#butcher3d

[birdwatchng]

Nobody with any sense lingers after Cinderella hours. But Beckett's got the confidence of—(or no, not confidence, not under Beckett's skin)—the reliability of the undying. What's there to fear when there is the fire? What's there to fear when there is. Always. Always is. Unending is.

“Why don't they just change the name of this place to Happy?” Maybe then the shores will remember the sun. The bones will remember joy. “Manifest good vibes, or whatever.” Or call this place Death, and let it sink. Call it Atlantis. Call it Gone. “I think whoever named this place Misery set us up for failure.”

@butcher3d

[birdwatchng]

The cocktail fuzz makes everything seem sweeter. The dim lights, the distant chatter, the cracks in the old leather seats by this side of the booth. Jersey's shoulder. A little bony, not nearly comfortable enough to rest her head on for long. But under her slight buzz it's almost familiar enough to enjoy.

“D'you ever think about leaving?” It's hard to remember now what her dreams used to be like—when she used to imagine herself on stage, all dazzling lights and stardust. All she sees now when she closes her eyes are shadows. “Some people make it seem so easy.” Like they don't have family here, waiting. Like they don't have a sister begging to be found. Like it wouldn't cost them anything to let go.

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