#↷ francis wymack ﹙ threads ﹚
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ there were probably more exciting things to do on a friday night than smoking a cigarette outside of the town's lone nightclub⸻ a masochistic test of discipline, like the proverbial moth trying to deprive itself of the flame that burned and burned and burned. but attempts at restraint did not make the allure any less bright. instead, he focused on the faded scraps of paper that plastered on the building's facade, a messy collage of events posters and local business ads, fluttering in the breeze. but there were two posters that stood out— demanded attention, really. side by side, and newer than all the rest. francis took a slow drag as he stared at those two faces, smoke curling up from his mouth as he exhaled with a sigh ﹕ a sound that almost sounded profound. almost. and francis looked like he was chewing on something meaningful, maybe deep, when he beckoned a passerby closer with a sharp psst⸻ a feeling of urgency underling the noise, as if his thoughts could not wait any longer to be said out loud. “ do you see it ? ” gaze returned to the missing and wanted posters, a brief pause just to see if they would make the same discovery. and finally, “ missing girl and wanted guy. they'd make a cute couple, right ? like, opposites attract or whatever. she looks all bright-eyed and fun, and he's got that ... ” francis circled his cigarette vaguely in the air as he tried to find the words, then taking another drag. “ that i'll ruin your life but you'll love me for it thing going on. kind of hot. ” smoke billowing out as he spoke, coughing when he finished the thought with a small laugh. “ but, guess it's too late to ask if they want a third, huh ? girl's been two months missing, so she's probably⸻ ” cigarette dropped to the ground and hand raised to his neck, a slicing gesture across his throat with lazy precision before letting out a croak. @c0nnectdots
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horrorphase · 1 month ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹,  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆  𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻  𝗵𝗲  𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱.  his  fingers  stilled  where  they  drummed  absently  on  the  table,  studying  the  other  through  half-lidded  eyes,  searching  for  the  crack  in  all  that  marble  bravado.  but  for  once—  for  once—  the  idea  hadn't  crumbled  into  a  pile  of  pretentious  dust.    ❝      shit,      ❞       the  word  stumbled  out  with  a  light  chuckle,  blinking  in  such  a  nonplussed  way  that  it  might  as  well  come  with  its  own  cartoonish  sound  effect.     ❝      that  actually  sounds  good.      ❞       good,  but  not  exactly  something  francis  would  personally  sit  an  hour  and  a  half  for⸻   would  rather  watch  reruns  of  curb  your  enthusiasm  than  be  an  audience  to  that  unsettling  image  that  crawled  under  his  skin  and  stuck  to  his  ribs,  refusing  to  leave.  an  image  of  that  damn  spaceman,  drifting  in  the  infinite  quiet  of  the  universe,  surrounded  by  the  emptiness  he  worked  so  goddamn  hard  to  achieve.  and  he  hated  it.  𝗵𝗼𝘄  𝗶𝘁  𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱  𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵  𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽  𝗶𝗻  𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄,  a  little  too  familiar  with  desire  becoming  your  own  ruin.  francis  took  a  long  drag  of  his  cigarette,  letting  the  smoke  linger  in  his  lungs,  nicotine  soothing  the  constant  buzz  of  anxiety  under  his  skin,  before  an  exhale  of  smoke  blown  straight  toward  kellan's  face.     ❝      bleak  as  hell,  too.  but  can't  he  fuckin'  stumble  upon  a  space  station  or  idon'tknow,  fucking  aliens,  instead  of  just  being  stuck  there  ?  would  make  for  a  better  story.      ❞       francis  said  with  a  casual  roll  of  eyes,  tone  sharp  and  indignant,  almost  offended.
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  he  may  have  only  been  in  red  creek  for  a  short  time  but  his  ownership  of  the  movie  theatre  and  undoubtedly  ,  the  seeming  nonsense  that  he  was  always  talking  about  had  earned  him  glimpses  of  interest  from  those  around  him  .  spoon  fed  his  entire  life  with  positive  attention  and  acclaim  ,  it  was  no  surprise  that  kellan  struggled  to  even  appear  down  to  earth  ,  his  artistry  only  on  par  with  his  over  inflated  sense  of  self  importance  in  the  world  of  the  arts  .  the  clouds  of  smoke  do  nothing  to  distract  from  the  importance  that  he  feels  is  held  within  the  manuscript  he  has  slaved  over  (  sort  of  )  .  there  was  some  merit  to  his  writing  abilities  but  it  was  certain  that  his  visions  of  grandeur  were  slightly  skewed  .  "  of  course  there  is  a  message  ,  isn't  it  obvious  ?  "  asked  with  the  implication  that  someone  could  derive  the  overarching  message  from  the  vague  explanation  that  he  had  given  .  for  all  his  many  flaws  and  delusions  ,  there  was  a  concept  at  the  base  of  each  of  his  creations  and  kellan  takes  a  moment  ,  peering  through  red  tinted  spectacles  before  offering  further  explanation  ,  "  it's  about  mortality  …  isolation  …  loneliness  …  he  spends  his  entire  life  filled  with  desire  and  longing  to  finally  acheive  his  dream  of  being  the  man  that  lives  in  space  and  only  upon  that  actualisation  …  realisation  …  will  he  realise  that  he  has  accomplished  infinite  loneliness  .  not  a  single  being  out  there  with  him  in  the  universe  to  share  his  greatest  accomplishment  .  "  
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ from the very first time he tasted it, francis had always sought out trouble⸻ a way to catch the attention of those supposed to look after him at first, until it became much more primal than that. he didn't want it for the chaos itself, but for the way it made him feel alive ﹕ heart hammering in the kind of rhythm that reminded him there was blood in his veins, something sharp and hot and real. there was truth to friction, a clarity to standing too close to a breaking edge, and francis had spent half of his life testing the boundaries of that feeling. wondering how far he could lean into the heat before it burned him whole. and places like this were always ripe of the possibilities, the dancefloor a breeding ground of vices and mistakes, a pulsing thing of sweat, sound, and shadow. and yet, francis' attention was only locked— hooked, really— on someone that looked like trouble personified⸻ a scowl carved deep into a face that begged to be either shattered or worshipped under these seizure-bright strobing lights. “ that's one hell of a scar you've got there. ” francis said as he approached, raising his voice just enough to slip through the wall of sound, words came like they'd been dipped in something slow and sticky, deliberate. his lips curved into a smirk, the kind that asked for trouble because trouble was all he'd come here to find ﹕ but not exactly opposed to whatever else he might discover, especially now with a closer look. “ looks like it hurt like hell. it's kinda hot, though. y'know people love broken things. ” takes one to know one. gaze traced the jagged line along taylan's throat, lingering a little too long, mesmerized by how it almost glimmered faintly in the light, pale and uneven, standing out stark against his skin. then, his gaze dragged back up, searching for taylan's eyes, a thinly-veiled challenge in his expression. “ mind if i touch it ? ” the question slipped out like it was his right to ask, like he was already halfway there in his head, imagining his fingers trailing over the line of it. “ heard the dead girl also got her throat slit, but hers didn't get to heal like yours. ” @ofvolatile
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ the problem with being a tourist, a stranger in a town so desperate to look tight-knit despite all the murdering each other, was that francis didn't know who to come to when he needed something. people seemed wary of anyone a little out of place⸻ but he was desperate at this point, didn't have a dealer here, at least not yet, so he did what anyone might do when adrift ﹕ leaning back against the wall outside dolly's, hands stuffed into his pockets as he studied anyone passing by. he was looking for anyone who fit the part. someone younger, someone who looked like they smoked grass— maybe out of habit, maybe to take the edge off a life that pressed too hard. someone who looked stressed as fuck. it was a gamble, sure, but everything in this town felt like one. the diner food, the weather, people's sanity. and when his gaze fell upon a stranger nearby, looking particularly stressed out, francis didn't hesitate to approach⸻ pleasantries not exactly his thing, had one question so sharp and insistent that he didn't bother with that smalltown how do you do. “ hey man, ” he started, voice low and rough at the edges, not exactly trying to bring attention to the conversation, but with a smile too warm to possibly be genuine nonetheless. “ don't suppose you know where a guy could get some weed around here, do you ? i mean, c'mon, surely you know. you look like you could use a fat blunt right now. ” tongue clicked, looking at the other man as like he could read him. but francis was just projecting. then almost as an afterthought, francis added, “ not looking for anything harder. just weed. ” he drew a cross over his heart, smile tugging into something that might have been a smirk, though it felt more like a grimace. as if saying that out loud made a difference, as if drawing a line in the sand could hold back the tide. @capitclkarma
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ needs and nourishment truly had nothing to do with this impromptu field trip to this shitty town's only grocery store⸻ only really meant to fill the time before the next urge for something more intriguing than his futile attempts at sobriety. he should know better by now ﹕ yet something in him still wrestled against his whims, some foolish desire to be good, despite how it often felt this ugliness inside him had always been just another birthright. but the aisles of amrak was hardly the place to think about the human condition, bloodshot eyes bruised by sleeplessness roving across the shelves without focus, as if searching for something and forgetting it in the same breath. and francis slowly pushed his shopping cart, each wheel wobbling in discord, hand hung slack over the side, brushing anything and everything off the shelves, landing into his cart with muted thuds. there really wasn't any rhythm to this aimlessness, cargo piling up in reckless abundance ﹕ ten boxes of cereals, a dozen canned soups, a whole row of instant noodles, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, none of which would be consumed when he could always just order takeouts from lakeside grill. still, francis pushed on⸻ as if this terribly mundane ritual might stop the spiral that was coming. but that was wishful thinking, no stopping the tremors in his veins, how the colors in the grocery store suddenly looked too bright, how the fluorescent light now felt too loud. breath became shallow and quick, trying to maintain some semblance of self-control. and overwhelmed with his head swimming, swimming, swimming, francis nearly hit someone with his cart, stopping to a screeching halt just an inch away from colliding against the woman standing near the end of the aisle, inspecting a display of imported chocolates. he didn't know her, but there was something he immediately recognized ﹕ a steadiness he couldn't find in himself. and maybe that was what drew him in— the faint hope that it might rub off on him, even if only for a second. “ hey, ” he started, voice rough and low, almost a whisper, almost like a secret, like it had to fight its way out of his throat. “ do you know where to fuckin' get some, uh ... ” he had to think for a minute, wasn't even looking for anything, just wanted to ground himself to a conversation. but as soon as words failed him, intrusive impulses hijacked his body with the first familiar thought⸻ and francis mimed sniffing something off the back of his hand, rubbing his gums, then even pretended to roll up a sleeve and exhaled sharply, all his gestures ridiculous and frantic. @inlustre
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ there was no real reason to be here aside from the fact that it was only place open in the dead of night, when sleep was an impossible dream in a sprawling lakehouse that felt suffocating⸻ its emptiness pressing down on him and his loneliness. at least here at dolly's, the hum of the old lights buzzed louder than his more dreadful thoughts, place nearly empty, save for a trucker nursing a coffee and a line cook that looked like he should be a nude calendar model instead of flipping patties. he definitely looked like a march or april kind of guy, too pretty not to be a sleazy womanizer, and so people must be hiding their eggs from him like it's easter. practice safe sex and all. he seemed fun, at least. but those were just the intrusive thoughts that invaded francis' head as he stared at the cook instead of coming up with what he wanted to order. he leaned forward, arms resting on the counter, eyes tracing the other man's nametag before looking into his eyes. “ i'll just have whatever you recommend, salvador. ” he clicked his tongue and smiled, before attention drifted to the abandoned newspaper on the counter. the article on the front page wasn't exactly what he expected from the local press ﹕ but it sure was entertaining, albeit a little disappointing that the mystery might be over when he only just got here to see how he'd fare against a sharp knife. francis tapped the photo over and over and over until he got the line cook's attention again, a low chuckle echoing faintly in the empty diner. “ this girl— they think she has something to do with the other one going missing ? i mean, she's got a face that looks like she's a little too into pegging. but hell, with a face like that, she should be able to have whatever she goddamn wants. murder included. ” @brntout
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horrorphase · 1 month ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ maybe   he   didn't   really   think   this   through,   this   reunion   proving   to   be   far   more  ��burdensome   than   what   his   shallow   mind   could   handle⸻   creating   some   unwanted   introspection,   how   time   strangely   folded   in   on   itself,   collapsing   years   into   moments,   collapsing   people   into   versions   of   themselves   that   didn't   always   alight.   and   the   red   creek   of   his   childhood—   all   the   shy   laughter,   the   warmth,   the   reckless   joy   of   summers   spent   by   the   lake   and   meeting   new   friends   after   so   much   time   being   lonesome—   felt   almost   mythical   now.   and   yet,   here   it   was,   reflected   in   the   face   of   a   girl   who   once   fit   seamlessly   into   those   memories.   except   now,   the   edges   didn't   line   up.   kirby   wasn't   the   same,   and   hell,   neither   was   he.   still,   seeing   her   now,   caught   between   deflection   and   honesty,   francis   felt   something   familiar   crackle   to   life   in   the   quiet   space   between   them   ﹕   the   peculiar   ache   of   recognition,   colored   by   all   the   things   time   had   changed. his   gaze   lingered   on   kirby   for   a   long   moment,   brows   furrowing   slightly   as   he   looked   at   the   basket   then   back   to   her   again.   ❛   lavender,   huh     ?   ❜   he   said,   a   little   incredulous,   as   if   considering   whether   or   not   to   believe   her.   his   lips   quirked   into   a   small   smile,   leaning   back   a   little   as   he   gestured   toward   the   store's   entrance.   ❛    you   do   know   it's   going   to   snow   soon,   right     ?   i   mean,   red   creek   winters   aren't   exactly   kind   to   plants.   ❜   or   people⸻     features   suddenly   twisting   into   a   grimace,   splitting   headache   hitting   him   as   memory   drifted   toward   the   last   winter   he   spent   with   his   now-dead grandparents   here   in   red   creek.   he   thought   of   that   night   ...   when   everything   was   fragmented,   but   francis   could   still   hear   the   screech   of   █████,   the   scent   of   █████   and   █████,   and   waking   up   to   the   sweet   smell   of   eggnog   and   cookies,   one   hand   cuffed   to   the   siderail,   as   a   man   in   a   suit   told   him   about   the   █████   of   ███████   █████████.   but   the   sound   of   something   falling   from   another   aisle   brought   francis   back   to   the   present,   smiling   at   her   so   casually.   ❛   but   it's   good   to   be   optimistic,   i   guess.   i'm   sure   you   can   figure   out   how   to   keep   something   alive   in   the   cold   and   dark.   ❜    he   shrugged,   shifting   the   focus   away   from   the   present   and   all   that   gardening   bullshit,   to   something   probably   easier   to   talk   about.   or   at   least,   he   thought   so.   ❛   how's   your   mom   and   dad   ?   ❜                    
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there  is  a  vast  difference  in  seeing  someone  ,  in  your  hometown  ,  that  was  your  ,  say  ,  high  school  lab  partner  that  you  once  accidentally  spilled  acid  mix  on  (  he  was  fine  ,  minor  burning  ,  relax  )  .  or  your  shitty  ex  .  or  your  former  friend's  mom  standing  in  front  of  you  at  the  grocery  store  and  making  awkward  conversation  while  waiting  for  them  to  ring  up  her  ten  activias  .  but  this  has  got  to  be  worse  right  ?  because  there's  two  versions  of  her  known  to  francis  .  her  as  a  child  ,  not  yet  aware  of  the  stigma  that  surrounds  her  name  and  her  mother  ,  mostly  because  she  can't  read  that  big  ass  book  that  sits  on  the  top  shelf  of  a  bookcase  ,  constantly  out  of  reach  for  her  .  kirby  does  not  remember  herself  as  a  kid  ,  other  than  she  was  much  happier  ,  especially  in  the  summers  ,  when  kids  without  their  parents'  prejudices  came  down  to  red  creek  and  ran  through  the  woods  with  her  .  that  was  who  francis  knew  ,  who  he  probably  remembered  .  the  other  version  is  the  instagram  carousel  girl  ,  all  mini  skirts  and  blurry  pictures  and  pictures  of  la  sunsets  .  she  was  kirby's  favorite  version  of  herself  because  that  kirby  didn't  even  know  what  the  fuck  a  red  creek  was  .  murder  ?  puh  -  lease  ,  she's  just  trying  to  get  to  the  pch  so  she  can  go  to  a  party  in  laguna  ,  duh  !  the  kirby  before  him  ,  she  was  sad  and  pale  and  wearing  a  puffer  jacket  that  was  just  a  touch  too  big  because  she  found  it  in  the  back  of  her  old  closet  .  this  kirby  had  a  shitty  job  and  a  suspicious  basket  of  items  . “hi  ,  francis  ,  uh  …  ”  she  looks  down  at  the  aforementioned  basket  with  a  grimace  .  “  the  dominatrix  lifestyle  would  probably  be  the  coolest  answer  here  .  uh  no  ,  i'm  trying  to  -  ”  she  considers  it  for  a  moment  .  “  i'm  starting  a  garden  behind  my  apartment  complex  and  i  need  all  this  shit  but  i  know  it's  hard  to  believe  because  this  town  is  a  60  minutes  special  waiting  to  happen  .  i  swear  though  ,  i  just  wanna  plant  some  fucking  lavender  .  ”  okay  ,  calm  down  ,  girl  ,  it's  just  francis  .  he  cannot  legally  arrest  you  .
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horrorphase · 1 month ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ 𝗵𝗲  𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱  𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹  𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗱𝘆  𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺  𝗮  𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲  𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆,  somewhat  resonant  in  a  way  he  resented,  like  every  word  that  rolled  off  kellan's  tongue  carried  the  weight  of  a  world  only  he  could  see.  was  it  conviction  ?  or  maybe  just  desperation⸻  thinly  veiled  behind  the  smoke  and  mirrors  of  his  delusional  self-appointed  genius.  and  francis  had  seen  it  before,  in  himself,  in  other  people  clinging  to  fervor  when  they  didn't  want  to  admit  the  ground  beneath  them  was  crumbling,  the  way  they  built  castles  out  of  sand  and  called  them  monuments.  and  yet,  for  all  its  fragility,  𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗵𝘆𝗽𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗰  𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁  𝗸𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗻'𝘀  𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝘆,  like  watching  someone  teeter  on  the  precipice  and  wondering  if  they'd  fall  or  fly.  there  was  a  beat  of  silence,  heavy  and  expectant,  the  kind  that  made  the  hum  of  the  world  outside  their  bubble  seem  louder—  cars  droning  by,  faint  whispers  of  icy  wind,  the  tick  of  a  clock  that  had  long  since  stopped  keeping  proper  time.  francis  didn't  fill  it  right  away.  he  just  sat  back  in  the  bar's  uneven  chair,  the  wood  groaning  under  his  weight,  smoke  unfurling  in  lazy  ribbons  from  the  cigarette  in  his  hand  as  he  stared  at  the  virgin  drink  he  ordered  an  hour  ago.  god,  he  wanted  something  stronger.     ❝      why  the  fuck  is  the  fucking  spaceman  in  fucking  space  anyway   ?      ❞      the  question  finally  tumbled  out  with  a  casual  disdain,  like  he  had  already  decided  it  probably  didn't  matter.  just  some  abstract  mumbo-jumbo  that  came  to  them  in  a  dream.  but  then  he  decided  to  entertain  it  anyway.     ❝      guess  you've  got  me  curious,  though.   what's  the  story  ?  i  mean,  he's  probably  not  just  floating  up  there  for  kicks,  right  ?  there's  gotta  be  some  kind  of  meaning  there  ...      ❞      fingers  drummed  against  the  table,  finally  lifting  his  gaze  up  to  meet  theirs—  restless,  mocking—  as  if  the  answer  was  a  joke  waiting  to  be  told,  but  he  wasn't  sure  if  kellan  even  had  the  punchline.        
𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 -
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hues  of  dark  eyes  tinted  with  passion (  read  :  delusion  )  as  he  sits  across  from  his  unfortunate  victim ( read  :  friend  ?  )  ,  lips  parting  as  he  spouted  off  one  of  his  normal  tirades  .  the  scariest  part  of  their  behaviour  was  often  the  blind  faith  and  confidence  they  had  in  their  eternal  work  as  a  great visionary  of  their  generation  ,  "  i'm  telling  you  ,  the  space  man  film  that  i've  been  working  on  is  going  to  blow  everyone's  mind  .  i  think  i've  really  done  it  this  time  ,  i've  created  a  narrative  for  a  real  cultural  reset  ...  "  the  unknown  origins  of  his  film  and  lack  of  context  about  it  leaving  many  wondering  why  he  wouldn't  shut  up  about  it  .
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horrorphase · 1 month ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ the   club   was   alive   with   the   sound   of   music,   all   thrumming   basslines   and   strobing   fluorescence,   pulsing   and   burning   in   a   kaleidoscope   of   light   and   sound.   bodies   writhed   in   the   dark,   caught   in   a   rhythm   that   was   more   instinct   than   choice,   the   air   thick   with   heat   and   sweat   and   the   tang   of   spilled   beer⸻     but   everything   blurred   into   irrelevance,   might   as   well   be   silence   when   he   had   the   stranger's   firm   grip   against   his   throat.   it   was   a   strange   kind   of   intimacy   in   the   midst   of   chaos,   the   whole   fucking   world   just   white   noise   to   francis'   singular   focus.   just   them,   the   predator   and   the   willing   prey,   standing   too   close   in   a   world   that   no   longer   mattered.   a   lone   beat   of   laughter   slithered   from   his   throat,   brittle   and   harsh,   as   the   other   man's   thumb   applied   pressure   to   his   touch,   a   reminder   that   violence   could   leave   you   breathless.   but   it   could   also   make   you   feel   undeniably   alive.   it   wasn't   pretty,   god   fucking   no,   but   it   was   honest.   brutal.   unforgiving.   and   maybe   that   was   why   he   chased   it   now   ﹕ spent   so   long   drowning   in   the   slow   sticky   decay   of   his   own   making,   his   veins   a   graveyard   of   poison   and   regret,   that   this   almost   felt   like   absolution.   just   a   sharp   and   clean   kind   of   pain   that   demanded   nothing   but   the   moment,   that   stripped   everything   down   to   the   raw   beating   heart   of   fucking   survival.   better   to   bleed   on   the   floor   than   fester   in   silence.
❛   harder.    ❜   francis'   smile   spread   slow,   like   a   crack   on   precious   porcelain,   jagged   and   a   little   unhinged,   gaze   locked   onto   the   other   man   as   he   tilted   his   head   to   expose   more   of   him   to   the   pressure   of   those   sturdy   fingers.   ❛   i   think   you   already   know   the   answer   to   your   questions,   ❜    he   murmured,   breath   hitching   slightly   against   the   press   of   the   stranger's   hand,   not   from   fear,   but   from   anticipation,   his   pulse   skipping   beneath   the   other   man's   thumb.   and   maybe   he   had   always   been   waiting   for   this⸻   a   chance   to   show   someone   who   he   truly   was,   something   fractured   and   barbed,   a   creature   not   in   need   of   salvation   but   punishment.   after   everything   he   had   done,   after   yet   another   year   of   that   guilt   from   the   █████   of   ███████   █████████,   francis   felt   a   peculiar   solace   in   the   idea   that   all   the   hurt   he   inflicted   could   be   taken   back   by   embracing   violence   with   open   arms.   ❛    you   feel   that,   don't   you   ?   ❜    voice   barely   audible   over   the   bassline   that   rattled   the   walls   of   the   warehouse,   but   somehow   cutting   through   the   noise.   nothing   else   really   mattered.   ❛   that   pulse.   it's   a   little   faster   now.   all   yours   to   play   with.   all   yours   to   prove   that   you're   still   here.   alive.   ❜    and   francis   thought   the   pain   would   only   prove   to   himself   that   he   was   real,   too.   two   birds   with   one   stupidly   violent   stone. and   that   was   his   turn   to   lean   in   then,   reckless,   deliberate,   his   lips   brushing   against   the   stranger's   ear,   his   grin   sharper   than   the   bass   drop   that   rippled   through   the   room.   ❛   and you're   here.   standing   this   close.   hand   around   my   neck   like   you're   the   boogeyman   ready   to   drag   me   under   the   bed.    ❜    he   let   out   a   soft   sardonic   laugh,   the   sound   curling   between   them   like   smoke.    ❛    but   it's   still   all   just   bark   and   no   bite.   you're   hesitating.   'fraid   you   might   like   it,   too   ?    ❜    then,   with   a   deliberate   slowness,   francis   leaned   back,   his   smirk   sharp   and   unwavering   as   his   gaze   bore   into   the   other   man,   as   though   daring   him   to   make   the   next   move,   to   bridge   the   gap     ﹕   knuckles   against   bone,   the   tear   of   flesh,   to   finally   let   him   know   his   name   by   carving   it   into   his   wrist,   or   something   else   entirely.   ❛    so   what's   it   gonna   be   ?   you   gonna   kiss   me,   or   you   gonna   kill   me   ?   ❜
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violence has always been his destruction . he threw himself into every game like a man determined to be torn apart , a beast circling its own death . hockey had been his escape , and perhaps also his cage , away from the prison that was red creek . every shove , every strike , every bone-jarring hit against the unforgiving ice was a way to expel the raw , seething anger that churned beneath his skin . then came the accident , the moment violence turned on him swift and merciless . a slash too cruel , too quick . blood lost , control lost , pieces of himself scattered across the rink like discarded gloves . how much blood had he lost before the blackness crept in , before his consciousness began to unravel ? the cold ice beneath him feels distant now , the world blurring into nothing but the sound of his own pulse , fading with each beat . it's always been this way : violence and self-destruction etched into his bones , written in blood . and tonight , it promises the same . taylan’s eyes fall to francis’ wrist , pale stretch of skin faintly illuminated , veins visible beneath the pulse of light . his gaze lingers , drawn to the deliberate taunting offer . though he's unsure if he’s daring him to refuse or waiting for something more . his eyes slide up , catching the lazy , edged smirk on their' lips . the stranger's neck is exposed , an invitation in soft curve of skin . taylan's hand moves on its own , catching the side of his neck with a quiet uncertainty . his fingers find the warmth of skin , the damp trace of sweat , and press just enough to feel the pulse thrumming beneath his touch . “ your wrist , ” taylan murmurs , cutting through the space between them . his thumb drags slowly along the line of francis' throat , slow , deliberate , lingering - more focused on the sensation than anything else . each movement stoking the phantom burn of his own scar . the jagged memory of blade and blood etched into his skin . his fingers tighten slightly , and he leans closer . everything else - the crowd , the room - dissolves . his lips brush against francis' ear , a breath more than a whisper . “ you think you'd like it , don't you ? ” there's a challenge in his words , dangerous and yet inviting . taylan’s thumb presses just below the jaw , firm enough to remind him of the stakes . he wonders , briefly , if the male understand what he's asking for , or if he's simply drawn to thrill of destruction , unaware of how deeply it can cut . his breath ghosts over francis’ skin as he adds , “ you want something to remember me by ? to carry it long after tonight ? ”
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ this   probably   looked   like   a   slow   march   to   death⸻       a   foolish   advance   toward   a   cornered   animal,   his   gaze   drawn   toward   the   stranger's   balled-up   fists   and   the   clench   of   his   jaw,   a   man   that   looked   like   he   had   claws   sharp   enough   to   gut   him   and   teeth   that   could   crush   bone.   and   it   would   be   so   easy   to   mistake   this   attraction   as   reckless,   suicidal   even,   but   it   tasted   like   nothing   but   survival   to   francis.   he   had   known   for   a   long   time   that   there   was   no   fixing   what   was   broken   inside   him   ﹕ already   tried   to   numb   that   festering   ache   with   bottles   and   smoke   for   the   longest   time,   but   it   did   nothing   but   spread   the   rot   in   his   viscera.   liver.   kidneys.   lungs.   rotten.   rotten.   rotten.   but   this   ?   something   about   this   felt   different   than   all   the   previous   ways   he   had   destroyed   himself.   because   something   about   this   threat   of   violence   felt   like   it   wouldn't   be   for   nothing. violence could be purposeful. violence could be transformative. maybe what he wanted from the boogeyman, he could get from someone just as equally fucked up. and   as   he   witnessed   the   stranger   step   closer,   francis   realized   just   how   intoxicating   anger   could   be   ﹕ especially   when   it   was   raw,   unfiltered,   and   just   barely   contained,   like   the   hiss   of   steam   beneath   a   boiling   lid.   and   he   had   been   on   the   receiving   end   of   violence   many   times   before,   but   he   had   never   been   as   sober   those   times   as   he   was   now,   never   looked   at   what   it   had   to   offer   so   clearly   until   this   very   moment.   his   lips   curled   up   as   his   gaze   remained   fixated   on   the   other   man,   glad   to   see   someone   stripped   of   pretense,   burning   with   a   heat   that   could   either   devour   or   ignite   something   new,   even   if   it   was all   due   to   anger.    " you   seriously   threatening   me   with   a   good   time   ?   but   i   mean,   if   you're   offering   ... "    a   laugh   escaped   him,   low   and   shameless,   taking   a   half-step   closer   with   reckless   confidence.    " you   could   give   me   one   here, "    francis   gestured   at   the   inside   of   his   left   wrist,   veins   faintly   visible   beneath   pale   skin.    "    it's   a   sensitive   spot.   a   little   too   easy   to   scar.   imagine   the   mess   you   could   leave   here.   permanent,   intimate.   you   could   do   it   with   your   teeth.    "   his   smirk   widened,   lazy   and   wicked,   as   his   gaze   flicked   back   up   to   meet   the   other   man's   gaze.    " or   here. "    francis   canted   his   head   further,   exposing   his   neck   to   taylan.   it   was   an   inviting   idea,   really⸻       pain   that   would   come   from   hands   he   had   invited   close,   instead   of   something   creeping   up   when   you   least   expected   it,   instead   of   something   that   gnawed   from   the   inside   out.   it   could   be   a   brutal   recalibration   ﹕ stitching   him   back   up   with   every   blow,   tethering him   to   something   real. someone real. even just for a night.    "       something   to   match   yours   ?       "
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the air in the warehouse is thick — sweat , spilled liquor , clinging to taylan's skin like a second layer . the bass thrums through the floor , rattling in his chest like it's trying to kickstart a second heartbeat . overhead , strobes slash across the scar on his throat - an inescapable , constant spotlight . it's impossible to ignore , and neither are the eyes burning into it . it’s  not  the  media ,  or  the  damn  therapist  his  team  insists can help him “ process ” the accident .  not  even  the  constant  hum  of  painkillers  , dulling  the  ache  without ever numbing it .  it’s  the  way  they  look  at  him — like  the  scar is  the  only  thing  left  worth  knowing .  a  mark  , a tragedy , a headline . his  hockey  career ,  his  glory  days all  of  it  swallowed  up  by  the  jagged  reminder  of  what  happened . the irritation creeps in slow , sharpening with every word spoken , each syllable dragging against his nerves , leaving a trail of heat behind . he feels it crawling under his skin , digging in deep , until it's festers beneath his ribs , raw heat of frustration pushing through . the more francis talks , the more it grinds at his nerves - dead girl thrown in with offhanded carelessness . then the comparison — his scar , his brush with death juxtaposed against someone who didn’t survive . there's no emotional weight to it for taylan , just an irritation that someone thinks it's worth mentioning at all . tension ripples down his neck , and the pulse in his jaw hammers beneath clenched teeth . his hand twitches with the instinct to touch his scar , but he clenches his fists instead , fingers curling tight at his side forcing the urge to disappear . “ if  you’re  really  that  into  scars , ”  he  begins ,  low and sharp , “ i  can  give  you  one  of  your  own . ”  the  words  drip  with  threat as he steps closer ,  just  enough  to  crowd  their  space . forcing them to feel the weight of his presence . “ don’t  think  i’m  the  one  you  want  to  play  touchy-feely  with ,  though . ”
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horrorphase · 1 month ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ an   exhale   heavy   with   insincere   disappointment   slipped   past   his   lips,   really   should   have   expected   this⸻   the   unyielding   air   of   authority   that   clung   to   men   like   the   one   in   front   of   him,   stern   and   self-righteous,   their   sense   of   humor   buried   somewhere   beneath   a   badge   and   years   of   stupid   protocol.   it   was   shame,   really.   francis   was   hoping   for   at   least   a   sliver   of   fun,   something   less   rigid   than   the   rulebook   he   imagined   the   deputy   kept   on   his   bedside   table.   he   should   be   at   the   fucking   club.   but   francis   wasn't   quite   done   pushing   just   yet,   because   this   could   be   fun,   too   ﹕   the   challenge   of   prying   at   the   seams   of   a   man   sewn   so   tightly   together.   and   he   scoffed   at   deputy   kiskova's   suggestions,   grin   widening   as   he   leaned   his   weight   back   against   the   wall   of   dolly's,   his   arms   crossing   his   chest. ❛   c'mon   now,   deputy,   what   do   you   take   me   for   ?   you   should   just   get   your   cuffs   now,   'cause   i'd   rather   be   in   your   custody   than   curl   up   with   a   paperback.    ❜   francis   stepped   forward   just   a   little,   his   gaze   a   shade   too   direct,   dancing   on   the   edge   of   insolence,   hands   lifting   in   front   of   him,   wrists   together   in   a   mock   surrender.   ❛    i   mean,   between   you   and   me,   a   night   in   lockup   sounds   like   a   hell   of   a   lot   more   fun   than   sitting   around   trying   to   decipher   whatever   self-help   bullshit   drew   barrymore's   recommending   this   week.   and   imagine   all   the   fuckheads   i'd   meet   in   there.   don't   know,   could   be   a   laugh.    ❜   he   paused,   letting   the   words   hang   just   long   enough   to   toe   the   line   between   banter   and   provocation,   his   grin   unwavering.   then,   francis   stepped   even   closer⸻   not   enough   to   invade   personal   space   just   yet,   but   enough   to   feel   the   tension   that   bridged   the   gap   between   them.   or   maybe   he   was   just   delusional.   a   bored   and   sober   mind   playing   tricks   on   him.  ❛    but   really,   how   do   you   deal   with   it   ?    ❜   he   continued,   voice   lowering   just   enough   so   the   conversation   couldn't   be   overheard   by   any   audience   passing   by.    ❛   all   that   pent-up   aggression   ?   all   those   late   nights,   the   bullshit   calls,   the   pressure   to   keep   this   place   in   one   piece   while   a   fucking   killer   seems   dead   set   on   tearing   it   apart   ?   ❜    and   for   a   moment,   there   was   a   flicker   of   something   almost   genuine   beneath   the   bravado,   a   brief   glimpse   of   curiosity   that   wasn't   entirely   an   act.   ❛  there's   gotta   be   something   that   works   for   you.   a   junkyard,   maybe   ?   somewhere   you   can   just   ...   wreck   some   shit   ?   or   do   you   prefer   something   quieter   ?   a   punching   bag   in   the   garage   ?   or—   oh,   oh,   you   do   look   like one   of   those   dudes   who   hold   fuckin'   three-foot   carps   in   their   tinder   profile,   so   d'you   just   go   fishing   and   pretend   the   water's   gonna   listen   to   all   your   problems   ?     ❜    his   grin   softened   into   something   closer   to   a   smirk,   a   flicker   of   a   challenge   dancing   in   his   eyes.   ❛   c'mon,   deputy.   humor   me.   what's   your   go-to   ?   you   kind   of   have   a   civic   responsibility   here.   either   you   help   me,   or   i   don't   know,   i   turn   to   drugs.    ❜
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this guy was ridiculous. in truth, the whole situation was comical. maybe it wasn't a joint he needed to relax. just whatever this was. a distraction from the much more pressing matters, this felt like something out of a sitcom. kaz wanted nothing more than to look around, hand to his ear listening for a laugh track, eyes searching for the hidden cameras. unfortunately for this guy, francis he said his name was, this wasn't a silly, thirty minute tv episode. instead, he was a breath away from getting in real trouble. it didn't matter if he had a killer to catch. the law was the law, and it would do the town some good to remember that.
"nice to meet you, francis. wish it was under better circumstances. i hope i'm the first one to officially welcome you to this town." eyes moved up an down, assessing the man in front of him, sizing him up. technically, he hadn't done anything illegal, but even off-duty, kaz wanted to be ready for the worst. "well, uh, that was nice for you i'm sure,' he coughed out. a little lost in what francis was rambling on about, unsure of why he would share such personal information when they first met. kaz deducted he must be nervous. hands planted on his hips, ready to move if something did need to happen. "that's your way of asking how people relax?" was his eye twitching? "we don't talk to the police about drugs around here. that might help. you should try the gym. or read a book. that might help you quite a bit."
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ he didn't come here for friends, not really⸻ the real reason more precarious and terrible than that. and while there was some solace in anonymity, in how the few locals that did remember him didn't ask any questions, the absence of friendly faces surely made his stay lonelier than he expected it to be. but francis was running his hand along a row of hammers when he spotted her ﹕ just a glimmer of recognition in his peripheral at first, didn't know how she knew her, until it finally clicked. kirby. the girl stitched into childhood memories of lake-splashed summer afternoons, walking a little faster passing by that haunted house on norwood, and that one time she pushed him too hard on the swing and he practically flew and landed on gravel. she looked more carefree then, different from the girl standing by the rope section, all stiff with her expression caught between some odd combination of dread and wishing on a star. and that was when he saw it⸻ her shopping basket and everything in it. francis stifled a laugh, part bemusement, part incredulity, because whatever she was up to, it looked ... unhinged. but instead of walking past and preserving the illusion of normalcy, he found himself drifting toward her, curiosity getting the better of him. “ kirbina, ” he greeted, voice light but underlined with amusement. and her name felt strange on his tongue after so many years, like dusting off an old polaroid from an entirely different lifetime ago. he raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a grin as he gestured vaguely at the incriminating collection in her basket and shelves of ropes. “ so, what is it ? planning a murder, which seems to be popular in this town, or ... exploring the dominatrix lifestyle ? ”
○    LOCATION   ⏤   hardware   store   . ○    TIME   ⏤   4   :   17   pm  ○    STATUS   ⏤   closed   for   @horrorphase   !
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she  desperately  did  not  want  to  talk  about  it  .  in  fact  ,  she  was  doing  everything  in  her  power  to  hide  the  contents  of  her  shopping  basket  .  bleach  ,  gloves  ,  trash  bags  in  bulk  ,  a  shovel  (  only  a  small  one  !  )  .  it  was  only  after  she  put  the  last  item  into  her  basket  did  kirby  realize  that  she  looked  fucking  insane  .  in  redcreek's  only  hardware  store  ,  buying  all  the  necessary  items  for  a  goddamn  murderer  .  meanwhile  ,  her  building  manager  had  a  greenhouse  out  back  that  he  was  willing  to  let  her  use  to  take  up  gardening  and  she  wanted  something  to  do  after  work  .  why  didn't  she  go  out  of  town  for  this  shit  ?  well  ,  then  she  would've  looked  even  more  suspicious  .  she  stood  in  front  of  the  rope  section  (  she  needs  to  section  off  the  different  areas  !  )  and  then  ,  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  ,  a  familiar  face  ,  one  she  only  really  recognized  due  to  being  mutuals  on  social  media  and  goddamn  ,  if  this  day  could  not  get  any  worse  .  she  tried  to  step  slightly  away  from  her  basket  ,  which  sat  at  her  feet  ,  and  crossed  her  arms  ,  wistfully  hoping  that  if  she  just  stood  still  ,  he'd  walk  right  past  her  .
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ this wouldn't be first time he had felt embarrassment, even found some kind of shitty poetry in it⸻ the way it burned you clean, stripped you down to something raw and honest. he could definitely feel it now, cheeks ruddy with heat, as the man in front of him— a deputy, no less— looked at him with an air of practiced authority. and for all his talk of his own pathetic charm and quick wit, francis had definitely walked himself straight into this one, and there was no clever way out. but if there was anything life had taught him, a lesson that didn't enter one ear and out the other, it was that if the ground collapsed beneath your feet, you could either fall or grab at the nearest ledge and pull yourself back up. so, francis grinned, easy as ever, even as he cursed himself internally⸻ shaking the deputy's hand with firm grip, letting it linger long enough to toe the line between cordial and something more. people liked to be seen, to be appreciated, and he made sure to do just that with his eyes as he stared at the cop. “ francis, ” he introduced, voice deliberately smooth and warm. “ spent some summers here before, but you can say i'm still mostly new to town. pleasure's all yours. ” his gaze darted toward the hand drifting toward the deputy's belt, subtle and instinctual but a telling move nonetheless. and francis raised an eyebrow, playful, attempting to seem unbothered. “ but hey, it's not every day i get to chat with a man of the law. i promise i'm a good citizen, deputy. never even been cuffed, except that one time i hooked up with this hardcore feminist from nyu, but those were pink and fuzzy. and she had a pink leather whip, too. ” hands raised in feigned surrender as he leaned back against the wall again, like he was making himself at home despite the circumstances. “ but the question⸻ right. just wanted to ask how you relax around here. must be difficult with all the ... excitement this town's been seeing. but you seem like the type who's got it all figured out. ” a smile on his lips, faint but inviting, as if daring the deputy to drop the pretense even for a second.
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one day everything would be okay, and he would look back on this time in his life and laugh. it was what he had to tell himself was the truth. the mantra he repeated each and every morning he woke up. but the years went by slowly as the chapters in a textbook. and every day things got more dreary. a sick mother. spiteful brothers. a murder investigation. his best friend the subject of said investigation. kaz chose to look at the bright side — this is why he got into the profession. to help. to help investigate and clear bronte's name and save the town from a killer. much easier said than done but nothing would stop him from trying.
he'd gone out out to pick up food for bronte. he wasn't really sure how to help other than do his job. but he wanted to comfort her in some way. let her know that things would be okay and he wasn't speaking as an officer but as a friend. kaz figured a meal would be a start.
until the man stopped him. he had to restrain himself, keep his mouth from falling open like a cartoon character. the muscles in his jaw worked as he stared at the man against the wall. and he kept going. and there was nothing he could do but blink. he hadn't recognized him and this only confirmed he was a stranger. rather than address his words, he stuck his hand out for a handshake. "deputy kiskova. i don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting. and who might you be?" his free hand moved towards his belt, unconsciously drifting toward where his handcuffs were when he was on duty. "i don't think i heard you right. mind repeating your question?"
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horrorphase · 1 month ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ 𝗮  𝗻𝗲𝘄𝗹𝘆  𝗹𝗶𝘁  𝗰𝗶𝗴𝗮��𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲  𝘁𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱  𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗹𝘆  𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻  𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝗹𝗶𝗽𝘀,  tipping  his  head  head  back  to  glance  at  the  night  sky,  one  of  the  few  things  francis  genuinely  liked  about  red  creek.  a  vast  shadow  dotted  with  distant  stars,  with  such  lusterless  light  that  somehow  placated  the  loneliness  he  felt  in  places  where  they  would  otherwise  be  invisible.  francis  exhaled  a  stream  of  smoke  that  twisted  and  swirled  in  the  amber  glow  of  the  streetlights,  climbing  upward  only  to  eventually  dissipate  into  the  endless  uncaring  dark.  like  all  things  eventually  did.  and  he  watched  the  smoke  dissolve  as  if  searching  of  something⸻    an  answer,  a  purpose,  or  just  another  distraction  as  pretty  as  the  one  before  him.  his  gaze  drifted  back  to  the  posters,  the  faces  that  stared  out  if  pleading  for  some  kind  of  salvation,  but  francis  knew  himself  well  enough  to  know  that  he  would  never  be  anyone's  savior.  but  her  ?  glancing  sideways  at  her  now,  listening  to  her  questions  and  sentiments,  francis  felt  an  instant  recognition  ﹕  saw  her  as  one  of  those  people  who  could  cut  a  hole  through  your  skull  with  their  gaze,  prying  into  every  fold  and  wrinkle  of  your  brain  until  they  had  found  whatever  they  wanted  to  see.  𝗶𝘁  𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁  𝗺𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗰𝗵𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰  𝘁𝗼  𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻  𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁  𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗮𝘁  𝗵𝗶𝗺.  but  he'd  be  lying  if  he  said  being  seen  (  no  matter  which  way  )  didn't  feel  like  deliverance  sometimes. ❝      i  mean,  he's  hiding  in  this  bumfuck  nowhere.  like,  out  of  all  the  corners  of  the  worlds,  he  chose  this  place.  so  whatever  he's  hiding,  whatever's  in  his  conscience,  he's  probably  desperate  to  keep  it  buried.  and  no  better  place  than  a  town  where  nothing  really  happens⸻    well,  y'know,  𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘇𝘆  𝗺𝘂𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲  𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴.      ❞         he  flicked  the  ashes  of  the  cigarette  to  the  ground,  the  faint  orange  embers  scattering  like  fireflies  caught  in  a  sudden  gust  before  dying  on  asphalt,  shoulders  rising  in  a  slight  shrug  as  he  gauged  whether  she  felt  the  same  way.     ❝      but  me  ?      ❞      a  laugh,  sharp  and  dry,  scraping  out  of  his  throat.  there  wasn't  much  thought  given  to  the  question,  as  if  it  didn't  really  matter.  as  if  all  of  his  mistakes  always  had  the  same  outcome.     ❝      i'd  turn  myself  in.  not  'cause  i'm  noble  or  whatever.  fuck  no.  but  i've  always  gotten  away  with  shit  i  shouldn't  have.  pump  enough  cash  into  the  right  hands,  and  suddenly  your  worst mistake  is  just  another  inconvenience.  like  a  parking  ticket.      ❞      hell,  he  could've  killed  alaina  price  and  his  family  would  have  taken  care  of  everything.  that  was  what  happened  when  he  got  in  that  ███  ████████  that  ██████  ███████  █████████,  right  ?  but  getting  away  didn't  mean  being  clean.  it  just  meant  he  had  one  hell  of  a  fixer  and  a  worse  conscience.  he  glanced  at  daniela's  face  another  time,  before  letting  out  a  sigh.     ❝      but  how  about  you  ?  got  any  secrets  so  big  they'd  chase  you  to  the  end  of  the  world  and  back  ...  or  are you  just  one  of  those  𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝘁𝗼  𝗵𝗶𝗱𝗲,  𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝘁𝗼  𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲  types  ?      ❞      
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there were many more exciting things to do than smoking outside of a nightclub, yes. effie hasn't thought of going in, but rather found it to be a nice hidey-hole to pause her walk. the thrum of the music good white noise, almost calming from the outside. but, no, she won't go in she's taking a pause from a new nightly routine walk. restless, unable to sleep. after awhile tossing and turning surpassed annoying and became boring. she isn't sure where it stems from, but maybe it's everything. the register's latest post, the missing person's, the wanted poster, the buzzing ... everything and anything all at once. it has her buzzing and wanting to type away on her laptop. however, she feels ricardo might have a tighter grip on her words. look over her shoulder too much. it grates her more than she'd let on — but she'll cross that bridge when she gets to it.
she sees him before she hears him, eyes glancing over to the fellow smoker. when he speaks effie's head tilts, engaged with the topic. ding, ding, ding ... it's one of the things keeping her eyes open. " hmm. interesting thought. " the cigarette is raised to her lips as her shoulder blades roll, turning her to a lean against the wall with just one shoulder pressed. smoke tumbles from her lips towards him, glancing over just to acknowledge the picture. " asking for a third ... that's pushing it, though. that get you far on any dating apps? " there's a smirk. it isn't meanspirited, but he could take it however he wanted. she follows the slicing gesture and responds with a laugh. " who knows ... go with your story of them being a cute couple together, they could've ran away. maybe hauled off somewhere together after some atrocities. " it's ridiculous and effie knows it, but she's willing to live in the hypothetical for a moment.
another drag off of the cig and she's looking up at the sky. " honestly the real question is ... will the guy turn himself in, come clean or is he on the run and hiding something like anybody and everybody does. " looks back towards francis. " tell me, which would you do— run or tuck your tail? "
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horrorphase · 2 months ago
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳  ﹚ ﹕ sometimes,   francis   could   not   help   but   wonder   just   how   different   his   life   would   have   been   if   only   he   didn't   spend   so   much   time   in   these   little   acts   of   sabotage⸻   not   the   deliberate   bomb-in-the-trunk   kind   of   self-destruction,   but   the   quieter,   more   insidious   ones.   the   type   of   undoing   that   slipped   under   the   skin   and   burrowed   deep   before   they   took   root.   it   was   the   alcohol   and   the   drugs,   the   bar   fights   and   the   street   races,   and   this   might   seem   trivial   in   comparison,   but   it   was   no   different.   the   cereals   in   the   cart,   the   canned   soup   he'd   never   eat,   the   instant   noodles   he   didn't   even   like,   the   unconscious   gathering   of   objects   with   no   real   purpose   other   than   to   confirm   what   already   knew   ﹕   he   had   no   direction,   no   motive,   and   this   was   just   all   a   waste   of   time,   pretending   to   be   a   person.   he   could   be   doing   something   else   with   his   time,   something   productive,   something   worthwhile.   he   could   learn   pottery,   or   get   that   fuckin'   rosetta   stone   crap   and   learn   a   new   language,   or   maybe   learn   to   dj   like   paris   hilton   and   tobias   northcott   since   that   seemed   to   be   what   rich   people   did   to   feel   they   were   good   at   something   these   days.   but   here   he   was.   and   even   the   pointless   question   he   raised,   that   stupid   pantomime   of   doing   cocaine,   was   just   another   self-sabotage⸻   deserving   of   mockery,   of   a   slap   in   the   face,   but   instead   she   was   warm    ...    picking   at   the   edges   of   his   mess   like   she   was   trying   to   unravel   a   knot,   her   benign   voice   threading   through   the   static   in   his   head,   giving   him   something   to   grip   that   wasn't   just   his   own   frantic   bullshit.
"   college   diet   ?    "    francis   barked,   voice   sharp   with   indignation   without   a   real   bite   behind   it,   the   reaction   more   like   a   muscle   memory   than   anything,   his   bloodshot   eyes   lifting   up   from   the   chaotic   heap   of   groceries   to   meet   hers.    "    lady,   i   don't   even   like   cereal.   it's   just⸻        "    he   gestured   vaguely   to   the   cart,   his   hand   cutting   a   ragged   line   through   the   air   like   the   words   were   snagged   somewhere   in   his   throat.   "   i   don't   know   how   to   fuckin'   cook,   alright   ?   all   these   shit's   gonna   rot   in   the   pantry   anyway,   just   takin'   a   precaution   in   case   the   boogeyman   guy   kills   the   chef   at   the   grill.   but   you   should   really   just   roll   your   eyes   or   slap   me   next   time   i   say   something   instead   of   being   polite   about   it,   yeah   ?   would   probably   feel   less   weird.   "    his   laugh   was   loud,   but   humorless,   a   defensive   sound   that   didn't   even   know   what   to   defend   from.   and   he   should've   stopped   there,   turned   around   and   shoved   the   cart   down   some   other   aisle   to   lick   his   wounds   in   peace.   but   something   about   the   way   she   just   stood   there,   steady   and   unyielding,   like   she   could   hold   the   whole   goddamn   store   on   her   back   like   atlas   if   she   needed   to,   made   him   hesitate.
and   her   final   question   felt   like   a   sucker   punch   he   didn't   see   coming,   mouth   opening   and   closing   once,   twice,   like   he   was   trying   to   decide   if   the   question   was   absurd   or   profound.    "    not   heights,   no.    "    francis   admitted,   voice   lowering   until   it   was   barely   above   a   whisper,   like   saying   it   out   loud   might   shatter   something   fragile.   he   didn't   even   know   why   he   entertained   it,   but   perhaps   it   was   the   unexpectedness,   coming   out   of   the   blue,   so   abrupt   that   his   fucked-up   sense   of   self-preservation   couldn't   even   keep   up.    "    it's⸻     that   other   shit.   closed   spaces.   walls   too   close.   doors   that   don't   open.   not   being   able   to   see   where   i'm   going.   not   being   able   to   move.   that's   the   shit   that   gets   me.   "    he   didn't   look   at   her   as   he   spoke,   his   focus   dropping   to   the   wheel   of   the   cart,   wobbling   slightly   like   it   was   doing   its   best   to   keep   up   with   the   weight   of   everything.   and   just   like   that,   the   fight   in   him   ebbed,   replaced   by   something   smaller,   quieter,   and   infinitely   more   vulnerable.   "   why   d'you   even ask   ?    "   he   muttered,   shoulders   hitching   in   a   shrug,   small   smile   curling   his   lips   upward.   "    you   the   boogeyman   ?   tryin'   to   decide   how   to   kill   me   ?  ' cause   y'know   ...   i   think   i'd   let   you.   " 
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she could walk amrak with her eyes closed if she wanted to . it had always been her second home , the place she'd spent afternoons in playing hide - and - go - seek with taylan between the aisles as a child , or where she stocked the shelves and swept the floors as a teenager when she was finally deemed old enough to work . there were times in her life the store even seemed to transcend its inanimate form . amrak was her mother's all - consuming passion , one that stole the woman's devotion and attention away in the moments selin needed it most . amrak was the tomb that had seen the end to a lifetime of dreaming ; amrak was the ball and chain on her ankle , the one no one seemed to notice before they shoved her into the water , the weight of it dragging her down down down . sometimes , amrak was just a grocery store . sometimes , it didn't make her want to take a bat to the glass jars and smashable produce , or forget to check if she'd blown out the candle in the back office let the whole store go up in flames . selin had been having more of those days as of late . it felt more purposeful , somehow , running the grocery store at a time the town needed community the most , like maybe there could still be something to bind them together , even as fingers are pointed and accusations she has no interest in hearing are spewed .
it was a fanciful , naive idea — one her father used to take pleasure in crushing before she'd learned to stop sharing them . still , selin scans each shelf carefully , keeping an eye out for misplaced items or ones with their labels facing backwards , the pastimes of one of her employees . a display of chocolates makes her pause , gaze roving over text printed on the box . imported from switzerland ! there's a pang in her heart at the idea that she might never get to visit , that she might really be stuck in this town forever with no way out , a sensation so deafening it takes her a moment to realize what she was hearing wasn't her own mourning at all , but the screech of a grocery cart coming to a stop . she notices the strange assortment of items first , multiples of everything , like whoever was pushing the cart was preparing to feed a family of twelve , or perhaps preparing for the end of the world . selin glances up , attention stolen by the quiet greeting , a desperation nestled so distinctly within the single syllable . it doesn't prepare her for the pantomime show , one that has selin blink the way pasha sometimes does , slow and processing . " i'm pretty sure we haven't sold that here since the eighties , " she manages with an uncertain laugh before she gestures to his cart . " i can tell you where the milk is , though , in case you want some to go with the cereal . " maybe it's his eyes , red rimmed and wild , like an animal backed into a corner one step away from freaking out , but she's compelled to keep on talking . " you never outgrew your college diet or something ? promise i'm not judging — you just look like you could afford a fruit or two . the organic kind and everything , " selin says , lips tugging into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes . concern pools , and maybe that's what has her blurting out " are you afraid of heights ? " before she could stop and think it through .
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