#offsrail

[hinips]

looking at her like this, it's hard to recognise her. with his tie suffocating him, Tony wants to hug his little sister and tell her how he's going to fix it. like he hopes he can. but a part of him is worried that this time, he can't. that this time, her tears have left too much of a stain and she can't quite seem to fix it with any amount of bleach. “ oh effy ... ” two hands wipe his face. the metallic room they sit in feels preposterous — they should be sat in their living room right now, mum upstairs, love on the spectrum on the telly, an unfinished game of scrabble on the table. her, sat on the floor facing the tv, and tony, laid on the sofa, hands behind his head, legs crossed. it's not fucking fair. nothing about this is fair but the law isn't fair, a lesson he's learned that by now. “ how am i gonna get you out of this one? ” @offsrail– –

[hinips]

“ your mam's a chip off the old block. ” face winces at the sight of her. a wreck, simple hues of greyscale – not a spec of colour on even her skin. “ a fuckin' weirdo. you're both skitz. don' think she's as bad as you though. ” cook scoffs as he blows out fag smoke right through her, it could almost knock the girl over but he doesn't care. doesn't care about much anyway. @offsrail– –

[runhyde]

-- Incoming ... ❝ i don’t plan on staying here long. ❞ @offsrail. From, Currently accepting.

Yeah, no real surprise there. most people who aren't from town don't do much more than pass through. (JERICHO, that is) a pit stop on the way to something new. the albatross that slowly suffocates with each trip around the sun, a reminder that he will never make it out of here alive. ❝ lucky you. ❞ and he means it too.

RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN, there are traps everywhere here. ready to draw unsuspecting travelers into the quicksand. don't plant your feet too hard on any surface, Never leave a mark. the kind of tips he would offer if someone asked how to escape.

and he can't help it, he's curious. ❝ where to next? ❞ the steam of coffee being poured into her mug -- a friendly barista stood beside the muffin tray. It's how he draws it in, the trust, the conversation.

HE ENJOYS THE EXCAVATION, some people come up to the counter already spilling out, but others require patience. the slow pull of thread that leads to the unwinding. ❝ if you don't mind my asking. ❞ here comes the final push, the planting of the bait that denotes that his interest is only minimal, pedestrian in nature.

[mis-timed]

(...)‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎inbox prompts, featuring @offsrail.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎__‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎everyone expected me to fall apart.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"

"‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎yes!‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎no, like‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎...‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎yes!‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎she laughs in earnest, bonding with the other while bringing a cigarette up between her teeth.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎red lip-stain encircle the paper as she strikes a lighter behind cupped hands.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎one, two, three seconds pass as she inhales, and she's courteous enough to tilt her head to the side before before blowing it into the night time air around them.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎people walk by, dressed in their best club clothes, and jenny can't help but brush judgements in her thoughts as they pass‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎(no one home would ever wear that, that's hideous, the material is cheap, so on and so forth).‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎the two of them stand in an interesting opposition, makeup smeared over their eyes rather than tightly painted with thin lines:‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎and for the first time since agnes, she's felt seen, felt found.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎they said the same shit to me‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎–‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎here.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"

between nimble fingers she passes the lit smoke to the other before crossing her arms and leaning against the dirty wall behind them.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎annoyance and appreciation decorate her features, flashes of familial and friendly memories dance in the hazy air around.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎and if i fucking did, whose fault would that be?‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"

[toprey]

nothing comes out in the wash. meaning: mari's counted the miles between her and a makeshift grave, but she still can't stop seeing the blood on her living room floor. meaning: she washed her hands six times in seven minutes, but dirt still smeared on the insides of her palms. meaning: she murdered the body but not the emotion, buried the bones but not her grief, wished for god but abandoned relief— (what do you do when you kill someone you love?) the metaphors are useless. she dropped any acts around the airport. caught a cab, downed a drink, found the silver lining between a stranger's sheets; nothing comes out in the wash. so, mari abandons ship. casts away hope. buries herself in the dark, deep, cavern of an unknown party, and pretends it's home. if she squints, there's an implication somewhere.

but some things are better off forgotten. wasted. swallowed down in the back-end of a bottle, and spit away in the morning. for now, she spins smoke through the chapped-ache of her lips, and inches herself further into a couch that's as stained as she is. ironic.

a lighter flicks against her hand, and mari's gaze latches to a stare as intent as hers is. so, @offsrail's observant, not oblivious. quiet, but not naive. a half-tipsy smirk inches up the right side of mari's face, and carves a dimple into her cheek. "you always s — stare at people like that?" her voice carries over the thump of the bass. the roar of some nearby crowd. her boot kicks against a scuffed coffee table, and a bottle sways atop it. she kicks again. "it's rude, you know. th — they say so. the, uh—" a light gesture, with a lighter still palmed in her hand. "the people who make up shit."