#* desolades .

[ethicsbutcher]

‘  what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger… unless it kills you.  ’

the lack of eye contact during their session tugged at the corners of lecter's terrible mouth . the dark locks of hair framing his sad features did not aid in banishing the comparisons already being made in the depths of the good doctor's mind . hannibal eventually blinked and proceeded to mimic his patient by lowering his gaze to focus on his lap . his hands were neatly folded over his legs ... the scent of tomás saucedo's handshake still lingered there ( DIRT , DRIED LEAVES , FUNGIS GROWING ON A TRUNK'S HUMID REMAINS ) . index and thumb rubbed together , as if trying to conjure any evidence of a forest that wasn't there . the park ranger had clearly survived it thus far ─── but that did not mean he had been spared .

" in the hávamál , odin must sacrifice himself in order to acquire ancient knowledge . " dr. lecter finally mentioned . if tomás had glanced up then , he would have found two dark eyes waiting . " his body hanged limp from the yggdrasil for nine days before the runes were finally revealed to him . " hannibal casually explained . " in this epic poem , the language and imagery suggest odin was reborn after the experience as something far more powerful than before . his sacrifice was to himself . " so often in religion was self-sacrifice meant to be selfless ; the world had been robbed of selfish hungry gods ... but there were things , old things , modernity simply could not kill .

tomás knew this better than anyone .

" you are not dead , tomás . and you are not yet reborn . " the doctor tilted his head while regarding the man sitting across from him with an odd expression . " why do you think that is ? " entertained wasn't the right way to describe it but it would certainly be the best anyone could find .

@desolades

[monstroum]

[ clean ]  your muse cleaning a smudge of something off mine’s cheek , forehead , etc .   @shadow / @desolades

The towel pressed against his cheekbone has become stained with red. 

The motel they were staying at was far from being a five star establishment. There were cigarette burns all over the bathroom sink, the pictures on the wall had lost their saturation due to sunlight exposure and time and all that they could find inside the first-aid kit was a couple of cough drops. One for you, one for me, Shadow had thought. 

                   The cut over his cheek burned whenever it was exposed to the air. Only when Tomás applied pressure did that pain seem to fade. The park ranger said it looked like it needed stitches. Shadow believed him but did not want to go anywhere near a hospital. At least not looking like he did, drenched in blood and beaten into shades of purple and blue. At least not with the repertoire he still had with the law. At least not while TVs still talked and storms chased him. At least — 

Tomás lifted the towel. 

                                Even in that piss poor yellow light, with blood clinging to his shirt and hands, his friend still looked trustworthy. Perhaps the person he had managed to trust the most in these last few crazy months. Shadow had never felt as if Tomás was trying to swindle him out of anything. Every time he pressed that towel to his skin, there was no malice or sting. It was careful. Someone who truly cared whether he remained in one piece or not — Shadow Moon fought the urge to just shut his eyes and allow himself to drift into sleep. It was odd, TO FEEL BOTH SAFE AND IN PAIN.

The towel rubbed against some of the dry blood on Shadow’s jaw and the ex-inmate could not help but pull his gaze away from Tomás surgical stare to glance down at his torso. His button-down shirt was riddled with stains, his knuckles bright with both his and others’ blood. Shadow had fought too hard for too long. But he had to. He didn’t know how to be as gentle as Tomás —— he needed to pull his weight somehow.    “   I don’t think that’s gonna fix it.  ”     He finally said with a smile in his voice but not on his face.    “   But thanks for trying .  ”

[detectiev]

(   *   &.   –   SHARP  OBJECTS  SENTENCE  STARTERS .

‘  my demons are not remotely tackled. they’re just mildly concussed.  ’ / @desolades​

 rustin blinked very slowly. it looked as if he was dozing off. or perhaps like he wasn’t really there. physically he was sitting on a stool covered in worn out brown leather, contemplating a half-empty glass of diet coke inside a windowless bar. but mentally, rustin was back in texas, heartbroken and hopeless, saying something similar to what tomás had just told him to a psychiatrist:  mildly concussed.     ━━━     sounds about right.

             the more cohle watched that man the more of himself he saw in him: he had an eternal sort of tiredness trapped behind his eyes, one the detective had seen countless times in the mirror. perhaps tomás had lost a family too. perhaps he had just seen all of the filth that got caught in that dusty swamp water they had over there. was he the same sort of bad as rust? blue eyes lingered on the man’s hands as smoke curled up from his cigarette and collided with the bar’s low ceiling. no, he wasn’t the same sort of bad as him.

              rust could smell pine trees. an intense scent that both comforted the detective and alarmed him towards the fact that he was, in fact, hallucinating. he tried to take the taste of pinyon off his tongue with tobacco. but it lingered there, on the roof of his mouth, heavy and warm. something wild and distant that didn’t belong there. 𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙵 𝚃𝙾𝙼Á𝚂 𝚃𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝚃 𝚃𝙾𝙾 .  “ i figure people’s demons never go away. not really. ” 

rustin tapped some ashes into a plastic ashtray before continuing.  “ they stick around for years, ruining us. conjuring all the ugliness the world’s got to offer. ” as the detective spoke, smoke came spilling out from between his lips. his hooded eyes no longer focused on tomás. rust was lost in deep thought. “ ’til one day we get up in the morning, look in the mirror ‘n’ realise we’re alone in that room. and that, maybe, all that misery, all that horror   ━━━    it’s always been just us. ”

[exitentialism-blog]

:// 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙿𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴 : 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽

    ❝     Let me help you with that .     ❞      In the world of dreams, Sartre could see just fine. But his vision relied solely on others’ subconscious . It was quite frustrating at times to not have your own palette of colors to navigate through, no symbolic references to haunt you, no faces to populate the darkness. But cruising through others’ dreams also allowed Sartre to be faced with views he could have never imagined by himself. He had stumbled into Tomás’ head that evening. And what a sight it was. Nothing but tall dark buildings surrounded them. Up they went, pointing at the sky, barely letting any light pierce through to touch the two of them. There were so many of these dark structures that the special agent thought it weird to hear nothing but the two of them. No cars, no people, just Tomás’ voice and his own breathing. Orange light painted the streets. The sun was setting. The fog was rising. So Sartre extended his long bony arm forward and slowly turned his hand, like one would when adjusting a lens.

                       Slowly the city landscape they had been both staring at changed. The gigantic buildings gained texture and irregularities. The air around them became moist and earthy. The street turned into a forest. The city became a sea of old naked tree trunks. Sartre turned his oddly-shaped head to glance at the stranger standing next to him, his mouth curling into a pleased grin.    ❝     Sssharper? Sssofter? Medium rare … ? Whatever you like.     ❞     His slender fingers proceeded to turn the non-existent lens again. As he did so, the orange light spilling through the tree trunks began to vanish. Sartre was forcing the night upon the forest of Tomás’ subconscious, UNWARE OF THE MONSTERS THAT CAME WITH IT.

@desolades