➸ Character poster for Strawberry Split Lip by @infiniteecosmos
The real place this story starts is here: him, a week prior, in the middle of Hanging Neck woods. Holding a knife in one hand and an old, chewed up dog toy that he pulled off the last barge run in the other. The handle of the knife is flecked with blood, but the blade is clean; it’s always best if the blade is clean.
My edit. Sources: Descendants (2015), Unsplash, Pixabay. Please do not use/repost.
Happy Palentine's Day to some of my favourite people! The Transcendent @villainsnest, the Amaranthine @everfairestar, the Seraphic @telli1206, and the Empyreal @infiniteecosmos! 💕
Stock: Unsplash, Pixabay. Please don't use or edit my work without permission.
Teen | Drabble | Carvie | Resurrection, Dark Devotion, Mild Horror
A/N: A little gift for my lovely friend @infiniteecosmos. <3 Please note that dialogue is presented in an experimental style in this fic (insp. the novel NW by Zadie Smith). Also, "Red Day" is my original concept for how Valentine's Day might be "celebrated" on the Isle.
On the Isle, they call it Red Day, for all the blood in the streets. Death. More than usual. Screaming, crying, all what’s familiar—just more. More for some, that is, but not for Carlos. Never less than blood and tears and so much noise it turns to static, glasses clinking, bottles dropping, shards all scattered, deathly silence, heavy breaths.
He hears footsteps as the last thing sometimes, smells her breath as she starts to speak—probably cursing him to live. And he does. But he dies first. On Red Day or Monday or some winter evening or a sunny afternoon. He doesn’t always track the date, you know—it doesn’t matter. But that day, it must have been in February—
That day, when he returned, it was to thinking he was still dead, in a dream he had between of sleeping warm beneath cloud cover—thick blue night air pulled up to his shoulders, the scent of flowers in the grass—the dark sheen grass that spilled like oceans, like her hair—
Just like her hair.
She was laying beside him.
— Evie.
— Carlos.
He slips back into present with that single whisper, hearing his name as assurance he is. He takes a slow breath, swallows a gasp—feels the pain and the pleasure of Evie tracing her fingers over spiderweb cracks. His skull had split open. He remembers the feeling.
The bones are still healing, quicker surely from that touch.
There is a little magic even here on the island—but only ever from Good, only ever from Love, only ever from such words that are spoken like poison, spat on the floor—should never be felt—
Evie pulls back her hand and lets it rest on Carlos’ shoulder. She kisses his forehead, leaving red where the blood was. She pulls back altogether and her bedroom opens up, moonlight showing through the windows—fuzzy, muted white, tinted golden from the barrier.
He should be waking under soil or on the shoreline or an alley.
She knows what he’s thinking.
— I know where to look.
When she can’t find him, she means. He doesn’t press for more. Some children get coffins or tucked into bed, some children are garbage and he knows which he is. Evie doesn’t like to say it—
But she’ll have thrown out his old clothes.
They’re not ones to waste, but sometimes, sometimes—
There’s not patches to be made, not even rags or bandage strips.
— I was going to wait to give this to you.
And there’s the proof of her guilt, the proof of what she’s thinking. She’s got something to replace, something to make up for—like she hadn’t dragged his corpse home, cleaned him, changed his clothes, made him comfy there beside her with his skin still blue and cold.
— It’s not my birthday.
Probably not. His mother never told him.
Evie tosses her hair and rolls her eyes skyward—all the way through the ceiling, all the way through the barrier. Then she cracks a little smile and takes a seat there beside him, on the edge of the bed.
She’s gotten something from her dresser drawer.
It’s sitting in her lap, wrapped neatly in paper—butcher’s paper, clearly used. That’s traditional for Red Day. It must be getting close.
He pushes up against the pillows, brain spinning in his skull but the bed at least feels solid. Not as hard as the floor, just solid. He plants his palms flat, pressed to the sheets, lets his spine curl back until the pillows mold around him, and finally reaches for the present—
It’s weighted in his hands, wetness seeping through the paper.
— Whose is it?
He asks that, having not peeled back the paper. There’s just—and he’s not one for the mystic—but there’s just this… feeling he gets, when there’s a heart in his hands. Like he can still feel it beating.
— Cruella.
She says that and never “your mother.”
She says that and he smiles, and she leans in to kiss him, and there’s blood stains on her nightgown—old and new, because he knows now that she hasn’t laid beside him the whole night, waiting.
He doesn’t say that he loves her, because that word isn’t theirs.
They are the children of monsters.
They might be monsters, themselves.
Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. If you’d like to leave a kudos or comment on AO3, I’d really love that, as well! ♥
hello there my friend! I am here to wish you a happy birthday! I hope your birthday is a good one, with good food and good company and perhaps even dog cuddles.
If you’ll allow me to get slightly sappy for a moment, I’d like to say that you are a deeply thoughtful person. something I really admire you for is how much you think things through and consider things as they happen. you are cool and intelligent and like, one of the most creative people I’ve ever met. genuinely. you can flesh a half-joking idea out like it’s nothing, it’s great.
I really cherish your friendship, and talking to you and sharing writing is always a joy.
merry meet and merry part ❤️ happy birthday
@infiniteecosmos HI BLAKE 🥹🥹🥹 THANK YOU, THIS IS SO *head in hands* I am having the loveliest birthday and reading this first thing in the day just makes it even better. I will absolutely allow you to get sappy because we love being sappy with our friends in this house.
And please, you’re so sweet, I really cherish your friendship as well! You’re such an amazing writer, not just because your words are so beautiful and gripping, but because the way you characterize, write dialogue, write dynamics… I end up feeling like I’ve known your OCs for years and that the characters you’re borrowing (like Carlos and Silver) are secretly your own lmao. I WISH THEY WERE YOURS TBH because you get them more than their creators gods bless djakgdjskgjdk.
Anyway, I could ramble forever because I have nothing but good things to say about you, but for now let’s just return to THANK YOU so much… for this message and for your friendship, because the feeling is very much mutual that talking to you and sharing writing is always a joy. Merry meet and merry part! ❤️
