#turnyourbackandrun

[camebackforthehat]

((I'm justღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღgonna creep on inღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღand leave these hereღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღif that's coolღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღ))

i don’t deserve this kind of praise ;-;

[askrossiel]

//Mun sees you!

[daughterofanchorage-blog]

+ turn-your-back-and-run + mrsalisonchoi

Gipsy was tired. There was a heaviness inside her that weighed her down, that made her shoulders slump as she sat in a corner of the hangar bay, gazing up at where she had been once upon a time. There was a desperate longing inside her, a yearning to be that mech again, to be standing tall and proud and feeling the neural connection between her pilots again. Now there just nothing but a loneliness, an emptiness, a sort of darkness.

She looked down, wiping her eyes as the tears spilled down her cheeks, not even aware that someone had seen her.

[myownprivatetrap-blog]

speeding onwards || norman & bernadette

Twenty-two years. 

Norman, now with a clean bill of mental health, had to spend twenty-two years in a psychiatric care facility before anyone was convinced that he was fit to be seen in public again. Because he wasn't his mother, not anymore. He didn't get as kiss close, in your face, personal. He was no longer a knife attack personified, remixed, set to an old jazz tune; that warm gush of blood against the white shine of a bathroom floor. That slip slide sound upon entrance to some poor girl's bucket of innards. He was no longer the screams that accompanied the last few breaths of a dying victim. 

Norman-- Norman just wasn't that type of guy.

He remembered, now, the bits that he wasn't supposed to recall. When he'd told the tale in group therapy, once, someone told him, "You're a cold blooded guy," and Norman gave them a look, just a look. One that clearly said, you have ten seconds to say something relevant before I sink this pen so deep in your leg that you shit a whole fucking monologue, and the tap tap tap of his fingers against his plastic chair counted down the numbers to the death sentence.

But Norman wasn't his mother. He doesn't get all romantic about music like his mother did, but he put just as much passion into his work as she had done, so long ago; he still put just as much pride in his abilities.

And when that nobody from before, in group therapy, had tried to sabotage Norman, had called him a psycho (a name which spread like wildfire throughout the excited madhouse crowd), Norman felt the liquid black emotion seeping into his heart; but he worked with it, professionally, like how a real man of class would go about it. The nobody sort of stood there and sweated.

Norman looked at him. Smiled, sweet like molasses. He wasn't that type of guy-- not anymore.

It was late afternoon, with the sun beating relentlessly down on the back of his neck. Norman ran a hand over it uncomfortably as he double-checked the address. Glanced again at the door, then to the scrap of paper in his hand. Behind him, the county sheriff -- nothing but supportive -- waved him goodbye like a doting mother before driving off.  Taking a deep, somewhat shaky breath, Norman rang the doorbell and waited, rocking slightly on his heels like a bored child.

Government mandated therapy wasn't Norman's idea of a good time. Unfortunately, with his insistence on living in his childhood home, and on running his motel again, the sheriff -- the state -- had pressed the need for counseling. Luckily, they'd allowed Norman to pick one out for himself. Someone out of the way, a small business, not in an elaborate office, but in a home. 

A drop of sweat ran down the side of his neck. He swallowed, nervously, and waited.

[patrickxthegoodkid]

+12

{ I have no gifs or icons because I can find none so here, have a crappy starter.}     There was silence around him as he sat in the grass; it wasn't usually something he did because truth be told? He hated bugs, but he was already sick; a slight cough he'd had for a couple of days that wouldn't leave no matter how much water he gargled or drank. So a bug wouldn't make him worse; with that thought - the teen unceremoniously flopped backwards in the gross with a groan. "Stupid heat.." He grumbled. 

          He had a fleeting thought that he should probably go get a drink of water to cool himself down, and yet he honestly didn't want to move; it was peaceful - save for the groans of the Walker's against the fence, but once he blocked that out; he could close dark eyes and actually enjoy the sun warming his skin and the peaceful moment he could steal for himself. 

                   Relaxation was a rare thing to find nowadays, and he was honestly waiting for someone to yell at him - give him some orders or ask him to do something, which was inevitable truthfully. 

[taintedbythevenomoflies-blog]

"You wouldn't be up for a bit of mischief would you? I'm tempted to play a few tricks instead giving out treats."

[wewillexhume]

+4 realized they weren't alone

At first all that was detectible was a grunt, and the sound of shuffling feet. But then he was there, snarling almost. His nostrils filled with the scent of the living. His fingers twitched, and slowly he lifted his hand in a wave.

[rockstarprophet-blog]

turn-your-back-and-run started following you

Did my mother hire you? Is she trying to throw me in the looney bin again?