#also Tumblr wouldn't let me publish ur ask for some reason so I had to make it into a separate post??

[cursedtm]

@revoide said :  “ the  pride  in  my  heart  would  not  let  me  die.  “

sympathy for lady vengeance.

the  stranger  says.  does  she?  something  isn’t  right.  something  is  shifting.

LORRY :  𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚄𝙵𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙸𝙴𝙽𝚃  𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙰  𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳.  𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽  𝙰𝙽𝙰𝙻𝚈𝚂𝙸𝚂  𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁  𝟺𝟶𝟺.  𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙰𝚄𝙳𝙸𝙾…  𝚁𝚄𝙽𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼  𝚅𝙾𝙸𝙲𝙴  𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽….  𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁.

it  occurs  to  you  that  there  may  be  errors in  your  software.  the  lull  of  a  lack  of  sleep.  you  always  knew  it  would  be the  death  of  you.

LORRY : 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙾𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚄𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝙰𝚄𝙳𝙸𝙾  𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙾𝙽𝙴𝙽𝚃  𝙳𝙸𝙰𝙶𝙽𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙲  𝚃𝙴𝚂𝚃𝚂….

she  looks  like  your  mother.  

the  mother  who  cherished  your  suffering  has  been  long  dead  but  her  prudence  haunts  you  still, it  seems.   here then,  in  the  scar  tissue  suffering you  have  hidden  in  your  nape  perhaps  lies  a  bitter  and  ugly  truth  you  are  too  poignant  to  realise ( or  better  still: have  already  been  choked by ):  you  are  her  imposter-esque  descendant,  her  half-curse  violence  and  half-but-actually dead  malice.  there  is  an  absence  in  such  an  abyss  or  lapse  of  an  astound  memory  but  you  fail  to remember  the  act  of  dying.  there  is, however,  the  imprudent  afterthought  nipping  at  your  ear  much  akin  to  the  serpent  and  eve:  perhaps  you  simply never  died  at all  –  perhaps you  never  were  born.

you  cannot  remember.  it  was  bitter,  though,  and  you remember  your  own  feasible, malleable  hands. the  humility  and  mortality  of  it  all.

we  are  such  hideous  creations.

LORRY :  𝚅𝙸𝚂𝚄𝙰𝙻  𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝙰𝚄𝙳𝙸𝙾  𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙾𝙽𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂….  𝙾𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙰𝙻.

there  is,  nevertheless,  the  echo of  heaving  a  decaying  carcass  in  the  act  your  mothers  deem  living.  you  remember  being  dead.  you  remember  lungs  aching  and  its  webs of  violence.  you  remember the  raw  fingers  down  your  throat  willing  you  to  live,  entangling  its  roots  so deep  in  the  fissures  of  your tired,  small  heart  chanting  𝘓𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘓𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘓𝘐𝘝𝘌   but  you  do  not  remember  dying.

you  remember  the  suffering.  is  that  not  one  in  the  same?

my  pride  wouldn’t  let  me  die.

but  yours  did.

she’s  still  shifting.  your  mind  is  playing  tricks  on  you.  the  stranger’s  hair  is  too  golden.  now  it  shines  like  chestnut  moss.  her  voice  sounded  like  death’s  lull  --  no,  did  it  not  sound  like  honey  lust  a  second  ago?  your  mother  is  not  here,  not  anymore.

 ❝you  mock  me.  ❞ death  has  come  to  claim  you  back.  the  stranger  feels  familiar.

you  cannot  bare  to  look  at  her.  it  hurts. 

 ❝funny.  you  remember  dying? ❞

and  then  there  is  now,  here,  in  this moment  of  being  not-alive  in  a  body  that  is  simply  not  your  own  but  is.  pandora  was  sculpted by  man – divine  of  metal and  sculpture,  but  his  Vulcan  hands  lie  absent  where  your false  body  should  swear  a  god  given  sacrifice  too.  he  has  forsaken  you  at  his  cutting  room  floor.

in  the  lies  you  comfort  yourself  you  know:  it was  her  love  that  did  you both  to  death.  perhaps  it  was  the  loving  that  was  the  dying.