conkniving

[conkniving]

LISA - NEW WOMAN feat. Rosalía

[conkniving]

damn it if fallon was going to be a kicked dog forever. from experience, the most feasible way to make amends was to act. support her words. anyone could say anything, but if she would just do what was necessary and reliably, then maybe she wouldn't feel the need to cow in her shoulders within the lair and avoid eye contact more than she did before. she was being pathetic and she knew it. it was obvious. it helped that cyrek had no small measure of grace when it came to fallon ( and she would be infinitely grateful for the thread that wouldn't break ) and had sent her off on what had also been a bit of a soul-searching escapade. in essence, it was a bat out of hell tailing a debtor trying to skip out on a tidy sum that would stave off several winters to come for the entirety of the gang. but the kingpin knew their circle and had taken one look at fallon fresh from rehab to know all he needed. she had to get out before she started plying the skin further than just her cuticles. it was a reprieve, the follow-up had been a success with their target pinned on a literal as well as figurative map, and now the disgraced debt collector had returned to scoop up the remains of her life. it was the explanation for how fallon found herself tramping through the trailer park she had come to know like the back of her hand, as though she had lived there, in the eve with a hand carding through a trimmed fringe and the other curled possessively around a wad of cash like the rubber band that held it together. and how she had been so fucking lucky to witness the deluge of sewer right as she had stepped up upon spotting cyrek's stature by the grate. an expression like the contents were of personal offense ran across the younger's features, recoiling. regarding the spoiled boots, fallon inched cautiously closer but careful to avoid the mess, holding out her fist. "would this help?" and relinquished the four hundred dollars once accepted. the core of the wad hugged a fat joint of premium pot, personally rolled. he could probably light it now and save them both the rancid liquid smells even remotely. hunching slightly, eyes squinting ( the dark made it worse on her eyesight ) she denoted the glossy mass and breathed evenly out through her pursed lips to stop the bile in its ascension. "looks like fish guts. cheaper than beef 'round these parts, being closer to the docks and all. wouldn't put it past fuckers throwing the waste down in the sewers, thinking it's better than stinkin' up their place or outside in their trash cans." shrugging bony shoulders and taking a needed step back from the scene, "but who fuckin' knows — these days, i wouldn't be surprised if bodies floated up in shit." not waiting around for cyrek to do the honours, fallon fished out a lucky strike and brought it to life with a french inhale, the smoke vented up nostrils to chase away excrement stench in vain. clearing her throat, tongue running across the back of her teeth, "i, uh, actually have a question for you? it's stupid but i couldn't think of botherin' anybody else with this. but my godson... it's his second birthday. i haven't been around, obviously. jesus. uhm. what the fuck do i get him? what do two year old's like?"

@anchoragestarters at kingpin trailer park, late evening september 28th

The water had been pearling at the gates of every grate one stepped over in town, incessant rains poring over the harbor. He had practically been stepping in puddles on the way from point A to point B when he was transitioning shifts to another job or running errands. It wasn't that big of a deal, until the water started bubbling up in the bottom of his shower drain one evening and threatening to come back up. Now, the sewer system in the trailer park was a right mess in and of itself, but he wasn't about to be the one to call the company and pay the fucking bill for it, was he? Which was how he found himself at present, after digging up the damn thing and lifting up the tile that was holding it down, and met with the absolute gut-wrenching scent of human sewage, and whatever else ( laundry detergent and insoluble chemicals that didn't break down when they left their machines. ) Before he could think of what to do next ( something didn't seem right, of course, it all smelled foul, but something smelled rotten, ) scrunching his brow down at the lump barely slatted by moonlight, he heard the sound of someone else approaching behind him.

And then, it made a God-awful sound, like some rock troll had the worst stomach ache known to fucking fantasyland. "You wanna stand back?" he suggested, as he waved an arm outward, "I think it's gonna —"

His face flinched away and he leaned away from the shovel as it gushed out of the sewer line and spattered across the ground, his mouth distorted into a firm grimace and barely cracking open an eye. If the ground wasn't muddy before, it was now. "Great," he muttered as he glowered down at his sodden combat boots he'd shoved his feet back into, as his eyes absently maundered over the mess he'd unwittingly created in an effort to unclog their damn pipelines, "Wait." The shovel ground into the mud, and an index finger pointed to something slimy, and glistening. It could easily be something else, but he thought... "Does that look like... brain matter?"

[conkniving]

it was positively rank around the theatre. though — it didn't appear to affect the patronage, but rather, ensure the audience's entrance as swiftly as possible to rid themselves of the stench and the reminder that anchorage was eternally cursed with the promise of escapism behind its broadway-esque doors. it was especially aggravating for bastard business. now, all those that lingered outside for as long as they could stomach the funk and weren't nursing cigarettes in a social squall were suspicious, and fallon needed those suspicious persons to buy her dope ( it wasn't coke, that was for damn sure. those precious little baggies of snow were never within eyesight of the afflicted, instead assigned to the other members to deal ). all this and it actually made her miss the open road — coming back to anchorage was coming back to the reality that life was shit swirling around a clogged sewer drain and she would never escape it. expletives in a native tongue hushed behind a cowl of black hair, head bowed and attention reserved for folded bills flickering through fingertips in a manner of counting. it was cold out, though it really only called for a leather jacket to insulate the limbs and provide cover behind the cuff for the cash flow that was meagre to a dealer but comely for a normie. fallon had to pace a bit around the theatre and its block so that it wouldn't display so obviously as a dealing. there were quite a few attendees that enjoyed an illegal smoke or hit that could heighten the experience of being entertained, and it had once been a favourite of hers to frequent. times were changing. or maybe it was just the city and time was standing still — it often felt as though no progression was made and things stagnated into transience. whatever, she didn't care to mull over it further but actually had lost count and she just about fucking had it — a voice, cracked and vulnerable, dragged the raven back to the world outside her mounting frustrations and internal conflict. rubber sole spattered a sparse puddle as she came to a stop, noticing for the first the figure huddled tight against the side of the theatre with a dwindling cherry and runaway mascara. the approach did indicate they were the destination, though for all intents and purposes, fallon had meant to stalk right along in her perpetual angst and attempt counting up the no small debt she calculated she owed her gang. initial thought was to sidle up beside this person, butter her up and lay it on thick so maybe she could get a killing to make all the difference for the night. then, she thought better of it. thirty years later and perhaps she was forming a conscience. someone else and they would have tried to find the right words to string together. this was fallon. in a subtle single motion, she tucked the bills away and withdrew a fresh pack of cigarettes. a couple blunt raps to the heel of her hand, like a chef's final touch for a delicious compliment, and the next she was tearing cellophane and selecting a stick to hold out toward the other. they looked like they could use another. in fallon's language, this was a kindness. and it was hardly her nature. it came with a bite of teeth to the inside of her cheek. free to do the same herself, she lit up her own with a lighter pulled from her jacket pocket and drew deeply. these days, this was the only thing that dulled the edges of want. tobacco was a lot of things to a lot of people. "waiting for someone?"

@anchoragestarters

angelique could no longer discern how many days had blurred into each other since it happened. time slipped from her grasp- sand through skeletal fingers- leaving only a jagged, disorienting haze in its wake. the world had twisted into something nightmarish, as though razorblades had carved into her very eyeballs, each blink a grotesque swirl of black ichor bleeding into every corner of her vision. it was as if her eyes themselves were foreign objects, something she longed to scoop out of her skull with the detachment of a melon baller—but no reprieve awaited her even in blindness. the dreams still clawed at her sanity, as relentless as the guilt and terror she carried.

everything was so fucking fucked.

perhaps this was what the universe had ordained for her, a cruel and calculated judgment for the life she had led—cold and merciless, and devoid of remorse. her sins had been tallied with a brutal, indifferent precision, and now, she stood in the presence of her reckoning. and monique- the fucking rotting bitch- the embodiment of her every transgression, a spectral figure draped beautifully in death, had surfaced, and with her came the suffocating weight of necrosis, creeping into angelique's very bones. it was a shattering of the psyche, inescapable- the slow descent into madness that left her haunted— by the better version of her own reflection, by the harrowing truth that her time was fractured long before she ever tasted the immortality she craved. never would she be wrapped in it's throes- her one lover denied.

maybe this was why vampires were demented—because living beyond death meant outliving your sanity, devouring your mind until all that remained was that ache of emptiness.

her left hand, trembling, dug its nails into the pallid flesh of her forearm, as though the pain would anchor her. she tried to steady her right hand, shaking as it brought the cigarette to her lips. but even this small ritual felt pointless, as if fear itself had nested within her, a parasitic thing coiled around her spine, breathing cold goosebumps into her skin with every kiss. the terror had become a part of her- now a pulsating entity.

and why where the dressing room mirrors covered?

because staring back at her in every reflection was monique's smile upon her face—a sweet, haunting smile that mocked her with familiarity.

angelique had never known fear like this- the kind that gripped her insides and twisted, making her feel like a caged animal. it wasn't the fleeting kind of fear that comes and goes in a heartbeat; it was something far more sinister, far more primal and it was a part of her, sinking into her bones. turning the tables, it left her breathless and paralyzed, like prey caught in the jaws of a predator—a predator that wore her face, had her memories, and acted out her sins. and if monique had returned once, what was to stop her from crawling back from the abyss again?

she vowed to avoid gutters, catchbasins and drain covers from now on.

her teeth grazed her bottom lip as the familiar sound of footsteps approached, each echoing step fraying her nerves. she clenched her eyes shut, as if the darkness behind her lids could shield her from the waking nightmare that threatened to consume her. a single black tear traced a cold path down her gaunt cheek, her body betraying her desperation. mid-breakdown, the only thing she wanted was to be left alone, to be spared the presence of anyone—anything.

"whatever it is, i'll get to it later," her voice trembled, cracking at the edges, as though the words were being ripped from her fragile composure. her breath hitched, a quiet plea hidden in her next sentence. “just—” she shook her head, as if trying to shake off the horror still gripping her, “not now.”

she could almost feel monique's eyes on her, lingering like the smell of rotten water from a sewer grate.

[conkniving]

the rough of the corded leash was a grounding thing, assuring and focal in the palm of a pale hand not occupied like its partner with wielding a fresh cigarette. not that the security of the lead had anything to do with the hound of hell it collared — tame in disposition but with a promise of retribution in sleek black. and not that fallon even needed a guard dog, dark thin silhouette accompaniment to the anchorage dusk like said ghost to a ghost town. following the theme, she had drifted about the sidewalks ( conveniently devoid of citizens when caught sight of the bastard who really was just minding her own business ) and very nearly apparated before the figure now crouched low to the pavement of an alleyway... with a clambering of kittens. despite their chance encounter, the other seemed hardly disturbed by her appearance, and for that, she was rather thankful. marginally. with a breath of smoke, cerberus the doberman obediently sat at her knee, fallon greeted coolly in korean before continuing in english, "it would seem so. i don't think it's common to take kittens out for an evening stroll. think they're from the recent escape?" and she waved the cigarette vaguely in a random direction to implicate the vet clinic and its incident. "need me to call someone or somethin'?" not to note the tint of awkwardness that came with proffering help, but fallon was in a period of transition despite.

open starter: @anchoragestarters where: around town when: october 1st, evening

as dusk descended upon anchorage, so did a veil of dread. shadows thrashed and twisted in great anticipation, as if the very darkness had a pulse of its own; a hungry void, holding its breath and lying in wait, ready to engulf the next person that strayed too far from the light, dragging them into its abyss, where dark secrets lay buried, forever untold. and yet, in what was quite the curious contradiction to his timid disposition, jonghyeon found himself walking down the dimly lit streets, in hopes of bridging the distance between himself and bandmate, who was enroute to pick him up. with each footfall, he could almost hear the whispers of the unknown brushing against his consciousness; could almost feel those shadows wrapping him in their malevolent embrace that meant to suffocate... but before the panic could fully take root, his attention was pulled away, something shifting in his periphery. there, from an alleyway, two small kittens tentatively ventured forth. a faint 'oh?' fell from his lips, head tilted in wonder, silently observing as their delicate paws padded across the pavement. as they made their cautious approach, the pianist gingerly knelt down and extended a hand, palm open and inviting, a gesture filled with unspoken reassurance. a promise of safety, which was accepted, the kittens inching closer, nuzzling against his fingertips. in that delicate exchange, there was a profound understanding. “ are you lost, too? ” he asked softly as he pet their soft fur, a smile illuminating his face when one of them attempted to clamber up onto his lap. “ gwiyeopda, ” delight shimmering in his eyes, it was then that he noticed the presence of someone else. “ ah— ” a pause. “ they just... found me. ”

[conkniving]

at some point, fallon was going to have to crawl out of her hole. the thing about rehab — well, there was an insurmountable amount of things about the fucking hellscape — was that she tirelessly counted down the days until she would be released. not quite the same relief she felt bailed out of jail. consider that a lower circle of said hell. but now that the convicted was free to roam the streets of anchorage previously haunted, she had lost track of time. how long had it been since she dared bare her face? consider it benny's luck that the bastard didn't have her hound at her side once she spotted his regrettably distinct figure. briefly, she imagined how hilarious it might have been had she accidentally let slip cerberus's leash with a whispered german command that would have the black dog lunging at the man's leg. instead, she would settle for brusquely shouldering past him with the arm that didn't hold her own iced black coffee with a, "finding that hard?" in response to his self-deprecating remark. a strange thrill tingled at her fingertips, pleased to find not much had changed in her absence, how fitting it was to come back into her shell. even as she strode a few feet away, she couldn't help spinning on a heel to throw a sneer his way. "just your throwing skills? there's a lot more you should be concerned with."

OPEN STARTER @anchoragestarters ( unlimited )

Two months or so had passed since Benny had learnt he was basically a bastard - hadn’t been a surprise then, certainly felt like a joke now. He’d gotten the address and contact info of the fucker who his mom cheated with, but had managed to perfectly ignore that impending disaster.

Instead he remained, as ever, doing a shit job attempting to righten his very bad image. Which included trying to be nicer to people and not doing as much booze and drugs. He’d even stopped buying cigarettes. Fine… for the past three days. Worst of all: he’d attempted to sleep around less. Which led to why he was feeling exceptionally cranky today. He worried he was some kind of sex-addict. 

He threw back the double espresso and threw the cup towards the trashcan. It hit the side and fell to the side. He stared at it for a long time.

“Don’t be an ass,” he told himself with gritting teeth and walked over to pick it up again. Couldn’t help noticing a set of eyes staring as well. He wanted to say something rude or obscene, but instead uttered: “Played soccer, not basketball, my throwing skills are shit.” 

[conkniving]

✶ 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍, dependent muse in anchorage, lovingly tortured by cat, she/her, est.

lalisa manoban. cis woman. she/her. bisexual greyromantic.  —   hey, isn’t that fallon amarin  ( aka: midas )?   i think that the thirty year old from pattaya city, thailand works as a night clerk for the black dog motel & the debt collector for the bastards, but outside of that people describe them as the foreign thrill of standing in liminal spaces, replacing the company of people with volumes of books, altered states of mind and the sober panic, the selfishness borne of young neglect, wide unblinking bloodshot eyes, welcoming the numb of biting cold and dirty snow, and cracked nail polish sifting crinkled notes of cash. i hear they are overzealous   &   paranoid, but they are also known to be crafty  &   dutiful. consider giving them a visit at their home in the seal harbour apartments and get to know why they’re called the conniving.

[conkniving]

complaint came in the shakiness of muscle as fallon pushed herself a foot away from the wall. just so that she could sidle along to a fresh patch of frozen asphalt and slide down the establishment for a seat. no need for pretenses when it was only nadine who had unfortunately witnessed her undoing. not that it was a lack of importance, no. more that nadine hadn't turned tail at the first sight of ill and instead cared enough to stick around. such was the found family. a sore subject as of late, as detailed by roiling innards. "peachy. i'm alive, right?" wiping backhand across her mouth, a mirthless chuckle fell. glancing up at the younger, with a sigh, "you won't find me dead by the dumpster — you can go back inside. fucking cold. i just need a minute to not have a fucking panic attack or somethin'." a smoke would do wonders to quell within, but a quick pat down of her jeans and there was nothing to her name. if someone really were to find her body in some mishap out here, half ice by morning, there would be nothing to identify her. there was something oddly freeing about having nothing but the clothes on her back in this moment.

Nadine's sobriety was a fleeting pipe dream — the moment she solidified her stance on a no-alcohol household, adamant that she didn't require the warm embrace of a glass of Merlot on a stark, windy evening in the winter clad town, she would inadvertently discover that she'd teleported to the wine selection in the grocery store when she was simply in need of milk and eggs. Oh well. It wasn't much of an issue, at least, it hadn't impeded on her day-to-day life, unlike for her brothers who almost all had a reliance on the substance. Their poison was bitter beers, however, something the biker had always staunchly refused whenever it was offered up to her. At least wine offered the illusion of sophistication, depending on the variety of course. And there was a fine line when it concerned the hard liquor she would occasionally indulge in, like she had at Scaredy Cat that evening, but she thought she balanced it quite deftly. A fresh pair of Demonias followed after the familiar figure she picked out in her peripheral, abandoning her drink in favor of seeking out her peer. Fallon was a curious individual, Nadine thought, perhaps in certain lights you could even mistake them for being cut from the same cloth. Which is what prompted her investigation to where the debt collector had escaped from the thick swathes of occupants indoors. "... Fallon?" A voice cut through the silence before the fellow Bastard spoke up. "Well, there's no rush. Not with me here, at least. You all good?" A bit of awkwardness in her gait, unused to seeing many of her fellow bikers in such vulnerable states, she tried to roll her shoulders and correct her posture so she appeared more vulnerable herself; less alike a brick wall that didn't welcome conversation.

[conkniving]

no need to peer upon their visage to match the voice to source, fallon rolling dark hues with little heart. just what she needed right now, and without the buffer of lou to patch the awkwardness between their ramblings and the bastard's scathing. listening on with inaudible prickliness, it dawned on the sick that mindy had yet to place where they knew each other — fallon could slip away, if only she could think of an inconspicuous escape. this "frat girl moment" could be avoided, the likes of which she could fathom being used as leverage in the future. "i'm not drunk, mintra." an innate bickering bound forward. since she couldn't find the energy to leave just yet, it seemed she would have to make do with their interaction. spindly fingers crawled up to card through a black fringe, spidery with sweat. god, she could use a hot shower. the cold was beginning to take hold as well. "good luck finding it, by the way. we're not the first back here — doubt you'd find it in good condition. should probably just get back inside to your girlfriend." whether the 'girlfriend' was hiccupped because of the irritated stomach or because of the touchiness of the topic, she couldn't tell.

"Not to ruin whatever trauma bond or frat girl moment we're about to have because you puked in front of me, but —" Their flashy pink-and-black platforms scuffed against the asphalt, a phone flashlight turning on and scouring across the ground like the searchlight of the lighthouse ( because what was their phone good for beyond that now, anyway? It didn't matter much, they had seldom used the damnable thing and taken to their landline more often, knew better than to think there weren't ways that the Grim Fox could reach out to them if they reanimated under new law. ) A once-over of the pallid and moribund stature of this punk determined that they were probably drunk, the stench of bile muddled by the fresh snowfall hugging the streets. It would be non-stop from here on out, cold as fuck and plummeting toward the single digits in every passing day. The thick coat pilfered from a rack at the local thrift store hung off their coltish frame with poor insulation. "You're not gonna take a squat now, are you? 'Cause I'm looking for the backing of an earring right now, and if you pop one, I think it's gonna freeze in your urine."

Better safe than sorry to issue a disclaimer warning, right?

The light flashed in the direction of the other's eyes, a harried check that she wasn't about to pass out and lob face-first into the elements. Mintra's free hand swept through their long, thick tresses — now a mosaic of raven and silver ombre, banking off the mercy their hair had shown to finally grow back a few inches — and cascaded around their brass hoop earring. "It's my girlfriend's, and I think she lost it walking in. I gotta get it back so we can beat that Dragon Pixie at karaoke night." The name that they had read off the back of the biker's leather jacket would have gone indecipherable if it weren't for Mio's help, to be honest. Somehow, admitting they were still learning how to read was significantly less embarrassing than jumping the hurdle of explaining they were a weirdo without parents. If they recognized Fallon from whatever excursions taken with Lou, they didn't mention it. ( It was Mindy's world, and everyone's living in it without the distraction of cellphones now! )

[conkniving]

cranium rolled listlessly along a forearm as fallon threw bloodshot eyes to the source of that voice, just to be sure that it was really and truly him barking up the wrong tree. instinct screamed warnings that her back should not be exposed, but there was little will to care. if need be, she could just dress him in her insides — if there was any left to spare. a thai expletive prologued with thick exasperation, "fuck off, benny. don't pretend you give a shit." abiding the bristle of her spine in the vulnerability, the bastard finally managed to turn a shoulder into the chill of stone, more properly squared against her confronter. it wasn't like he was exhibiting any true hostility, and yet, she couldn't imagine benny would give up an opportunity to pummel her to the ground once more, after she had she so unceremoniously jumped him in his own apartment. at this point, she'd probably welcome it. no retaliation or attempt to defend herself. besides the brief glimpses through the veil shrouding her worldview when sick or intoxicated, a pervading numbness had settled since matevos's death. it was all a perception of living on borrowed time. "go on, then," said she, waving a hand in their gap, implication heavy that a single clock to glass jaw would come easy. "perfect opportunity. i would take it, if i were you."

Benny should not be entertaining the thought of approaching Fallon, of all people. Their last meeting ended with both of them too hurt to walk, and he still had the scars to prove it. Matevos had just died, she was still sporting her ankle thing, and was possibly all kinds of fucked up. His face was especially punchable, he imagined. Yet, he was certain he had a death wish. He made sure to keep his face as neutral as possible as he leaned against the wall in front of a hunched over Fallon. Biting the inside of his lip as he realised his timing was as always impeccable. 

“No need to clean up, streets free last I checked,” he said, casually. He hadn’t ordered anything at the club before following Fallon outside, his whole plan was to remain sober for as long as possible, though as he stood in front of her, he wished he had downed at least one glass of liquid courage. After all, should the money collector want to punch him, he’d accept it. “Heard about Matevos, sorry for your loss, know you two were best mates.” It might mean nothing to Fallon, perhaps she didn’t even give a fuck that Benny had once had an in with her crowd, she would be right for it.

[conkniving]

LISA ✴︎ CELINE

[conkniving]

the respectful turn of dustin's countenance sanctioned fallon to react without heed. expression fell, eyes fixing to a point on the immaculately cleaned bathroom floor, much the same as her body as she seated. does she ever get tired? sometimes. the picture of the raven perching her chin in the palm of a mottled hand with elbow upon the knee conveyed as much. tried as she might, the rancor that was her difficult personality remained particularly diluted. walls torn down. or demolished. and yet, once healed and injected with another dose of venom, she knew she would return to those castle balustrades. don a fresh coating of acid upon the tongue. continue to push away people. it was easier that way. easier than entertaining the stream of consciousness that existed among the tangle, that they had survived together. that dusty would have understood fallon didn't want that baby but would have still wanted her. that they ever stood a fucking chance if sera, perfect puzzle piece to his masterwork, came back to claim what they had staked. no, it had to be this way. and dustin could throw his barbs, infinitesimally disappointed and none the wiser, if it meant that the fallen former lover could sit here with no shame and then suck a complaint back with a whistle through the teeth at contorting aching body to clean. glancing to assure the astronomer remained faceless, she reached forward toward the sink and used the sound structure to draw herself to full height, mouth gaping inaudibly at the fissures of her skeleton throbbing dully. a measured breath shakily exhaled as she cranked the hot tempered faucet to the max, the scalding of the water a temporary distraction from the pain as much as it had been from the withdrawals. a sour kiss hit the back of her lips with a tsk, "that's not what i was sayin' and you know that." opposed, fallon regarded her mirrored visage with a squint of crow's feet. fucking irritating. enough that she supplied, "i guess... i could use my glasses. you know 'em — very back of the bottom drawer, in my nightstand. black case. and some books, i don't care which." deciding she had washed her reddened hands long enough, she regrettably shut the flow and took steps out of the bathroom with careful practice. hand squeezing briefly on the other's bicep, mindful of the blade that succeeded in a quirk of a smile that a switchblade would be deemed just for the act of nail care. onward, she beelined for the couch, drawn like a moth to flame at the prospect of another deserved nap. "of course," she enthused with genuine. "might not be of much use, but maybe i can drum up bronx to come give me a hand." rolling eyes, "don't feel much like explaining why i look like this or why he needs to help me, but if i don't say somethin' sooner, the more they'll be pissed." ominous black dog, cerberus, apparated at his master's side. though never explicitly trained, it gave the agency that he behave like a support animal. lean body caged her left thigh as she rounded the couch arm, dark glassy eyes unblinkingly awaiting a word as fallon smoothed a hand over short ebony hairs crowning a streamlined skull. it was a bit of a scaffold, like a cane of sorts, that she kept her hand atop his head and sank into the cushions with a bone-deep sigh. "egypt? that's sick. i'd love it more if it wasn't so fuckin' hot." not that she had ever gone — or on any trip in years for that matter. "i can picture it: the two of you like indiana jones or something. attractive. y'know, with the whips." and she gesticulated an imaginary snap of leather in the air with a lazy smirk. "i'm sure you guys will love it."

"Do you ever got tired of pushing people away?"

It was, perhaps, the worst timing possible for the question to be poised, but there were no more nights spent on her fire escape, longing for a rewrite of his own life and sucking down the smoke of her cigarettes. As his resumed the circadian rhythm of normalcy, there was a sensation akin of disembowelment to witness as someone ( who had once opened up a secondary universe beyond the reaches of the one pertaining to Earth's orbit, for him alone ) fell from grace without a soft place to land — and meant for it to hurt, the whole way down. It must be lonely down there, that was what he'd thought — when Sera had rocketed away from him like a meteor breaking into rocks, too. He could have opened up old wounds — begged the question, do you get tired of it, like how you pushed me so far away we couldn't last the distance? Do you get sick of orchestrating your own demise to ensure that no one can love you? That you'll turn to dust before too long? He could have said all that and more, and as usual, Dustin was reserved to silence in speaking his mind.

( No, the only words she'd received from him in the stead of a scorned letter was three sentences long.

There's nothing I can do, except bury my love for you.

But for a while it was love, wasn't it?

For me, it was love. )

He'd never understood the attraction of being alone. The appeal to destroying one's bridges by burning them all to the ground. Maybe that meant his parents had instilled a golden lesson for their children, that there was safety in numbers rather than scavenging for survival on their own, and what lured them back together until they were knit as a mitten.

Dustin lingered in the doorway of the bathroom, respectfully turning his back to Fallon and examining the beds of his fingernails, lightly abrased from the fumbles in his own stability to hold his posture. A mosaic of his own contusions and never-ending linearity of aches he'd endure for the remainder of his own whittling time on the plane of existence, the tune hummed underneath his breath was off-key. Music had never come to him like the golden prodigy, buried beneath layers of caked mud and sour upbringing, that was instilled like a bird's song within the cradles of Sera's immaculate vocal cords. Not once did he speak lacerating words that would have shoved the remorseful knife between her cracked ribcage, to the effect of tearing her godson away from her — solely reserved was the resonance for their long-standing connection, no matter its definition, and the avow that he would be owed her heart ripped out from her chest on the judgmental scales of Anubis weighing her purity for the afterlife, were she not to get her shit together in the daunting hypothetical that the Graves-Seong coupling were to both meet tragic ends.

"I carry my baby around and he gets bigger every day. I can handle you. Don't demean the independence I have left," Dustin insisted, bereft of veritable animosity, "Do you want me to pick up anything from your place?" Disembodied hand snaked around the doorframe, opening a top drawer in the cabinets and producing a pocket knife stowed away like it were in each drawer of the house, cautiously shackled with baby-proof locks to be concealed from Crash's curious hands. Flipping the blade outward, slightly trembling hand dug out dirt resting beneath the cuticles. "You might as well stay a while... I'm goin' to Egypt for a couple weeks. With Cece. You'd be happy to spend time with Tyche, right?" Forehead creased as he glared down at his fingernails, forcing the bleary eyesight to focus in a hair more, a frown creased the corners of his mouth. "Someone in the archaeology department owed me a favor and got us an exclusive tour with the Saqqara Tomb. I think Sera will be thrilled, 'cause they like mummies and I've always wanted to go to Egypt and pretend I could've made it in archaeology. Sitting on my knees dusting shit with a brush all day in the heat," he prattled on, if to fill the dreary space that had been created by Fallon's dour defeat in a war unworthy of her cause ( like many other fools before her, rushing in search of fleeting victories. )

[conkniving]

as the polar opposing pair strode through the costumed masses, fallon couldn't resist the temptation beside her. lilac lenses flitted sparingly to the rosy vision in her periphery, when allowed and not distracted promoting a proper path toward the bar. it was a good cover at least — the lady briarwood would not stand for rudeness, nor anyone to jostle her companion should they have gotten close enough. rather, much the same as she had done earlier when annaki became the sole center of her attention, fallon relinquished any qualm about guiding wayward parties out of their way. if not brusquely. only, the next glance in the approximate downward projection delivered with a ghosting of something alike skepticism. there was hint to their tone, a drop to their expression, that belied something uncharacteristic of the person fallon had come to — well, whatever it was that she felt for annaki. was it something the bastard said? typically, she was very aware of the exact words selected and crafted to weave an exchange the way she wanted, be it for the better or the fucked. this was a moment that tended to stupefy her about relationships in whichever fashion they came, and if it wasn't for the hand still secure in her own, she might have even felt bad. it was evident that she did anyway. annaki had a way of pulling on the inky heartstrings stitching up her insides. "whatever my darling desires, she'll have," leaving it to the posh accent to mask her own insecurity. the lower register, though flirtatious on the surface, was more to ice over the possibility of her own voice betraying her with something embarrassing like a waver. thank fuck, eloquently prologued the arrival of the bartender within the safe confines of her mind. deciding it best to double down now ( anything to have that smile return with a vengeance ), fallon let loose annaki's grasp with a languid trace up their arm, shoulder, neck, to brush back their strawberry hair, instructing to the tender, "we'll have two of your finest lychee specialties. make it strong, make it gruesome."

ANNAKI COULD FEEL THEIR HEARTBEAT SPEED UP a bit at the smile that Fallon offered them once they had managed to get her attention in the crowded expanse of the main room in the mansion. She hadn't really noticed the (forcibly) hasty departure of whoever the biker was speaking to previously, her focus entirely taken up by the vision of beauty in front of her, evident by the wide smile that was sitting on her face, blossomed from the adoration that filled her body whenever Fallon made it into her line of sight. They could appreciate the more grunge aesthetic that the object of their affection usually put forward, but seeing her in an outfit that was so different than the norm created a giddiness she didn't expect. As Fallon took their hand in her own, smitten giggles they couldn't control erupted from the receptionist as the light blush that adorned their cheeks matched the rest of their pink costume. Her smile grew even larger, lips that were painted bubblegum pink to match the rest of her attire almost breaking as Annaki could barely contain her elation in response to Fallon pressing her own against her skin. Further giggles left them as the compliment was given in their direction, the verbiage only further amusing them. Once her offer had been taken up, their own hand wrapped around hers after her lips left their hand, and she used that opportunity to gently pull her in the direction to where drinks were being served and, by proxy, closer to herself. "An eyeball sounds fun! I've only tried the Snickertini, which didn't taste very much like the candy..." Their smile slightly faltered at Fallon's mention of what they could possibly have for her, or her tastes, feeling as if she had to be slightly defensive. It was assumed she needed a sweet or fruity drink. Because she wasn't hardcore enough to have anything else. And this was the exact perception she was attempting to alter, to appear more than just that. She wanted Fallon to see her as more than someone who was just soft but instead someone who could keep up with her. "What if I wanted the eyeball one? I don't need something fruity." They weren't sure if their words actually convinced her, but once they arrived at the bar, their grip on her hand didn't drop as she looked over the offered beverages.

[conkniving]

to put it plain terms — the likes of which were the only terms that fallon could formulate in such a state — her status could be likened to the worst of hangovers. that omniscient sense of indisposition, that each joint felt ill-fitted and liable to slip loose and useless at any given moment. the inside of her skull felt stuffed to the brim with cotton, mouth just as dry. and god, she was really trying to fucking look up at her saviour. cracking open the lids, the right presumably swollen from the dash against the floorboards benny had served up and estimated saved her a desiccation of the nose when she pivoted the projection best she could, was a colossal task. comparatively, its cousin would be the moment one wakes and tries to open disused vision. this was attempting to use all viable strength and getting centimeters of allowance. and then, a new pressure. tough love. cyrek was touching her face and the muscle of her cheek jumped in objection whether or not she helped it. in memories past, cyrek had reached out to prod a mischievous finger into a busted lip after a round in the ring, drunken shiny smile and dark laughs. fallon had hissed through a smirk, wheeling away, throwing a half-hearted hand to parry away his gesture. what she wouldn't give to be able to do that now, for the both of them. to prove to herself that she could, to prove to them that it wasn't as dire as it appeared. shadows shifted above. there was monologue about removing her from the couch. but it was her haven, a place to rest her weary bones; and he wanted to take her away from that? almost petulantly, a noise bubbled up the grimy pipe of her throat, intention upon it being a singular note of decline. but it was derailed into a noise of agony, drawn long from pit of her gut, when tender as he may have been, the kingpin expended the majority of the effort in levying the beaten upon his frame. the entirety of fallon's weight depended on cyrek. he may have warned something about something... what was it? hadn't there been a story once upon a time about an old injury? ... left side. left side, she reminded herself to avoid. as if she could do little more than to lean her equilibrium into the right hand clutching high under her thigh. the hands that may have intended on supporting her back ( please, fuck, no ) instead stationed to assist in hinging legs over his hips. at the very least, she could direct the sag of her torso forward, chin hilted on a bony collar. the sound that came with the seat upon her small dingy bathroom sink hiccupped with discomfort. the mirror creaked with a complain about the shoulder that pressed back against it, wary of the mapping in the flesh of her flank. a soft thud came with the lolling recline of her head, visage lilted upward at the harsh artificial lighting. it added a blitheness to the jest that harkened at the request for consent: "always knew y'wanted to see me naked." it was undermined by the necessity for breath, a sigh passing at how exhausted she remained. eyes fluttered. "i won't tell ev." displayed in the approximate straddle of her platonic counterpart, fallon could effortlessly slip into slumber right there. there was supposed to be more, acquisition, but it became the unbidden hope that 'not telling the spouse' translated to permitting the next course of action. one of her hands flopped onto her lap, fumbling for the button of her jeans, but dexterity didn't come readily.

Soon as she coughed and dredged herself out of a rigor mortis state, Cyrek's head snapped back. Centimeters apart, his nostrils were flared and intaking the scent, scouring for any substances he should be concerned, fusing the embittered and desiccated synapses to put together anything beyond the sickening rot of her own cratered flesh. His weight pushed against the back of the couch, the punk grimaced and licked his thumb, using it to wipe away the caking of grimy, dried blood beginning to obfuscate her features. "You look like a fuckin' jellybean," he snarked dryly, inept to give her another response when he was still reeling betwixt reality and the submergence of past haunts. The tightness in his chest that refused to abate, as if any second, she'd suffer a spontaneous pneumothorax in that ballerina figure that would be naught but a deflated balloon were they to collapse. His hands moved away from her countenance to rest comfortably on either side of her head, able to free the ensnared oxygen in his brain now to assess to the right reaming that his debt collector had taken.

No pitying words were spoken, nor castigations. It was seldom that the punk biker was reserved into a turtle's shell, lest there were something he were trying to hide. For most Bastards, that would lend to an unspoken understanding that they had sailed into straits worse than death's cold hands herself — Cyrek always had something to fucking say, bark worse than bite ( didn't mean much, in his own moribund and decaying bag of bones resting on a sack of shit for a throne ), because he cared. His bleeding heart bared to the surface, rather than an abyssal black hole where the cruelty of humanity and all its freakshow of horrors should have chucked it out the window. If he said nothing, he'd given up.

That wasn't precisely the case, this time, if to quell the turning of scraps in his stomach from ending up outside of it and the baying of a mendacious siren to sit outside the windows — not the one that enchanted him into her eternal embrace, but the beholder of the calling card to his own past.

"'m savin' your corpse from rottin' into the couch, 's it look like?" he muttered underneath his breath, figuring she wouldn't catch more than the tailwind of it in her blustered state. Well-worn Converse were planted on the hardwood floorboards, not a shadow of dubiety reserved that the foreign substance he could detect underneath the torpid tread was her bodily fluids, too. "I'm gonna pick you up, but if you put all your weight on my left, 'm gonna fold like a bloody house of cards." His faith wasn't about to rescue them from the fractured femur that had further buried his career in figure skating. Hands locking underneath her thin waist, cautious of any yet unseen injuries to be assessed behind the closed door of a bathroom and at the beckoning of a first aid kit, Cyrek dispelled a labored breath as he hoisted her up. Heavy arrangements of jewelry from his own person thumped against his chest, cradling his longtime friend in his arms as if she were a precious cargo.

Knees knocked for a mere second, threatening on buckling under the poor state of physique gnawing at what it could grasp at for nourishment. Then, he was steady, shuffling in the direction of the bathroom, shooing Cerberus off with a scalding hiss, "Vá deitar..." Hasty with the short journey deeper into the apartment, he slowly lowered her onto the counter, mumbling, "You need a bath. You okay with me strippin' you down?"

[conkniving]

[231204] lalalalisa_m IG update

"🤍"

[conkniving]

it was not entirely out of the realm that fallon was veteran — the omnipresent eye on the back of her cranium. though not outright confirmed prior to july, it was rumoured the biker belonged to the gang of which territorially lurked through anchorage. it was enough to magnetize the spare conspiratorial look. they were best ignored. now, the masses seemed to spectate each individual gesture the mugshot made with the nettled breath. for the alluring promise that she might let slip her true identity, the course of action that allegedly lead her to play a hand in an innocent's murder. at the very least, they were frightened enough to steer clear, and that suited her just fine. it was very rare that anyone felt courageous enough to confront, high on a social sense of justice. and that was just amusing. the rest of the time, fallon was a lone wolf. a practice that had come from years younger and ousted by prepubescent peers that moulded fallon into the sort of person who cherished their singularity.

it only devolved into a problem when the recesses of her tainted mind deemed it appropriate to antagonize its predecessor. it had become less frequent ( 'shockingly' — as though drug abuse catalyzes rather than combats ), the episodes she labeled them, when the world felt insurmountably claustrophobic and there were simply too many people teeming in the periphery that at any moment's notice she could truly lash out with instinctual defense. but those episodes persevered, and would creep up her back like a swarm of spiders, colluding that she was in danger, that they would get her, that nowhere was safe. god, she felt so fucking vulnerable in those states, she hated it. despised it. chewed the insides of her cheeks until the copper taste distracted her even marginally. the blithe affect of the bastard would dissipate like the mirage that it was, and each little pinprick would sting deeper than the surface if luck turned its back on her and she was pitted in a situation she couldn't run away.

so, like a sixth sense, fallon felt the telltales of such an encounter as she slowed in her stride from sleepy cat books. the sun was setting, though it did not beg for the shades she still pulled from her collar and slipped over eyes narrowing in their toss over her shoulder. the din of anxiety whispered to peer back into the bookstore, that someone was following her. there hadn't been many others she hadn't clocked upon arriving an hour before, and as the thai strolled stiffly along the sidewalk, it wasn't until she very nearly collided with a halted figure that she turned her attention forward. a jolt passed through fallon, taken aback that someone wholly unfamiliar would dare stand stalwart before her, and then it dawned that this was what forebode her. not followed, but walking carelessly right into the maw.

and then. the blonde seethed. a torrent of palpable anguish like that of a fury. a gaze so piercing that it shattered the lens that failed valiantly to hide eyes widening with vexation. vexation, and gradually, hurt. this woman, identified swiftly as someone related to the murdered, began with a flavour that tasted bitterly of that therapist, jo. who had also similarly stopped fallon wherever they collided to batter with accusations. except, jo was a demon she could handle. a woman so undone and unhinged, it was almost pitying. this woman, unnamed, was a devil. one who inexplicably knew the exact spots most tender to dig a talon within and tear fallon open.

muscle worked to close the jaw that gaped slightly in the aftermath of the finale of venom. the bastard wasn't even aware of the visible reaction this woman had evoked: brow furrowed, nails sunk into the hardcover of the couple books in one arm against her chest, breath choked. and pathetically, fallon leaned imperceptibly away. on the back foot. at a disadvantage. who the fuck did this person think they were? with all the might of every fibre, the darker of the pair forced herself to close in, to steel her voice, to will her visage into one only of threat: "you don't know a fucking thing about me."

it couldn't be left there. she couldn't leave well enough alone. another stream of reality, fallon would have turned heel and stormed away. this was not that one. occupied hand lowering to join the other at her side, body rigid, a foot scuffing forward to minimize the gap of their vitriolic exchange, she addendum, "if you have any sensibility, you will stop. right. there. because if you truly believe that i am capable of 'ripping someone away from this world', despite the fact they would never release an actual murderer, then you're fuckin' stupid coming for me." finally, though quivering it may be, fallon smiled a ruthless, toothy spread. "i won't rot in a cell for willow. but i might be pushed to rot for someone else — if you're so willing."

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐀𝐘

                                     ( 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 @conkniving )

( 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 )

An onslaught of paranoia had plagued the young woman ever since Willow’s fate unraveled. A prickle of infection spread from her core as grief grew numb and fear took over. Holding it together was harder than it seemed. She had trouble sleeping without her daughter snuggled close in her arms, pulling the sleeping child closer as the night passed them by; another sleepless night for her after another. Wasn’t it embarrassing for other five year olds to know that their peers still slept in their mother’s bed? Would they understand it was for protection? Was there any more empathy for what had happened to her small family? Could children be as cruel as the ones who’d taken Willow’s life? Were they bred into their own tiny fates or did they have the world to blame for when they grow cold?

No. Systems fail all the time, and bad things happen all the time, but it doesn’t excuse cruelty. It could never excuse the act of taking another’s life.

She didn’t know how to explain to Goldie that boogeymen weren’t hiding under their beds, nor closets, nor their walk-in pantry, but instead real monsters are the ones who hide in plain sight. When her daughter was smart enough to suggest that Mommy should face her own boogeyman and be brave, well… Rhodes could only offer a hushed sob as she held her daughter in her arms. kids say the darnedest things

Which brings us to our point to the present day.

“How could you do it?” The barked question remained open-ended, a whisk of breath stolen from her breathing. Pain, torturous pain- in her chest swells knowing that the subject of her cousin’s murder was free to walk around and was now staring her in the face. She remembers that day, now emblazoned within her mind branded and charred: released on bail on july 10th. “And exactly how much was your freedom worth and why do you get to live your life freely?” Her breathing hitches. How could authorities have let the Iverson family down like this? How could they let the main suspect get away with murder, how could a judge not place an insurmountable price upon a murderer's head. In most cases with damning evidence, bail can be posted to almost 1 million dollars!!! How was it fathombable that they walk freely? Evidence was substantial, wasn’t it? The same drawing on the other’s body matched the drawing on the body her and her family had to identify…

“What could she have possibly known that would resort in her death?! What are you hiding? What are you not saying?! What are you protecting?"

Bravery aside, involuntary reactions left her breathless, gasping for air. Her posture stiffened, every muscle in her body coiling with a restrained tension. The air grew dense around her, as if an invisible force pressed upon her shoulders, threatening to suffocate. Her gaze, sharp and unyielding, bore into Fallon, seeking answers buried beneath layers of suspicion. The lines etched on her face, usually soft with maternal tenderness, now hardened into a mask of resolve, etched with the weight of unresolved grief. Her lip trembles, breaking that anger as she stands face to face with what she assumes is death.

“Tell me.” She hiccups. "How could you rip someone away from this world? What darkness have you seen and why do you think it’s an excuse for your fucked up behavior? What on earth would possess you to take her life away from her? What right do you have?”

None. That was the answer she wanted to hear. Fallon had no fucking rights to her cousin. “She had a long life ahead of her. She had a family. She had people who miss her and love her. You caused so much pain." Finally a hand raises to wipe the sniveling tears from her face.

“Or did it not occur to you to think that she’d have a family that loved her? Was she nothing but collateral damage? And why would she have to pay with her life?!”

In that charged moment, her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms, anger surging. It was a bitter concoction of loss and a fervent desire for justice. Her muscles work tirelessly to suppress the torrent of emotions threatening to spill forth. She doesn’t like insults, but even now a couple brew in the pit of her stomach.

“Were you selfish enough to think that she’d be someone like you? Lost. Alone. Unlovable. And Unwanted.”

a seething sharp exhale burns in her lungs. "You'll rot in a cell for what you did."

[conkniving]

it didn't seem conceivable that anything could waken the corpse of her heart after tonight's concussive occlusion. and yet — permitted to leave in the weak hours of the morning from the interrogation the authorities were all too eager to pommel fallon with and all too disappointed when it resounded she held no role in the unfortunate — shaky fingers disaffected at the sight of one blunt text message.

cy: annaki's @ hospital

a skip, cardiac pattering against the ribcage as if seeking to pry apart the bone and escape. to her. panic felt like the aftershock following the night of a bender: demure in its potency, but fuel nonetheless for the nervous system. it wouldn't do to just call cyrek, not when she had no inkling as to what she could possibly soothe. fuck, it was like a flashback to the night cyrek peered up from raccoon eyes in the gritty gutter outside the club, lamenting their love's loss in the wake of the girl's murder. life felt like a series of sucker punches, and none of them were exempt. the journey to hospital was a blur she didn't care for how it transpired, only that she was minutely comforted to see the fawn pair huddled like the starbound deities that they were. glassy eyes flitted momentarily to the beige tapes crowding evren's available flesh, tongue working behind a fence of teeth to ask, when the kingpin spoke first. "it's not mine," came out monotonous, and before she could think better of it. no use backtracking. at the mention, the first animation to the collector's expression tinted in that of worry, looking for a door that would hold annaki. then, glancing at the blood that lingered in the cuticles, what couldn't be haphazardly sloughed off in favour of pestering her with incriminating questions, fallon nodded. "bathroom?"

@conkniving ; anchorage regional hospital ; after 11.30PM

sms to: funest; DEADLY, LAMENTABLE

cy: hey. where r u cy: got a problem cy: annaki's @ hospital cy: call me

The bouclé of his sanity had been unbound for years now, and maybe he was drained out of acting rashly for the moment. ( Or the weed had mellowed him out enough to endure it without flipping his shit at a moment's notice, until the effects fully trickled its way out of his system. ) What an end to what was supposed to be a pleasant date night, let alone a night without seven children running circled around him. He'd resigned himself to sitting at one of the benches in the waiting room whilst his younger brother objected to being removed from the room. The doctor had already come and gone with the prognosis, the niccolic clanging of his fingertips against the brim of the clipboard nigh of driving Cyrek insane the longer the verbatim drawled with no end in sight. The medical jargon whittled down to a diacoustic, as if the doctor's mouth were connected to a microphone that had been shut off, cognition yird in the striking paranoia: Was someone after him? His family? First, Kurt's headstone. Then, Evren's injuries in the backyard... poison. The span had reached beyond the gang now, intercepting personal connections.

The shadows beneath his eyes felt pronounced by the torpidity eked out, emphasized by the ringlets of smearing eyeshadow, staring at an inexplicable space of the carpeting in the waiting room. Setiferous poise and inane dark pools didn't shift from it until a shadow cast along the doorway, half-expectant of Athena to show — he'd lost track of time aeons ago, ignorant of the monotonous ticking of a clock in the foremost corner of the room. Evren had dozed off in the chair beside him after he'd patched the worst of her abrasions with bandaids he'd stolen from the drawers of Annaki's hospital room, a hand lingering over her exposed thigh, the rest of her draped in his jacket two sizes too big for her. A pregnant pause until he could process the debt collector in a valkyrie status skulking through the way, his eyes raked over her. "You look like shit. You hurt bad?" He didn't beat around the bush for long, brushing the dight of grime temporally. "She's a couple doors down, sleepin'..." Trailing off, he lifted his free hand toward her and gesticulated for her awareness of her own attire. "S'gonna be a while 'til she comes to, maybe another hour. You should wash up. Don't want her seein' you like that."

[conkniving]

outside anchorage mental health & counseling ft. @emmelinefms

the dark spectre hardly comprehended where she haunted, let alone how she gotten there at all. the cigarette was helping, fresh and flavoured tobacco warming the lungs between gulps of brisk air as fallon froze to the icy sidewalk and espied the face of the mental health establishment. in times annulled, she had been adamant in the resistance of psychotherapy. how the fuck was talking about one's traumas supposed to assuage them rather than simply reliving them over and over? it was hard to look at herself in the mirror during episodes, no words spoken then; and yet, it was expected to sit in front of a stranger for an hour wasted in order to convey that which still plagued her from what felt like a lifetime ago. at the end of such spell, she would pay the literal last dimes of her bank account for no reward in the end. the only time she had truly pondered the idea was when it came to a psychiatrist, who would have hopefully concocted some disorder or condition for the amarin that would warrant pretty coloured pills to fill her palms. drugs had been the only remedy she had found to combat her demons. at least, temporarily. well, that and sex. both of which were severely lacking of late, all in the quest to betterment. most days, it felt like the right choice. now? fallon scoffed a gray cloud, arm tucked across her ribs to prop the other upwards of her mouth. few passersby cusped the still figure, but fallon paid them no mind at present, expression bitter.