acridcynic
subtlety has never been her strong suit; blunt force trauma has always been tara’s approach to any situation. strike the fatal blow as soon as possible and the outcome will always be favorable. but now, she is — surprisingly — close-mouthed, dusky lips pressed together as though there is a flood of words threatening to spill over.
’ ——- been around.
her blood simmers and pops like volatile acid, itching to melt the flesh off of anything who was stupid enough to temp her wrath. & to a very fine degree, this included that whom she made; whom she went to ground with & brought back into the world, however [ shitty ] the world was. while there was not a single thing that could, or would, ever possess her to bring upon the true death to her child [ even if the union was not done out of any kind of desire on either of their parts ], none would ever be spared from her anger. and certainly not when it was deserved. & so, when she echoes that of her progeny, the usual stillness in her tone is not indifference, but something far more wild, and restrained.
she is fucking pissed;
❛ you've been around. ❜
❛ i should wring your goddamn neck, tara. ❜
& relieved beyond measure.