#twistingdeception

[hivebody-a]

@twistingdeception

     "NOT THE hotel." Definitely not a question, rather an amused statement. A mere repetition of what’s been told to her seconds prior, echoing with the hundreds of thousands of voices that now make her own. While watching the pristine door before her (and you’d argue; there’s never been a door there; there can’t be a door there because there’s no room or corridor it can possibly lead to on the other side; and it’s going to put an itch in your brain you can never scratch out) - while watching she folds her arms on her chest, playful defiance oozing from her. Her smile, animated by the same emotion, may even look pretty in a madwoman’s eyes. 

     “Where to, then?”

[deificates]

❛      what     did     you     ever     do     to     deserve     this ?        in     all     probability ,        something     terrible .      ❜        from     @twistingdeception .        ‛    𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒    ‚        accepting .

❛❛      𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑺 .      ❜❜        he     acquiesces ,        even     as     he     is     still     thinking     it     over ;        in     this     space     that     is     theirs      &      them      &      itself     his     voice     leaves     little     ripples     like     colors ,        curling     outward     like     cartoon     effects .        in     his      &      her      &      its     head     his     thoughts     do     the     same ;        they     split     like     cells ,        they     scatter     everywhere .        her     questions     are     too     direct ,        too     inward ,        too     personal     for     its     liking .        𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓     𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃     𝐒𝐇𝐄     𝐁𝐄     𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ?        the     michael     who     did     a     terrible     thing     is     not     still     here .        what     is     left     is     almost     as     much     her     as     it     is     him .        but     what ,        in     the     end ,        is     there     to     be     offended     by ;        is     it     not ,        ultimately ,        talking     to     itself ?        ❛❛      if     trusting     another     is     such     a     terrible     thing ,        little     sister .      ❜❜        𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐓 ,        but     what     else     is     there     to     call     her ?        they’re     like     twins     in     the     womb     except     they     were     eaten     to     get     into     the     belly ,        so     perhaps     not .        they’re     alike ,        except     they’re     not ;        just     more     of     the     same ,        while     different .        the     right     hand     is     not     the     left     hand’s     little     sister ,        is     it ?        two     voices     inside     of     something     is     not     two     people .        yet     she     is     across     from     him ,        not     within .        he     doesn’t     want     to     think     on     any     of     it     for     much     longer .        ❛❛      if     it     was ,        at     least     i     chose     it .        all     𝒀𝑶𝑼     did     was     to     not     pay     attention !      ❜❜

[hivebody-a]

Blows tiny kisses, maybe some are for the wörm. Maybe they are all for Jane. Who knows. (From the wife obviously not the bastard.)

random lesbian asks, always accepting || @twistingdeception

     HAVE YOU ever heard a worm laugh? Obviously not. In the same vein you can’t hear a worm talk, can’t even begin to fathom what its voice would sound like - if it’d speak via a voice at all - nor what replacement for words and letters and guttural sounds it’d use. Let alone trying to comprehend how an entire colony would talk, or the hive it inhabits. If asked, Jane could at least provide some explanation about this latter hypothesis, in some way. Saying that it’s no voice like anyone knows it, but rather a melody that can’t be quite described, vibrations that sound similar to words but share nothing with them and yet still enter your bloodstream and the gaps between your veins and your flesh, in the hollows where maggots will rest when they come to feed on your rotting corpse, and tug at your mind and nestle there and make room for themselves there, humming and singing in buzzes. A pity that she doesn’t talk much these days anymore. A pity certain sensations are too endless to be described.

     But, a laugh. So simpler and so much more complex. When Jane opens her mouth in a wide grin, what comes out doesn’t feel like laughter, at least not at first. A cacophony, hundreds of thousands of tiny creatures pinching at her vocal chords and mimicking the sound bouncing between the walls of her throat. A cascade not so much different from the black goo she could vomit if needed. (Not now. Not now.) It takes it a few seconds more to be reshaped in a more comprehensible noise, although far from human still. Familiar, perhaps. Of this world, very much not. 

     However... yes. Scratch all the grotesque and unsettling off, lend a less terrified ear to that echoed and re-echoed sound, and it might indeed sound as if, for the first time in so long, Jane Prentiss was laughing.

[hivebody-a]

❝  how many doors do you have in this place, anyway?  ❞ i'm still laughing, obviously helen

no I don't remember the name of this meme || @twistingdeception

"THEY AREN'T mine." A pointless remark, obviously, but it still slips out of her mouth as she walks down the corridor, into a semi-abandoned building. She has no interest in doors - at least, not in the exact same way Helen does - thus her gaze runs with little to no interest on the array of discarded entrances that meets them in the room at the end of the hallway. A graveyard of sorts, filled with doors that look too old or too weird to be still seems useable or safe. Piles and piles of wood and metal and plastic, neatly stacked one on top of the other like towers. Hard to tell why and how this place came to be, or if it's still used as storage room anyway. Jane found it during her wanderings and didn't waste much time thinking about the specifics; she'd rather focus on what crawled down the damp walls and lurked in the dirty corners of that endless room. Helen, however --

"I don't know. I never bothered to count them." Words tumbling out of her mouth like her worms. She touches a still new door, leaving a long dark line crossing her new shiny hinges. (How long before rust corrupts them and eats them raw.) "But I thought you might like it." She turns to the Distortion, eyes peering from behind a veil of matted hair. There's bigger holes in her red dress, making it almost impossible to wear, but that's not her main concern. Right now she has eyes only for the other, with a spark in her dead black eyes that can be easily recognized as curiosity. "Can you open these to your hallways too?"

[hivebody-a]

❛ now that you’re dead , what are you gonna do with your life ? ❜ from helen

chaos killed the dinosaurs and all that jazz || @twistingdeception

     IT HAS her freeze in place, even if only for a while. The word is turned around in her head, very comprehensible but also so out of place that it makes no sense. Dead? She isn't dead. She doesn't feel dead. Some would talk about the events that lead her here as some sort of rebirth - metaphysical demise - but she knows that's all wrong. She was terribly, terribly afraid she was about to die at some point (nurses pinning her down, trying to calm her, and her ears rang with the song, oh the song, louder and louder till her humanity snapped in half under the weight of that melody) but she sees how it is now. An unveiling. A different perception of things. The realization that everything is nothing but squirming bugs crawling on a corpse in a freshly drugged hole. She knows now. There was no such thing as definitive as death for her. It wasn't the End to claim her - but a similar terror, what comes when all is over and only the hunger of the universe remains.

     Helen must know this. Thus Jane's lips open wide on her dirty face, and going past her chipped black teeth one could almost tell hers is an amused smile. As if they just shared an inner joke. And something akin to laugh rises from her throat - the sound of mass of worms reshaped into a more human-like sound.

     "I don't know." And it's beautiful and perfect, isn't it? To know exactly your purpose and crack a joke like this one. Old baby Jane and all her rituals and witchery - someone else so long ago, herself but also not herself - were never even close to finding this sort of peace. "I want them to hear what I hear. I want to look them in the eyes when they understand it." For a moment it rises louder inside her mind. "The same as you, I think."

[hivebody-a]

@twistingdeception

SHE NEVER walks into the doors. It's not out of fear (can she ever hold that concept into her hands anymore?) of closed, cramped spaces and endless turns and what could be lurking on the other side - it's more a matter of it not being her domain. She wouldn't enjoy getting lost, doesn't even care about seeing how far the halls stretch and bend around her. Not even with a guide. For the time being tour offers are always declined.

So she waits wherever one of the doors appears next - and it's so easy to spot it, even today. She's become good at telling them from the normal ones. Not a matter of a door where there has never been one, but of a door so anonymous, way too anonymous. Trying to look harmless, a normal, innocent door leading to safe, tangible rooms. A snake pretending to be a root till it feels a hand nearby and unhings its jaw to bite.

Yet another overcast London day, and Jane Prentiss (what's left of her; what's wearing her skin; what took her name and discarded the rest elsewhere) waits in front of a plain brown door on the back of a building standing near a parking lot. A pool of writhing worms rests around her feet, crawling in and out of her flesh, waiting with her.