#c: cd

[graceydaly]

                                                  [ @catherinedaly ] 0028. 02/12/2018. 09:31AM. Il Parco. 

Her teeth have been firmly grit together since the buzz of her phone on the bedside table had woken her up that morning. She can feel the headache setting in, jaw stiff and rage simmering but relentless, the occasional twitch of her lip synchronised with spikes of anger as her mind dissects Damiano’s scathing criticisms. Her opinion is that his cruelty is not what she deserves -- a bullet in the shoulder of their greatest enemy should have been rewarded with praise; putting the Capulet boss out of action for a while should have warranted some sort of appreciation. Grace exhales sharply, breath misting in the winter air, fingers clasped around a knife which carves feelings into the damp planks of the bench beneath her. A deep groove forms. What stops her is not that she calms down, nor that she decides to ignore the fact that Damiano is no different to Cosimo ( a laughable truth that she’s certain people don’t want to acknowledge ). It’s a flash of familiar blonde hair passing across the sliver of dull green grass in front of her which halts the ever-destructive behaviour, meeting blue eyes unblinking. “Kitty-Cat. You’re looking less dead than before.”

Her gaze drops to the creature being paraded along at her sister’s heel. Damiano had called her a dog, rabid and wild. Would he sooner have her leashed and mindless like this fleabag? “Didn’t get a promotion so you got a pet instead, huh? You’ll end up with a fucking zoo at this rate.” A bitter laugh lines her lips. “I should know.” Grace weighs the blade in her hand and abruptly points its tip at the strip of material clutched in Catherine’s fingers. “You shouldn’t keep it on a lead. You should let it make its own choice. If it wants to be feral, so be it. If it wants to stay--” shoulders clad in leather and cotton rise and fall heavily against the back of the bench, “--then you’ve done something right.”

[graceydaly]

                                 [ @catherinedaly ] 0019. 01/11/2018. 11:38AM. Catherine’s home.

The plant pot has been replaced and the key returned to its hiding place in a ring of water-saturated brick. It’s predictable and entirely Catherine and Grace finds herself putting the terracotta back carefully this time before letting herself into her sister’s home. Garishly-pretty curtains keep the light from coming in through the windows and she slinks through the dim rooms, opening the bedroom door to walk over to the familiar form of her sister, getting into bed beside her without uttering a word. “Fuck,” she says, seconds later. “Your mattress feels like a fucking marshmallow.” A grin slides across her mouth, rolling over onto her side to look at Catherine. Pain looks strangely foreign on the youngest Daly. “You’re looking really shit. Like, just walked home from a one night stand in yesterday’s dress and fell down a hill and landed in a patch of brambles shit. Bombs: one. Kitty-Cat: nil.” 

Closing her eyes, Grace curls into the pillow and begins to let herself drift off, the past 48 hours catching up with her like snapping dogs at her heels. She’s lingering at the edge of slumber when an excited wave of realisation strikes her, pleased to finally have someone she can tell ( Regina would have passed out mid-sentence and Kat? Well-- the timing didn’t seem quite right ). “Guess who shot Cosimo.” Amusement lines her voice, thick and humoured. “It felt so good. I kissed the bullet just for him.”

[graceydaly]

                                  KEEPING UP WITH TEAM LEAR      [ @catherinedaly ]

[graceydaly]

         [ @catherinedaly ] 0012. 09/10/2018. 20:58PM. TWELFTH NIGHT & THE TEMPEST

She has lined up an as-of-yet-to-be-paid-for row of vodka shots on the booth table and is nursing a slightly warm beer in one hand when Catherine arrives. Grace watches her move through the bar, notes the lack of spring in her step which would usually make her want to throw something at Catherine’s head, and can’t help but crack a grin. There was something distinctly sweet in seeing the mighty fall, particularly when they had been sat on such an impossibly high horse, looking down on anyone who dared to indulge themselves in darker pursuits of life. “Kitty-Cat,” she chimes, pinching her little sister’s chin between finger and thumb to press a blood-red kiss to her cheek, continuing to stare at her in cruel awe. Wicked wonder. Pride. She passes the blonde a shot and follows by downing one herself, revelling in the burn.

“I always knew you had it in you, despite the whole--” Grace gestures vaguely with her bottle, liquid sloshing inside, and remembers to lower her voice despite having chosen their table strategically, “--religious, hurting-people-is-bad thing you have going on. I’m just pissed because that prancing pony Rusty-Cellar got to be the one to witness it. Which, you know, it really would have been fucking funnier if you’d shot her instead.” A smirk pulls at one corner of her mouth as she takes a swig of beer, curious as to where Catherine’s loyalty now lay with regards to Rafaella. Surely what had happened had caused a wound; a growing bitterness? “So you’ve got one on the kill count at last, you’re Captain-less, and you’re drinking with a Montague. Looks like you’re finally learning how to live, piccolina. How does it feel?”

[graceydaly]

📱 (for Celeste lol)

Number saved as

UGH

Contact photo

Last 5 sent texts

[ 21/10/18 18:45 ]  → i’m in capulet territory[ 21/10/18 18:46 ]  →  chilling with capulets[ 21/10/18 18:47 ]  →  telling them all of the secrets i know[ 21/10/18 18:48 ]  →  gonna give them your address[ 21/10/18 18:49 ]  →  and tell them where we keep all of our weapons

Last 5 unsent texts

[ 21/10/18 18:45 ]  →  where i fucking live[ 21/10/18 18:45 ]  →  like, i’m still so pissed that you all think i’d fuck with the caps[ 21/10/18 18:46 ]  →  how many times do i have to prove myself to you all?[ 21/10/18 18:46 ]  →  bunch of absolute idiots[ 21/10/18 18:47 ]  →  newsflash: the montagues are just as stupid as the capulets!

Calls made this week

0Calls missed this week

1

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[graceydaly]

📱:)

Number saved as

Thing 2

Contact photo

Last 5 sent texts

[ 10/10/18 11:30 ]  →  no, buy your own fucking orange juice [ 19/10/18 13:07 ]  →  awww does somebody miss living with me? tough shit [ 25/10/18 19:14 ]  →  everything that leaves everett’s mouth is bullshit[ 25/10/18 19:28 ]  →  well ok yeah that’s true but at least i didn’t stab him with it [ 25/10/18 19:29 ]  →  whatever, you can tell him to suck my dick

Last 5 unsent texts

[ 10/10/18 11:30 ]  →  UGHHHHHHHH SHUT UP[ 18/10/18 07:29 ]  →  i’m moving back to my place today, ciao[ 19/10/18 13:05 ]  →  thanks for letting me stay or whatever[ 25/10/18 19:15 ]  →  it pisses me off how much time you spend with him[ 25/10/18 19:28 ]  →  i fucking should have though

Calls made this week

0Calls missed this week

2

Last snapchat sent

[graceydaly]

                          Life is not as dangerous as mother said.                                                                       It is more dangerous, more wide.

[graceydaly]

                         [ @catherinedaly  ] 0007. 30/09/2018. 17:38PM. CATHERINE’S HOME

The storm turns her basement flat into an indoor swimming pool which, whilst impressive, is highly inconvenient and not at all fun to paddle in. An unhappy grimace lines her face as Grace wades through the soup that her home had become, cold, murky rainwater seeping into her jeans and boots as she half-stomps, half-splashes, into her bedroom and salvages what she can from above the water line. Shooting a hearty fuck you text at her landlord, she slams the front door shut behind her. A smarter person would figure out how to deal with flood damage. A wiser person would have invested in sandbags prior to the weather changing. Grace Daly, however, was simply going to bat her lashes at her father and let him deal with insurance issues and whatever boring paperwork came with it. She was the one who liked to make messes -- she couldn’t possibly be held responsible for sorting them.

Shouldering the black bin liner that holds the dry contents of her life, the small matter of where to spend the next few nights is considered as she strides boldly through Capulet territory. It was going to take more than a town-rattling storm to force her back under her parent’s roof, and whilst the Montagues had been reasonably tolerant of her thus far she highly doubted any of them were going to offer a sofa to a woman who would have once slit their throats in their sleep (and, quite frankly, still might). With a heavy sigh and an even heavier scowl, she finds her feet carrying her towards a known dwelling -- partly reluctant to call upon them, partly pleased to become a burden in their life. Grace kicks over the plant pot that conceals a spare key and lets herself in, the scent of chamomile, scented candles, and her youngest sister’s perfume all but smacking her in the face.

It’s the sort of apartment that their parents would have picked out for her had she given them the luxury of applying their terrible taste to her choice of real estate (her mother never visited the so-called dark grotto-turned-pool she lived in, which was kind of the point). A chipped-nail polish fingernail flicks at the airy curtains and she pushes the cushions that have taken over the bed onto the floor, making herself at home in Catherine’s absence. When the lock on the door does click open, she’s already lounging on the sofa flicking through various tv channels. “Your fridge is empty,” she informs her sibling, offering the briefest of glances before returning her attention to the television screen. “I ate the good stuff. All that’s left is a disgusting amount of fruit and vegetables. You need to go shopping.”