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a drabble for melancholy monday because, well, why not?
(not edited, slightly mature but nothing explicit just brief mentions)
She was careful.
Mel was so, so incredibly careful. Meticulously crafted emails -- double, triple, quadrouple checked for any hint of an underlying meaning. If it looked questionable to untainted eyes. If she seemed too invested, too eager, too much.
But the screen doesn't lie. And Mel's breaths come in rasped, broken spurts. Lips dry, throat practically closing in on itself. It didn't matter how careful she'd been. There was always a risk. Even if Mel pretended it didn't exist for the sake of her own selfish desires.
From: Abby Langdon <[email protected]>
To: Melissa King <[email protected]>
Subject: Playtime is over, Melissa.
Oh, what a pleasure this is. We haven't formally met but I'm certain you know all about me. Frank loves to complain about the old ball and chain, I'm sure.
I admire your valiant effort, but I wouldn't put "homewrecker" on your resume, Melissa King. You're horrible at it.
If Frank were married to anyone else, your little cryptic notes and imbedded links might have flown under the radar. I'm sure you felt very proud, stashing those skimpy little lingerie photos in otherwise innocent looking attachments. God, you're bold.
Look, I'm not a monster. I get it, he's some hotshot doctor with a dreary past and you've got complex daddy issues and a desperation to save what's never really been yours. I get it. I was like you, once.
I was the secret. I was the girl receiving flirty texts from a taken man, hiding expensive lingerie under my clothes. Fucking in the backseat of his car. Leaving traces of myself for her to see, for Frank to fumble and come crawling to me. But I got the ring, Mel. Me, not her.
Not you.
I suggest you wipe your email. Do whatever you have to. Pay off IT to scrub it if you're incapable, which I doubt.
Playtime is over, so get the fuck out of my sandbox. End things with Frank and I'll keep this between us.
Ciao,
Abby Langdon
Mel knew better. Frank had told her about Abby's line of work -- senior software engineer at some cushy tech firm based out of New York. Mel knew the risk of Abby finding out but did it anyway.
The email throttles her. Tears prick at her eyes, splotches of pink decorate her face. Her fingers tremble on the keyboard of her laptop, moments away from drafting an email to IT -- begging them to scrub her account. That she'd gotten hacked, or something, but keep it simple enough so that it doesn't cause a panic within PTMC to investigate further.
Instead, out of desperation, Mel scrambles for her phone. The call goes straight to Frank's voicemail within a fraction of a second. No ringing, no anticipation, just his bleak, tired voice saying to leave a message after the beep. Thanks, bye.
She can't lose him. She was so close. So fucking close. He was right there, in the palm of her hand, lying to his wife to spend the night in her bed. Leaving marks on her skin she wanted tattooed there, cooking breakfast in her kitchen, avoiding the inevitable.
But he was never really hers. He'll always be Abby's.
Happy melancholy Monday, everyone.
something’s moving
I can feel her
won’t stop going through my head
I know you’re sharing beds
well I’m a fucking mess
just tell me it wasn’t Jess
but I know,
I know
I know
I just started watching Bocchi the rock, Happy Melancholy Monday everyone
Tabby's Writing Game: Day 1
Melancholy Monday!!
In retrospect, I should have switched the first Monday for a different one, but... too late now 😅
Bring on the meowch! (that's "meow" and "ouch" combined, btw)
TRIGGER WARNING: animal death
Louis watched from his little corner in Harry’s altar room as his partner frantically rushed around the space, clearly stressed as they moved jerkily, their hands trembling. With the Winter Solstice only two and a half weeks away, they had very little time to prepare all the supplies they needed and to craft all the items they wanted before the solar-celebrative Sabbat arrived. It wouldn’t have been so bad had their last set of Winter Solstice candles not burned down completely last year, but alas, they had, so they had to make new ones from scratch. Louis felt his heart ache as he caught Harry occasionally wiping a stray tear from their cheeks. They were desperately missing their former Familiar, Shadow, who had passed away around this time four years ago. Shadow had been a large black tomcat with one grey ear, who Harry had received as their first pet as a child (hence the very uncreative name given by the then eight-year-old Harry, not that Shadow himself seemed to mind) and later discovered that he was their first Familiar. Shadow had passed about a week after the Solstice that year, holding on just long enough for one last Sabbat and the joy that came with Louis’ birthday and Christmas, too. On the day he’d passed, Harry had curled up with him in bed upstairs and Louis had joined them, too, after a while. He’d also dearly loved Shadow during the two years he’d known Harry’s Familiar, and Shadow loved him, too, though their connection was nowhere near as deep as the one between Shadow and Harry. Shadow purred the entire time they doted over him, his jowls seeming to lift with a cattish almost-smile. When those purrs began to stutter and weaken, though, Harry had quietly told Shadow that he could let go, that it was okay. Shadow held on as long as he could, nuzzling into Harry’s neck as he took his last few breaths, purring until the last. Louis had held onto both of them as Harry held Shadow’s lifeless body and cried, crying into Harry’s curls himself. The next day, Shadow had been cremated, and the small urn his ashes were in, along with an ink print of his paw, a tuft of his fur, his collar and a colour photo in a frame that Harry had handmade never left their altar after that, always there in tribute to their loved and lost Familiar.
The urge to run away from everything is very strong today.