Hm, been thinking about sharing my personal headcanons for Sal, Kira (OC) and the rest of the gang although.. I fear some people within the fandom will not like my headcanon for a few of the characters and completely witch-hunt me.
Actually I feel some won't like my headcanons for Sal, Larry or Ash. Spoiler! I HC Ash as lesbian even though I genuinely hate Ash - won't be writing her out she's like a big sister to the gang.
It also isn't a shocker I won't be drawing Ash.
Off Topic: to get my mind off of the current situation going on within my family life (it's incredibly bad) going to slowly draw more as a way to have fun but also a tool for healing and also go through my inbox - tend to forget to check my inbox, hardly do much on my blog. I apologize everyone.
despite being the same height as teens, Sal loves picking up his gal. (my OC). unsure if I posted this sketch I did awhile ago of Kira n' Sal but.. here ya go. :p
Ok listen. I’m aware the active sally face fandom on here is abysmally tiny. Buuut like if I were to post a spiderman au salvis socmed au would anyone be interested or
The faucet shuts off with a sharp click that, for an instant, seems almost louder than it should. Delayna moves a strand of hair away from her forehead with the damp back of her hand, smearing soap on herself and sighing softly, then lowers her gaze again to the plate she still has between her fingers. She has been scrubbing it for more than half an hour.
Or, at least, that is the impression she has. It is probably not even the same plate, but at a certain point they all end up looking alike, especially when Bryan decides to eat.
Sometimes she wonders whether he leaves everything in that state on purpose or whether he is simply incapable of noticing it. She leans more toward the second.
She continues running the sponge over the ceramic with a little more force than necessary, letting out a barely perceptible huff.
It is almost nine in the evening and her father still has not come home from work. Lately it happens more and more often. That case he keeps talking about is consuming him day after day and, no matter how much he insists that everything is fine, Delayna begins to wonder how much longer he can go on before something truly breaks.
The light bulb above the sink flickers slightly but she continues washing the plate as though nothing had happened. It happens often. That house has always had something that does not work as it should.
Then a creak comes, but this time it does not come from the plumbing. It comes from the hallway. Her hand stops and she remains still, listening, even holding her breath for a few seconds. She would like to convince herself that it is the wood. Old houses make noise, it is normal. The problem is that wood does not sigh.
What she hears, this time, sounds far too much like the slow and tired breathing of someone who has remained still in the shadows for an indefinite amount of time. And the thing that bothers her most is not even fear. Fear, in a certain sense, is something one gets used to. It is that irritating feeling of never being able to distinguish the exact moment when something stops being only suggestion and becomes real. That is what tightens her stomach every time. Because part of her keeps telling herself that there is no one in the hallway.
And yet, Delayna knows perfectly well who that sound belongs to. After all, there is only one person who sighs that way.
She places the plate on the windowsill with a gesture a little rougher than necessary and slowly breathes in, as though that simple breath could prepare her for what she is about to see.
When she turns around, the floor is stained with blood. Her gaze almost immediately slides toward those tracks crossing the hallway: they are paws.
She follows them without even realizing it, until she comes across some feathers scattered across the parquet, also soaked in red.
Some are still whole, others seem to have been torn out with too much force. For some reason, she thinks that is always the detail that affects her the most.
The figure comes out of the darkness, clenching the lifeless body of a crow between its teeth. It holds it tightly between its jaws, letting some feathers slip from its lips together with thin red threads. It is a scene that should disgust her. Perhaps it truly does disgust her. The problem is that, after all those years, that is no longer the first emotion she feels.
The first is relief. Because at least, now, she knows where it is. She knows that it is here and not going around causing damage across Iowa.
She raises her gaze. The creature's eyes are crimson, so bright that they seem alive with their own light. Around them, however, there is no white, only the black of the sclera. An absolute black that spreads all the way to the edges of the eyelids, and it smiles at her. It always smiles when it sees her. Perhaps this is the only thing that, in all those years, has never changed.
The creature opens its mouth wide and the crow slips from its teeth, falling back onto the floor with a dull thud. One of the wings remains bent beneath the body in such a wrong position that she looks away almost immediately. She almost shudders.
Where is Bryan? She wonders perhaps with the slightest hint of unease; something does not feel entirely right to her. Every time she... becomes like this, Bryan is there. Now, instead, he is not. The hallway is empty. There is only that presence and its breathing. No, it is not even breathing. It sounds more like a low, long whistle.
For some reason Delayna is convinced that the crow is not prey. It is a warning. She would not know how to explain why she is so certain of it.
A sudden bang makes her jump. Someone is pounding hard on the bathroom door.
«Delayna!» Bryan's voice crosses the house with all the urgency it is capable of. She instinctively steps backward. Now she understands even better, it locked him inside.
The beast tilts its head slightly, as though that gesture had amused it. And then it laughs with a low, broken, almost childish sound, and precisely because of that even more difficult to bear. When it speaks, its voice seems to come from too far away to truly be in front of her. «Run.»
The young woman spins around and runs toward the kitchen. She does not even manage to take two steps before that growl echoes through the house again, much closer than it should be. She does not have the courage to turn around. After all, what would be the point? She already knows what she would see. She has known for years. She knows every time her sister becomes like this.
She hears only the sound of the six arms hitting the floor one after another, with a terribly fast rhythm. It is a sound no one should ever learn to recognize but she has. By now she would distinguish it even among a hundred other noises.
Something grabs her hair with such violence that it takes her breath away. For an instant she even thinks that her scalp is about to tear off. The next moment the wall comes toward her or perhaps she is the one who ends up against it. She would not be able to say with precision.
She feels only the blow, her nose immediately throbbing and that irritating ringing in her ears that always appears when she hits her head too hard. A hiss of pain escapes her.
Her palms instinctively search for the wall and, almost without her asking, shadows begin to move beside her.
Black hands stretch along the plaster, slip between the cracks, seek the creature's six arms in an attempt to immobilize it. For an instant Delayna even hopes.
Then a simple movement of the arm is enough. The shadow fingers crack one after another, crumble apart. It always happens. Ever since she remembers possessing that power, it always ends this way. She has never managed to stop her sister's fury. Perhaps because that anger is simply too great. Or perhaps because what lives inside Valeska no longer belongs to this world and she... she is still too inexperienced to oppose something so ancient.
She is hurled to the other side of the hallway and falls forward without managing to protect herself and her cheek scrapes against the parquet. The burning comes immediately afterward, together with the taste of blood filling her mouth. She barely has time to lift herself onto one elbow before the creature is already above her. She does not even remember seeing it jump.
The six arms pin her against the floor and two of them grip her wrists with so much violence that they will surely leave bruises.
Delayna slowly turns her face to the other side. She does not want to look at her and in truth she does not want to look at the wall either.
Because every time it happens, those symbols begin to appear again.
She does not even remember the last time she truly looked at them. As a child she always insisted on watching them until the end, convinced that, sooner or later, they would stop seeming so incomprehensible. It never happened. She only ended up with terrible headaches and a number of questions that no one, not even her grandmother, had ever been able to answer.
So she keeps her gaze lowered. It is much simpler. The symbols, after all, continue to appear anyway. She sees them out of the corner of her eye reflected on the floor, distorted by the blood, and for an instant they almost seem to move. It could only be an impression. After all her head throbs so strongly that it makes it difficult for her to distinguish what truly exists from what the pain decides to show her. But it happens every time and she finds it difficult to believe that every one of those times was only imagination.
One of the six hands moves slowly. The fingers bend one at a time, revealing long, thin nails, so sharp that they look like blades. For a moment she thinks it wants to stroke her face. It is such a foolish and idiotic thought, she realizes it almost immediately.
The claw sinks into her side and Delayna opens her mouth wide, but the pain is so sudden that it prevents her even from screaming. It feels as though someone has shoved a red-hot iron bar inside her body and keeps twisting it.
That kind of pain that crosses her side, climbs along her back, tightens her stomach, makes her legs tremble even though they are not even supporting her weight. She feels something warm fill her throat. She instinctively coughs and the taste of blood invades her tongue again with a violence that makes her nauseous. A drop slides down the side of her lips and falls onto the floor.
For some reason, she thinks precisely of that one. Of that small drop of blood.
The brain, when it is afraid, clings to such insignificant things.
Because the rest of her thoughts seem to have dissolved at the exact moment that claw passed through her flesh.
I am going to die.
It is a sentence she does not say. She would not even have the strength. It simply appears in her mind. And the thing that strikes her most is not the idea of death. It is everything that remains behind. She finds herself thinking of her father, Bryan, her grandmother. She finds herself thinking of all the times she told herself "I will do it tomorrow" without imagining that, perhaps, tomorrow might never come. There were so many things she wanted to see. So many questions she hoped to find an answer to. Even dreams she kept postponing because, deep down, she thought she still had all the time in the world. What a strange lie time tells. It convinces you that it belongs to you, until it suddenly decides to remind you that it never did.
Delayna can no longer distinguish those symbols clearly because the lines begin to blur into one another until they turn into something completely incomprehensible. Tears slide down her cheeks and she understands that, most likely, it is only her eyesight failing her. She would like to move. She would even like to scream again. Anything in order to react. The problem is that her body seems to have made a completely different decision from hers. Every muscle protests, every breath becomes shorter than the previous one and even slightly lifting her chin seems like an excessive effort. She wonders whether this is what it feels like when one is truly close to the end.
Then something falls onto her face, it is a slimy and cold drop.
"It is drooling", she thinks mistakenly. After all, it would not even be the most absurd thing that happened that evening. And yet that sensation continues to seem... different.
She raises her gaze and sees that her sister is crying. She remains still staring at her, almost even forgetting the pain that continues throbbing in her side. In all those years it had never happened. She does not remember a single time when those irises, now so distant that they seem to belong to someone else, had let a tear fall. It is such an absurd discovery that it makes her doubt even what she has before her eyes. Perhaps she is imagining everything. Perhaps the blood she has lost is enough to make her see what she wishes to see. Or... or it really is her.
Because, for the first time in such a long time, there is something in that gaze that Delayna recognizes.
The creature's lips tremble slightly, its voice is crossed by that irritating metallic effect that seems to break every word before it can even be completed.
«I am... sorry...» it whispers, «They forced me...» Another tear falls onto her face. This time Delayna is sure that it is not her own. «...I had no choice.»
The pain continues throbbing in her side with the same persistence as before, the blood continues running down her chin and her breathing is so short that it gives her the impression that her lungs have forgotten how to function. Then, suddenly, the weight holding her down disappears. A sharp noise breaks the silence of the hallway. Something shatters. Delayna opens her eyes wide almost by reflex. Her sister staggers backward. Among her hair, among the blood and those six arms that continue moving in a disjointed way, there are the shards of an old terracotta vase. For an instant the creature remains motionless, as though even she were trying to understand what had just happened.
Bryan is there. He is breathing heavily, one hand still resting on the frame of the completely smashed door. He must have broken it down with his shoulder.
Dely lowers her gaze slightly toward the broken wood and almost feels like smiling. It is such a Bryan thing that, even in a situation like this, she cannot imagine a different way in which he could have entered. He, however, is not smiling at all. His chest rises and falls so quickly that it makes it seem as though he had run through the whole house without stopping even for a second. «Leave her alone.»
Bryan does not waste even a second. He crouches beside her and slips an arm behind her back to help her stand again. Delayna holds her breath and the very moment she straightens, her side seems to rebel with violence, forcing her to bend slightly forward. Instinctively she brings one hand to the wound and presses it with all the strength she has.
«Quickly!» he exclaims, continually turning toward the hallway. «We have to get out of here!»
She nods slightly. She is not sure she is still able to speak. She has the feeling that, if she opened her mouth, only another moan would come out. Bryan grabs her wrist and begins dragging her out of the house without giving her time to catch her breath.
Around them there is only the darkness of the countryside. The cornfield sways beneath the wind, producing a continuous rustling that, on any other occasion, would have seemed almost relaxing to her. This time every noise seems to hide another. They continue running. At least, Bryan runs. Delayna desperately tries to keep up with him, but every step tears such a strong stab of pain from her side that, for a moment, it makes her believe her legs are about to give out.
Shortly afterward they hear that breathing again, only a few seconds are enough for it to become recognizable once more, deep and familiar. It is following them. They understand it better when the corn begins to part behind them with a brutality that the wind, alone, could never have. The stalks break one after another, torn apart by bare hands, as though someone were crossing the field without caring in the slightest about what they encounter along their path.
Delayna does not dare turn around. Part of her would like to do it. Perhaps to understand how close it is. Perhaps to convince herself that there is still a distance that can be increased. The other part, however, is too afraid to discover that that distance no longer exists.
She feels like crying. Her body has long since exceeded the limit of what it can endure and yet it continues asking her to go on. Bryan, instead, does not slow down. He grips her wrist with all the strength he has, almost dragging her weight whenever he sees her lose her balance. She stumbles several times, feels the corn stalks scratching her legs, the ground giving way beneath her feet, but he does not let her go.
They cross the road without looking. There is no time to check whether someone is coming. There is only the sound of that breathing getting closer and closer. Bryan yanks her with all the strength he has left to force her to increase her pace. Delayna feels something give in her arm. A dull, wet crack, followed by such a violent stab of pain that it erases every other pain. The scream explodes in her throat before she can even hold it back. Her elbow gives out completely and her arm remains in an unnatural position, devoid of any strength. Bryan spins around and the color leaves his face. He immediately understands what has happened. «D... Dely...»
Something appears in her brother's eyes that hurts even more than the dislocation. Guilt. Because he knows he hurt her. He knows it was him. But he also knows that, if he had loosened his grip even for a single second... his sister probably would no longer be there with him.
They reach the side of the road almost stumbling over one another. Bryan stops abruptly, and the corn behind them parts with a sudden tear. The creature emerges from the darkness without slowing down, covered in blood, its six arms moving over the wet ground.
He turns toward Delayna and holds her against himself with both arms, forcing her face against his chest as he used to do when they were children whenever there was a storm that was too strong.
The beast launches itself toward the road without even slowing down. In the distance a sudden screech is heard. A car appears from around the bend and the driver instinctively swerves in a desperate attempt to avoid it: it is too late.
The impact is nothing more than a deafening roar. The creature's body is struck full on and hurled forward with unnatural violence. The car completely loses control, crosses the road sideways and ends its course against the trunk of an old tree at the edge of the road.
Delayna slowly raises her gaze beyond her brother's shoulder. She would like to convince herself that she imagined everything. She would like it to be only another one of that night's illusions. But the body left wedged against the trunk is real just as the blow that tears through her at the level of her stomach is real. The upper part has remained crushed against the crumpled hood, while the lower one lies motionless a few meters farther back, hidden among the tall grass and shards of glass.
The six arms, motionless until an instant before, all stiffen together. The creature's breathing stops with a broken sound, as though something had lodged in its throat. The arms fall back onto the hood of the car with a dull thud. This time they do not rise again.
«Valeska!» Delayna's scream tears through the silence of the countryside with such violence that it sends the crows perched on the nearby trees into flight. She tries to struggle free but Bryan holds her even tighter, preventing her from taking even a single step.
«No!» she slurs, her voice now broken by tears. «Bryan, let me go! Let me go!» But he does not loosen his grip. He keeps his face hidden in her hair and continues holding her as though that alone were enough to protect her from everything that has happened. One hand firmly on her side.
He remains motionless. His eyes fixed on the destroyed car. On the body that no longer moves. For the first time in years, he feels something he had almost forgotten existed. Relief.
It is a thought that strikes him suddenly and of which he is immediately ashamed. Because that, before becoming a monster, had been his sister. And yet he cannot stop himself from thinking it. It is over. Truly over. They will no longer have to barricade themselves inside the house every night. They will no longer have to look over their shoulders every time they go out. They can start again. Somewhere else, far from that house, and build themselves a new life. A different future.
