#【❂】ᴅᴇѕɪɢɴ ᴏғ ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘтɪᴏɴ ❛years 29-on

[misfortuning]

@xjelani │ ɴᴏ ʀᴇѕт ғᴏʀ тʜᴇ ᴡɪᴄкᴇᴅ 

       This time, he comes to her. Finds her on the second try at one of the many bars they’ve been to, places he can never remember the names of because the where doesn’t matter as long as there’s booze. He doesn’t even come for that, really; before Lucy he never got drunk and now that he can, while a novelty experience, it holds little appeal. It was just somewhere to go when he was tired, the sort of tired that weighed his bones and echoed the hollow sky he usually preferred. When he needed grounding and would settle for trapping himself with four walls and a ceiling, because that was close enough.

       Tonight, he’s tired, and it reads in the lines of his body as he sinks into the seat next to her. It’s a greeting and a question and neither. 

[misfortuning]

@wildtenacity │ᴍɪѕѕɪɴɢ ᴘɪᴇсᴇѕ

       One foot in front of the other. That’s all he can think of now, head bowed in pain and exhaustion, hardly even seeing his steps. At first he’d tried to watch out for people, distinctly aware of how much smaller they all seem—and how they crowd around him, before and beside and behind—but everyone ends up avoiding him just fine on their own, skirting a generous distance out of his way and he’s thankful for it. (He assumes it’s his height, having no memory of his been-to-hell-and-back appearance, unaware of his feverish complexion and the dried blood camouflaged in his hair.) The space is good, though. It lets him breathe, and the less attention he has to pay the less it feels like he’s scraping the insides of his skull for every fragment of focus. He’s at least managed to stop staggering like a drunkard—until the impact of bumping into someone nearly knocks him flat down.

       “Sh—” Reflexes he doesn’t know he has take over, grabbing a nearby street sign with strength he certainly doesn’t feel, managing to stay on his feet (he isn’t sure he’d make it back up again if he fell). Adrenaline washes briefly through his veins, sending spikes of pain into his head that he shuts his eyes against tightly, free hand rising to his temple for all the good it does. “S...sorry.”

[misfortuning]

@seigneurdesentrailles │ ѕᴇᴇɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴅ

       It hits him suddenly. One moment his left-field of vision is shitty-but-functioning, normal, and the next it just shuts down without warning. A blackout. His steps falter, stopping in the middle of a busy sidewalk (need to get to somewhere safe), hand going to his eye when he bumps someone (he’s shaken, too scattered, needs to get it together) and he opens his mouth to mutter some form of apology when his fingertips meet something slick on his cheek, copper in his nose. 

       “Shit. Sorry—migraine—” which is a lie, there isn’t any pain which is exactly why it caught him off-guard but it’s an excuse that allows him to keep his hand to his face, hopefully keep the blood from being noticed “—I’ll get out of the way...” 

       Somewhere safe, somewhere safe, somewhere safe.

[misfortuning]

⌚ ⌘

FATHER FATHER — closed !

       Someone had made the mistake of asking after the boy. Not to say that curiosity over his well-being was a mistake—no, the mistake lay in asking Johan rather than Rebecca. His mother, ever the professional, would have kept it short and sweet, fondness in her voice and eyes but moderation in her mind. His father, however, held no such reservations.

       “Oh, he’s getting so big! It’s like just yesterday I could carry him in one hand—” laughter bubbles in his chest, warm and rich “—not that I ever did, Becca would have had my hide for that. But I could’ve, and now just look at him!” The wallet is fished out, the picture proudly flaunted: A boy of not-quite-three kneeling on a piano bench, clumsy hands spread flat on the keys. His mouth is wide with delight, eyes pinched nearly shut, relishing his raucous song.

       “Look at that! He’s big enough to get up there all by himself, and just last night we caught him trying to climb the counter! Becca had some stern words for him, of course, but I think he knew she was just worried, didn’t put up a fuss or anything. He takes after her more than me—looks and brains!” Laughter tumbles forth again, heavy river water over rocks. He’s looking at the picture again, face shining with adoration. “We decided we were going to teach him how to play when he was old enough, but at this rate he’s going to teach himself. He was just making noise right there but afterwards he started playing all the keys one by one, just listening to the notes like he was trying to figure them out. He’s a smart little guy, curious about everything he can be. The other day, in fact—”

       This goes on for a long time while the poor soul who made themself available promises in silent fervency that they will never unlock this door again.

       “…He loved us.” Such a thing should have been said with reverence, perhaps a misty fondness for times lost. Instead the words are flat, expression broken from it’s usual blank state into a slight twist of too many things (sadness and betrayal and disgust and anger, horrified acceptance of knowing why and a bitter lack of understanding and so much more) gone too quickly. 

[misfortuning]

hey do lucy !!

PERSPECTIVE — accepting!

       The first meeting was rough. It’s not saying much since their entire relationship—or what there is of it, whatever it is—is rough; since that’s what you get when you put two rough people in a shitty bar. She was strong, he remembers that first. The weight of her arm across his shoulders, the solid resistance when he’d grabbed her wrist, the toned build of her when he finally looked past the scent of things that might not have been there (they were there, he knows now). Honestly, she almost reminded him of Alenna.

       But that was as far as appearance went. Her personality, conversely, brought disturbing symmetry to the one individual who, if he saw never again, would be too soon. Loud, obnoxious, pushy and nosy and for some reason targeting him. And yet, somehow, she’d dragged him into a dumbass contest, later dragged his dumb ass stumbling through the streets. She was damn annoying, loud and obnoxious and fake, trying to cope and self-destructing—and it worked. She would continue to find him, and sometimes he’d find her, and they’d burn the nights away and leave them in empty bottles. She became an exception, just another oddity in a fucked up world.

       When it comes to Lucy, nothing really matters. He could find her beautiful, repulsive, deserving of death or worth saving. He relates; she’s nothing like him. They pass through each others’ lives, never missed but found when needed (never needed). Love or hate or pity or disgust, rejection, the drowning clinging stubbornly to sinking rocks—in the end, it doesn’t matter. It never matters. It’s like looking at art: Pointless.

[misfortuning]

@tiptoes-through-glass │ ᴘɪстᴜʀᴇѕѳᴜᴇ 

       The day is, perhaps, a bit threatening; silver light through a veil of clouds, a wind that rises and falls but never truly goes away. It’s the kind of threat that Isayah appreciates, a heralding of storms that discourages most of the general populace from flooding the park—his current location, as his current companion is one who prefers the people places, loves the smells and attention and, on the rare occasion, treats. 

       Vin zigzags back and forth across grass and path, unleashed and unbothered by the weather, tail waving triumphantly. Isayah follows somewhat, though not in the same manner. At times something will catch the dog’s attention and he’ll be off, racing away until he’s almost out of sight and the man must call him back to his side; and so the cycle begins again.

[misfortuning]

He wakes with blood in his mouth.

When Isayah finishes dry-heaving spit and bile that is not salt or coppery rust, he thinks he might actually be awake. His body is sluggish, shaking, head heavy and muzzy and stomach almost as gnawing as the hollowness lurking behind his sternum; he knows he's gone too far. Sleep, however long it lasted, did him no good and therefore might as well have not happened. Didn't. Therefore, whatever unremembered dreams that might have happened will never exist. There.

A child's voice sings softly of bright, silent nights.

Dragging himself upright, Isayah recalls a time when all it took to move him was spite, an endless lightning strike lancing through his body, thunder roaring hot in his veins. Now even all his self-loathing is just another layer of wet ash clinging to his bones, swallowing slowly into the tireless exhaustion that wants nothing from him. At least the mountains don't long for him, either—for now. The silence is deafening. He cannot go home.

Fingertips light on the back of his hand; their touch is warm.

Whether the streets are familiar to him or not is inconsequential. He carries on, breathing mechanical, thoughts drifting past aimless and half-formed. The few people he's aware of peripherally give him a wide berth; they are without sound, and he would rather believe they don't exist. Time is lost to him once more until he stumbles, ears ringing. His need for food is undeniable and he no longer cares enough to ignore it. The first door that smells of food and seems to have not much clamor behind it, he pushes through. His eyes won't adjust—no, they won't open—no—now he is sitting alone at a remote booth, an attentive presence hovering nearby. Waiting. The thought of food makes him sick. The thought that he will see someone he recognizes instead of a stranger is more than he can bear. He does not look.

"Water. Coffee. Black." Low and rough and cracked, the words are more than he has to spare. He closes his eyes. Opens them. There's a window, looking onto a grey sidewalk. He looks.

[misfortuning]

!! FOR SAM

PERSPECTIVE — accepting!

       He’d felt uncomfortable enough just stepping into the bakery, knew he didn’t belong there. She, on the other hand, looked like she’d been born there; lavender hair to match the frosting, chocolate eyes, soft…everything. She even smelled like one of the pastries, although that could have simply been part of the general assault of sweetness on his sense. (But, no, later in the elevator he distinctly remembered cupcakes, fresh bread, and other bakery items he didn’t know the names of.)

       And yet, she hadn’t made any sort of deal, even after he’d made an ass of himself. She’d remained unfailingly polite and, even more than that, helpful. She hadn’t seemed annoyed or fearful in the slightest. Sam. Her name was Sam. (Even in the elevator she’d tried to be helpful—had been helpful, distracted him by talking about things he couldn’t remember anymore because that hadn’t been the point. It was her voice he’d focused on; soft, light tones which had, even marginally, shakily, settled him in reality.)

       When he’d visited the bakery again it had been for the same reason as the first time. But it had come as a…reprieve, or something, that Sam had once again been behind the counter. He doesn’t consider her a friend, never thinks about making friends anymore. But if she was in trouble, he’d help her. She helped him, after all.

[misfortuning]

@deadxheads │ ᴍᴏɴѕтᴇʀѕ? ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴍʏ вᴇᴅ?

       Isayah knew it was a mistake the moment Lucy showed up at his door. He knew it was only going to get worse after he agreed to let her stay. And lo-and-behold, when he arrives home it’s to an unlocked door and unfamiliar smells. (Thank fuck he got everyone out of the house; even the dogs had been temporarily evicted, though the cats still remained.) 

       Immediately a flare of anger sharpens itself in preparation, but just as quickly he buries its edge in his own gut. He was angry, but was he surprised? No. And that meant that he could very well accept and deal with whatever bullshit was left behind in the mess he’d helped create. Temper dismissed, he purposefully opens the door, closes it with the same controlled manner. It’s the only hint that remains of his fouled mood.

       Motionless now, he focuses; listens, breathes, taps into that strange, almost sixth sense he has (though he’d never call it that aloud). Lucy’s gone. He’s not entirely sure how he knows this or if he really knows it at all, but he’d certainly be surprised if she was still around. And yet...the house doesn’t quite feel empty. Or maybe it feels too empty. Too quiet. Like something lying in wait. 

       Bone-deep exhaustion helps smother the coals of rage, and he shoves a hand through his hair wondering why he invites these situations even when he doesn’t want them. Especially when he doesn’t want them. Drawing the silence into his lungs, he breaks it cleanly on the exhale.

       “...A’ight. Whoever you are, I don’t care. But get out of my house.” Now why didn’t he just do that to Lucy? Isayah reminds himself that it’s not the stranger he’s got a problem with, nor the stranger with him. “...Please.”

[misfortuning]

!! feed me

PERSPECTIVE — accepting!

       The man isn’t human, or if he is, then he’s certainly no ordinary one. Sure, he looks unassuming enough with brown hair, a neat little beard and classic blue eyes—though upon closer inspection his eyes are a faded sort of blue that make him think of dying animals, his skin almost sickly with a tinge of grey. 

       But above all he smells…strange. It’s nothing terribly strong, doesn’t need to be. Isayah can’t quite tell what it is (faint traces of gun powder, something else metallic, slightly stale, musty and cold, no kind of death he’s smelled before and yet—) but it’s unsettling to say the least, sharpens his nerves. Stranger still, he carries a faint current that only just plays at the edges of Isayah’s senses, maddeningly elusive, similar to the one that hangs around Lucasta though it feels different, feels…older.

       Still, that little instinct in his gut, the one that pricks the back of his neck and sets his hair on end, isn’t screaming at him. Yet. Not all unnatural beings are a threat, something Isayah would do well to remember but he has people to protect, and they will always come first. Though the man seems content enough minding his own business, he will still be warning his friends to look out for such an individual, to call if they need to. Maybe even if they don’t.

[misfortuning]

who was your first love and what happened if you aren't still together

       His first love. It sounds so cliché, such a feeble term. Inadequate. Still, the memories hit him, nothing like a punch; the hole’s already in his chest and he’s standing on the edge, made the mistake of looking down. 

       (She’d sat quiet, out of place, silence deafening around them; she’d laughed, not loud, violet eyes and sharp teeth and soft smile—it wasn’t long after that she ate his heart, and he let her, gladly.       But too soon they were careless, life was cruel, love for fools. He’d knelt in the dirt beneath the sun and said her name like a prayer into the loudest sort of silence, over the still-warm body in his arms that wasn’t her, where was she—no, where was he?       And later, later nights, moonless skies and open eyes and silent breathing, was her heart still beating? Were miracles in godless times just curses in disguise? He cursed god, suffocating, and didn’t know who he hated more so he kept burning, burning. The gunpowder on his hands caught fire and smoke filled his lungs.       Too late he realized he hadn’t changed one bit, was still a fool, was worse—too late he realized he was the curse. Like a forbidden fruit revenge tasted so sweet, poison syrup in his throat as he watched her fall, no one to catch her, where was he? Where was he?        He would have buried himself with her, only the grave was still empty.) 

       “…Gwyn. She died.” It’s been a long time since, but—his “first”? His only.

[misfortuning]

"everything you say will just be between you and me."

SHUT UP, BUT LOUDER— accepting!

       The words should not be so reassuring—aren’t really, anyway, since “reassured” isn’t quite what he feels. But they’re believable, somehow, and that right there is not. Should not be a thing. It’s the alcohol, his rational side points out coolly through the warm buzz cushioning his mind. It’s just the alcohol, he tells himself, weightless, heavy head bowed over the drink. 

       “Just the alcohol,” he murmurs, prayer-like. Whether he is aware of things said aloud is unknown.

       He wants to bite his cheek, his tongue, gag himself with his own blood so he won’t say anything, not to her, not to anyone—but that’s not how it works. His jaw is numb and only works enough to fall open, spill sharp little secret teeth across the wood. (They don’t belong there DON’T BELONG THERE, were buried in his gut and in his heart and his brain and the Godforsaken pit of his left eye, dug into his wrist for a reason and they don’t belong out there where careless fingers can pick them up—)

       “I think. Sometimes.” The edges are sharp, cut his throat as they claw their painful way up; the blood doesn’t gag at all. He’s bleeding them out. “What if I…what if I was wrong?” He looks at her now, hazy flames burning stubbornly. They flicker back and forth as he shakes his head. “Shouldn’t. I know. It’s done. But.”

       The last words get hooked in the far back of his mouth, refuse to move. He struggles half-heartedly to untangle them, simple stubborness to get it done, but maybe he’s relieved, too. Maybe it’s better if they stay a little razor ball lodged in his head. But of course, it’s just room for something new to tear free.

       “You ever thought about how. People can’t get hurt when they’re dead?” Memory follows with a wave of disjointed sermons, promises of hell and eternal flame. He snorts softly. “Guess it depends what you believe, though. I don’t believe. Not in any…holy karma after death. Not even with…” He trails off, bites through the sentence tied to a secret that isn’t his. It sinks, slowly, and silence rises.But of course, it doesn’t last.

       When he speaks again his voice is low, low, lower than a heavy heart; lower than a stone. “I said I’d get her out’a there. Said I’d keep her safe. That was the safest I could make her. ‘Cause I was too weak t’do anything else, y’know?” It’s not a bitter confession; once upon a time it filled him with anger but now it’s a handful of dirt tossed on a grave, nothing he could change then and nothing he can change now. But now he’s agitated, fingers fighting their way through his hair. “But. But I promised I’d keep the rest of ‘em safe, too. So what if—when—” 

       He struggled desperately, a fish at the end of a line dragging him to certain death. This will fix nothing. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care, and is that better or worse? His lungs are collapsing, forcing it out, “When do I kill them, too?”

[misfortuning]

‘ are you a good person? ’

LIAR LIAR — accepting!

       Once, he might have laughed at that. Humorless, harsh, all rough and jagged edges (don’t come any closer I will hurt you); Once, he could have. Now he knows better. Now he knows. His edges have turned on him, all brittle and bitter and he never cared, watched himself bleed out long ago. He never cared. 

       “No.” He’s tired. He’s used to it. It’s a part of him (wonders if it’s all of him), and he’ll keep going, going, anyway.

[misfortuning]

@maljefe │ ғʀᴏᴍ

       Twining with the wind and rhythmic river waves he’d heard the splashing, choked struggles of someone in the god damn river, was tossing his sweatshirt (which was only for show; the odd looks he got wearing a t-shirt in the winter bothered him more than the cold) and leaping off the bank without a second thought. He’d found her in little over a minute of strong swimming, hauled her out in a little less, but as he spit the icy water that had slipped into his mouth he knew that even that had been too long.

       “Shit,” he mutters, casting about for his discarded hoodie, hearing the jagged and chopped word that forces its way from between teeth. Why weren’t there any fucking light posts out here? Who the hell jumped (for she must have jumped if she couldn’t swim) into the river at night? Why the god damned shit did he have to wear such dark clothes—he finds it, rumpled in the grass a ways upriver from where they’ve emerged.

       Within a breath he's back—and finally getting a good look at her. Are those ears? And..a fucking tail? Shit. Well, whatever, he’s committed. Carefully lifting her into an approximation of sitting, he peels off her soaked top with clinical, gentle hands, quickly replacing it with his sweatshirt. He hesitates for only a second before removing her shoes, pants, and socks as well, all with swift, practical motions—wet clothes would leech what little body heat she had left faster than cold air, but it still didn’t give him much time. 

       Thoughts race even as he picks the woman up (small but compact, like a fighter), sweatshirt hem easily reaching just past her mid-thigh, holding her close to block what he can of the wind and ignoring what words her cold-clenched jaw mutilates. The fact that she has ears, a tail, and, he finally notes, rather wicked-looking claws immediately dismisses the option of a hospital. Besides, he’s spent so much time avoiding them that he's not even sure where the closest one would be. That leaves two options, and he heads for the nearest.

       Arriving at his friend’s apartment he doesn’t bother knocking, simply going to open to door—only to find it locked. Shit! God dammit, sorry about this I’ll pay for it later— His wrist tenses, tendons flex, and the knob twists with a crack, door swinging open. No deadbolt, must be out. Kicking the door shut behind him, he heads straight for the couch and settles her with the same careful handling he’s used from the start. Pulling the throw blanket over her, he disappears into the bedroom and returns with more blankets (and even a pillow), depositing those before beelining to the kitchenette and starting some hot water.

       From the moment he jumped in the river to current time, Isayah has not stopped moving; now, standing a few feet away from the clearly inhuman stranger he’s brought directly to his friend’s home, his protector setting is able to organize itself, reorient from the previously paramount saveher-saveher-saveher and realize that he may have been a bit hasty. But, no, he shouldn’t decide so quickly. Unless she’d just finished killing his friends before taking a dive, pulling her from the river and getting her to a warm place hadn’t been a mistake.

       Still, he’ll let her make the first verbal move. Amber gaze is unwavering as he watches her, oblivious to the fact that he’s dripping water all over the floor. It’s obvious what she is; but can she sense that he’s more than he seems, too?

[misfortuning]

@xjelani │ ᴅʀɪɴк ʏᴏᴜʀѕᴇʟғ тᴏ ѕʟᴇᴇᴘ

       The bar isn’t particularly nice, which is just a nice way of saying that no respectable person would be seen there. Of course, such niceness doesn’t belong in a shit pit like that—and so.

       The man sits at the far end of the bar; dark, distant, and more than likely dangerous, everything from his placement to his body language stonewalling even the idea of being approached. He’s here to drink, alone.

       (And so far it’s worked out, but anything can happen.)

[misfortuning]

 @blasianbutterfly ʟɪкᴇᴅ

       The bakery door opens.

       It’s the elevator man, all loom and doom and gloom as per usual.

       He’s back for more sweets and treats.