#t: open.

[dustlnds]

where: blue hill diner, 13 pm. to: open @redridgestart​

lunch hour was, as usual, a close rendition to hell on earth. customers had rushed in and out, and it felt like lately everyone had been just a little more on edge than usual — the usual grind of this job had been rendered lifelessly cruel, even, when every single customer appeared to be carelessly neurotic, harsh and simply looking for reasons to get angry. and she felt all of it — like their anger was some sort of virus, and inside of her it felt heavy, something like a sour aftertaste sticking to the back of her tongue. she was tired, running around delivering orders with a thin film of sweat gathering on her back, her shirt sticking to her skin. by the time she’d managed to catch a break, the sun was scalding hot outside. 

she’d smoked in silence, though her nervousness couldn’t be wiped away by nicotine. something had been ticking her for days; not just the regular incursions of valencia people showing up on her doorstep (how she hated those visits), nor the low influx of customers asking for tattoos. it was something in the air, rather; she’d been trying so hard to avoid newspapers and headlines, and yet it felt they’d changed the atmosphere in its core. heading back inside, then, exhaustion fell upon her bones — she had to get back inside, instead took her place on the curb and let her cigarette burn down to cinders. the second she could hear steps, her reflex was spontaneous — “i’ll be there in a sec. just — gimme a minute”.

[stfreds-a]

where: st. peter’s, 8 pm. to: open @redridgestart​

mopey faces aren’t unusual in this corner of the earth. either you walk in here for a drink before getting your ass kicked at rogue’s, or you’re coming for a place where all your sorrows, your failures and faults will fit just right in with the chipped paneling on the walls, the stains on the floor and the ever present smell of ancient booze seeping beneath the floorboards. somehow, she likes it — feels right at home among broken things, be them humans or the cracking shards of glass beneath the counter. she waltzes from one corner of the counter to the other with ease, and she is grateful for the grind of every day: it keeps the thoughts at bay, as if evil had no reason to crawl through the door of st. peter’s — shit’s been rotten for far too long already, in here.

she, however, still feels a certain responsibility for everyone’s sorrow. it weighs over her; as if any disruption of an otherwise precarious, but trustworthy balance, automatically became a direct consequence of her presence when it happened around her. egomaniacal, perhaps: she still felt it was her duty to correct its existence. so, hands dutifully polishing a load of spoons before setting them back in the drawer, fred’s eyebrows quirk in inquisitive interest. “long day?”,  the hint of a smirk pulling the corner of her lips upwards. “i’m not gonna have to start crackin’ jokes like some tv bartender, am i ?”

[empiricst]

where: lewis’, 10 pm. to: open @redridgestart​

her thoughts have been slipping past her grip, lately. they trail out of her, like snakes crawling along the streets of a town that’s looking less like a town and more like a wasteland everyday. they escape her, latch themselves onto corners of the city where the asphalt smells like blood now, or something rotten, the pestilent fumes of decay. sometimes she forces herself to occupy her mind with something mundane, a small little detail to keep her tethered to a here and a now — a list of nothings to turn into white noise. a new detergent for her washing machine; that blouse she saw in the windows the other day; some flowers for the living room, red; red would look good on the white table cloth; red on white looks a lot like blood. 

she doesn’t realize that her hands have been escaping her control, too. by the time she snaps back to reality, she’s dug out the pen from her purse and has riddled a napkin with scribbles — it might look shapeless, it might look like a curly array of incoherent lines. she stares, blinks, and knows it looks just like a stain of ink. “jesus christ”, camille sighs, rubbing a hand over her face as if that could drain whatever kind of toxic sewage water has been leaking into her brain, where normal thoughts are supposed to be. glancing at the bottles behind the counter, she remembers college, how some girls would spend the night getting wasted just for the sake of it. fuck it, she’s never gotten drunk — maybe she needs to. “will you pour me another one?”, she clicks her fingernail against the empty glass, a tired look at the bartender. “actually, make it double”. 

[roadklls]

where: kara’s garage, on the outskirts of red ridge, 1 am. to: open @redridgehq​

a knock on the metal door, this late at night, was far from unusual. over time, they’d come to consider it as part of the natural soundtrack surrounding them — the cars speeding not too far from their garage, on the highway. the distant howling of dogs and coyotes, as if becoming one by a rule of the wilderness. the gunshots, now and then, which somehow always brought a faded smirk along their lips. the knocking — among those sounds, perhaps it was their favorite. meant there was business to be done. meant, most of the time, that there were reasons to get bloody. lazily, kara dragged themselves out of the messy, disheveled bed they’d been lying on, absent mindedly watching a movie from the old, grainy tv in a corner of the room. crow raised his head lazily as they passed him, and kara patted his head delicately, letting him go back to sleep. (it’s alright, boy). 

when the loud, creaking door was dragged open, kara leaned against its frame, unashamed by their half nudity (on their person nothing but underwear and a shirt from the 1998 red ridge summer camp they never attended, but got a leftover shirt from one of the other kids at st. david’s — shouldn’t be so surprising that it still fits). arms crossed, there’s a curve to their eyebrows — half skeptical perhaps, but intrigued. “so? there’s a night fee for emergencies, you know”.

[mtchstick]

where: outside violet, 1:13 am. to: open @redridgestart​

the lopsided grimace tightening her lips was a dead giveaway — tonight’s earnings amount to a black eye, a busted lip, a bruised jaw, a shoulder that hurt a little too much and a good amount of bruises she’s lost count of — it hurt like a bitch. one thing, however, was for sure: gender equality had allowed even the most retrograde specimens of valencia soldiers to reserve women the usual, fist-handed treatment. not that she hadn’t asked for it, in her own way. questions too bold, too precise to not raise a few eyebrows. one could’ve called her reckless, but she hardly cared about the consequence: she’d wanted to make waves, put some people on edge. the best observations were found when once still atoms buzzed around and crashed into one another.

still, that motherfucker had placed one hell of a hook, and her shoulder was throbbing. leaning with her back against the side of the building, mitch sighed, spat out a splash of blood and let out a curse — son of a bitch — under her breath. she needed a cigarette — badly. right as she lit it up, the flame briefly shining light over her corner of the hallway, right then her eyes met that of a not yet distinct figure: thank god for small miracles. “hey”, she called out, puffing out smoke to her left. “any chance i could hitch a ride to the hospital?”. 

[violetndhq-blog]

TEXTS 📲 CECE + {OPEN}

CECE: Listen. I love Dallas. But PLEASE tell me why I agreed to stay for a whole week?

CECE: Especially when my friends all work full time.

CECE: Please entertain me 😩

[violetndhq-blog]

TEXTS 📲 CECE + {OPEN}

CECE: Super short notice, but is there any chance you could watch my dogs for me starting tomorrow through next Saturday? I feel bad taking them on a plane again when they're just getting settled.

[violetndhq-blog]

TEXTS 📲 CECE + {OPEN}

CECE: Hi, film with me.

CECE: Like right now.

CECE: Please 💕

CECE: I'm totally in the mood for an orgasm and I feel like there's no use in putting it to waste.