#*v: corruption.

[tenaciiious-blog]

[tenaciiious-blog]

[tenaciiious-blog]

"Oh, Margot,"  he sneers at her like they’re ten years old again. "What’s keeping me from running to papa right this very second to tell him about my little discovery?" The blond runs slim fingers through his messy hair. His face goes blank for a long moment, eyes falling to the book in his lap. Mason’s lips part.

Looking upon him, her face is that of an ill-fated princess, trudging nobly to the scaffold. He would have continued to hurt her, diary or no diary: the imminent pain should not be something she fears. As such, her tone is blank and resigned when she asks:

"---What do you want?"

[x]

( thanks to expansiionist <3 )

[tenaciiious-blog]

Dear /Papa/

Send me a “Dear —-” and I will write my honest feelings to them.

Dear Molson—-

I don’t understand, I never have… where it comes from, why you are the way you are. Did Mama ever love you? I wonder, sometimes.  I’m angry that she didn’t leave before it was too late. I judge her.

Or maybe I don’t. Renouncing a monster isn’t as easy as it seems.

I should stick to judging you.

I close my eyes at night and imagine a father who doesn’t hate or hurt and revel in both. What did I do?

God knows you’re a sinner, if he’s there at all. I wake up every morning with the hope that your heart stops beating.

You belong in the fucking ground.

[tenaciiious-blog]

// in confidence. //

+ expansiionist

Lacrosse practice is always good for her troubled mind (if not her soul, which is, by now, fractured and beyond repair). Afterwards, mud can be cleansed from where it spattered on pale limbs, and it is therapeutic to do so, to watch the dirt liquefy and run down the drain.

Margot can hide in the rising steam of the communal shower block: she's well practiced at guarding things from prying eyes, and she has her routine down to an art. Into the shower; and out again; two seconds and the waiting towel is bound tightly above her breasts. When she stands in front of her locker, she dries herself with rapid precision, and is rarely naked long enough for any of her classmates to notice the battle scars. If they catch a glimpse of visible bruises, they will assume she got them during last week's game. 

In record time, Margot is back in uniform and on her way home, ready to take solace in her bedroom. Only today, she senses something erroneous when she finds the door ajar, and her stomach drops as she enters. He's lounging, leisurely, on rich cotton sheets, perusing a book wrapped in forest-green leather. Its accompanying padlock - tiny, brass - is nowhere to be seen. He must have jimmied it with one of her bobby pins.

She never leaves her journal behind, fearful of this very scene, and now inwardly curses herself for being forgetful this morning. Curiously, Mason has so far neglected to interrogate her on the contents, nor tried to steal the tome away - Margot simply deemed this a blessing, and a sign that she had kept it sufficiently discreet.

Evidently not, though. In fact, it's possible he's been waiting for this opportunity. 

He skims the entries just as their father would skim the morning paper, while she swallows hard and thinks of the secrets contained within. The journal is her only confidant in a world of misfortune, else she wouldn't bother to write at all. She is eighteen, and her thoughts have gradually become less chaste: from crushes on fellow students at her all-girls' school; to kissing Kitty Fitzgerald after piano lessons; to referencing a tawdry fantasy or three. On the surface, she is a regular, heterosexual teenage girl: albeit one who has never dated a boy, instead preferring to 'focus on her education'. She now regrets immortalizing the truth in ink. It was incredibly foolish, and there will be ramifications to Mason's discovery.

Almost with the sense of slow-motion, she lets the door click behind her, and extends the rather redundant question:

"---What are you doing?"

Her voice holds an audible tremor.