aug3nd

[aug3nd]

Anne de Marcken, from "It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over," published in 2024

[aug3nd]

𝑰 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑴𝑨𝑲𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑪𝑼𝑴 𝑻𝑾𝑬𝑵𝑻𝒀 𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬𝑺 𝑨 𝑫𝑨𝒀.

Arriving at THE GAS STATION ⟳ ˚. ╱ written for @wickedsurrender !

𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧  𝗢𝗙  𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗚𝗔𝗦  𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦  𝗦𝗠𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗦  𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘  𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗧  𝗔𝗡𝗗  𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗣𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗘,  like  candle  wax  melted  down  to  nothing,  like  desire  left  too  long  in  a  closed  room  with  no  way  out.  It’s  warm,  heavy  with  the  weight  of  CREATION,  of  indulgence,  of  bodies  that  know  each  other  too  well  but  not  enough  to  stop.  Morgue  breathes  it  in,  lets  it  settle  in  her  lungs,  thick  and  cloying,  the  scent  of  paint-stained  hands  and  sex  still  clinging  to  the  old  sheets  beneath  her.  It’s  almost  suffocating,  almost  holy. She’s  laid  out  for  him,  a  vision  in  the  flickering  light,  the  curve  of  her  spine  against  the  old  blankets,  the  slope  of  her  thigh  as  she  shifts  just  enough  to  REMIND  him  she  likes  to  be  seen.  Her  skin,  moon-pale  and  fever-warm,  stretched  over  bones  too  restless  to  stay  still,  glows  in  the  low  light,  catching  shadows  in  the  places  she  wants  him  to  notice.   She  moves  like  smoke,  like  something  too  fluid  to  catch,  too  sharp  to  hold,  a  lazy  stretch  pulling  through  her  body  as  she  lets  the  candlelight  touch  her  where  his  hands  can’t — not  yet.  She  knows  what  she’s  doing.  She  always  does.

Joel’s  at  the  easel,  knuckles  smudged  with  charcoal,  his  teeth  sinking  into  the  end  of  a  paintbrush  like  he’s  trying  to  ground  himself  in  something  other  than  the  sheer  fucking  sight  of  her.  His  pupils  are  blown  wide,  his  focus  fractured  between  the  canvas  and  the  real  thing,  between  the  oil  stains  on  the  page  and  the  slick  curve  of  her  mouth,  between  the  way  he  wants  to  finish  painting  her  and  the  way  he  wants  to  ruin  her  instead.  And  she  likes  that.  Loves  it,  even.  Being  looked  at  like  this,  devoured  without  a  single  TOUCH,  makes  something  hot  coil  deep  in  her  belly,  makes  her  want  to  push  him  past  whatever  restraint  he’s  clinging  to.

She  drags  a  hand  down  her  stomach,  measured,  intended,   nails  scraping  lightly  across  the  surface  of  her  skin,  not  enough  to  hurt — just  enough  to  TEASE.  To  remind  him  what’s  his  for  the  taking.  The  cigarette  between  her  fingers  smolders  lazily,  sending  up  ribbons  of  smoke,  curling  through  the  air,  the  scent  mingling  with  the  sweat  and  the  paint  and  the  ghosts  of  every  time  she’s  let  him  take  her  apart  in  this  very  room. ❛ Careful  now,  baby, ❜  she  purrs,  voice  thick  with  the  slow  pull  of  something  molten,  something  honey-drenched  and  wicked,  a  smile  dragging  across  her  lips  like  she’s  savoring  the  taste  of  him  already.  She  stretches,  arms  lifting  above  her  head,  a  long,  languid  motion  that  draws  his  eyes  where  she  wants  them.  ❛ You  keep  lookin’  at  me  like  that,  and  you  ain’t  ever  gonna  finish  that  damn  painting. ❜

She  smirks,  flicking  ash  into  an  empty  glass  beside  the  bed,  letting  her  legs  shift  apart  just  enough,   the  curve  of  her  inner  thigh  catching  the  candlelight.  She  loves  this.  Loves  the  power  of  it,  the  way  it  makes  her  high  in  a  way  drugs  never  could.  To  be  something  worth  worshipping.  To  be  something  a  person  LOSES  themselves  in,  forgets  themselves  for. Because  that’s  the  whole  point,  isn’t  it?  To  be  wanted.  To  be  consumed.  To  drown  out  the  ache  of  someone  else’s  hands,  someone  else’s  mouth,  someone  else’s  fucking  ghost.

Dante. The  name  slides  unbidden  into  the  back  of  her  skull,  a  phantom,  a  weight  pressing  against  her  ribs.  She  doesn’t  like  thinking  about  him.  Not  when  she’s  got  better  things  to  focus  on,  better  hands  to  fill  the  spaces  where  his  used  to  be.  But  he  lingers,  a  shadow  stitched  into  her  bones,  into  the  way  she  still  knows  the  sound  of  his  voice  in  the  dark,  still  dreams  in  the  shape  of  his  body. Dante  had  been  all  fire  and  passion,  a  storm  she  let  herself  be  swallowed  by.   A  voice  that  could  tear  apart  a  stadium,  a  mouth  that  could  WRECK  her  in  ways  she  hasn’t  ever  been  wrecked  before  or  since.  He’d  known  her,  inside  and  out,  knew  where  to  press,  where  to  pull,  where  to  break  her  just  enough  so  she’d  beg  for  it.  And  she’d  let  him.  She’d  let  herself  fall,  let  herself  love  him  in  a  way  that  felt  like  drowning.

And  then  he’d  left. Now, she's found him here. She  doesn’t  like  remembering  that  part. So  she  doesn’t.

Instead,  she  drags  herself  back  into  the  present,  back  into  the  HEAT of  Joel’s  stare,  the  roughness  of  his  breathing,  the  way  his  fingers  curl  against  the  brush  like  he’s  imagining  them  digging  into  her  hips  instead.  The  way  he  looks  at  her  like  she’s  already  his,  like  he  could  bury  himself  inside  her  and  never  have  to  think  about  anything  else  again.

She  likes  that.  Likes  the  way  it  makes  her  feel  untouchable  and  utterly  devoured  all  at  once.

❛ You  know,  darlin', ❜  she  hums,  shifting  onto  her  side,  dragging  a  slow  hand  down  the  curve  of  her  waist,  PROVOKING  the  space  between  them,  playing  with  the  moment  before  it  shatters.  ❛ You’re  real  good  at  paintin’  me.  But  you’re  even  better  at  fuckin’  me. ❜ Morrigan  already  knows  how  this  ends.  She’s  seen  it  before,  played  this  game  too  many  times. She  likes  this  part  the  most — the  moment  before  surrender,  before  restraint  crumbles,  before  he  puts  the  brush  down  and  comes  to  claim  her  the  way  she’s  been  waiting  for. That’s  the  thing  about  men  like  Joel.  They give in; feeding her what she wants. And  Morrigan? She  was  BORN to  be  lost  in.

[aug3nd]

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑼𝑨𝑮𝑬 𝑶𝑭 𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳𝑺.

Arriving at THE DINER ⟳ ˚. ╱ written for @woundgaping !

𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟  𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗩𝗘  𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗥  𝗗𝗢𝗢𝗥  𝗘𝗫𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗦  its  same  weary  sigh,  rattling  in  the  silence  before  the  heat  of  the  place  presses  against  her  skin — butter  and  burnt  coffee,  something  golden  and  old  hanging  in  the  air,  something  that  doesn’t  belong  in  a  town  where  nothing  stays  warm  for  long.  There's  no  miracles  in  Arcadia,  no  such  thing  as  kindness  without  CONSEQUENCES,  no  salvation  that  don’t  have  a  price.  But  the  diner?  The  diner  lies  real  well.  Pretends  like  it’s  some  relic  from  another  life,  the  kind  of  place  you’d  stumble  into  on  a  long  road  trip,  crack  open  a  menu,   and  call  home  for  an  hour  or  two.  Pretends  like  the  world  outside  doesn’t  change  shape  when  the  sun  goes  down,  like  the  people  inside  isn’t  one  wrong  move  away  from  being  something  that  gets  remembered  in  past  tense.

Morgue  steps  in  slow,  the  way  she  always  does,  like  she’s  moving  through  water  thick  with  something  unseen.  The  high  is  still  warm  in  her  veins,  stretching  time  thin,  making  EVERYTHING  a  little  softer,  a  little  further  away.  She’s  floating  just  above  herself,  watching the  world  through  the  film  of  stolen  pills  dissolving  in  her  bloodstream.  They’re  the  only  reason  she’s  sitting  upright,  the  only  reason  she  doesn’t  feel  the  weight  of  the  town  coiled  tight  around  her  ribs,  breathing  down  her  throat  like  it  wants  to  see  what  she  looks  like  from  the  inside.  She  knows  it’s  there,  knows  it’s  watching — she  just  doesn’t  care  as  much  when  she’s  got  a  little  something  to  keep  her  above  water.

The  scent  of  the  place  doesn’t  make  any  sense.  It  smells  too  real.  Like  it  came  from  a  world  where  things  are  easy,  where  breakfast  doesn’t  have to  taste  like  an  apology.  It  should’ve  turned  by  now,  should’ve  started  tasting like  the  rest  of  Arcadia — like  dust,  like  regret,  like  something  you  can’t  quite  swallow  all  the  way  down.  But  it  doesn’t.  And  that’s  what  unsettles  her  the  most.  There's  nothing  in  this  town  that remains  good  for  long.  She  doesn’t  trust  things  that  don’t  ROT.

She  slides  into  her  usual  booth,  fingers  dragging  slow  over  the  cracked  vinyl,  picking  at  it  absentminded,  like  she’s  reading  a  map  of  old  wounds  pressed  into  the  seat.  This  whole  town  is  a  beautiful,  sunlit  trap,  a  place  wrapped  in  NORMALCY  that  makes  people  forget  they’re  caged.  She  sees  it  already — how  they  settle,  how  they  start  using  words  like  home  and  community,  like  they  aren't  still  waiting  on  something  with  teeth  to  come  knocking  at  the  door.  Like  the  whole  place  isn't built  on  a  grave  nobody  bothered  to  bury  deep  enough.

She  doesn’t  lie  to  herself  like  that.

Her  gaze  drifts,  slow,  heavy-lidded  from  the  high,   watching  the  bodies  around  her  go  through  the  motions.  Some  of  them  still  flinch  when  the  wind  howls.  Some  of  them  don’t.  She  hasn’t  decided  which  is  worse.

Then — Goldie.

She  moves  behind  the  counter  the  way  she  always  does — fluid,  effortless,  the  kind  of  grace  that  comes  from  muscle  memory,  not  peace.  Morrigan  knows  the  difference.  Goldie  doesn’t  have  the  LUXURY  of  stillness,  of  rest,  of  ever  slowing  down  long  enough  to  feel  the  weight  pressing  into  her  bones.  Today, however,   she’s  carrying  more  than  usual.  It’s  there  in  the  slope  of  her  shoulders,  in  the  way  she  doesn’t  let  her  breath  sink  all  the  way  down,  like  she’s  holding  something  in,  keeping  it  from  spilling  out. The  smile’s  still  in  place,  but  it's  got  no  roots.  It’s  a  thing  stitched  together  out of  habit,  a  cover-up  for  cracks  that  been  spreading  slow  beneath  the  surface.  Morgue  has  seen  that  look  before — hell,  she’s  worn  it.   It’s  the  expression  of  a  person  who’s  been  running  on  empty  so  long  they  don’t  even  feel  it  any  more,  who’s  been  holding  themselves  together  with  spit  and  prayer  and  the  stubborn  belief  that  if  they  don’t  fall  apart  in  front  of  anybody,  maybe  they  never  will.

Goldie  doesn’t  belong  in  a  town  like  this.

She’s  too  soft,  but  not  in  the  way  that  breaks  easy.  Soft  like  the  last  golden  hour  before  the  storm,  like  the  warmth  of  a  fire  somebody  else  built  for  you.  There’s  something  in  her  that  still  catches  the  light,  something  UNTOUCHED  by  the  decay  curling  through  the  rest  of  this  place.  Her  skin  is  kissed  by  sun  that  shouldn’t  exist  here,  dusted  in  freckles  like  constellations  no  one’s  named  yet.  Her  lips  part  just  slightly,  like  she’s  always  holding  a  secret  behind  her  teeth,  like  she  could  say  something  devastating  if  she  wanted  to,  but  she’s  too  damn  kind  to  do  it. And  then  there’s  her  eyes. Hazel,  but  not  the  kind  that  fades  into  nothing.  The  kind  that  catches  light  and  turns  it  into  gold.  The  kind  that  shifts  with  the  way  she  moves,  deep  green  one  second,  molten  amber  the  next.  The  kind  that  sees  straight  through  a  person  but  doesn’t  call  them  out  on  it.  Morgue  don’t  like  being  seen,  not  really,  she's prefers the desire and need in other's eyes when they look at her but  she  doesn’t  mind  it  so  much  when  it’s  Goldie  doing  the  looking.

She  watches  her,  attentive,  easy,  cataloging  all  the  little  things  other  people  miss.  The  tension  in  her  jaw.  The  half-second  hesitation  before  she  smiles.  The  way  her  hands  shake  just  a  little  when  she  thinks  nobody’s  watching.  It’s  ALL  there,  just  waiting  for  someone  to  notice.

Morrigan  clicks  her  tongue,  lets  her  smirk  pull  slow  across  her  lips,  all  hazy  flirtation  wrapped  in  her  honey-thick  drawl. ❛ Well,  well,  well.  Ain’t  you  a  vision,  Goldie.  Tell  me — who  I  gotta  fuck  to  get  a  coffee  ‘round  here,  and  what  poor  soul  pissed  you  off  enough  to  put  that  stormcloud  in  your  eyes? ❜ It’s  light,  playful,  a  game  they’ve  been  playing  since  the  first  time  she  walked  through  that  door.  But  underneath  it,  she  MEANS  every  word. She’s  seen  people  like  Goldie  before.  People  who  hold  the  whole  world  up  on  their  shoulders  and  don’t  ever  ask  for  help.   She  knows,  better  than  most,  that  if  you  don’t  pay  attention,  if  you  don’t  ask — one  day,  they  just  up  and  disappear.

She’s  never  been  one  to  let  anything  slip  away  easy.

[aug3nd]

( 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗕𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚, 𝗦𝗢 𝗜𝗦 𝗦𝗛𝗘 )

Morgue had always liked the forest. Liked the way they whispered, the way they didn’t need permission to swallow a person whole. They remind her of old church halls and candlelit basements, places where people knelt before things they didn’t understand, begging for mercy that would never come. But this? This wasn’t reverence. This was a GAME. She sees him before he sees her. The hunter. Bow drawn, muscles coiled tight, eyes sharp and narrowed. He's good — she’d give him that. Too good. The kind of man that moved like he was meant to be here, like he’d figured out how to live in a town that refused to let people live.

Morgue  doesn’t  flinch  when  the  arrow  finds  its  mark,  when  the  deer  crumples  like  a  puppet  with  its  strings  cut.  The  sound  of  death  isn't  new  to  her  —  it’s  been  whispering  in  her  ear  since  the  cradle.   It  lingers  in  the  marrow  of  her  bones,  hums  through  her  ribs  like  an  old  song  no  one  remembers  the  lyrics  to.  She  watches  him.  Watches  the  way  he  moves  —  sharp,   deliberate,  all  function  and  FOCUS,  a  man  carved  out  of  purpose  and  quiet  paranoia.  The  kind  of  man  who  doesn’t  just  hunt  to  survive,  but  maybe  to  feel  something,  to  pull  himself  out  of  the  fog  for  a  moment  and  believe  his  hands  have  a  reason  to  be  stained  red.

A  branch  snaps  beneath  her  heel,  a  lazy  declaration  of  presence.

She's  not  hiding.  Never  has  been.

The  arrow’s  already  drawn,  aimed  straight  at  her  like  a  question  waiting  for  an  answer,  and  she  smiles  —  slow,  lopsided,  like  she’s  got  ALL  the  time  in  the  world  and  none  of  it  means  a  damn  thing.

❛ Sharp  hands,  steady  heart, ❜  she  drawls,  voice  dipped  in  Mississippi  dusk,  RELAXED  and  languorous.  ❛ Mighty  fine  aim  ya  got  there,  cowboy.  But  lemme  ask  ya  —  y’ever  think  ‘bout  what  hunts  the  hunter? ❜ She  steps  forward,  out  of  the  half-light,  let’s  him  get  a  real  good  look  at  her.  The  leather  jacket  worn  soft  from  too  many  nights  in  the  cold.  The  cigarette  burn  holes  in  fishnets  stretched  over  bruised  knees.  The same outfit she overdosed in; the one she rolled into town in. The  eyes  that  hold  no  fear,  only  a  knowing,  like  she’s  seen  what’s  waiting  in  the  dark  and  it  doesn’t  scare  her  none. ❛ That  arrow  you  got  cocked? ❜  Her  fingers  lift,  ghosting  along  the  air  between  them,  like  she  can  feel  the  tension  in  the  string.  ❛ You  so  sure  it'll  do  ya  any  good  ‘gainst  the  things  that  don’t  bleed? ❜  The  wind  moves,  a  whisper  through  the  trees  that  aren’t  just  the  wind,  not  really.  It’s  got  weight  to  it,  something  heavy  pressing  against  the  ribs,  something  watching  from  the  places  between.

She  tilts  her  head,  lets  her  smirk  sharpen  into  something  that  isn't  quite  friendly but more FLIRTATIOUS.

❛ Y’ever  wonder  if  them  things  you’re  huntin’  ever  get  tired  of  waitin’? ❜

The  woods  don’t  answer.

But  they  don’t  have  to.

Ben had settled into his role as a hunter with ease. It gave him something to do, something to focus on. His mind was prone to wandering, he knew that. He was a child with his head in the clouds and a focus on a story. In his youth, he had carried around a little notebook in his pocket, to scribe everything that his little mind could think of - now, in adulthood, his bow and arrow, weapons far different than what the written word could offer, were his new salvation.

What he was hunting, specifically, he wasn't quite sure. But there was a paranoid part of him that didn't think the creatures that ruled the night were just playing fair and keeping the day solely for them. It didn't seem right. Then again, he had only been here for a month, and there were far more people here who must have known better, and seen worse.

An arrow sailed into a deer, the eye the literal bullseye, a clean kill. Ben never went hunting, but he knew his own skills. He knew he never missed. As he stepped closer, thinking about how refreshing it would be to strike down one of those nocturnal creatures, he heard a branch crack, not far from where he was. His instincts were sharp, his skill finely tuned, and an arrow was drawn back in the string as he set his sights towards the direction of the sound.

[aug3nd]

⸺ ⟳ # 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝟑𝐍𝐃 ⋯ a   study  in  a  hymn  sung  in  screams,  a  requiem  carved  into  the  marrow  of  your  bones.  Survival  where  survival  was  never  meant  to  be,  where  every  breath  is  a  borrowed  thing  and  every  scar  tells  a  story  you  never  wanted  to  remember.  Birth into  ruin,  baptized  in  blood,  shaped  by  hands  that  should  have  held  you  close  but  instead  led  you  to  the  altar.  Faith  twisted  into  a  noose,  devotion  turned  to  decay.  The  ones  who  gave  you  life  offering  you  up  to  the  abyss,  whispering  promises  of  eternity  as  the  poison  took  their  breath,  as  their  bodies  folded  like  dying  stars.  And  you,  the  one  meant  to  follow,  left  among  the  corpses  —  a  girl  unchosen,  abandoned  even  by  death.

Learning  that  hope  is  a  fragile  thing,  a  sandcastle  crumbling  before  the  tide.  That  love,  once  given,  is  a  blade  pressed  to  the  throat.  That  sometimes,  the  ones  who  should  save  you  are  the  ones  who  let  you  drown,   pouring  your  rage  into  guitars  strung  too  tight,  microphones  kissed  by  the  tremble  of  a  voice  that  refused  to  die.  Dressed  in  defiance,  stitching  your  pain  into  rebellion,  let  the  world  mistake  your  recklessness  for  strength.  The  quiet  despair,  that  endless  gray,  a  specter  trailing  steps.

Presently stationed at @helltownfms. Kindly refrain from further interaction unless aligned with the aforementioned group. Created and overseen by rei.

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬, 𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗖𝗘𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗘��𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗘 𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡.

⸻lily-rose depp, twenty-five, cis-female, she / her ; ] … the photo on the missing poster is of MORRIGAN "MORGUE" SILVER. they are TWENTY-SIX, and have been missing for ONE MONTH IN ARCADIA. when the sun rises, they work as UNDECIDED / FORMER ROCK STAR. rumors in town say they can be ADDICTIVE and MAGNETIC. they chose to live in THE SETTLEMENT, and have an uncanny resemblance to Mia Wallace ( Pulp Fiction ), Nancy Downs ( The Craft ), Jesse Custer ( Preacher ), Emily "Junkie" Kaye ( The Heroin Diaries ), Selena Kyle ( Batman ), Peter Graham ( Hereditary ). can they survive another night ?…⸻ a specter of sound and sin, stitched together from cigarette smoke, stage lights, and the echoes of a scream that never quite left her throat; Smudged kohl eyes that hold the weight of forgotten prayers, lips split between a sneer and a plea, the rasp of her voice dragging like a blade against soft skin; Chaos draping itself over her like a second skin — fishnets torn at the knee, a crucifix swinging loose over bruised ribs, the scent of whiskey and regret lingering in the fabric of her existence.

INQUIRIES ;

How did your muse spend their first night in Arcadia, and where?

You were supposed to be dead long before that night.

Maybe the first time should have been in that house of corpses, staring into the glazed-over eyes of the people who called themselves your family, their mouths frozen mid-prayer, their hands clasped in reverence as death claimed them. Or maybe in that motel bathroom, needle still lodged in your arm, staring at your own reflection like a specter waiting to fade. You’d lost count of the times you should have slipped through the cracks, how many nights you’d tempted the abyss just to see if it would bite back. And yet, there you were again. Somewhere between the world of the living and the dead.

The last thing you remembered was the rush of fluorescent lights overhead, the ambulance doors rattling in their hinges, voices too far away to belong to you. Hands pressing against your ribs, forcing breath back into your lungs, dragging you — kicking, screaming — out of the void. You hadn’t wanted to come back. Not really. But something always pulled you back from the edge, something cruel, something stubborn, something that refused to let you rest. The confusion came next. A blur of movement, voices pitched in panic, the sound of metal groaning, tires skidding against gravel. And then — nothing.

Blackness.

You thought you were dreaming. Thought maybe the overdose had finally done its job, that this was just another fevered hallucination, another unraveling of a mind too far gone. When the howls came — deep, guttural, hungry — you thought they were echoes from your past, the ghosts you never quite managed to outrun. You told yourself this isn’t real, told yourself it was just the drugs still playing tricks on your system. But when you woke, the nightmare hadn’t ended. Morning bled through the blinds of the clinic, carving sharp angles across the room, white walls too clean, too sterile, too still. A voice drifted in and out, saying things you weren’t ready to hear — you can’t leave, you’re stuck, this is your new reality. You sat there, silent, limbs draped over the too-thin mattress, the weight of it pressing against your chest like a curse. You didn’t belong here. Not in a town that wasn’t on any map, not in some purgatory where the rules bent and monsters howled in the dark. But the way they looked at you, the way they explained the rules with tired eyes and voices dulled by too many repetitions, made it clear — this wasn’t a joke, this wasn’t a nightmare you could sweat out.

And yet, shock didn’t break you. Because nothing ever did.

Or maybe it was the pills dissolving in your bloodstream, the ones you swiped from the cabinet when no one was looking, their bitter taste a familiar comfort against the ache creeping in. You weren’t ready to feel — not yet. So you let the drugs wrap their arms around you, let them dull the edges, keep you floating just above the surface of it all. You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t beg for answers like the others probably did when they first arrived. You just sat there, tapping your fingers against the mattress like you were keeping time to a song only you could hear. Outside, the wind howled, and for the first time since waking up, you let yourself wonder if it was calling for you.

Because if there was one thing you knew for sure — the dark always came back for what belonged to it.

Why did your muse choose to live where they do?

You chose the Settlement, though you wouldn’t call it home. There was something about it — the way the people moved, the way they spoke in murmurs thick with reverence, the way their hands curled in prayer beneath the shadow of that tree. It should have unsettled you. Maybe, at first, it did. The whispers, the blind devotion, the eerie hush that settled over the town when night fell.

But it wasn’t unfamiliar. Not to someone like you.

You had been raised under the weight of rituals, your childhood steeped in bloodstained doctrine and candlelit invocations, the air thick with incense and whispered oaths to something unseen. Your parents had worshiped, bowed, offered themselves up as sacrifices — and when their time came, when their bodies collapsed to the floor like puppets with cut strings, they had expected you to follow. You didn’t. Maybe that’s why you were still here. And maybe that’s why the Settlement felt like the only place that made sense. You understood these people. They believed in something bigger than themselves, something that held power over life and death, something that could give and take with the tilt of its unseen hand. They feared it, loved it, bled for it in equal measure.

You understood what it meant to exist under the thumb of something greater, something unknowable. And so, you stayed. Not because you believed. Not because you wanted to be one of them. But because — for the first time in a long time, something was calling you back. And this time, you were listening.

What was your muse doing when they came across the tree?

You were dying in the back of the ambulance you came in on. The world had collapsed into a tunnel of flashing red lights, the siren a distant wail swallowed by the fog. Someone had been pressing against your chest, calling your name like it belonged to you, like it was something you should fight for. You remembered the sting of the needle, the rush of cold spreading through your veins as they tried to keep you tethered. But you had already been slipping. Slipping into something deeper. Something darker. The world outside the window was wrong — twisting, unraveling, the road curving where it shouldn’t. You thought it was the drugs. Thought maybe you had finally done it, finally tipped over the edge you’d been dancing on your whole damn life.

And then — impact.

The metal screamed. The world spun. A final breath punched from your lungs, and then — stillness. You didn’t know how long you had been unconscious. Minutes? Hours? Maybe you had never woken up at all. The back doors of the ambulance had been torn open, the stretcher tipped, IV lines still hanging like veins cut loose from a body that had been left behind. The paramedics were gone. The road? Gone. Nothing but trees. Nothing but mist curling through the branches, swallowing the last fragments of the world you used to know. And in the center of it all — the Tree.

It stood before you, ancient and gnarled, roots splitting the earth like veins, its branches stretching impossibly wide, dark, endless. The air around it pulsed, thick with something you couldn’t name, something that sank into your skin and pressed cold fingers against the inside of your skull. You should have run. Should have turned back, screamed, clawed your way away from whatever the hell this was. But you didn’t. You stumbled forward, bare feet dragging across the dirt, a weight in your chest that wasn’t entirely your own. It was calling to you. Not with words, not with sound, but with something deeper — something stitched into the marrow of your bones, something that had been waiting for you long before you ever set foot on this cursed ground. The Tree had seen you. And it knew you. You reached out, fingers brushing the rough bark —

And in that moment, you saw everything. Not in flashes, not in glimpses, but all at once. Blood in the dirt, soaking deep, feeding the roots. Faces carved from shadow, watching, waiting. The screams of those who came before you, the ones who tried to leave, the ones who never did. The cycle, the suffering, the way the town bent and twisted itself around this one, single point.

And at the very center of it all, yourself. Not as you were. Not as you had been. But as something else entirely. The past, the present, the nightmares clawing at the edges of your consciousness — it was all there. And for a single, terrible moment, you understood. Then the Tree let you go.

Your body collapsed to the dirt, the world spinning back into place, and when you gasped awake, the town was waiting. Your life before this? It had been borrowed time. And now, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Has your muse left anything behind that they are desperately trying to return to or escape?

You left behind ashes and echoes, but nothing that would mourn you. No lovers tangled in the sheets of your absence. No family waiting by a phone that would never ring. No home beyond the motels and green rooms where you spent your nights, the places where you drowned in music, in vices, in the kind of oblivion that tasted like freedom but felt like chains. What was there to return to? A band that had already started to forget you, their lives moving forward while yours remained caught in the wreckage. A name scrawled in neon, flickering and dim, in venues where your voice once shook the walls. Unfinished songs, half-written lyrics smeared across hotel napkins and drugstore receipts — verses that bled with confessions you weren’t sober enough to say out loud.

You were always running. Running from the cold grip of the past, from the ghosts that sat heavy on your chest when the high wore off, from the memory of your mother’s vacant eyes staring back at you across a circle of corpses. Running from the fact that you were supposed to be one of them. You never asked to be saved.

Not when the paramedics pulled you from the brink, not when your body seized and your veins burned from overdose, not when you woke up in the back of that ambulance with another shot at a life you weren’t sure you wanted. And now, here you were. Not dead, but not alive. Stuck. Yet even in this godforsaken place, with its haunted streets and whispering trees, the past had its claws in you. You could still hear it calling, like the distant hum of an old song bleeding through static, a melody that only you could recognize. Maybe that’s why you kept a pack of matches in your pocket, half-used, the scent of sulfur still clinging to the tips of your fingers. Maybe that’s why you ran your fingers over the scars on your arms like a blind woman tracing a map to somewhere she was never meant to go. Maybe that’s why, sometimes before nightfall, you stood at the edge of the forest and listened — just listened — to the way the dark seemed to breathe, to the way it felt like something familiar watching you back. Because no matter how far you ran, there was something left unfinished. And whatever it was, whatever still tethered you to the life you tried to burn away — it wasn’t done with you yet.