time. block out the rest, at least she's safer, repeat the motif. flutter, drop. smaller songs in the background.

she jolts, hearing him barge through the door, hand hitting a wrong note with the ring finger. turns to look at him, eyes wide. slowly, she draws her hands back again, settling them in her lap.

"...are you okay? it - you didn't fall or anything, right?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Thickly swallowing the accumulation of blood and liquified flesh being traced up through his throat, Marc stumbles towards a table and sets the tray down. Shoving the melted hand into his pocket, he sinks into an armchair beside the piano. Throat flared out as he awkwardly situates himself without pressing against the reopened drainage scars. It was a such a nice chair, he couldn’t stand the idea of ruining it.

“No, it’s fine. Burnt my throat testing the tea, outta milk,” he grimaces, scratching his neck with his clean hand. “Go on, keep playing. Haven’t heard you in a while.”

[mysweetlouise]

a pause - she can't remember the last time she's played for anyone. at least a year or two. something calming, not as moody. can't really go wrong with chet baker, right?

not as tense, gentle lilts down and up. i fall in love too easily.

louise quietly whistles in place of the vocals, steady enough in spite of her hand and everything else. she needed to get a few newer scorebooks the next time they were out and about, some more modern stuff.

"sorry. i think - they have stuff to deliver food and things like that now, right?"

[samesnakenewskin]

A suckered and uncomfortable squishing sound emanates from his back while he tries to adjust in the armchair. Both the back of his dress shirt and dinner jacket suctioned to the open wounds, whistling as Marc exhales. “Mhm, yeah. Barely any shops open, it’s terrible out there. I’ll order some stuff to the house, can’t have you starving to death now can we?” Too slow, too boring.

Shutting his eyes, he squeezes at the arm of the chair and tries to hum in tune. Nausea bursts through his stomach, dragging its heavy limbs up and down his esophagus. “More of your parts should play, that’d be nice. Didn’t you used to play at the parties?”

[mysweetlouise]

"if it's not too much trouble. the, ah - what's it called. the ramen's worked like an absolute charm for - a lot of it. it really does come together just like that."

she'd played a painter before (and tried her best, though she felt like any work from that seemed so mediocre). it'd be nice to do something she felt she was good at.

"sometimes. i mean, if they had a piano, of course. i feel like that got me invited to more parties than i deserved."

[samesnakenewskin]

“One of the only things they’ve gotten right in this century, decent instant food. God,” he chuckles, picking the skin from the side of their cups. “Do you remember when we had to eat rations during the next war? Nasty little loaves of sawdust bread with half a teaspoon of butter each?” Only when he’d visited the manor did he stoop to such a pathetic diet. His star needed to be fed, but she didn’t need to have it good.

Half a decade of frustration, reminded how he couldn’t even make the draft the first time around. Damien, Damien of all people was a medic with his twisted hip, and Marc declared unfit to serve. Spending his time outside looking for every underhanded way to find decadence, a lot of acts thankfully scrubbed from the record.

“I think…he’d requested them at all my parties to make sure you came. Conniving little thing.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i thought it was a bit fun, actually. one of my uncles had this fishing cottage up north we used to visit, and we'd have sort of - camping food, i suppose. lots of fish and sandwiches. i'd pretend i was on the frontier, so it reminded me of that." a bit of play pretend that was just her, just louise playing at something. it even got her to look out the windows without being quite so sad.

she nearly missed a note at the last bit, breath catching in her throat. what? no, she couldn't have heard that right. no one would, not on purpose. right? but if anyone, maybe he would. her stomach started to hurt again.

"oh." a pause. "that's - that's really nice. i don't think i realized that." don't start down that path again, lou. you'll just start spiraling again. he just felt bad for you. you needed to get out more. that's all. that's all. she bit down on her tongue. wanted her to be there, why would he be so nice and then everything - one note, then the other. focus. not anymore. don't think about it.

[samesnakenewskin]

Idly stirring the lukewarm tea with a rusted over spoon, Marc scowls at the thought of the former inhabitant of his body. As long as the entity has ahold of him, he never can quite remember what Damien was like. Just how he left, abandoning him in the manor after Celine and William…they’d destroyed him. What had she even seen in him? Gripping the handle of the cup, it nearly snaps between his melted fingers.

“All that imagination and you were a lawyer first. Such a shame really, but then I wouldn’t have you for all my films, would I? My star, leading actress in every picture even when you’re someone else,” he pauses, sipping at the mildewed tea. “Such a shame, old Damien used you for show. Never saw the extent of your talent.”

[mysweetlouise]

she'd wanted to go into law, she wanted to say. she wanted to help people. she wanted a good life. to be someone good, for her life to mean something. to be someone worth liking, having around.

wait, no. was that after everything?

was anything before, anymore?

just a pretty face. she paused for a moment, just... staring into space.

she wouldn't have done well anywhere. not then. not now. not ever. at least she couldn't lose pretty now. someone's scribbled over paper star. shining in an aquarium.

"do, uh, you have any song requests? i can play pretty much anything we have on the records."

[samesnakenewskin]

There’d been so much beauty. Escaping from the dreaded business of accounting with vaudeville shows, dropping out of university once he’d signed that contract. It’s still fuzzy, a hand wrapped around his to steady it while the pen scratched against the paper. Then it all went a bit funny for a while, finding himself suddenly standing at the edges of roads, bridges, the fireplace. Worth it for something, in the end.

“Can you do Dies Ire? I’m sure I’ve heard in here before.” Maybe it had been on vinyl, a smooth continuous melody that drifted through the manor halls. All those little promises whispered in between notes, blessed so quietly by a forked tongue.

[mysweetlouise]

louise hesitates, just for a moment. music for a funeral. she vaguely remembered mass - gentle and reverent at christmas.

but he'd asked.

her fingers found the keys again, slow and cautious. shoulders tense, eyes on her task. "must be one of the records. i usually play, um - softer." to soothe herself. she didn't get a lot to herself, but her chet baker, aretha franklin, sinatra, martin were there for her in the records and songs she played. her reaching out into time, speaking softly. i'm here, hello. i feel the same. i am the same.

her hair fell a little in front of her face, those glassy eyes. just the same. just fine.

[samesnakenewskin]

“One of my records, think I gave it away in fifties. Shame really.” Over the years, his beautiful collection has slowly bled records, occasionally by choice. Eventually, it’d gotten bored melting them against his skin, shooting them out to see how far it could lodge in his neck. Even replenished, he didn’t look at them as fondly. Nothing as good as the original.

Swinging his legs over one of the arms, Marc leans back, head pointed towards the piano. Even now, one of his ears is functionally decorative. “Not very fond of the newer stuff. I’ve just started to stomach the idea of Elvis Presley. I can’t believe they didn’t get a decent band for my funeral, just the damn church organ player.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i feel like - it'd be fun, a little. the one, um - oh, what was his name. johnny cash? can't quite remember what we were out for then, but his stuff was so nice." she'd been whistling folsom prison blues for a month or two afterwards.

a frown darted across her face for a moment. "...you got to go to your funeral? i mean, they - well, if they wanted to go traditional on it - who organized it? family?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Country music, what a scourge. It clawed beneath his skin, something in the chords vaguely unnerving as it crept between fascia. All he saw was a coked up group of hicks playing in the back of the stables, with the occasional tolerable song. Marc has some sense about Cash, a performance they'd caught sometime between films. It might've been when they debuted Cricket, that frightening woman, layered in accessories and sobbing endlessly when they left set. Something about it kept her stable enough to coax back into the car.

"What?" Clutching the teaspoon, his eyes quickly dart away before settling on the window. Right, he was supposed to be far more tragic, trapped in the manor and constantly fighting to stay on the outside. Struggling with the weight of the entities brutality, sparing Louise from the true horrors. "Well, no, of course I didn't. I saw the little pamphlets they made, like they would do for theatre shows. Saw the music they had lined up, that's all. I think it was family arranging it, my mother was still alive, could've also been some of my friends from production."

[mysweetlouise]

louise didn't know much about country music, but she'd liked the little she'd heard. it felt warm, ballads and songs meant for dance halls and summer evenings. cricket had found comfort in it - she'd grown up with it, maybe - and it'd drowned out the maddening tune and whispers bouncing around in that head of hers.

"oh! that sounds nice, honestly. a celebration of life, with - family, all that. i think they would've done well honoring you. flowers, music, all that." a pause, focusing on the music. "...i wanted to have dancing at mine. like i wanted people to be happy i lived, not sad i was gone. i heard in new orleans, they have these big band processions, walking to the cemetery. i always liked that idea."

[samesnakenewskin]

“I’m sure it was, but I didn’t end up seeing it.” He had to pop his head in to pay the last of the mourners. Closed casket, they couldn’t completely fix the massive hole blown through the side of his head. If only Will hadn’t been so trigger happy, then he could’ve had a milder death. Back when the entity was still happy to piece him back together, solder together bones and stitch skin seamlessly.

Rubbing at the plasticy sheen of his burnt skin, Marc hums to himself. Something big and beautiful, dance and song. “Well, you never know. Could’ve been there. I’m sure you were missed, at least.” The church hadn’t been flooded with mourners, but not one had to be paid.

[mysweetlouise]

"it'd be nice to be. i feel so bad, everyone was doing so well, too. my aunt had her birthday, ellie and horace their seventh anniversary... i hope little bea got that train set i bought her for christmas. it was so hard finding one in purple, for some reason." if only she hadn't put a damper on things by going and dying.

"...sometimes i wonder if anyone's still in parson's-by-the-sea, to be honest. it was so small even back then, and since spa towns aren't as much of a thing anymore-" was anything still standing? "you'd like it there, i think. it's so pretty in the winters."

[samesnakenewskin]

Something bursts in his chest, a rotten chunk of flesh likely giving out and detaching from bone. Louise had something, and he hadn’t planned on anything happening to her. Really, Marc hadn’t given her a second thought. Just a witness, unwilling audience to the grand death of a star. Goes home after the show, lets the story live with them and dies with it.

“We could model set after it, if you actually wanted it.” Picking up the other cup and shoving his burnt hand into his suit jacket, he rests it on the top of the piano. “Maybe it’s still standing, if it could be a good place for the shoot.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i sure hope so. actually, i tell you what. if we go, and it's still standing, i'll show you everywhere on the boardwalk, the old lighthouse - oh! and don's. like the café. they had this apple pie ice cream... never had anything like it, it was so nice."

she was smiling, properly, still following the tune on the keys.

"maybe they'd even have up some of those old murals. there was one with some pretty island scene and a mermaid, and i always thought she was just the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen when i was little."

[samesnakenewskin]

A better man would’ve tried to remember for the sake of knowing. Hold onto the only person left semi intact from everything, mourn what they once were and tough it out through the world. Marc idly thinks of the sets they could make, maybe a mermaid deep sea horror if they could get the budget for it. Bemused, sliding both hands across the lid of the piano and miming the motions of the keys.

“We’ll make it a research trip then, little something in between it all. Think that you can stay in your head for a while? And I mean properly, no character work or anything.”

[mysweetlouise]

"without a character... well, id do a better job there than if i tried it anywhere else. id hardly be thinking about any of it, there'd be tons and tons to talk about. it'd probably be tough shaking me from any happy reminiscing. even with the whole cliff thing."

a pause, fingers shakily fluttering through a set of notes. "i didn't tell you about that, did i? thats technically the first time i ever cheated death."

[samesnakenewskin]

Skin sticks to the polished surface of the piano, a finger nearly ripping off as he fails to follow along with the melody. Marc hums but gradually slows, blinking a few times before turning back to her. A little rotten muscle tries to beat in his chest, something he can just about remember palpitating years prior. Neither of them die, even what was supposed to be their deaths might not have counted in the grand scheme of things. They'd beaten it, Marc clawing out of Hell and Louise contorted through limbo.

"I didn't even know you lived near a cliff. This was before, I'm guessing. How'd you do it then?"

[mysweetlouise]

"that's the funny thing. i don't entirely remember." she flutters her fingers on the keys idly.

"i think i was seven, or eight. but i used to love climbing the shorter cliffs near my house, over the water. well, one time i go out to go swimming and don't come back. my aunt is worried out of her wits, and a bunch of people go looking for me- and they find me, perfectly well, sitting on the shore. my jacket, though, washes up the next day, absolutely shredded by the rocks. i don't remember a thing after hitting the water, except somebody carrying me. we always joked that was my guardian angel."

[samesnakenewskin]

A graft of skin starts to peak back, Marc scratching it back as he forces himself to start paying attention outside of his own mind. Other people, they needed to stay tied together. He’s a little surprised that she’s actually survived death once before, given how often Louise has shattered one way or another.

“Lord…how’d you do it then?” Like it was a magic trick, waiting to be revealed. “Where did they find you then? Did you just walk back home?”

[mysweetlouise]

"i haven't - the foggiest. i just came to, and my cousins were all running up with lights, and someone bundled a blanket around me to help keep warm. i think my cousin florence mentioned that they'd checked the spot before, too. i must've washed up at just the right time."

ironically, that must've been the safest she'd ever felt. scooped up and carried to the house, that odd peace sliding around her head like it'd been full of water too. one of the last memories of uncle paul, how he'd gotten her and elise hot chocolate and stayed up with them, reading to the two of them into what must've been the next morning.

"always did have strange luck, i think."

[samesnakenewskin]

Carried off, out of death like a kid falling asleep at a party. Nothing else, no strange limbo in and out of living, just drifting off and waking back up again. Rocking gently, cradled in someone’s arms. Saved. Marc thinks his first death was in the water; his last one certainly was. Icy, shattering before dragging him deep, deep down. “I think that’s…nice. Nice to make it out like that when you’re supposed to go.”

“Drink your tea before it gets cold, the kitchens going to be off limits the next couple of days.” Its eyes still burrow into the rotten flesh beneath his scalp, quietly whispering and waiting for him to turn around.

[mysweetlouise]

"it was nice. it was happy. i think... that's how, if i had to end, i'd like to. just somewhere quiet and warm, you know?" she probably wouldn't. maybe one day she'd just stop, finally fade into the void, thoughts drifting to oblivion. don't think about that right now.

"oh! i'm so sorry, i almost forgot." she finally lifted her hands from the keys, gently picking up the cup and taking a small sip. "...well, damn. i was planning on trying to make up that soup tomorrow. that - he didn't steal the silverware, did he? i hope - i didn't see him take it, but i didn't see him come in, either."

[samesnakenewskin]

Drifting off seems like the nicest death, slipping into the endless abyss with an exhale. Marc had found the best way to almost get there; laced wine, warm bath, and a deep breath. Marc lasted about twenty or so hours, unconscious and nearly perfectly dead.

“No, most of it’s been left alone. But he’s made a mess of it. Your blood is all over the place, I don’t think you’d want to see that. Poor thing,” he mutters, glancing back at the door. All burned into the iron of the stove, it’ll need to be scraped clean.

[mysweetlouise]

she took another drink of her tea, averting her eyes from almost embarrassment as if she had a mild, if intensely painful cold instead of a hole in her abdomen and blood seeping into her shirt.

"sorry, i- really should've tried to clean it up or something. i think because it was a person, everything just really shook me up and i got so woozy. i mean i always get woozy, but maybe it's the eyes thing. i think that really got me too scared. i'm sorry."

[samesnakenewskin]

“Hm? Eyes?” Marc reaches around to pinch at her cheeks, slipping his thumb down to nudge her head towards him. Both eyes the same, ever glassy and preserved inside Louise’s skull. There would’ve been more of a fuss kicked up if she’d actually lost an eye. “You got both of them still, what are you worried about?” Dropping her head and turning, Marc looks over to the window. Still closed, thank god.

“You shouldn’t go in there, he made a bloodbath of it in there. Did he end up stabbing himself or something?”

[mysweetlouise]

her eyes often looked so tired, distancing and focusing like any old camera. "i know, it's just - been awhile since i've gotten a threat where he so clearly meant it. he was so, so sure. i can't lose that-" she hadn't seen, the first hunk of time in the mirror. a claustrophobic darkness, without balance or form. the crushing horizon of a black hole.

"i don't know. i... uh, okay, went to the cellar and i got into a tiny tussle, but didn't bleed. i passed out, came back to after he stabbed me by the window. i can't remember. maybe i went to get some water after? i don't think i did. if i wasn't awake... i didn't see anyone else. geez."

[samesnakenewskin]

By now, the flesh has surely melded into the cast iron stove and the kettle stained copper. If Louise bled buckets, Marc always bled one more. A true tragedy. “I don’t think he could, you wouldn’t have to worry.” They’re so glassy and unmoving, Marc is easily convinced that her head is filled with nothing but smooth porcelain. Dark and empty, waiting to be filled with new ideas.

“Is it still down there? I was sure it would’ve moved on after a few months. Did you want me to pick up something from the store to tide you over?”

[mysweetlouise]

"it - knows when i need to go down there. it knows i get scared down there, and it waits." too predictable of her, but she can't help it much. you can only switch up your routine so many times, and it caught on every time. she takes another sip of her tea, savoring the warmth as much as she can.

"i... if it's not too much trouble, i mean. since the kitchen's a mess. i guess it'd have to be all pantry ready made stuff, right? or, wait, i could cook things in one of the fireplaces, that'd be fun! like a campfire sort of thing. i remember doing that once, the power was out for a whole week and i rigged up one of the fire pokers as a toasting fork."

[samesnakenewskin]

It was a reprieve, the entity temporarily dumped into the manor while he scurried out into the real world. Every space between his ribs were made temporarily hollow again, filling with stale air. Not setting a monster upon Louise, he was finally taking a rest from the onslaught of creature crawling throughout his body. “If you think it’s fun, then sure.” Marc will simply learn to endure with this saddening attempt of cooking, for however long he’s kept in there.

No one could ever pry his methodologies from his dead lips, how exactly he’d gotten so much food during the war. A secret kept between him and his servants, now they’re both long gone. Not dead but not in reach.

[mysweetlouise]

she falters, for just a moment, then tries to backtrack. "i mean, if - it's okay with you. just because we can't use the kitchen, and - it's nicer than a hot plate, honestly. it's prettier. cozier, right? we can warm our hands and read ghost stories," she adds with an awkward smile.

louise looks down into her tea, contemplating. "i'm sorry. i'm not terribly exciting when i'm just myself, i suppose. i'd like to be. maybe... i should learn more. i think that'd help."

[samesnakenewskin]

Right, he’s staying here. No gentle reprieve, no skulking back to the abandoned theatre and slowly watch his skin thread back together. Stuck in the manor with a discombobulated spirit and the entity looking to pluck apart his rotting flesh like he’s a medical carcass to be separated and studied. Hell was one just one other person.

“Oh no, no you’re fine,” he says flatly, keeping his hands pressed against the lid of the piano. It had that awful squeaky leg whenever it was dragged out into the main hall, blasting through his brain like a well aimed pistol. “Just not looking forward to the food.”

[mysweetlouise]

"we could find recipes and things for it. um, like - people make cobbler and things like that in skillets over fires, don't they? we'll be like - cowboys on the frontier, or travelers taking shelter in some gloomy castle. just like in the novels!"

she puts on the brightest smile she can, given the circumstances. "and - i suppose if it comes down to it, we can order something. though i don't really know if people would deliver all the way out here this time of night."

[samesnakenewskin]

Delivery people. The poor things. Sometimes they managed to get out with treatable injuries, but didn’t last longer than a few years after. No one’s ever meant to truly visit, leave without a string attached. Sometimes it was that thing, snatching them through the door and crushing their little tablets under the floorboards. Marc had his fun too, when one had the right look about them. Such beautiful skin, strong beating hearts, eyes wide and clear.

“You really like those books don’t you? Fancy that. We’ll get that library shuffled soon, some new stuff in there. Can’t have you going crazy on me.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i do! more than - well, about the same as the records. that's how i spend most days." reading, rereading, blaring jazz and trying to dance when she couldn't sleep. as best she could when her head hurt or she'd twisted her ankle on the stairs again.

"half the time it's just like - being someone else, but i get to notice it properly too. and it's like comfort food. lots of times they walk off into the sunset with someone, or get to lay under the stars. sometimes i remember a constellation or two. like ariadne on her little island."

[samesnakenewskin]

Marc only partially forced out a laugh, digging his heel into the creaking floorboards. That obsession with character work could make a delightful thesis on the severance of his personality. He could afford the excuse for covering mirrors in the manor, but his vanity in the theatre stayed cracked.

“I’ll find you something decent then. Nothing too modern though, I wouldn’t want to subject you to the vile drivel they’re writing now.” Nothing made after the 80s, it kept the boundaries intact.

[mysweetlouise]

"i... im fine with anything, really. i don't want to be a bother. just anything i can leaf through and maybe fall asleep reading when i need to." somewhere happy. someone safe at rest. sometimes, when she curls up asleep in her dusty guest bed, she's in a summer night's clearing, nestled in dead grass, or a rainy loft apartment, or any other number of soft, warm spaces.

louise needs to stop staring vacantly into her tea. another sip. she's silent for a moment. "just an island. im sorry, i don't know why im like this."

ariadne got to sleep in the sand.

"being like this, i mean."

loved and a whole crown of stars.

"i definitely, i only got stabbed, ill get better."

no one would. not her. she gave and gave and gave and got to be a deadbeat self pitying ungrateful wretch and her only friend hated her-

some of it had spilled out of the cup. her hand was a bit red.

"any happy books, sorry. keep me from bad dreams, you know? maybe... maybe ill write something. like poetry. poetrys nice, it doesn't even need a plot, just thoughts and words to put them in."

[samesnakenewskin]

What choices did people like them have? A century of his own self-pity had him convinced that his choices did nothing. Whatever control was in reach would only be temporary, so he had to grasp and pull at it until it snapped. He could make her miserable and grateful at the same time. Force her through show after show after show, confining her to the script.

“I could give you some old scripts that didn’t make the cut. You could have a chance to pitch it to me, make them better.”

[mysweetlouise]

her eyes meet his again, hopeful, uncertain. she sets down the cup for a moment, putting pressure back on her stomach where it started bleeding again. "i could? i could! maybe, um. i can't say they'll be all that good, but - i'd, i could absolutely take a crack at them."

whatever ideas bounce around in her brain.

"i don't know how you do it. i feel like it's just blood up there, for me most of the time. half my ideas are just images. or something like that."

[samesnakenewskin]

Half of those drafts had been sitting in on the floor of the theatre since VHS's were the latest home viewing tech. Abandoned, useless little scraps of story that even Marc --- a man who could be rejected from the casting of Frankenstein for his stitching appearing 'too much' --- couldn't stitch them together into a working narrative. They were kept just in case they could mean something, fit into the grand scheme of things.

"You'll do perfect, won't you? You're thinking something, just slowly. Like a good silent movie, just let it keep turning." Even if it began to burn out

[samesnakenewskin]

don't open the door. please.

“Now now, Louise, I just have to, don’t I? You make it sound so intriguing. Let me see…haven’t I earned it?” Marc laughs, currently buttoning up his dress shirt. A poorly done, bulging Y incision scar has been redone. In his defence, the autopsy had been interrupted.

[mysweetlouise]

louise squeezed her eyes shut, bracing as much of her whole weight against the door as she could manage - even as blood smeared into the painted wood where it soaked through her shirt. inky, slick where she wasn't entirely put together, her hand pressed hard into her stomach.

"marc, i mean it! i can't, you don't want to see this, really, i just - ill clean everything up, it's fine, just don't, please don't come in, marc, please."

[samesnakenewskin]

No matter what the manor threw at her, he knew that it wouldn’t ever be as bad as what he’d endured for so long. Something had been festering beneath its skin, so unfortunately Marc had felt it. That useless little doppelgänger had invaded in and intruded in much more than he’d expected. Found her and didn’t bother sneaking by like he should’ve. Murdock will never get another role again.

“Louise, you know you have to let me in. I see that open window, so what on earth have you been up to?” Laughing lightly, letting it ring out clearly through the crooked doorframes, Marc begins knocking his cane against the door. “I have had such a long day, and now I can’t come into my own home and see my friend?”

[mysweetlouise]

god help her, she'd forgotten to close it. the puddle on the floor, the track to the wall where she'd pushed herself uprjght... and all those nice things, gone. gone. why had she tagged along like that? bored and desperate and stupid, stupid louise.

"unexpected - company." covering her mouth to keep more blood in. "trashed the whole house, really, the - took the good wine, too." she needed to sit down.

knock, knock, knock. her heart ached, or perhaps her solarplexus.

"wanted to - see me?"

[samesnakenewskin]

What a useless little burglar the man had been, unable to sneak through the house or even attack correctly. One day, Marc had planned to used him in a future project, a serial killer thriller with his friend as the final girl. But no. When the drop came, he’d leave Murdock with a freshly broken nose and a few nights in limbo. Served him right.

“What? No…no no! Did you see them? Let me in, now.” There was a vague awareness of the movement in the house, then something shattering. Marc keeps banging against the door, dragging his hand down the door handle. “Why else would I come here? I even had a present.”

[mysweetlouise]

"some - giallo film looking man. he said his name was murdock, but i, i don't know if it was real."

a pause, and her voice was even more strained.

"said he'd take my eyes."

she finally cracked the door open, revealing her blood soaked shirt and a bruised face from where she'd fallen. louise's hands trembled, tears in her eyes.

[samesnakenewskin]

How unfortunate, Marc hadn’t exactly been expecting a surge of violence. It was at least confined to the house, just another bad memory in the history of such an unfortunate manor. Fingers tight around the head of the cane, cursing out his poor casting. “Oh you poor, poor thing…let me in.”

Sneaking his fingers in the crack of the door, he glances her over before shoving his cane into the bottom of the door to wedge it open. “Louise, I’m so sorry. Let me in, it’s not fair, is it?”

[mysweetlouise]

louise lets out a quiet sob, the pain in her neck rearing it's ugly head to choke back her words. she doesn't know if it's even real, if her head's getting to her, or the house, and the words let me in makes her stomach churn like it can always, always get worse.

she tries to step back, weight unsteady on her feet, and the world tilts under her as she nearly falls with the door, just barely backpedaling to catch herself. praying, hoping against hope it was actually him because she couldn't handle anything else right now.

[samesnakenewskin]

Hooking his cane around the crack in the door, he holds it in place to spare him a few extra seconds. Glancing at the frosted glass to check how patchy his makeup has become, smoothing it out with a few gentle taps to reform the deathly tint to his skin. Marc had no business in doing his own makeup, he belonged in the comfortable armchair with artists fawning over him to fix every blemish.

“It’s alright…don’t worry,” he whispers, crossing the threshold and slamming the door behind him. Things always ran out of ajar doors, look at him after all. As the light cuts through the windows, Marc sighs as he sees the latest attack to Louise. “It’s me, it’s ok. Come on…you know it’s just me.”

[mysweetlouise]

louise does her best to brace herself against the wall, heaving a shaky breath as more blood wells up from her throat. she just stares, for a moment, before breaking down entirely, sobbing softly and wobbling a bit in place.

"don't know why he, nobody's even supposed to know and he just - i did everything he asked!" just like everyone else, her hand pressing to the wound in her stomach. "please don't, please be you i can't be scared right now. please."

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s another tear in the canvas, every layer of ink revealed in the radial dissection. Marc could almost see the mangle of characters beneath her taxidermied skin, bleeding out through her stomach. A little to the left, a nice low angled shot, something to add into an ending. There wasn’t a time she didn’t look nice ambiguously deceased. Murdock had done something right, but lacking in performance. Elegance. Anything that could get an audience interested.

“You poor thing. I promise, it’s just me. I don’t know-,” he sighs, stepping forward until his cane nearly bumps into her knee. “No one knows, it’s just you and me and…them. Tell me what happened, it’s alright.” Pressing his hand into the wound, Marc faintly grimaces.

[mysweetlouise]

the blood was icy cold, just like the rest of her. inside the house, no heartbeat but she could bleed just fine. go figure. her hand moved to grasp his arm, clinging with tight, desperate fingers like she was drowning. the blood welled up between her teeth, and a comically polite part of her covered her mouth so it wouldn't be quite so gross.

"we'd had... a nice talk and at some point he just - he changed, he decided it. he went to take all the nice little things, and i, im so stupid, and i went downstairs for him so he wouldn't get gutted and - and then we were upstairs, and he had me take the clock and he just - grabbed my arm and it hurt. and he... i had the lighter and i should've just done something, i - he marched me back down here with everything and i think my hands broken now, actually, but i dropped everything out the window and he stabbed me and it's so distracting, i forgot how... i just wanted to play some music, i thought tonight would be okay."

[samesnakenewskin]

All the nice things had been delivered, dropped off behind a bench at the corner of a hotel and a shuttered theatre. Now, it was all decorating a decrepit dressing room. Glass painstakingly placed in the face of the clock, one bottle uncorked and the other stored behind the mini fridge. Home comfort without all the mess. Marc might have to spare the man for now, just to seek out a few more bits and pieces. Everything was fixable, after all.

Beneath the suit jacket, greying and bruised skin sloughs off from Louise’s nails. Like an overripe peach being peeled. Just as his own tug at the edges of the gaping stab wound. “I know, it’s not fair, is it? Sit down, don’t worry.” Grasping at Louise’s shoulder, he starts to slowly march her over to the piano room.

[mysweetlouise]

a slight slump sideways, and she leans into his support. one step at a time. stay steady. it's going to be fine. she tries to ignore the pain in her stomach, her hand, the way choking on blood always tends to leave her throat and voice raw.

just to rest for a while. that's all she needs, to rest and recover. she still has the one hand, that'd be good for a melody. nothing is fair. never was, never would be. she doesn't deserve fair.

[samesnakenewskin]

More management was needed to keep the balance between her and the house. It couldn’t get worse like this, or eventually she’d start asking to go outside more. Marc had it worse, he’d convinced himself of that long before the deal with his producer. Poor, poor Marc. The broken home, ragged beginnings, struggling up into his dream; he was built to be a star. Suffering through the house and spirits burrowed in his bones, it couldn’t ever be comparable.

He just had to be sure they both saw it like that.

“You want some tea? Wine? We can just relax and enjoy ourselves for a bit, be grateful we’re not stuck out there.” Crossing the threshold, Marc’s ankles are scratched by an invisible wrist, trying to drag him back to the basement. On the carpet, it never reaches him.

[mysweetlouise]

"no - no wine. sorry, i... went down there earlier. think it's still mad at me. im scared it might try something." always will.

no one would've even noticed if he hadn't stopped by. only, maybe, if she dreamed it. sometimes she let herself imagine a hospital, doctors and nurses buzzing around like bumblebees. thank god you're here, breathing. can't you see how everyone missed you? scared us half to death.

"just... just tea. tea's nice. i'm sorry."

[samesnakenewskin]

In the beginning, the start of his real career, he had every playmate he wanted. Childhood best friends and every handsome and or beautiful performer he encountered. Staff and servants and interns fetching him drinks and cigars. They always came back, never breaking underneath Marc’s stories. But it couldn’t be his fault that they all forgot their places, broke out of the toy box and ruined everything. Louise was his salvage, like a second hand toy left behind on accident.

“Tea, we should have some in the kitchen. I’ll get Ben-…I’ll go make it myself then.” Squeezing her hands, Marc guides her into one of the armchairs (he used to sit there and talk with Marc. They’d planned so much.) “You’ll be safe here, you know it loves to start showing off once I walk in.” Patting the top of her head before he turns, dragging his fingertips across the piano.

[mysweetlouise]

it's just the broken hand that has tears in her eyes. that's all. not her managing the fail the only one who even tolerates her anymore. she settles into the chair, curling up and cradling it to her chest like a fragile animal. she wasn't a guest, or an occupant. little house mouse, wriggling pathetic dead thing in a trap. and she couldn't even play to make herself less of a nuisance.

the hand on her head almost sets her sobbing again, and she plays the song in her mind, watching the keys.

in the stillness of the night,

in the silence of the moon,

where the ocean meets the shore,

come and open up my door,

i'll be waiting there for you.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s like a mouse struggling out of its trap, tailless as it bleeds out through the crawl spaces and rafters of the house. Rotting and rotting but still crawling and ruining the carpet. Marc barely glances back at her, shutting the door to the lounge as he leaves. It wraps around his fingers, metal warping and melting through his hand. Stepping through the shadowed halls, it scratches down his back and whispers in the seers voice. “Too much noise…”

He should’ve had the foresight to get rid of Celine’s body too. He’d hoped something else could take her, the detective or the police who took the assortment of swapped bodies to the morgue.

Into the kitchen, it squeezes each fragile rib until they creak. “Stay…it’s not fair. One isn’t fun anymore.” Kettle whistling, Marc pulls at the edge of his skin.

[mysweetlouise]

instantly colder without him around. she wanted to take out her brain, wash out all these sad thoughts and put it back in, good as new. she fiddled with her tie, loosening it and idly wrapping it around her hand. it'd brace it, a little. maybe she could play then.

she layered the cloth, bit by bit, around and around. it wouldn't meddle for a moment or two, it'd be distracted. something good in being the black sheep.

some little mind trick - what else would comfort her when she was alone like this - droned the steps she vaguely could remember. joints above and below, so wrist, bruised knuckles. no proper splint for this one, something it could jam into her arm. good job. tie the loose ends, tuck into the bands.

don't think. think too hard and you'll cry. the rest hate you already, don't give them reason. she pulls herself to her feet, hobbling and sitting in a bloodied heap on the piano bench.

don't think. play some music.

dirge of the spirits, duvair yaughton.

[samesnakenewskin]

Halfway to a boil, he’s doubled over against the kitchen counter as it slowly presses a hand through the drainage scars and reaches around to the internal cavity of his chest. Nails scraping away the thin outer layer of bone and piercing into marrow. Marc is nearly sick, gagging into the back of his hand as the sharp edges of its fingers threaten to pierce through the valves of his heart. “Not the right screaming. Pitiful show. Fix. It.” Fingers plunge through his heart, hooking around the muscle and ripping it down.

“Stay. Just a little longer. I want fun.” It slowly retracts the hand, wiping down the blackened innards down his back before climbing back into the wall. Whistling. Dragging his hand forward into the flame, Marc rips the kettle off the stove. Flesh melts onto the cast iron, sticking to the cups he pours the water and drops the teabags in. No milk. Hacking up on the inside of his suit jacket, he staggers back towards the lounge, shoving the door open with a shoulder.

[mysweetlouise]

she's focused on the keys, how it still hurts her hand but she can still wriggle her fingers, a little. tinkling, meandering melody, slow. one at a time. block out the rest, at least she's safer, repeat the motif. flutter, drop. smaller songs in the background.

she jolts, hearing him barge through the door, hand hitting a wrong note with the ring finger. turns to look at him, eyes wide. slowly, she draws her hands back again, settling them in her lap.

"...are you okay? it - you didn't fall or anything, right?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Thickly swallowing the accumulation of blood and liquified flesh being traced up through his throat, Marc stumbles towards a table and sets the tray down. Shoving the melted hand into his pocket, he sinks into an armchair beside the piano. Throat flared out as he awkwardly situates himself without pressing against the reopened drainage scars. It was a such a nice chair, he couldn’t stand the idea of ruining it.

“No, it’s fine. Burnt my throat testing the tea, outta milk,” he grimaces, scratching his neck with his clean hand. “Go on, keep playing. Haven’t heard you in a while.”

[mysweetlouise]

a pause - she can't remember the last time she's played for anyone. at least a year or two. something calming, not as moody. can't really go wrong with chet baker, right?

not as tense, gentle lilts down and up. i fall in love too easily.

louise quietly whistles in place of the vocals, steady enough in spite of her hand and everything else. she needed to get a few newer scorebooks the next time they were out and about, some more modern stuff.

"sorry. i think - they have stuff to deliver food and things like that now, right?"

[samesnakenewskin]

A suckered and uncomfortable squishing sound emanates from his back while he tries to adjust in the armchair. Both the back of his dress shirt and dinner jacket suctioned to the open wounds, whistling as Marc exhales. “Mhm, yeah. Barely any shops open, it’s terrible out there. I’ll order some stuff to the house, can’t have you starving to death now can we?” Too slow, too boring.

Shutting his eyes, he squeezes at the arm of the chair and tries to hum in tune. Nausea bursts through his stomach, dragging its heavy limbs up and down his esophagus. “More of your parts should play, that’d be nice. Didn’t you used to play at the parties?”

[mysweetlouise]

"if it's not too much trouble. the, ah - what's it called. the ramen's worked like an absolute charm for - a lot of it. it really does come together just like that."

she'd played a painter before (and tried her best, though she felt like any work from that seemed so mediocre). it'd be nice to do something she felt she was good at.

"sometimes. i mean, if they had a piano, of course. i feel like that got me invited to more parties than i deserved."

[samesnakenewskin]

“One of the only things they’ve gotten right in this century, decent instant food. God,” he chuckles, picking the skin from the side of their cups. “Do you remember when we had to eat rations during the next war? Nasty little loaves of sawdust bread with half a teaspoon of butter each?” Only when he’d visited the manor did he stoop to such a pathetic diet. His star needed to be fed, but she didn’t need to have it good.

Half a decade of frustration, reminded how he couldn’t even make the draft the first time around. Damien, Damien of all people was a medic with his twisted hip, and Marc declared unfit to serve. Spending his time outside looking for every underhanded way to find decadence, a lot of acts thankfully scrubbed from the record.

“I think…he’d requested them at all my parties to make sure you came. Conniving little thing.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i thought it was a bit fun, actually. one of my uncles had this fishing cottage up north we used to visit, and we'd have sort of - camping food, i suppose. lots of fish and sandwiches. i'd pretend i was on the frontier, so it reminded me of that." a bit of play pretend that was just her, just louise playing at something. it even got her to look out the windows without being quite so sad.

she nearly missed a note at the last bit, breath catching in her throat. what? no, she couldn't have heard that right. no one would, not on purpose. right? but if anyone, maybe he would. her stomach started to hurt again.

"oh." a pause. "that's - that's really nice. i don't think i realized that." don't start down that path again, lou. you'll just start spiraling again. he just felt bad for you. you needed to get out more. that's all. that's all. she bit down on her tongue. wanted her to be there, why would he be so nice and then everything - one note, then the other. focus. not anymore. don't think about it.

[samesnakenewskin]

Idly stirring the lukewarm tea with a rusted over spoon, Marc scowls at the thought of the former inhabitant of his body. As long as the entity has ahold of him, he never can quite remember what Damien was like. Just how he left, abandoning him in the manor after Celine and William…they’d destroyed him. What had she even seen in him? Gripping the handle of the cup, it nearly snaps between his melted fingers.

“All that imagination and you were a lawyer first. Such a shame really, but then I wouldn’t have you for all my films, would I? My star, leading actress in every picture even when you’re someone else,” he pauses, sipping at the mildewed tea. “Such a shame, old Damien used you for show. Never saw the extent of your talent.”

[mysweetlouise]

she'd wanted to go into law, she wanted to say. she wanted to help people. she wanted a good life. to be someone good, for her life to mean something. to be someone worth liking, having around.

wait, no. was that after everything?

was anything before, anymore?

just a pretty face. she paused for a moment, just... staring into space.

she wouldn't have done well anywhere. not then. not now. not ever. at least she couldn't lose pretty now. someone's scribbled over paper star. shining in an aquarium.

"do, uh, you have any song requests? i can play pretty much anything we have on the records."

[samesnakenewskin]

There’d been so much beauty. Escaping from the dreaded business of accounting with vaudeville shows, dropping out of university once he’d signed that contract. It’s still fuzzy, a hand wrapped around his to steady it while the pen scratched against the paper. Then it all went a bit funny for a while, finding himself suddenly standing at the edges of roads, bridges, the fireplace. Worth it for something, in the end.

“Can you do Dies Ire? I’m sure I’ve heard in here before.” Maybe it had been on vinyl, a smooth continuous melody that drifted through the manor halls. All those little promises whispered in between notes, blessed so quietly by a forked tongue.

[mysweetlouise]

louise hesitates, just for a moment. music for a funeral. she vaguely remembered mass - gentle and reverent at christmas.

but he'd asked.

her fingers found the keys again, slow and cautious. shoulders tense, eyes on her task. "must be one of the records. i usually play, um - softer." to soothe herself. she didn't get a lot to herself, but her chet baker, aretha franklin, sinatra, martin were there for her in the records and songs she played. her reaching out into time, speaking softly. i'm here, hello. i feel the same. i am the same.

her hair fell a little in front of her face, those glassy eyes. just the same. just fine.

[samesnakenewskin]

“One of my records, think I gave it away in fifties. Shame really.” Over the years, his beautiful collection has slowly bled records, occasionally by choice. Eventually, it’d gotten bored melting them against his skin, shooting them out to see how far it could lodge in his neck. Even replenished, he didn’t look at them as fondly. Nothing as good as the original.

Swinging his legs over one of the arms, Marc leans back, head pointed towards the piano. Even now, one of his ears is functionally decorative. “Not very fond of the newer stuff. I’ve just started to stomach the idea of Elvis Presley. I can’t believe they didn’t get a decent band for my funeral, just the damn church organ player.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i feel like - it'd be fun, a little. the one, um - oh, what was his name. johnny cash? can't quite remember what we were out for then, but his stuff was so nice." she'd been whistling folsom prison blues for a month or two afterwards.

a frown darted across her face for a moment. "...you got to go to your funeral? i mean, they - well, if they wanted to go traditional on it - who organized it? family?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Country music, what a scourge. It clawed beneath his skin, something in the chords vaguely unnerving as it crept between fascia. All he saw was a coked up group of hicks playing in the back of the stables, with the occasional tolerable song. Marc has some sense about Cash, a performance they'd caught sometime between films. It might've been when they debuted Cricket, that frightening woman, layered in accessories and sobbing endlessly when they left set. Something about it kept her stable enough to coax back into the car.

"What?" Clutching the teaspoon, his eyes quickly dart away before settling on the window. Right, he was supposed to be far more tragic, trapped in the manor and constantly fighting to stay on the outside. Struggling with the weight of the entities brutality, sparing Louise from the true horrors. "Well, no, of course I didn't. I saw the little pamphlets they made, like they would do for theatre shows. Saw the music they had lined up, that's all. I think it was family arranging it, my mother was still alive, could've also been some of my friends from production."

[mysweetlouise]

louise didn't know much about country music, but she'd liked the little she'd heard. it felt warm, ballads and songs meant for dance halls and summer evenings. cricket had found comfort in it - she'd grown up with it, maybe - and it'd drowned out the maddening tune and whispers bouncing around in that head of hers.

"oh! that sounds nice, honestly. a celebration of life, with - family, all that. i think they would've done well honoring you. flowers, music, all that." a pause, focusing on the music. "...i wanted to have dancing at mine. like i wanted people to be happy i lived, not sad i was gone. i heard in new orleans, they have these big band processions, walking to the cemetery. i always liked that idea."

[samesnakenewskin]

“I’m sure it was, but I didn’t end up seeing it.” He had to pop his head in to pay the last of the mourners. Closed casket, they couldn’t completely fix the massive hole blown through the side of his head. If only Will hadn’t been so trigger happy, then he could’ve had a milder death. Back when the entity was still happy to piece him back together, solder together bones and stitch skin seamlessly.

Rubbing at the plasticy sheen of his burnt skin, Marc hums to himself. Something big and beautiful, dance and song. “Well, you never know. Could’ve been there. I’m sure you were missed, at least.” The church hadn’t been flooded with mourners, but not one had to be paid.

[mysweetlouise]

"it'd be nice to be. i feel so bad, everyone was doing so well, too. my aunt had her birthday, ellie and horace their seventh anniversary... i hope little bea got that train set i bought her for christmas. it was so hard finding one in purple, for some reason." if only she hadn't put a damper on things by going and dying.

"...sometimes i wonder if anyone's still in parson's-by-the-sea, to be honest. it was so small even back then, and since spa towns aren't as much of a thing anymore-" was anything still standing? "you'd like it there, i think. it's so pretty in the winters."

[samesnakenewskin]

Something bursts in his chest, a rotten chunk of flesh likely giving out and detaching from bone. Louise had something, and he hadn’t planned on anything happening to her. Really, Marc hadn’t given her a second thought. Just a witness, unwilling audience to the grand death of a star. Goes home after the show, lets the story live with them and dies with it.

“We could model set after it, if you actually wanted it.” Picking up the other cup and shoving his burnt hand into his suit jacket, he rests it on the top of the piano. “Maybe it’s still standing, if it could be a good place for the shoot.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i sure hope so. actually, i tell you what. if we go, and it's still standing, i'll show you everywhere on the boardwalk, the old lighthouse - oh! and don's. like the café. they had this apple pie ice cream... never had anything like it, it was so nice."

she was smiling, properly, still following the tune on the keys.

"maybe they'd even have up some of those old murals. there was one with some pretty island scene and a mermaid, and i always thought she was just the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen when i was little."

[samesnakenewskin]

A better man would’ve tried to remember for the sake of knowing. Hold onto the only person left semi intact from everything, mourn what they once were and tough it out through the world. Marc idly thinks of the sets they could make, maybe a mermaid deep sea horror if they could get the budget for it. Bemused, sliding both hands across the lid of the piano and miming the motions of the keys.

“We’ll make it a research trip then, little something in between it all. Think that you can stay in your head for a while? And I mean properly, no character work or anything.”

[mysweetlouise]

"without a character... well, id do a better job there than if i tried it anywhere else. id hardly be thinking about any of it, there'd be tons and tons to talk about. it'd probably be tough shaking me from any happy reminiscing. even with the whole cliff thing."

a pause, fingers shakily fluttering through a set of notes. "i didn't tell you about that, did i? thats technically the first time i ever cheated death."

[samesnakenewskin]

Skin sticks to the polished surface of the piano, a finger nearly ripping off as he fails to follow along with the melody. Marc hums but gradually slows, blinking a few times before turning back to her. A little rotten muscle tries to beat in his chest, something he can just about remember palpitating years prior. Neither of them die, even what was supposed to be their deaths might not have counted in the grand scheme of things. They'd beaten it, Marc clawing out of Hell and Louise contorted through limbo.

"I didn't even know you lived near a cliff. This was before, I'm guessing. How'd you do it then?"

[mysweetlouise]

"that's the funny thing. i don't entirely remember." she flutters her fingers on the keys idly.

"i think i was seven, or eight. but i used to love climbing the shorter cliffs near my house, over the water. well, one time i go out to go swimming and don't come back. my aunt is worried out of her wits, and a bunch of people go looking for me- and they find me, perfectly well, sitting on the shore. my jacket, though, washes up the next day, absolutely shredded by the rocks. i don't remember a thing after hitting the water, except somebody carrying me. we always joked that was my guardian angel."

[samesnakenewskin]

A graft of skin starts to peak back, Marc scratching it back as he forces himself to start paying attention outside of his own mind. Other people, they needed to stay tied together. He’s a little surprised that she’s actually survived death once before, given how often Louise has shattered one way or another.

“Lord…how’d you do it then?” Like it was a magic trick, waiting to be revealed. “Where did they find you then? Did you just walk back home?”

[mysweetlouise]

"i haven't - the foggiest. i just came to, and my cousins were all running up with lights, and someone bundled a blanket around me to help keep warm. i think my cousin florence mentioned that they'd checked the spot before, too. i must've washed up at just the right time."

ironically, that must've been the safest she'd ever felt. scooped up and carried to the house, that odd peace sliding around her head like it'd been full of water too. one of the last memories of uncle paul, how he'd gotten her and elise hot chocolate and stayed up with them, reading to the two of them into what must've been the next morning.

"always did have strange luck, i think."

[samesnakenewskin]

Carried off, out of death like a kid falling asleep at a party. Nothing else, no strange limbo in and out of living, just drifting off and waking back up again. Rocking gently, cradled in someone’s arms. Saved. Marc thinks his first death was in the water; his last one certainly was. Icy, shattering before dragging him deep, deep down. “I think that’s…nice. Nice to make it out like that when you’re supposed to go.”

“Drink your tea before it gets cold, the kitchens going to be off limits the next couple of days.” Its eyes still burrow into the rotten flesh beneath his scalp, quietly whispering and waiting for him to turn around.

[mysweetlouise]

"it was nice. it was happy. i think... that's how, if i had to end, i'd like to. just somewhere quiet and warm, you know?" she probably wouldn't. maybe one day she'd just stop, finally fade into the void, thoughts drifting to oblivion. don't think about that right now.

"oh! i'm so sorry, i almost forgot." she finally lifted her hands from the keys, gently picking up the cup and taking a small sip. "...well, damn. i was planning on trying to make up that soup tomorrow. that - he didn't steal the silverware, did he? i hope - i didn't see him take it, but i didn't see him come in, either."

[samesnakenewskin]

Drifting off seems like the nicest death, slipping into the endless abyss with an exhale. Marc had found the best way to almost get there; laced wine, warm bath, and a deep breath. Marc lasted about twenty or so hours, unconscious and nearly perfectly dead.

“No, most of it’s been left alone. But he’s made a mess of it. Your blood is all over the place, I don’t think you’d want to see that. Poor thing,” he mutters, glancing back at the door. All burned into the iron of the stove, it’ll need to be scraped clean.

[mysweetlouise]

she took another drink of her tea, averting her eyes from almost embarrassment as if she had a mild, if intensely painful cold instead of a hole in her abdomen and blood seeping into her shirt.

"sorry, i- really should've tried to clean it up or something. i think because it was a person, everything just really shook me up and i got so woozy. i mean i always get woozy, but maybe it's the eyes thing. i think that really got me too scared. i'm sorry."

[samesnakenewskin]

“Hm? Eyes?” Marc reaches around to pinch at her cheeks, slipping his thumb down to nudge her head towards him. Both eyes the same, ever glassy and preserved inside Louise’s skull. There would’ve been more of a fuss kicked up if she’d actually lost an eye. “You got both of them still, what are you worried about?” Dropping her head and turning, Marc looks over to the window. Still closed, thank god.

“You shouldn’t go in there, he made a bloodbath of it in there. Did he end up stabbing himself or something?”

[mysweetlouise]

her eyes often looked so tired, distancing and focusing like any old camera. "i know, it's just - been awhile since i've gotten a threat where he so clearly meant it. he was so, so sure. i can't lose that-" she hadn't seen, the first hunk of time in the mirror. a claustrophobic darkness, without balance or form. the crushing horizon of a black hole.

"i don't know. i... uh, okay, went to the cellar and i got into a tiny tussle, but didn't bleed. i passed out, came back to after he stabbed me by the window. i can't remember. maybe i went to get some water after? i don't think i did. if i wasn't awake... i didn't see anyone else. geez."

[samesnakenewskin]

By now, the flesh has surely melded into the cast iron stove and the kettle stained copper. If Louise bled buckets, Marc always bled one more. A true tragedy. “I don’t think he could, you wouldn’t have to worry.” They’re so glassy and unmoving, Marc is easily convinced that her head is filled with nothing but smooth porcelain. Dark and empty, waiting to be filled with new ideas.

“Is it still down there? I was sure it would’ve moved on after a few months. Did you want me to pick up something from the store to tide you over?”

[mysweetlouise]

"it - knows when i need to go down there. it knows i get scared down there, and it waits." too predictable of her, but she can't help it much. you can only switch up your routine so many times, and it caught on every time. she takes another sip of her tea, savoring the warmth as much as she can.

"i... if it's not too much trouble, i mean. since the kitchen's a mess. i guess it'd have to be all pantry ready made stuff, right? or, wait, i could cook things in one of the fireplaces, that'd be fun! like a campfire sort of thing. i remember doing that once, the power was out for a whole week and i rigged up one of the fire pokers as a toasting fork."

[samesnakenewskin]

It was a reprieve, the entity temporarily dumped into the manor while he scurried out into the real world. Every space between his ribs were made temporarily hollow again, filling with stale air. Not setting a monster upon Louise, he was finally taking a rest from the onslaught of creature crawling throughout his body. “If you think it’s fun, then sure.” Marc will simply learn to endure with this saddening attempt of cooking, for however long he’s kept in there.

No one could ever pry his methodologies from his dead lips, how exactly he’d gotten so much food during the war. A secret kept between him and his servants, now they’re both long gone. Not dead but not in reach.

[mysweetlouise]

she falters, for just a moment, then tries to backtrack. "i mean, if - it's okay with you. just because we can't use the kitchen, and - it's nicer than a hot plate, honestly. it's prettier. cozier, right? we can warm our hands and read ghost stories," she adds with an awkward smile.

louise looks down into her tea, contemplating. "i'm sorry. i'm not terribly exciting when i'm just myself, i suppose. i'd like to be. maybe... i should learn more. i think that'd help."

[samesnakenewskin]

Right, he’s staying here. No gentle reprieve, no skulking back to the abandoned theatre and slowly watch his skin thread back together. Stuck in the manor with a discombobulated spirit and the entity looking to pluck apart his rotting flesh like he’s a medical carcass to be separated and studied. Hell was one just one other person.

“Oh no, no you’re fine,” he says flatly, keeping his hands pressed against the lid of the piano. It had that awful squeaky leg whenever it was dragged out into the main hall, blasting through his brain like a well aimed pistol. “Just not looking forward to the food.”

[mysweetlouise]

"we could find recipes and things for it. um, like - people make cobbler and things like that in skillets over fires, don't they? we'll be like - cowboys on the frontier, or travelers taking shelter in some gloomy castle. just like in the novels!"

she puts on the brightest smile she can, given the circumstances. "and - i suppose if it comes down to it, we can order something. though i don't really know if people would deliver all the way out here this time of night."

[samesnakenewskin]

Delivery people. The poor things. Sometimes they managed to get out with treatable injuries, but didn’t last longer than a few years after. No one’s ever meant to truly visit, leave without a string attached. Sometimes it was that thing, snatching them through the door and crushing their little tablets under the floorboards. Marc had his fun too, when one had the right look about them. Such beautiful skin, strong beating hearts, eyes wide and clear.

“You really like those books don’t you? Fancy that. We’ll get that library shuffled soon, some new stuff in there. Can’t have you going crazy on me.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i do! more than - well, about the same as the records. that's how i spend most days." reading, rereading, blaring jazz and trying to dance when she couldn't sleep. as best she could when her head hurt or she'd twisted her ankle on the stairs again.

"half the time it's just like - being someone else, but i get to notice it properly too. and it's like comfort food. lots of times they walk off into the sunset with someone, or get to lay under the stars. sometimes i remember a constellation or two. like ariadne on her little island."

[samesnakenewskin]

Marc only partially forced out a laugh, digging his heel into the creaking floorboards. That obsession with character work could make a delightful thesis on the severance of his personality. He could afford the excuse for covering mirrors in the manor, but his vanity in the theatre stayed cracked.

“I’ll find you something decent then. Nothing too modern though, I wouldn’t want to subject you to the vile drivel they’re writing now.” Nothing made after the 80s, it kept the boundaries intact.

[mysweetlouise]

"i... im fine with anything, really. i don't want to be a bother. just anything i can leaf through and maybe fall asleep reading when i need to." somewhere happy. someone safe at rest. sometimes, when she curls up asleep in her dusty guest bed, she's in a summer night's clearing, nestled in dead grass, or a rainy loft apartment, or any other number of soft, warm spaces.

louise needs to stop staring vacantly into her tea. another sip. she's silent for a moment. "just an island. im sorry, i don't know why im like this."

ariadne got to sleep in the sand.

"being like this, i mean."

loved and a whole crown of stars.

"i definitely, i only got stabbed, ill get better."

no one would. not her. she gave and gave and gave and got to be a deadbeat self pitying ungrateful wretch and her only friend hated her-

some of it had spilled out of the cup. her hand was a bit red.

"any happy books, sorry. keep me from bad dreams, you know? maybe... maybe ill write something. like poetry. poetrys nice, it doesn't even need a plot, just thoughts and words to put them in."

[samesnakenewskin]

What choices did people like them have? A century of his own self-pity had him convinced that his choices did nothing. Whatever control was in reach would only be temporary, so he had to grasp and pull at it until it snapped. He could make her miserable and grateful at the same time. Force her through show after show after show, confining her to the script.

“I could give you some old scripts that didn’t make the cut. You could have a chance to pitch it to me, make them better.”

[samesnakenewskin]

i think it's under my skin.

(from cricket)

God help them all. Somewhere between scenes, Marc had taken his eyes off of Louise Cricket. In between the hospital flashbacks and her finding every door locked, it’s like she’s vanished into the walls. Another house that’s swallowed her whole. Now as the boy next door who’s appearing sporadically in the house, Marc, Jameson now, is tiptoeing through the halls. Looking to find the sound of her crying. Cricket always cries the most, most volatile and most difficult to wrangle at the end of the day.

That’s all he hears. Crickets. Horribly silent aside from the knocking of each door, slowly creaking open as he glances around for her. “Cricket? Look, it’s me! I know you’re not…you’re not well. But I swear it’s me, just let me in.”

[mysweetlouise]

going mad. she was sure of that. crawling, buzzing feeling in her head and god those eyes were worming into her thoughts, her hands twitching on the bandages around her arms. she'd shut herself into one of the cabinets, one arm firmly in her mouth to muffle her sobs and the other holding the door closed.

she should be dead, she was dead and this was hell, she was in hell, she'd tried to call her family and they were gone, and that thing in her friend's skin - closing in, crushing her.

she wasn't well but this wasn't right.

god help her, she'd sink her teeth into whoever tried to get her.

[samesnakenewskin]

Cackling to himself, he drags his nails across cracking wallpaper, pulling himself forward. They’re still on camera, little fly in the wall shots catching Marc’s decaying body shamble forward. Uncanniness was demanded from both performers, letting his tendons loosen in every wild and sudden movement. “Come on now, there’s no good reason to be rude now, is there? I just want to make sure you’re safe after all.”

Disjointed, his fingertips peeling and catching across the unevenly plastered paper, he giggles with each shuffle closer. “Cricket, you’ll feel better in a minute. Let me get you your medicine, I’ll even let you have some pie afterwards.” Tapping the boney edges of his knuckles against the wall, good ear to the wall pressed to the wall. “If you stay in there too long, you’ll just suffocate!”

[mysweetlouise]

she clenched her fingers against the cabinet door. her fingernails - growing back, bit by bit, scrabbling against the wood. she'd... the originals had been peeled back in the accident. or the recovery. she couldn't remember anymore.

the bathroom had a window. if she could just make it there, lock the door, climb out - outpace that thing. the music, reverberating in her bones. the medicine wouldn't help. nothing would help.

go. now.

cricket burst from the cabinet, sprinting from the room and into the hall towards the bathroom, stumbling over her own feet.

[samesnakenewskin]

Simultaneously recording the scene and absolutely losing his mind, Marc claws at his aching jaw before shoving it closed. Absolute gold, but no one’s outside to stop Cricket from running out into the street and start screaming bloody murder. A picture nail snags into a small cut on his finger, slicing through without hesitation. Recovery would be a nightmare for the pair.

“Come on out~,” he giddily sings, watching the doors for the tiniest shudder. “It’s just not safe for you out of there.” Easy does it, leaning forward before the doors fly open. Armed with a pocket of loose pills and the prospect of a fantastic shot, Marc sprints forward, barrelling into Cricket as she tries crossing the hall.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket lets out an awful, terrified scream, toppling over and hitting the wood floor with a heavy thud. it wasn't human, wasn't human, wasn't human - she lashes out with those bitten down nails, further yelling and gibbering a mile a minute.

"you're not him, i know you're not him! your eyes - god, your eyes, i don't know what you are-" she kicks at him, trying to scramble back.

[samesnakenewskin]

Now this was the good stuff, cinematic gold and a little bit of bonus catharsis. Both hands wrap around her shoulders, forcing her into the floor even further. The spiny prickle of bone peeking through his flesh tries to lacerate through her skin. "Cricket, Cricket it's me! It's me, I swear it is! I don't know what you're talking about, but I swear it's alright!" he screams, laughing so violently that his jaw is nearly cracks open. She looked nothing like her or either of them, but Louise was damn near close enough to be them. Worked with him, followed around that false pretense of a man like a sickly animal.

"Come on, you know it's me. How else could I remember what you like? No one else would give up everything for you, no one ever would! I'm your only fucking friend Cricket, don't you dare forget that!"

[mysweetlouise]

the thing was fucking smiling, laughing and her stomach was churning. she was fine, she was sane and no head injury could do this to her and even if it did dear god she didn't deserve this. warmth in her shoulder, a bead of red soaking into her t-shirt sleeve. she clawed at his arms, kicking up at him and continuing to scream.

"you're not real! im not going away, i don't know what you did with him but i won't be that! i won't be you!" if she hadn't been in the hospital, maybe it wouldn't have gotten him, he wouldn't have been alone-

[samesnakenewskin]

"You won't ever be me and you know it," he cackles, wrapping his fingers tightly around her shoulders to try and stop her from wriggling away. Marcs arms are bare, every scratch down them peeling off thin layers of skin in heavy chunks. Blood coagulated so much it barely even bleeds, just shakes and sticks underneath Crickets fingernails like jelly. "Isn't this what you wanted? I told you I'd never leave, I'd never forget about you. So you can't leave me!"

Marcs hands are unwavering, but every hit begins to take off parts of this recrafted body. Bleeding through to his real face, pale and cold as it stares down at her.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd just wanted jameson to visit her in the hospital. she'd just wanted to see her friend, it wasn't making sense, was he dead?

"the - oh, god, it's not your skin!" something rotting. she let out another wild scream, this time flailing her head to bite into his arm and her leg to kick him away.

[samesnakenewskin]

Just a little longer, hold the uncomfortable shape until they can switch scenes. Marc barks out a laugh, uncomfortably dry as it crawls out of his throat. All the flesh is heavy, aching to be peeled off. Falling off the bone easily, the meat of his arm detaching and sticking in between Crickets teeth.

“It’s me! Jamie, your best friend! I know we didn’t see each other for a while, but look at us now!” Unravelling above her, like a ream of fabric dropping from a great height.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket gagged, immediately spluttering in awful revulsion and spitting out the hunk of his arm. she might be sick, the cold flesh that clung to her gums sending another shudder of disgust through her.

the smile wasn't his, the eyes weren't his.

she was going to die here.

"i don't know what you are, you're not jamie, you're not my friend, please don't kill me-" she gagged again, starting to sob.

[samesnakenewskin]

Uncomfortably thick blood and flesh lumping into one gelatinous mass slides off his bones, the skin slipping off with a sickly wet pop. More and more ligaments begin separating, fibrous tissues dry and snapping. Marc can’t afford time to repair this, leaning back while keeping a hand on Crickets soldier. “Why would I kill you? I’m not ever letting you go!” All she had to do was behave, nice and still, finishing up her medicine and it would all be an easy dream for her.

“Now, you know you can’t lie to me Cricket. And I can’t lie to you! I’m Jamie, through and through!” Flesh stapled and piled onto his own, layered until his skin disappeared beneath it.

[mysweetlouise]

the dissolving flesh did absolutely nothing to calm her, of course. bits of blood and gore pattering onto the floor like a localized rainstorm from hell. her mind raced. what was it faeries did to the people? kelpies gutted you, left nothing but intestines floating in some pond, hounds and the wild hunt chased you down in numbers, baying and screaming, will-o-the-wisps led you to cliffs and sinkholes, and poor people whisked away to the fae courts, faces incomprehensible, music that drove you mad. the voices were louder in her head, reverberating.

her hand reached up, splotched with red and shaking, to grab at his face.

[samesnakenewskin]

An emulsion of blood and meat not too far from the texture of cold, solid porridge splatters onto the ground opposite her head. Marc had admittedly not looked too deeply into the cryptozoology of the fae, his last impression of the contemporary fairy was from A Midsummers Night Dream. Not good enough, there wasn’t a point to the psychological tension without physical reward.

“Come on…how could you do this to me? After everything?” Marc grins, his skin thin and drenched in blood. It’ll need to be a full body destruction after this, replace all the torn pieces of skin with slowly scarring flesh.

[mysweetlouise]

red splatters across much of her face, dotted across her cheek, forehead, eye. the utter shock of it causes her to freeze, hand still in place, skin ashen. the dread, the pity and guilt of accidentally crushing a snail underfoot, of the squirrel running in front of your car too fast to hit the brake.

the tears spring to her eyes, and cricket lets out a strangled sob - of fear, anger for wherever jamie really was, no doubt hurt and scared, sorrow, pain. she breaks down proper immediately after, shielding her face with her hands as she cries.

[samesnakenewskin]

“My dear little Cricket, I don’t know how you can be so upset. You don’t want to be alone, right?” Cackling, Marc lets his head fall to the side and another rush of blood drips down onto the floor. Flesh squelching beneath her hand, softy caving into his skull. One of hand sneaks onto her shoulder, pinning Cricket in place as he pushes himself up.

Another bottle jingles in his pocket, pills rattling against each other, the capsules soft and papery. “Let’s go to bed, huh? You need to rest and you’re almost done with the antibiotics.”

[mysweetlouise]

she can't sleep, shouldn't sleep, she thinks, sniffling back more tears. the music is a spear through her eardrums, his words as if underwater sometimes, others bouncing around in her head like they'd overwhelm, the thought process of a nightmare.

"i don't need them! i don't - have an infection, i just hit my head, i'm not sick." jamie was sick, wherever he went. whatever he was now. she only felt sick because he was sick, because of all this blood. and it knew him well, it knew her name so she must be next.

[samesnakenewskin]

“You cut your head, it’s infected. Rotting all the way through you, inside and out.” Knocking on her head like a ripe melon, his bony knuckles rapping against a bruised skull. Still intact, but a writhing parasite waits dormant beneath the skin. Not ripe yet, but eventually she’ll crack. “We’re sick, aren’t we? I feel like my face is a bit swollen. Can you check for me, since I’ve done so much for you?” Marc pins her hand to his face, fingers buried between torn layers of muscle.

Leaning back, the hand wrapped around her shoulder leveraging Cricket to her feet. Dragging her along, letting her feet scuff against the ground. “Back to bed for you, before you hurt yourself again.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i didn't, i was... the crash, it was in the crash, i'm better! i swear, i'm better." cricket flinched, pain shooting in lightning sharp arcs through her cranium. why was she trying to reason? this thing didn't seek reason, made a mockery of reasoning.

her fingers dug into the muscle as she tried to steady herself, not letting go but god she couldn't look at the damage she was doing. she was going to die, or... no. go mad, it wanted her to go mad. they liked doing that, didn’t they? some traveler vanishing, turning up a gibbering mess besides a mound of earth or stone, or an old well. the music pulsed behind her right eye, like a stress headache.

[samesnakenewskin]

Rot fell into a gorgeous, continuous spectrum of disrepair. Uneven, fighting against the nature of symmetry until its very last moments. It was meant to be unknown; whether or not something truly went wrong in Crickets head. Unreliable narrators are very much in at the moment. “No need for squirming, you know I hate having to bring out the stronger stuff on you, it makes you the wrong kind of quiet.”

Whatever flesh scrapes beneath her fingernails slips away, just like dead skin is supposed to. A little closer to the right order of things. Marc had enjoyed plotting out this set, the tight upstairs hallway that made it seem impossible to escape from. Only a few strides until they’re back in the bedroom, where all corners of the furniture have been taped over.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd spent the first few days home like that. still coming down from that deep surgery-sleep, sitting up to eat and take more meds, water and pills and those damp wipes for that gash at her temple. she could only remember a heavy sadness on her shoulders, and that damned music.

half slumped like a corpse in her own right. she'd die in there, she was sure of it. too much of this or that, a pillow pressed over her face until it faded to grey. maybe it'd stop then. couldn't get any louder, at least.

she didn't deserve this. jamie didn't deserve it, jamie who called her bug and wouldn't hurt anyone, who always got scared first at horror movies. don't let this thing get to anyone else. her voice came out a choked sniffle.

"just tell me, please just - i know it, your face, the - i don't want to go away. people will know, i haven't called anyone since i got home-" not for lack of trying.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s easy to dump her into the bed, a lifeless and disjointed doll. They’re about two months into filming, day by day footage they’ll cut together. Sometimes, she figured it out quickly, the little spark of Louise still sharp through it all. Mivacurium was a hell of a drug, easy to administer and knocked her out just long enough for a break.

He’s eerily kind, tucking her beneath the sheets and slipping pillows beneath her head. Humming as she’s wrapped tightly, like she’s in a shroud. “What do you know? Don’t you think me and Jamie are the perfect match? Perfect doppelgängers. And people? Oh Cricket, if people did, wouldn’t they have come in? No one’s even knocked.”

[mysweetlouise]

she looks very small and very sad under all those blankets. her choppy, tangled hair sticks to a face red from crying, mouth pressed in a wavering line. she wants to itch at her face, pick off all the bits of dried blood and gouge her eyes out for good measure.

the music creeps up through her sinuses like a bad cold, thrumming in faint pain. "nobody has - they send people from the hospital to check up on people. they'll have to - stop by, they have to."

[samesnakenewskin]

Thin strips of flesh dangle from his face, detached from bone and muscle, clinging on by singular fibres. A few snap, crumbling onto the comforter and already starting to rot. Marc struggles to open his mouth fully, the muscles weak and tender. In between shoots, he’d had to glue this pieces back around a dozen times. Moulting like an aging insect.

“If you’ve been discharged into inadequate care, sure, they’d be around frequently. But you don’t remember the doctors coming in last week? They gave us that new prescription for you.”

[mysweetlouise]

last week. what was last week? was there a last week? she would've run for the door. why didn't she run for the door? she can't remember, that fucking noise was drowning everything out. get it out, get it out -

"don't know if they're real. i don't - a new prescription?" she squints, raising her head a little. going to die. going to lose her mind, her skull is going to crack, right in two. he's lying.

"i didn't sleep through it?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Patting down the dried out patches of flesh, Marc continued to pinch and pull at his skin like he could stretch it back in place. He’d considered a medical consultant for the production, but the paperwork and convincing needed to prove Cricket was a very invested method actor seemed tiresome. “Yes, well, you were a little out of it still. Those sleeping tablets really have been doing numbers on you.”

Whistling as he worked his way across the room with his fingers tugging at the weakened muscles of his jaw, he eventually perched on the edge of the bed and stared towards her. “You’re not well.”

[samesnakenewskin]

i think it's under my skin.

(from cricket)

God help them all. Somewhere between scenes, Marc had taken his eyes off of Louise Cricket. In between the hospital flashbacks and her finding every door locked, it’s like she’s vanished into the walls. Another house that’s swallowed her whole. Now as the boy next door who’s appearing sporadically in the house, Marc, Jameson now, is tiptoeing through the halls. Looking to find the sound of her crying. Cricket always cries the most, most volatile and most difficult to wrangle at the end of the day.

That’s all he hears. Crickets. Horribly silent aside from the knocking of each door, slowly creaking open as he glances around for her. “Cricket? Look, it’s me! I know you’re not…you’re not well. But I swear it’s me, just let me in.”

[mysweetlouise]

going mad. she was sure of that. crawling, buzzing feeling in her head and god those eyes were worming into her thoughts, her hands twitching on the bandages around her arms. she'd shut herself into one of the cabinets, one arm firmly in her mouth to muffle her sobs and the other holding the door closed.

she should be dead, she was dead and this was hell, she was in hell, she'd tried to call her family and they were gone, and that thing in her friend's skin - closing in, crushing her.

she wasn't well but this wasn't right.

god help her, she'd sink her teeth into whoever tried to get her.

[samesnakenewskin]

Cackling to himself, he drags his nails across cracking wallpaper, pulling himself forward. They’re still on camera, little fly in the wall shots catching Marc’s decaying body shamble forward. Uncanniness was demanded from both performers, letting his tendons loosen in every wild and sudden movement. “Come on now, there’s no good reason to be rude now, is there? I just want to make sure you’re safe after all.”

Disjointed, his fingertips peeling and catching across the unevenly plastered paper, he giggles with each shuffle closer. “Cricket, you’ll feel better in a minute. Let me get you your medicine, I’ll even let you have some pie afterwards.” Tapping the boney edges of his knuckles against the wall, good ear to the wall pressed to the wall. “If you stay in there too long, you’ll just suffocate!”

[mysweetlouise]

she clenched her fingers against the cabinet door. her fingernails - growing back, bit by bit, scrabbling against the wood. she'd... the originals had been peeled back in the accident. or the recovery. she couldn't remember anymore.

the bathroom had a window. if she could just make it there, lock the door, climb out - outpace that thing. the music, reverberating in her bones. the medicine wouldn't help. nothing would help.

go. now.

cricket burst from the cabinet, sprinting from the room and into the hall towards the bathroom, stumbling over her own feet.

[samesnakenewskin]

Simultaneously recording the scene and absolutely losing his mind, Marc claws at his aching jaw before shoving it closed. Absolute gold, but no one’s outside to stop Cricket from running out into the street and start screaming bloody murder. A picture nail snags into a small cut on his finger, slicing through without hesitation. Recovery would be a nightmare for the pair.

“Come on out~,” he giddily sings, watching the doors for the tiniest shudder. “It’s just not safe for you out of there.” Easy does it, leaning forward before the doors fly open. Armed with a pocket of loose pills and the prospect of a fantastic shot, Marc sprints forward, barrelling into Cricket as she tries crossing the hall.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket lets out an awful, terrified scream, toppling over and hitting the wood floor with a heavy thud. it wasn't human, wasn't human, wasn't human - she lashes out with those bitten down nails, further yelling and gibbering a mile a minute.

"you're not him, i know you're not him! your eyes - god, your eyes, i don't know what you are-" she kicks at him, trying to scramble back.

[samesnakenewskin]

Now this was the good stuff, cinematic gold and a little bit of bonus catharsis. Both hands wrap around her shoulders, forcing her into the floor even further. The spiny prickle of bone peeking through his flesh tries to lacerate through her skin. "Cricket, Cricket it's me! It's me, I swear it is! I don't know what you're talking about, but I swear it's alright!" he screams, laughing so violently that his jaw is nearly cracks open. She looked nothing like her or either of them, but Louise was damn near close enough to be them. Worked with him, followed around that false pretense of a man like a sickly animal.

"Come on, you know it's me. How else could I remember what you like? No one else would give up everything for you, no one ever would! I'm your only fucking friend Cricket, don't you dare forget that!"

[mysweetlouise]

the thing was fucking smiling, laughing and her stomach was churning. she was fine, she was sane and no head injury could do this to her and even if it did dear god she didn't deserve this. warmth in her shoulder, a bead of red soaking into her t-shirt sleeve. she clawed at his arms, kicking up at him and continuing to scream.

"you're not real! im not going away, i don't know what you did with him but i won't be that! i won't be you!" if she hadn't been in the hospital, maybe it wouldn't have gotten him, he wouldn't have been alone-

[samesnakenewskin]

"You won't ever be me and you know it," he cackles, wrapping his fingers tightly around her shoulders to try and stop her from wriggling away. Marcs arms are bare, every scratch down them peeling off thin layers of skin in heavy chunks. Blood coagulated so much it barely even bleeds, just shakes and sticks underneath Crickets fingernails like jelly. "Isn't this what you wanted? I told you I'd never leave, I'd never forget about you. So you can't leave me!"

Marcs hands are unwavering, but every hit begins to take off parts of this recrafted body. Bleeding through to his real face, pale and cold as it stares down at her.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd just wanted jameson to visit her in the hospital. she'd just wanted to see her friend, it wasn't making sense, was he dead?

"the - oh, god, it's not your skin!" something rotting. she let out another wild scream, this time flailing her head to bite into his arm and her leg to kick him away.

[samesnakenewskin]

Just a little longer, hold the uncomfortable shape until they can switch scenes. Marc barks out a laugh, uncomfortably dry as it crawls out of his throat. All the flesh is heavy, aching to be peeled off. Falling off the bone easily, the meat of his arm detaching and sticking in between Crickets teeth.

“It’s me! Jamie, your best friend! I know we didn’t see each other for a while, but look at us now!” Unravelling above her, like a ream of fabric dropping from a great height.

[mysweetlouise]

cricket gagged, immediately spluttering in awful revulsion and spitting out the hunk of his arm. she might be sick, the cold flesh that clung to her gums sending another shudder of disgust through her.

the smile wasn't his, the eyes weren't his.

she was going to die here.

"i don't know what you are, you're not jamie, you're not my friend, please don't kill me-" she gagged again, starting to sob.

[samesnakenewskin]

Uncomfortably thick blood and flesh lumping into one gelatinous mass slides off his bones, the skin slipping off with a sickly wet pop. More and more ligaments begin separating, fibrous tissues dry and snapping. Marc can’t afford time to repair this, leaning back while keeping a hand on Crickets soldier. “Why would I kill you? I’m not ever letting you go!” All she had to do was behave, nice and still, finishing up her medicine and it would all be an easy dream for her.

“Now, you know you can’t lie to me Cricket. And I can’t lie to you! I’m Jamie, through and through!” Flesh stapled and piled onto his own, layered until his skin disappeared beneath it.

[mysweetlouise]

the dissolving flesh did absolutely nothing to calm her, of course. bits of blood and gore pattering onto the floor like a localized rainstorm from hell. her mind raced. what was it faeries did to the people? kelpies gutted you, left nothing but intestines floating in some pond, hounds and the wild hunt chased you down in numbers, baying and screaming, will-o-the-wisps led you to cliffs and sinkholes, and poor people whisked away to the fae courts, faces incomprehensible, music that drove you mad. the voices were louder in her head, reverberating.

her hand reached up, splotched with red and shaking, to grab at his face.

[samesnakenewskin]

An emulsion of blood and meat not too far from the texture of cold, solid porridge splatters onto the ground opposite her head. Marc had admittedly not looked too deeply into the cryptozoology of the fae, his last impression of the contemporary fairy was from A Midsummers Night Dream. Not good enough, there wasn’t a point to the psychological tension without physical reward.

“Come on…how could you do this to me? After everything?” Marc grins, his skin thin and drenched in blood. It’ll need to be a full body destruction after this, replace all the torn pieces of skin with slowly scarring flesh.

[mysweetlouise]

red splatters across much of her face, dotted across her cheek, forehead, eye. the utter shock of it causes her to freeze, hand still in place, skin ashen. the dread, the pity and guilt of accidentally crushing a snail underfoot, of the squirrel running in front of your car too fast to hit the brake.

the tears spring to her eyes, and cricket lets out a strangled sob - of fear, anger for wherever jamie really was, no doubt hurt and scared, sorrow, pain. she breaks down proper immediately after, shielding her face with her hands as she cries.

[samesnakenewskin]

“My dear little Cricket, I don’t know how you can be so upset. You don’t want to be alone, right?” Cackling, Marc lets his head fall to the side and another rush of blood drips down onto the floor. Flesh squelching beneath her hand, softy caving into his skull. One of hand sneaks onto her shoulder, pinning Cricket in place as he pushes himself up.

Another bottle jingles in his pocket, pills rattling against each other, the capsules soft and papery. “Let’s go to bed, huh? You need to rest and you’re almost done with the antibiotics.”

[mysweetlouise]

she can't sleep, shouldn't sleep, she thinks, sniffling back more tears. the music is a spear through her eardrums, his words as if underwater sometimes, others bouncing around in her head like they'd overwhelm, the thought process of a nightmare.

"i don't need them! i don't - have an infection, i just hit my head, i'm not sick." jamie was sick, wherever he went. whatever he was now. she only felt sick because he was sick, because of all this blood. and it knew him well, it knew her name so she must be next.

[samesnakenewskin]

“You cut your head, it’s infected. Rotting all the way through you, inside and out.” Knocking on her head like a ripe melon, his bony knuckles rapping against a bruised skull. Still intact, but a writhing parasite waits dormant beneath the skin. Not ripe yet, but eventually she’ll crack. “We’re sick, aren’t we? I feel like my face is a bit swollen. Can you check for me, since I’ve done so much for you?” Marc pins her hand to his face, fingers buried between torn layers of muscle.

Leaning back, the hand wrapped around her shoulder leveraging Cricket to her feet. Dragging her along, letting her feet scuff against the ground. “Back to bed for you, before you hurt yourself again.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i didn't, i was... the crash, it was in the crash, i'm better! i swear, i'm better." cricket flinched, pain shooting in lightning sharp arcs through her cranium. why was she trying to reason? this thing didn't seek reason, made a mockery of reasoning.

her fingers dug into the muscle as she tried to steady herself, not letting go but god she couldn't look at the damage she was doing. she was going to die, or... no. go mad, it wanted her to go mad. they liked doing that, didn’t they? some traveler vanishing, turning up a gibbering mess besides a mound of earth or stone, or an old well. the music pulsed behind her right eye, like a stress headache.

[samesnakenewskin]

Rot fell into a gorgeous, continuous spectrum of disrepair. Uneven, fighting against the nature of symmetry until its very last moments. It was meant to be unknown; whether or not something truly went wrong in Crickets head. Unreliable narrators are very much in at the moment. “No need for squirming, you know I hate having to bring out the stronger stuff on you, it makes you the wrong kind of quiet.”

Whatever flesh scrapes beneath her fingernails slips away, just like dead skin is supposed to. A little closer to the right order of things. Marc had enjoyed plotting out this set, the tight upstairs hallway that made it seem impossible to escape from. Only a few strides until they’re back in the bedroom, where all corners of the furniture have been taped over.

[mysweetlouise]

she'd spent the first few days home like that. still coming down from that deep surgery-sleep, sitting up to eat and take more meds, water and pills and those damp wipes for that gash at her temple. she could only remember a heavy sadness on her shoulders, and that damned music.

half slumped like a corpse in her own right. she'd die in there, she was sure of it. too much of this or that, a pillow pressed over her face until it faded to grey. maybe it'd stop then. couldn't get any louder, at least.

she didn't deserve this. jamie didn't deserve it, jamie who called her bug and wouldn't hurt anyone, who always got scared first at horror movies. don't let this thing get to anyone else. her voice came out a choked sniffle.

"just tell me, please just - i know it, your face, the - i don't want to go away. people will know, i haven't called anyone since i got home-" not for lack of trying.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s easy to dump her into the bed, a lifeless and disjointed doll. They’re about two months into filming, day by day footage they’ll cut together. Sometimes, she figured it out quickly, the little spark of Louise still sharp through it all. Mivacurium was a hell of a drug, easy to administer and knocked her out just long enough for a break.

He’s eerily kind, tucking her beneath the sheets and slipping pillows beneath her head. Humming as she’s wrapped tightly, like she’s in a shroud. “What do you know? Don’t you think me and Jamie are the perfect match? Perfect doppelgängers. And people? Oh Cricket, if people did, wouldn’t they have come in? No one’s even knocked.”

[mysweetlouise]

she looks very small and very sad under all those blankets. her choppy, tangled hair sticks to a face red from crying, mouth pressed in a wavering line. she wants to itch at her face, pick off all the bits of dried blood and gouge her eyes out for good measure.

the music creeps up through her sinuses like a bad cold, thrumming in faint pain. "nobody has - they send people from the hospital to check up on people. they'll have to - stop by, they have to."

[samesnakenewskin]

Thin strips of flesh dangle from his face, detached from bone and muscle, clinging on by singular fibres. A few snap, crumbling onto the comforter and already starting to rot. Marc struggles to open his mouth fully, the muscles weak and tender. In between shoots, he’d had to glue this pieces back around a dozen times. Moulting like an aging insect.

“If you’ve been discharged into inadequate care, sure, they’d be around frequently. But you don’t remember the doctors coming in last week? They gave us that new prescription for you.”

[samesnakenewskin]

don't open the door. please.

“Now now, Louise, I just have to, don’t I? You make it sound so intriguing. Let me see…haven’t I earned it?” Marc laughs, currently buttoning up his dress shirt. A poorly done, bulging Y incision scar has been redone. In his defence, the autopsy had been interrupted.

[mysweetlouise]

louise squeezed her eyes shut, bracing as much of her whole weight against the door as she could manage - even as blood smeared into the painted wood where it soaked through her shirt. inky, slick where she wasn't entirely put together, her hand pressed hard into her stomach.

"marc, i mean it! i can't, you don't want to see this, really, i just - ill clean everything up, it's fine, just don't, please don't come in, marc, please."

[samesnakenewskin]

No matter what the manor threw at her, he knew that it wouldn’t ever be as bad as what he’d endured for so long. Something had been festering beneath its skin, so unfortunately Marc had felt it. That useless little doppelgänger had invaded in and intruded in much more than he’d expected. Found her and didn’t bother sneaking by like he should’ve. Murdock will never get another role again.

“Louise, you know you have to let me in. I see that open window, so what on earth have you been up to?” Laughing lightly, letting it ring out clearly through the crooked doorframes, Marc begins knocking his cane against the door. “I have had such a long day, and now I can’t come into my own home and see my friend?”

[mysweetlouise]

god help her, she'd forgotten to close it. the puddle on the floor, the track to the wall where she'd pushed herself uprjght... and all those nice things, gone. gone. why had she tagged along like that? bored and desperate and stupid, stupid louise.

"unexpected - company." covering her mouth to keep more blood in. "trashed the whole house, really, the - took the good wine, too." she needed to sit down.

knock, knock, knock. her heart ached, or perhaps her solarplexus.

"wanted to - see me?"

[samesnakenewskin]

What a useless little burglar the man had been, unable to sneak through the house or even attack correctly. One day, Marc had planned to used him in a future project, a serial killer thriller with his friend as the final girl. But no. When the drop came, he’d leave Murdock with a freshly broken nose and a few nights in limbo. Served him right.

“What? No…no no! Did you see them? Let me in, now.” There was a vague awareness of the movement in the house, then something shattering. Marc keeps banging against the door, dragging his hand down the door handle. “Why else would I come here? I even had a present.”

[mysweetlouise]

"some - giallo film looking man. he said his name was murdock, but i, i don't know if it was real."

a pause, and her voice was even more strained.

"said he'd take my eyes."

she finally cracked the door open, revealing her blood soaked shirt and a bruised face from where she'd fallen. louise's hands trembled, tears in her eyes.

[samesnakenewskin]

How unfortunate, Marc hadn’t exactly been expecting a surge of violence. It was at least confined to the house, just another bad memory in the history of such an unfortunate manor. Fingers tight around the head of the cane, cursing out his poor casting. “Oh you poor, poor thing…let me in.”

Sneaking his fingers in the crack of the door, he glances her over before shoving his cane into the bottom of the door to wedge it open. “Louise, I’m so sorry. Let me in, it’s not fair, is it?”

[mysweetlouise]

louise lets out a quiet sob, the pain in her neck rearing it's ugly head to choke back her words. she doesn't know if it's even real, if her head's getting to her, or the house, and the words let me in makes her stomach churn like it can always, always get worse.

she tries to step back, weight unsteady on her feet, and the world tilts under her as she nearly falls with the door, just barely backpedaling to catch herself. praying, hoping against hope it was actually him because she couldn't handle anything else right now.

[samesnakenewskin]

Hooking his cane around the crack in the door, he holds it in place to spare him a few extra seconds. Glancing at the frosted glass to check how patchy his makeup has become, smoothing it out with a few gentle taps to reform the deathly tint to his skin. Marc had no business in doing his own makeup, he belonged in the comfortable armchair with artists fawning over him to fix every blemish.

“It’s alright…don’t worry,” he whispers, crossing the threshold and slamming the door behind him. Things always ran out of ajar doors, look at him after all. As the light cuts through the windows, Marc sighs as he sees the latest attack to Louise. “It’s me, it’s ok. Come on…you know it’s just me.”

[mysweetlouise]

louise does her best to brace herself against the wall, heaving a shaky breath as more blood wells up from her throat. she just stares, for a moment, before breaking down entirely, sobbing softly and wobbling a bit in place.

"don't know why he, nobody's even supposed to know and he just - i did everything he asked!" just like everyone else, her hand pressing to the wound in her stomach. "please don't, please be you i can't be scared right now. please."

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s another tear in the canvas, every layer of ink revealed in the radial dissection. Marc could almost see the mangle of characters beneath her taxidermied skin, bleeding out through her stomach. A little to the left, a nice low angled shot, something to add into an ending. There wasn’t a time she didn’t look nice ambiguously deceased. Murdock had done something right, but lacking in performance. Elegance. Anything that could get an audience interested.

“You poor thing. I promise, it’s just me. I don’t know-,” he sighs, stepping forward until his cane nearly bumps into her knee. “No one knows, it’s just you and me and…them. Tell me what happened, it’s alright.” Pressing his hand into the wound, Marc faintly grimaces.

[mysweetlouise]

the blood was icy cold, just like the rest of her. inside the house, no heartbeat but she could bleed just fine. go figure. her hand moved to grasp his arm, clinging with tight, desperate fingers like she was drowning. the blood welled up between her teeth, and a comically polite part of her covered her mouth so it wouldn't be quite so gross.

"we'd had... a nice talk and at some point he just - he changed, he decided it. he went to take all the nice little things, and i, im so stupid, and i went downstairs for him so he wouldn't get gutted and - and then we were upstairs, and he had me take the clock and he just - grabbed my arm and it hurt. and he... i had the lighter and i should've just done something, i - he marched me back down here with everything and i think my hands broken now, actually, but i dropped everything out the window and he stabbed me and it's so distracting, i forgot how... i just wanted to play some music, i thought tonight would be okay."

[samesnakenewskin]

All the nice things had been delivered, dropped off behind a bench at the corner of a hotel and a shuttered theatre. Now, it was all decorating a decrepit dressing room. Glass painstakingly placed in the face of the clock, one bottle uncorked and the other stored behind the mini fridge. Home comfort without all the mess. Marc might have to spare the man for now, just to seek out a few more bits and pieces. Everything was fixable, after all.

Beneath the suit jacket, greying and bruised skin sloughs off from Louise’s nails. Like an overripe peach being peeled. Just as his own tug at the edges of the gaping stab wound. “I know, it’s not fair, is it? Sit down, don’t worry.” Grasping at Louise’s shoulder, he starts to slowly march her over to the piano room.

[mysweetlouise]

a slight slump sideways, and she leans into his support. one step at a time. stay steady. it's going to be fine. she tries to ignore the pain in her stomach, her hand, the way choking on blood always tends to leave her throat and voice raw.

just to rest for a while. that's all she needs, to rest and recover. she still has the one hand, that'd be good for a melody. nothing is fair. never was, never would be. she doesn't deserve fair.

[samesnakenewskin]

More management was needed to keep the balance between her and the house. It couldn’t get worse like this, or eventually she’d start asking to go outside more. Marc had it worse, he’d convinced himself of that long before the deal with his producer. Poor, poor Marc. The broken home, ragged beginnings, struggling up into his dream; he was built to be a star. Suffering through the house and spirits burrowed in his bones, it couldn’t ever be comparable.

He just had to be sure they both saw it like that.

“You want some tea? Wine? We can just relax and enjoy ourselves for a bit, be grateful we’re not stuck out there.” Crossing the threshold, Marc’s ankles are scratched by an invisible wrist, trying to drag him back to the basement. On the carpet, it never reaches him.

[mysweetlouise]

"no - no wine. sorry, i... went down there earlier. think it's still mad at me. im scared it might try something." always will.

no one would've even noticed if he hadn't stopped by. only, maybe, if she dreamed it. sometimes she let herself imagine a hospital, doctors and nurses buzzing around like bumblebees. thank god you're here, breathing. can't you see how everyone missed you? scared us half to death.

"just... just tea. tea's nice. i'm sorry."

[samesnakenewskin]

In the beginning, the start of his real career, he had every playmate he wanted. Childhood best friends and every handsome and or beautiful performer he encountered. Staff and servants and interns fetching him drinks and cigars. They always came back, never breaking underneath Marc’s stories. But it couldn’t be his fault that they all forgot their places, broke out of the toy box and ruined everything. Louise was his salvage, like a second hand toy left behind on accident.

“Tea, we should have some in the kitchen. I’ll get Ben-…I’ll go make it myself then.” Squeezing her hands, Marc guides her into one of the armchairs (he used to sit there and talk with Marc. They’d planned so much.) “You’ll be safe here, you know it loves to start showing off once I walk in.” Patting the top of her head before he turns, dragging his fingertips across the piano.

[mysweetlouise]

it's just the broken hand that has tears in her eyes. that's all. not her managing the fail the only one who even tolerates her anymore. she settles into the chair, curling up and cradling it to her chest like a fragile animal. she wasn't a guest, or an occupant. little house mouse, wriggling pathetic dead thing in a trap. and she couldn't even play to make herself less of a nuisance.

the hand on her head almost sets her sobbing again, and she plays the song in her mind, watching the keys.

in the stillness of the night,

in the silence of the moon,

where the ocean meets the shore,

come and open up my door,

i'll be waiting there for you.

[samesnakenewskin]

It’s like a mouse struggling out of its trap, tailless as it bleeds out through the crawl spaces and rafters of the house. Rotting and rotting but still crawling and ruining the carpet. Marc barely glances back at her, shutting the door to the lounge as he leaves. It wraps around his fingers, metal warping and melting through his hand. Stepping through the shadowed halls, it scratches down his back and whispers in the seers voice. “Too much noise…”

He should’ve had the foresight to get rid of Celine’s body too. He’d hoped something else could take her, the detective or the police who took the assortment of swapped bodies to the morgue.

Into the kitchen, it squeezes each fragile rib until they creak. “Stay…it’s not fair. One isn’t fun anymore.” Kettle whistling, Marc pulls at the edge of his skin.

[mysweetlouise]

instantly colder without him around. she wanted to take out her brain, wash out all these sad thoughts and put it back in, good as new. she fiddled with her tie, loosening it and idly wrapping it around her hand. it'd brace it, a little. maybe she could play then.

she layered the cloth, bit by bit, around and around. it wouldn't meddle for a moment or two, it'd be distracted. something good in being the black sheep.

some little mind trick - what else would comfort her when she was alone like this - droned the steps she vaguely could remember. joints above and below, so wrist, bruised knuckles. no proper splint for this one, something it could jam into her arm. good job. tie the loose ends, tuck into the bands.

don't think. think too hard and you'll cry. the rest hate you already, don't give them reason. she pulls herself to her feet, hobbling and sitting in a bloodied heap on the piano bench.

don't think. play some music.

dirge of the spirits, duvair yaughton.

[samesnakenewskin]

Halfway to a boil, he’s doubled over against the kitchen counter as it slowly presses a hand through the drainage scars and reaches around to the internal cavity of his chest. Nails scraping away the thin outer layer of bone and piercing into marrow. Marc is nearly sick, gagging into the back of his hand as the sharp edges of its fingers threaten to pierce through the valves of his heart. “Not the right screaming. Pitiful show. Fix. It.” Fingers plunge through his heart, hooking around the muscle and ripping it down.

“Stay. Just a little longer. I want fun.” It slowly retracts the hand, wiping down the blackened innards down his back before climbing back into the wall. Whistling. Dragging his hand forward into the flame, Marc rips the kettle off the stove. Flesh melts onto the cast iron, sticking to the cups he pours the water and drops the teabags in. No milk. Hacking up on the inside of his suit jacket, he staggers back towards the lounge, shoving the door open with a shoulder.

[mysweetlouise]

she's focused on the keys, how it still hurts her hand but she can still wriggle her fingers, a little. tinkling, meandering melody, slow. one at a time. block out the rest, at least she's safer, repeat the motif. flutter, drop. smaller songs in the background.

she jolts, hearing him barge through the door, hand hitting a wrong note with the ring finger. turns to look at him, eyes wide. slowly, she draws her hands back again, settling them in her lap.

"...are you okay? it - you didn't fall or anything, right?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Thickly swallowing the accumulation of blood and liquified flesh being traced up through his throat, Marc stumbles towards a table and sets the tray down. Shoving the melted hand into his pocket, he sinks into an armchair beside the piano. Throat flared out as he awkwardly situates himself without pressing against the reopened drainage scars. It was a such a nice chair, he couldn’t stand the idea of ruining it.

“No, it’s fine. Burnt my throat testing the tea, outta milk,” he grimaces, scratching his neck with his clean hand. “Go on, keep playing. Haven’t heard you in a while.”

[mysweetlouise]

a pause - she can't remember the last time she's played for anyone. at least a year or two. something calming, not as moody. can't really go wrong with chet baker, right?

not as tense, gentle lilts down and up. i fall in love too easily.

louise quietly whistles in place of the vocals, steady enough in spite of her hand and everything else. she needed to get a few newer scorebooks the next time they were out and about, some more modern stuff.

"sorry. i think - they have stuff to deliver food and things like that now, right?"

[samesnakenewskin]

A suckered and uncomfortable squishing sound emanates from his back while he tries to adjust in the armchair. Both the back of his dress shirt and dinner jacket suctioned to the open wounds, whistling as Marc exhales. “Mhm, yeah. Barely any shops open, it’s terrible out there. I’ll order some stuff to the house, can’t have you starving to death now can we?” Too slow, too boring.

Shutting his eyes, he squeezes at the arm of the chair and tries to hum in tune. Nausea bursts through his stomach, dragging its heavy limbs up and down his esophagus. “More of your parts should play, that’d be nice. Didn’t you used to play at the parties?”

[mysweetlouise]

"if it's not too much trouble. the, ah - what's it called. the ramen's worked like an absolute charm for - a lot of it. it really does come together just like that."

she'd played a painter before (and tried her best, though she felt like any work from that seemed so mediocre). it'd be nice to do something she felt she was good at.

"sometimes. i mean, if they had a piano, of course. i feel like that got me invited to more parties than i deserved."

[samesnakenewskin]

“One of the only things they’ve gotten right in this century, decent instant food. God,” he chuckles, picking the skin from the side of their cups. “Do you remember when we had to eat rations during the next war? Nasty little loaves of sawdust bread with half a teaspoon of butter each?” Only when he’d visited the manor did he stoop to such a pathetic diet. His star needed to be fed, but she didn’t need to have it good.

Half a decade of frustration, reminded how he couldn’t even make the draft the first time around. Damien, Damien of all people was a medic with his twisted hip, and Marc declared unfit to serve. Spending his time outside looking for every underhanded way to find decadence, a lot of acts thankfully scrubbed from the record.

“I think…he’d requested them at all my parties to make sure you came. Conniving little thing.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i thought it was a bit fun, actually. one of my uncles had this fishing cottage up north we used to visit, and we'd have sort of - camping food, i suppose. lots of fish and sandwiches. i'd pretend i was on the frontier, so it reminded me of that." a bit of play pretend that was just her, just louise playing at something. it even got her to look out the windows without being quite so sad.

she nearly missed a note at the last bit, breath catching in her throat. what? no, she couldn't have heard that right. no one would, not on purpose. right? but if anyone, maybe he would. her stomach started to hurt again.

"oh." a pause. "that's - that's really nice. i don't think i realized that." don't start down that path again, lou. you'll just start spiraling again. he just felt bad for you. you needed to get out more. that's all. that's all. she bit down on her tongue. wanted her to be there, why would he be so nice and then everything - one note, then the other. focus. not anymore. don't think about it.

[samesnakenewskin]

Idly stirring the lukewarm tea with a rusted over spoon, Marc scowls at the thought of the former inhabitant of his body. As long as the entity has ahold of him, he never can quite remember what Damien was like. Just how he left, abandoning him in the manor after Celine and William…they’d destroyed him. What had she even seen in him? Gripping the handle of the cup, it nearly snaps between his melted fingers.

“All that imagination and you were a lawyer first. Such a shame really, but then I wouldn’t have you for all my films, would I? My star, leading actress in every picture even when you’re someone else,” he pauses, sipping at the mildewed tea. “Such a shame, old Damien used you for show. Never saw the extent of your talent.”

[mysweetlouise]

she'd wanted to go into law, she wanted to say. she wanted to help people. she wanted a good life. to be someone good, for her life to mean something. to be someone worth liking, having around.

wait, no. was that after everything?

was anything before, anymore?

just a pretty face. she paused for a moment, just... staring into space.

she wouldn't have done well anywhere. not then. not now. not ever. at least she couldn't lose pretty now. someone's scribbled over paper star. shining in an aquarium.

"do, uh, you have any song requests? i can play pretty much anything we have on the records."

[samesnakenewskin]

There’d been so much beauty. Escaping from the dreaded business of accounting with vaudeville shows, dropping out of university once he’d signed that contract. It’s still fuzzy, a hand wrapped around his to steady it while the pen scratched against the paper. Then it all went a bit funny for a while, finding himself suddenly standing at the edges of roads, bridges, the fireplace. Worth it for something, in the end.

“Can you do Dies Ire? I’m sure I’ve heard in here before.” Maybe it had been on vinyl, a smooth continuous melody that drifted through the manor halls. All those little promises whispered in between notes, blessed so quietly by a forked tongue.

[mysweetlouise]

louise hesitates, just for a moment. music for a funeral. she vaguely remembered mass - gentle and reverent at christmas.

but he'd asked.

her fingers found the keys again, slow and cautious. shoulders tense, eyes on her task. "must be one of the records. i usually play, um - softer." to soothe herself. she didn't get a lot to herself, but her chet baker, aretha franklin, sinatra, martin were there for her in the records and songs she played. her reaching out into time, speaking softly. i'm here, hello. i feel the same. i am the same.

her hair fell a little in front of her face, those glassy eyes. just the same. just fine.

[samesnakenewskin]

“One of my records, think I gave it away in fifties. Shame really.” Over the years, his beautiful collection has slowly bled records, occasionally by choice. Eventually, it’d gotten bored melting them against his skin, shooting them out to see how far it could lodge in his neck. Even replenished, he didn’t look at them as fondly. Nothing as good as the original.

Swinging his legs over one of the arms, Marc leans back, head pointed towards the piano. Even now, one of his ears is functionally decorative. “Not very fond of the newer stuff. I’ve just started to stomach the idea of Elvis Presley. I can’t believe they didn’t get a decent band for my funeral, just the damn church organ player.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i feel like - it'd be fun, a little. the one, um - oh, what was his name. johnny cash? can't quite remember what we were out for then, but his stuff was so nice." she'd been whistling folsom prison blues for a month or two afterwards.

a frown darted across her face for a moment. "...you got to go to your funeral? i mean, they - well, if they wanted to go traditional on it - who organized it? family?"

[samesnakenewskin]

Country music, what a scourge. It clawed beneath his skin, something in the chords vaguely unnerving as it crept between fascia. All he saw was a coked up group of hicks playing in the back of the stables, with the occasional tolerable song. Marc has some sense about Cash, a performance they'd caught sometime between films. It might've been when they debuted Cricket, that frightening woman, layered in accessories and sobbing endlessly when they left set. Something about it kept her stable enough to coax back into the car.

"What?" Clutching the teaspoon, his eyes quickly dart away before settling on the window. Right, he was supposed to be far more tragic, trapped in the manor and constantly fighting to stay on the outside. Struggling with the weight of the entities brutality, sparing Louise from the true horrors. "Well, no, of course I didn't. I saw the little pamphlets they made, like they would do for theatre shows. Saw the music they had lined up, that's all. I think it was family arranging it, my mother was still alive, could've also been some of my friends from production."

[mysweetlouise]

louise didn't know much about country music, but she'd liked the little she'd heard. it felt warm, ballads and songs meant for dance halls and summer evenings. cricket had found comfort in it - she'd grown up with it, maybe - and it'd drowned out the maddening tune and whispers bouncing around in that head of hers.

"oh! that sounds nice, honestly. a celebration of life, with - family, all that. i think they would've done well honoring you. flowers, music, all that." a pause, focusing on the music. "...i wanted to have dancing at mine. like i wanted people to be happy i lived, not sad i was gone. i heard in new orleans, they have these big band processions, walking to the cemetery. i always liked that idea."

[samesnakenewskin]

“I’m sure it was, but I didn’t end up seeing it.” He had to pop his head in to pay the last of the mourners. Closed casket, they couldn’t completely fix the massive hole blown through the side of his head. If only Will hadn’t been so trigger happy, then he could’ve had a milder death. Back when the entity was still happy to piece him back together, solder together bones and stitch skin seamlessly.

Rubbing at the plasticy sheen of his burnt skin, Marc hums to himself. Something big and beautiful, dance and song. “Well, you never know. Could’ve been there. I’m sure you were missed, at least.” The church hadn’t been flooded with mourners, but not one had to be paid.

[mysweetlouise]

"it'd be nice to be. i feel so bad, everyone was doing so well, too. my aunt had her birthday, ellie and horace their seventh anniversary... i hope little bea got that train set i bought her for christmas. it was so hard finding one in purple, for some reason." if only she hadn't put a damper on things by going and dying.

"...sometimes i wonder if anyone's still in parson's-by-the-sea, to be honest. it was so small even back then, and since spa towns aren't as much of a thing anymore-" was anything still standing? "you'd like it there, i think. it's so pretty in the winters."

[samesnakenewskin]

Something bursts in his chest, a rotten chunk of flesh likely giving out and detaching from bone. Louise had something, and he hadn’t planned on anything happening to her. Really, Marc hadn’t given her a second thought. Just a witness, unwilling audience to the grand death of a star. Goes home after the show, lets the story live with them and dies with it.

“We could model set after it, if you actually wanted it.” Picking up the other cup and shoving his burnt hand into his suit jacket, he rests it on the top of the piano. “Maybe it’s still standing, if it could be a good place for the shoot.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i sure hope so. actually, i tell you what. if we go, and it's still standing, i'll show you everywhere on the boardwalk, the old lighthouse - oh! and don's. like the café. they had this apple pie ice cream... never had anything like it, it was so nice."

she was smiling, properly, still following the tune on the keys.

"maybe they'd even have up some of those old murals. there was one with some pretty island scene and a mermaid, and i always thought she was just the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen when i was little."

[samesnakenewskin]

A better man would’ve tried to remember for the sake of knowing. Hold onto the only person left semi intact from everything, mourn what they once were and tough it out through the world. Marc idly thinks of the sets they could make, maybe a mermaid deep sea horror if they could get the budget for it. Bemused, sliding both hands across the lid of the piano and miming the motions of the keys.

“We’ll make it a research trip then, little something in between it all. Think that you can stay in your head for a while? And I mean properly, no character work or anything.”

[mysweetlouise]

"without a character... well, id do a better job there than if i tried it anywhere else. id hardly be thinking about any of it, there'd be tons and tons to talk about. it'd probably be tough shaking me from any happy reminiscing. even with the whole cliff thing."

a pause, fingers shakily fluttering through a set of notes. "i didn't tell you about that, did i? thats technically the first time i ever cheated death."

[samesnakenewskin]

Skin sticks to the polished surface of the piano, a finger nearly ripping off as he fails to follow along with the melody. Marc hums but gradually slows, blinking a few times before turning back to her. A little rotten muscle tries to beat in his chest, something he can just about remember palpitating years prior. Neither of them die, even what was supposed to be their deaths might not have counted in the grand scheme of things. They'd beaten it, Marc clawing out of Hell and Louise contorted through limbo.

"I didn't even know you lived near a cliff. This was before, I'm guessing. How'd you do it then?"

[mysweetlouise]

"that's the funny thing. i don't entirely remember." she flutters her fingers on the keys idly.

"i think i was seven, or eight. but i used to love climbing the shorter cliffs near my house, over the water. well, one time i go out to go swimming and don't come back. my aunt is worried out of her wits, and a bunch of people go looking for me- and they find me, perfectly well, sitting on the shore. my jacket, though, washes up the next day, absolutely shredded by the rocks. i don't remember a thing after hitting the water, except somebody carrying me. we always joked that was my guardian angel."

[samesnakenewskin]

A graft of skin starts to peak back, Marc scratching it back as he forces himself to start paying attention outside of his own mind. Other people, they needed to stay tied together. He’s a little surprised that she’s actually survived death once before, given how often Louise has shattered one way or another.

“Lord…how’d you do it then?” Like it was a magic trick, waiting to be revealed. “Where did they find you then? Did you just walk back home?”

[mysweetlouise]

"i haven't - the foggiest. i just came to, and my cousins were all running up with lights, and someone bundled a blanket around me to help keep warm. i think my cousin florence mentioned that they'd checked the spot before, too. i must've washed up at just the right time."

ironically, that must've been the safest she'd ever felt. scooped up and carried to the house, that odd peace sliding around her head like it'd been full of water too. one of the last memories of uncle paul, how he'd gotten her and elise hot chocolate and stayed up with them, reading to the two of them into what must've been the next morning.

"always did have strange luck, i think."

[samesnakenewskin]

Carried off, out of death like a kid falling asleep at a party. Nothing else, no strange limbo in and out of living, just drifting off and waking back up again. Rocking gently, cradled in someone’s arms. Saved. Marc thinks his first death was in the water; his last one certainly was. Icy, shattering before dragging him deep, deep down. “I think that’s…nice. Nice to make it out like that when you’re supposed to go.”

“Drink your tea before it gets cold, the kitchens going to be off limits the next couple of days.” Its eyes still burrow into the rotten flesh beneath his scalp, quietly whispering and waiting for him to turn around.

[mysweetlouise]

"it was nice. it was happy. i think... that's how, if i had to end, i'd like to. just somewhere quiet and warm, you know?" she probably wouldn't. maybe one day she'd just stop, finally fade into the void, thoughts drifting to oblivion. don't think about that right now.

"oh! i'm so sorry, i almost forgot." she finally lifted her hands from the keys, gently picking up the cup and taking a small sip. "...well, damn. i was planning on trying to make up that soup tomorrow. that - he didn't steal the silverware, did he? i hope - i didn't see him take it, but i didn't see him come in, either."

[samesnakenewskin]

Drifting off seems like the nicest death, slipping into the endless abyss with an exhale. Marc had found the best way to almost get there; laced wine, warm bath, and a deep breath. Marc lasted about twenty or so hours, unconscious and nearly perfectly dead.

“No, most of it’s been left alone. But he’s made a mess of it. Your blood is all over the place, I don’t think you’d want to see that. Poor thing,” he mutters, glancing back at the door. All burned into the iron of the stove, it’ll need to be scraped clean.

[mysweetlouise]

she took another drink of her tea, averting her eyes from almost embarrassment as if she had a mild, if intensely painful cold instead of a hole in her abdomen and blood seeping into her shirt.

"sorry, i- really should've tried to clean it up or something. i think because it was a person, everything just really shook me up and i got so woozy. i mean i always get woozy, but maybe it's the eyes thing. i think that really got me too scared. i'm sorry."

[samesnakenewskin]

“Hm? Eyes?” Marc reaches around to pinch at her cheeks, slipping his thumb down to nudge her head towards him. Both eyes the same, ever glassy and preserved inside Louise’s skull. There would’ve been more of a fuss kicked up if she’d actually lost an eye. “You got both of them still, what are you worried about?” Dropping her head and turning, Marc looks over to the window. Still closed, thank god.

“You shouldn’t go in there, he made a bloodbath of it in there. Did he end up stabbing himself or something?”

[mysweetlouise]

her eyes often looked so tired, distancing and focusing like any old camera. "i know, it's just - been awhile since i've gotten a threat where he so clearly meant it. he was so, so sure. i can't lose that-" she hadn't seen, the first hunk of time in the mirror. a claustrophobic darkness, without balance or form. the crushing horizon of a black hole.

"i don't know. i... uh, okay, went to the cellar and i got into a tiny tussle, but didn't bleed. i passed out, came back to after he stabbed me by the window. i can't remember. maybe i went to get some water after? i don't think i did. if i wasn't awake... i didn't see anyone else. geez."

[samesnakenewskin]

By now, the flesh has surely melded into the cast iron stove and the kettle stained copper. If Louise bled buckets, Marc always bled one more. A true tragedy. “I don’t think he could, you wouldn’t have to worry.” They’re so glassy and unmoving, Marc is easily convinced that her head is filled with nothing but smooth porcelain. Dark and empty, waiting to be filled with new ideas.

“Is it still down there? I was sure it would’ve moved on after a few months. Did you want me to pick up something from the store to tide you over?”

[mysweetlouise]

"it - knows when i need to go down there. it knows i get scared down there, and it waits." too predictable of her, but she can't help it much. you can only switch up your routine so many times, and it caught on every time. she takes another sip of her tea, savoring the warmth as much as she can.

"i... if it's not too much trouble, i mean. since the kitchen's a mess. i guess it'd have to be all pantry ready made stuff, right? or, wait, i could cook things in one of the fireplaces, that'd be fun! like a campfire sort of thing. i remember doing that once, the power was out for a whole week and i rigged up one of the fire pokers as a toasting fork."

[samesnakenewskin]

It was a reprieve, the entity temporarily dumped into the manor while he scurried out into the real world. Every space between his ribs were made temporarily hollow again, filling with stale air. Not setting a monster upon Louise, he was finally taking a rest from the onslaught of creature crawling throughout his body. “If you think it’s fun, then sure.” Marc will simply learn to endure with this saddening attempt of cooking, for however long he’s kept in there.

No one could ever pry his methodologies from his dead lips, how exactly he’d gotten so much food during the war. A secret kept between him and his servants, now they’re both long gone. Not dead but not in reach.

[mysweetlouise]

she falters, for just a moment, then tries to backtrack. "i mean, if - it's okay with you. just because we can't use the kitchen, and - it's nicer than a hot plate, honestly. it's prettier. cozier, right? we can warm our hands and read ghost stories," she adds with an awkward smile.

louise looks down into her tea, contemplating. "i'm sorry. i'm not terribly exciting when i'm just myself, i suppose. i'd like to be. maybe... i should learn more. i think that'd help."

[samesnakenewskin]

Right, he’s staying here. No gentle reprieve, no skulking back to the abandoned theatre and slowly watch his skin thread back together. Stuck in the manor with a discombobulated spirit and the entity looking to pluck apart his rotting flesh like he’s a medical carcass to be separated and studied. Hell was one just one other person.

“Oh no, no you’re fine,” he says flatly, keeping his hands pressed against the lid of the piano. It had that awful squeaky leg whenever it was dragged out into the main hall, blasting through his brain like a well aimed pistol. “Just not looking forward to the food.”

[mysweetlouise]

"we could find recipes and things for it. um, like - people make cobbler and things like that in skillets over fires, don't they? we'll be like - cowboys on the frontier, or travelers taking shelter in some gloomy castle. just like in the novels!"

she puts on the brightest smile she can, given the circumstances. "and - i suppose if it comes down to it, we can order something. though i don't really know if people would deliver all the way out here this time of night."

[samesnakenewskin]

Delivery people. The poor things. Sometimes they managed to get out with treatable injuries, but didn’t last longer than a few years after. No one’s ever meant to truly visit, leave without a string attached. Sometimes it was that thing, snatching them through the door and crushing their little tablets under the floorboards. Marc had his fun too, when one had the right look about them. Such beautiful skin, strong beating hearts, eyes wide and clear.

“You really like those books don’t you? Fancy that. We’ll get that library shuffled soon, some new stuff in there. Can’t have you going crazy on me.”

[mysweetlouise]

"i do! more than - well, about the same as the records. that's how i spend most days." reading, rereading, blaring jazz and trying to dance when she couldn't sleep. as best she could when her head hurt or she'd twisted her ankle on the stairs again.

"half the time it's just like - being someone else, but i get to notice it properly too. and it's like comfort food. lots of times they walk off into the sunset with someone, or get to lay under the stars. sometimes i remember a constellation or two. like ariadne on her little island."

[samesnakenewskin]

Marc only partially forced out a laugh, digging his heel into the creaking floorboards. That obsession with character work could make a delightful thesis on the severance of his personality. He could afford the excuse for covering mirrors in the manor, but his vanity in the theatre stayed cracked.

“I’ll find you something decent then. Nothing too modern though, I wouldn’t want to subject you to the vile drivel they’re writing now.” Nothing made after the 80s, it kept the boundaries intact.