#& ft ‚ 000warning.

[at-sabohteurs]

( sc. ) she is never alone, and yet always lonely. the sounds of her children fade into a distant hum of sound, her migraines becoming progressively worse as days come to pass. colour desaturates, her view of the world becoming a dreary black and white as she stands still and silent in the foyer of hill house. it's dark. no light shines in the middle of the night, and olivia is not alone. she stares at the doors, once opening with ease, welcoming her in - now, they're heavy, and they refuse to budge. she doesn't blink as she starts to move towards them, something not altogether figment urging her forward.

run, it whispers in her head, faint and fractured. her hand rises, the sleeve of her robe brushing her hip as she reaches for the door, her fingertips grazing the wood, and yet- nothing. olivia's head tilts, the haze in her eyes clearing as she blinked rapidly, startling backwards one step, two . . . the house is suffocating her, and when she opens her mouth to breathe - she can't. liv gasps, turning to stumble back up the stairs to her bedroom, where she can wake hugh to help her breathe

gasps stifles in her throat as she comes face to face with a mirror image, her own eyes staring back at her, and the shadows of the house shifts. decay creeps across the floor, the wall - her head turns, gaze drifting over years of abandonment to the vines that grow wild over the windows. she inhales. " is this, " she starts, voice quiet and hoarse from disuse as she spins back to @000warning, her other self. " - is this . . . a dream ? "

[at-sabohteurs]

( sc. ) new york is exactly as she remembers it, and nothing like she's used to. los angeles had been her home for so long, the city of her reinvention, when she truly came alive. but it's easier to get lost here, in the crowds of people, the buildings growing taller with every new addition, so loud it drowned out the rest of the world. it's easy here. it's comfortable. sometimes, she misses la. she misses the glitz and the glam. but she's content, for now, to simply be. with her husband, and her lover, and her lover's husband - it's not conventional. but it doesn't have to be. she's learning, albeit slowly. " what about the stage ? " she suggests silkily, looking up from the morning papers strewn across their bed as she lounges in the sun. her nose wrinkles, dark eyes rising to meet that of @000warning with a coy smirk. " it's no silver screen, of course - but beggars can't be choosers after all. " she's not the actress between the two of them. celia has the accolades to prove that in spades. evelyn can hold her own, she has talent, sure. but she's made for film reels, not broadway. god, she must be desperate.