#◈ . ❪ 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤: prose. ❫

[8blud]

closed  starter  for  lavinia  de  vera.

𝚒𝚗𝚝.     𝚊  𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜  𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖,   𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍  𝚋𝚢  𝚊  𝚍𝚢𝚊𝚍  𝚘𝚏  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

encumbered  by  your  own  written  word:   a  white,   pressed  collar  and  the  lurking  vestiges  of  your  good  manners.     the  black  jacket  drapes,   uncreased,   over  the  back  of   @audeamuus’s   plush  chair.     watching  with  eyes  that  would  glow  in  the  dark.     (   nowhere  is  left  unseen:   even  when  none  sit  upon  the  spared  seat.   )     a  feline  pair  hidden  in  the  bushes,   lowered  to  the  ground  like  a  mere  guideline  for  passing  cars.     its  lupine  companion  balances  on  broken  white  lines.     the  marked  boundary  of  a  road’s  middle.     a  hunter  and  her  bait:   may  you  speak  in  the  dark  tongue  of  cracked  bones.     each  feast  on  the  same  carrion:   lips  stained  with  the  same  blood.     the  razor  catches  on  his  skin.     a  rough  thumb  traces  above  his  jaw.     jack  forgets  to  hiss  until  a  droplet  of  blood  pools  into  the  fabric  of  his  shirt  collar.     ‘   ah,   look  at  that.     look  what  you’ve  done  to  me.   ’     his  inflection  leaks  into  a  pout.     crimson  smudged  up  to  his  cheek;   a  pinprick  of  pain  nestles  right  where  it  belongs.     ‘   bled  me  with  my  own  hand.     smart  cookie.   ’

[dogbleed]

INT.     AN  OUT-OF-FOCUS  CHAIR,  FRESHLY  UNSEATED,  IN  A  CLOUDLESS  OFFICE.   TWO  TUMBLERS  OF  BARELY  SIPPED  WHISKEY,  IN  THE  FOREGROUND,  SERVED  ALONGSIDE  THE  MANY  STILLED  EYES  OF  A  CHILD  AND  ITS  MOTHER.   A  SEA-SICK  MAN,  FOAMED  INTO  SHAPE,  SIFTS  THROUGH  A  FILING  CABINET. CLOSED  STARTER  FOR  ARANYA  NATHARUETAI.

despite  yourself,  you  stayed  your  hand.     looked  upon  a  banquet  of  cleaned  ribs,   and  merely  watched  sweat  trickle  into  the  wrinkling  crests  of  his  forehead.     the  shucked  dream  persists.     your  thumb  at  the  valley  of  his  collarbone.     crack  the  bone,   jack,   make  a  wish.     how  the  heart  would  redden  despite  its  chest  unfurling  into  an  open-grave.     an  easy  hunt:   the  hog  leaves  a  hair-trail  to  the  bleating  heart.     pathetic.     you  have  better  tastes.     staggering  meat  swathed  in  the  dove-feathered  gown  of  moonlight.     beyond  the  gold  gaze  of  something  divine,   of  a  hot  hiss  at  the  nape  of  your  neck.     after  your  steady-hand,   your  steadier  heart.     how  does  a  tamed  predator  taste?     like  charmed  phlegm.     like  a  breath  that  stays,   forever,   in  a  forgotten  wedge  of  your  lung.     (   you’re  a  man  of  a  simpler  taste.   )     it  would  hit  in  the  serenity  of  lapped  shores.     a  spliced  reflection,   of  you  and  them.     smote  by  the  fabric  of  your  watery  breaths,   and  pulled  into  the  smudged  edges  of  your  silhouette.     unmade  into  staccato  frames,   until  you  are  not  just  yourself.     there  would  be  an  ice-tipped  elbow  in  your  half-lidded  eye.     he  wouldn’t  know  before   @gravefed   stands  before  him.     this  time,   she  finds  him.     his  vision  cracks  with  a  smile,   at  the  prospect  of  broken  fun.     his  voice  waves  low  in  his  throat.     somewhere  between  gruff  and  smooth,   like  a  first  sip  of  alcohol.     ‘   careful.     a  witch  lives  ‘round  here.   ’

[dogbleed]

EXT.     THE  CLEAN  GUTTERED  END  OF  A  STAIRWAY,   SHYING  FROM  THE  GLITTERY  STREETS  OF  NIGHT  CITY-LIGHT.   SHE  KEEPS  HIS  GAZE,  IN  THIS  DYAD  BEYOND  ORIGIN.   SIMPLE  SILHOUETTES  FOR  NOW,  ORDINARY  IN  THEIR  NEED  TO  BLUR,  MINUTES  EARLY  FOR  THEIR  CHAUFFEUR. CLOSED  STARTER  FOR  LAVINIA  DE  VERA  NISHIGUCHI.

his  veins  are  silent,   here,   by  her  side.     the  tomb  won’t  listen  for  echoes  of  his  need  to  hurt.     of  dead  skin  mottling  itself  pink,   as  it  remembers  blood.     her  skin  shouldn’t  remember;   not  where  he  can  see.     that  wrinkle  of  pain  between  her  brows.     a  bother  to  him,   in  a  way  he  won’t  admit.     and  so,   @avecaisar   will  not  hurt.     mired  by  this  promise  uttered  long  ago.     atop  a  bleached  hill,   under  an  open-armed  tree.     vast  in  its  leaf-bare  branches,   reaching  for  a  hand  it  will  not  find.     the  sun  watched,   instead,   as  the  earth  upended  itself.     you  were  stuck  to  the  tree’s  moss,   to  the  gaze  latched  on  you.     (   even  when  beckoned,   you  would  never  move.   )     you  needed  to  breathe  water.     this  makes  them  humid,   breathing  old  air  that  circulates  like  blood.     the  warmth  of  yourself,   between  you  and  me.     translated  through  time  until  words  no  longer  suffice.     they  don’t  need  to  exist,   when  enfleshed  in  a  hand  that  fits  into  another.     again,   there  you  are.     again,   here  i  am.     again,   the  assent  precedes  him.     in  the  wait,   jack  twirls  a  strand  of  her  hair  into  knots.     his  other  hand  offered  into  the  air,   for  her  to  see  his  dry  wrists.     his  blue  veins.     ‘   are  you  looking  for  me  to   juggle   you?   ’     a  raised  brow,   teasing  a  smile  onto  his  lips.     any  distraction  would  work.     how  unlike  you  to  resist  the  bitten  taste  of  your  own  hand.     he  won’t  recognise  how  they  wait  on  a  dirtied  path.     how  he  brought  them  out  early,   and  extending  her  time  standing  amidst  new  york  crowds.     ‘   i  have  many  talents   ( … )   giving  you  a  standing  foot  massage  is  not  one  of  them.   ’

[8blud]

a  bet  can  never  be  just  one  bet;   it  demands  to  be  revisited  like  an  empty  confession  booth.     growlingly  bottomless  like  adam’s  loneliness,   like  eve’s  hunger.     attaboy:   lead  everything  back  to  that  first  home.     jack  snips  the  thought  with  a  splash  of  liquor.     easier  to  look  stare  at  the  empty  face  of  his  hobbies.     the  rewards  are  just  as  waning  as  the  satisfaction.     (   you  know  what  you  deserve.     have  the  good  will  to  like  it.   )     and  entertainment  can  be  nothing  but  eternal.     it’s  nice  at  the  edge  of  the  ring,   invisible  like  a  pair  of  wet  socks  in  manured  grass.     to  watch  the   cruelty   infest  a  different  skin.     the  punches  land  and  jack’s  heartbeat  irregulates.     just  as  it  does  at  their  scowl  in  his  direction.     a  dramatic  sigh,   rounded  with  half-lidded  eyes.     ‘   if  only  you  had  the  decency  t’  ask  nicely.   ’     he  maintains  eye  contact  as  he  takes  a  long  sip  from  his  drink.     ‘   then  i’d  feel   obligated   to  be  friendly.   ’     in  the  middle  of  speaking,   he  loses  the  fixed  gaze,   drops  it  to  the  blunt  fingernail  rubbing  absently  against  the  table.     a  simple  jagged  pain.     ‘   let’s  try  again,   babe,   how’s  the  head?   ’

WHO: Jade Molina & Open WHERE: The Godfather

Solitude had been Jade's comfort from the moment they felt the first hint of abandonment. They watched as prospective parents rejected them, felt the impact of loss at their own hands, and even with their ties to the White Crocodiles, the words family still never slipped through their teeth. It seemed easier to shut themself off from the world before the world had a chance to do it first, but it was hard to be fully alone in a city as big as Manhattan.

Perhaps that's why they sometimes found themself hiding out at The Godfather. It was easy to go unnoticed when the allure of the jazz band drew everyone's attention. With the relaxing music and range of seating, Jade usually never had a problem tucking themself into a corner and enjoying their peace. Today, though, they noticed a presence near their end of the bar. Their hand traced the edge of their glass, a slight scowl on their lips as they commented,  ❝If you're going to hover over me, at least have the decency to buy me a drink.❞ 

[8blud]

‘   shouldn’t  i  be  the  judge  of  that?   ’     these  roved  woods   –   yeah,   she’s  right  about  that   –   push  him  away  like  that  deters  an  isolated  hound.     lick  a  handful  of  soil,   boy,   grind  that  absence  into  your  teeth.     taste  the  air  until  the  scent,   boiled  and  ripe,   pools  around  a  shade  of  feet.     an  inhuman  can’t  hide.     shouldn’t  she  know?     (   catch  what  the  earth  rejects.     crunch  a  gust-foamed  wight  like  it’s  bone.   )     a  light  grasp  on  her  wrist.     olive-veined  under  his  thumb.     and  there’s  the  sponge  of  blood  and  muscle  in  his  grip,   protecting  its  indenting  bones.     oh,   how  frail  for  a  main  course.     he  tongues  a  corner  of  his  stowed  grin.     the  mask  is  cold,   and  he  almost  rethinks  this  game.     ‘   y’know  the  shit’s  good  if  a   corpse-robber   wants  it.     even  the  boy  scouts  agreed  with  that.   ’     and  yet.     there’s  a  disappointed  tongue,   clucking  for  good  measure.     ‘   but  you  don’t  need  me  to  tell  you  how   gutted   you  are,   do  you?     you’re  right   ––   i  couldn’t  afford  such  a  worthless  hunt.   ’

 the   bounds   to   which   individuals   will   go   in   concealing   their   identity   is   infinite.   the   bionic   synth,   swathed   in   its   enigmatic   timbre,   compels   an   inquisitive   chuckle.   priya   wonders   if   the   campiness   of   the   masquerade   theme   is   for   theme   alone   or,   is   it   a   deliberate   stipulation   for   those   eager   immerse   themselves   in   disguised   indulgence   ?   an   arch   of   the   brow    :   a   gesture   that   carries   with   it   the   weight   of   unspoken   thoughts,   "if   you   want   my   honest   opinion,   i'd   say   it'd   have   to   be   you."   a   symphony   of   laughter   dances   in   the   air   before   the   tip   of   her   finger   gently   presses   the   apex   of   her   guest's   nose.   "you're   fond   of   the   kneelers,"      she   corrects.   "i   assume   your   kind   can't   afford   to   hunt   so   you   wait   around   to   gnaw   on   the   leftovers."    the   brunette   rolls   her   shoulder   in   an   effort   to   escape   the   other's   embrace.   "and   i   am   not   leftovers.   i'm   the   main   course."

[8blud]

in  the  city’s  withering  sunlight   –   worn  by  dark  smog,   and  the  overreaching  hand  of  mankind   –   her  skin  pares  to  nothing.     this  is  what  coaxes  you:   an  exposed  cheekbone,   drawing  his  eye  in  ways  her  fingers  will  not.     that  apricot  blood  would  honey  his  stubble.     sweet  like  death’s  ripened  scent.     she  leads;   he  follows.     (   what  you’ve  destroyed  will  not  eat  itself.   )     she  brushes  the  hard  bone  of  your  maw,   which  tickles  your  gums  and  your  spine.     his  chin  cants  down  to  her  touch.     with  the  flat  of  your  tongue,   you  should  trace  her  jaw.     tear  her  from  groin  to  gullet;   show  her  those  pink  entrails  before  the  world  blackens.     her  eyes  would  close.     your  blood  would  flow  unshed.     his  shoes  frame  hers  instead:   their  outer  rims  press  together.     he  noses  along  her  jaw,   underlining  bone  with  bone.     ‘   would  you  come  back  if  you  thought  i  couldn’t  hunt?   ’     a  crackling  hum  in  his  throat.     where  desire  burrows  like  fire  reaches  for  dry  air,   loosens  within  the  depths  of  your  flesh.     it  speaks  for  you.     syllables  waxed  thin  past  your  teeth.     a  conceded  open-mouthed  kiss,   before  he  pulls  back  from  her  thrumming  heartbeat.     (   obsessive  in  our  restraint:   the  divine  feast  forgives.     this  god  will  save  us,   we’ll  make  sure  of  it.   )    his  thumb  searches  for  the  seam  that  hides  her  taut  hip.     there  his  inflection  lowers  too:   a  sighed  howl  to  a  waning  moon.     ‘   be  good.     you  have  a  clean  neck  for  a  reason.     an’  now  my  plate  will  taste  less  lovely,   just  ‘cause  you  couldn’t  be  good.   ’

what is it to crave to the point of invention? wanting had not been the word for it, no, the only solution had been creation itself. she'll search his dim gaze only to find water sloshing, however corosive in passing: still she aches for this urge to be nourished. that's the word for it: drought, while still being its own antithesis. that is what bound them by blood and sinew, the profound absense and the even grander overflow. " how modest, " that sacred touch, bound hand in unlovable hand. he should learn to savor this tenderness, the next bite of his heart will not go down so easy. in the moment, she indulges the horror of perception, allows him to watch her as if he were the eater and she were the last meal. ( DEAR SINNER, A FEAST AWAITS. ) " you think you could hurt me anyway, hm? " still, she has a face that says: come boy, have me over to dinner. if she were to be devoured it certainly wouldn't have been at the foot of the courthouse, she's a lady afterall. so she leads him carside, " spare me then [ ... ] " she finally nears enough for the fog of their breath in the chilled air to intermingle. digits creep, a dance she's performed before in the lowlight, wonders if he can distinguish it even now as fingers pad along the lower breath of his stubbled jaw. " do it with your mouth. "

[8blud]

look  at  me,   look  at  me.     look  at  me.     a  cracked  altar  glistens;   your  brother  looks  for  its  inscription.     here  love  whimpers.     here  love  bows  into  its  grave.     you  fill  the  maw  with  piss-drunk  roses  and  your  mother’s  dried  snot.     the  family  gaze  averts  again,   and  you  are  untouched.     it  is  a  whistling  october  day.     the  sun  wanes,   listless,   and  barely  peers  over  the  horizon.     an  eternal  look  made  for  your  father’s  apple-bitten  sneer.     for  the  first  time,   the  sun  catches  in  your  eye.     your  father  lies  in  a  casket  and  you  pet  his  thinned  hair.     whet  his  loosened  lashes.     (   our  father  who  art  burring  into  my  fleshy  palm.   )     how  they  plead  to  flee  his  father’s  dying  pores.     make  a  wish  with  a  wet  blow.     it’s  the  least  he  could  do:   offer  a  fair  trade.     your  salvation  for  my  saliva.     god  wouldn’t  accept  a  man  bathed  in  unholy  water,   would  he?     your  spite  feels  like  home;   you  will  never  seek  comfort  from  him.     and  now,   his  brother  necessitates  a  quiet  look.     a  pious,   watchful  eye  that  he  won’t  see.     he  won’t  look  at  you.     the  glint  in  their  eyes  deadens.     the  camera  lens  won’t  click.     you  won’t  be  remembered.     there  are  no  photo  albums  to  trawl.     the  leftovers  will  rot;   your  name  chisels  into  your  father’s  grave.

look  at  you,   he  thinks  meanly,   look  at  how  you  guzzle  holy  water  like  a  salted  corpse.     and  still,   his  unharmed  face  tingles.     ‘   i  know.   ’     a  cadence  crackles,   wary,   as  clay  grows  brittle  in  its  over-use.     the  piggies  lined  to  see  their  maker’s  sons.     something  about  august  made  them  cry  untimely   –   a  hard,   browned  gaze  that  passes  quickly;   his  firm  grip,   numb  and  numbing   –   like  a  nosebleed  at  the  crux  of  prayer.     you  know  how  to  leave  a  legacy;   paint  a  mural  in  my  name  with  your  unwashed  hands.     beside  your  father’s  grave,   you  stood  with  unshed  tears  and  unfelt  loss  for  a  perfect  father  figure.     sin  will  never  die  in  human-trodden  land.     this  is  how  an  animal  mourns.     (   too  old  to  be  a  martyr   /   too  young  to  be  a  god.   )     his  brother’s  handshakes  shift  easily,   pressing  into  a  hug  with  a  clapped  back  and  a  kissed  temple.     a  ghost  kisses  his  own;   he  doesn’t  realise  what  this  means  until  he  lies   –   cold-showered  in  his  suit   –   atop  his  bed  and  stares  at  the  ceiling  for  the  night.     his  hand  claws  into  his  father’s  cadaver-wrought  fist.     ‘   i  know   ( … )   lucky  you  got  me  here  to  defend  you.   ’     a  sunlit  grin.     his  teeth  tap  together.     a  shoulder  wants  to  know  against  his.     ‘   an’  i  forgive  you.     two  for  the  price  of  one.     like  a  low  v-neck  in  church,   huh?   ’

a  laugh  feathers  between  them.     ghastly  and  wriggling.     you  can’t  find  its  voice.     and  all  that  remains:   your  decayed  sight  set  upon  a  boy  that  shrunk  into  your  brother.     (   truly  home-grown.     has  he  eaten  the  apple  yet?   )     a  low  voice   –   glassy-eyed   –   like  a  purring  flame.     his  left  eyelid  twitches.     ‘   he’d  say  i’ve  been  a  very  good  boy,   who  deserves  all  the  little  handshakes  i  can  get.   ’     this  is  the  living  language  you  speak.     deep  red  and  lustrous  like  a  parted  sea,   showing  the  burst  bodies  stuck  in  its  emptying  stomach.     you  love  your  brother  enough  to  let  him  bear  witness.     he  won’t  find  your  body  in  the  carnage.     and  so,   jack  stays  where  he  is  and  watches  his  brother’s  eyes.     ‘   what’ll  he  say  about  you?     y’gonna  confess  to  me   ––   off  the  record?   ’

Aiden set his face against the screen, and for a moment his thoughts drifted as to whether the old lattice would create aberrations against his cheek, in the same way one would develop sleep marks if one had stayed in a single position for too long. The weariness bore into skin through repeated pressure and compression. But, perhaps — this was its own kind of retreat. Stripped of sacredness and godliness, what is a church but a place in which to rest your head before the next great adventure? 

He rested his eyes. He could picture it now. This could very well be an old cupboard in a dim, vanished kitchen where they’d used to spend their days. The Garveys had never been much for riches. The blood turned wine, the body turned into bread: these were their father and mother’s blessings, and those were far more precious than gold, were they not? On the opposite end of the screen was his brother. A blessing unto himself: a miracle in Aiden’s eyes, even as their parents, admittedly, had not. In all these years to what extent did he prove himself an older sibling? Aiden was not an infallible god but a fallible brother and the mistakes he’d made across these decades only served to cement the distinction. 

“ I guess you’re right, ” Aiden acquiesced. Another chuckle, another puff. Growing up with religious reverence is its own kind of negotiation in a life brimming with inconsistencies. They have far too much firsthand knowledge of it, he supposed, what with their pliable memories but equally just as hard-won spirits. “ I think the Old Testament God would not want any business with me. ” With us. “ Maybe I could do with a god much more forgiving. I’ve not really been able to manage that. ” An indulgence, again, like this cigarette, like this false comfort of a heart-to-heart. He had never been much for the easy way out, could never make a decision beyond the careful confines of the duty of care — a responsibility freed from the younger son, the prodigal brother. He is careful not to let the surge of emotions seethe. What was it? Anger? Jealousy? Resentment? Duty? Love? Maybe love was all of those things. Their father would certainly say so. 

What did those emotions get him? Here in an abandoned church, performing his petty acts of insubordination, his plainclothes reeking of old wounds and blood and smokes. He took a puff of his cigarette, the pale red dot of the nicotine smoke stark against the swathes of the moonlight and shadows. What was fire if not something to live for? He tilted his head, briefly, to meet his brother’s own eyes, wide and fierce and haunting. What was a brother if not something to live for? 

Another puff, another breath of life. He keeps me around to make sure I’m still on my knees. In the absence of a god, what was the referent object? His father? Himself? He finds that he’d rather not know. And perhaps he is made of delicate skin, after all, if it is it that confession that gets him. 

And the brother arrived, face to face. No longer a shadow but a presence he must contend with, and whatever air was left in the room left him suffocating. “ Well, now, you’ve broken the rules. ” It was almost a dismissal. He stood up from his seat; it’s cold, suddenly. He brought his one hand to the inside of his pocket as he side-stepped his brother, looking at the bare thing where an altar used to be. “ Everything here is strictly off the record. You know how it is in sacred spaces. Only God is left to judge. ” He finds he could not quite look at him again, and wished could disappear into a white plume of smoke. 

[8blud]

‘   it’s  fun  when  you’re  only  you,   and  i’m  only  me.     feels  like  i’m  dancing  back  in  a  courtroom  when  i’m  just  sipping  some   ––   tea.     y’know  who’d  love  that?   ’     he  doesn’t  answer  himself.     cuts  the  thought  off  with  an  airy  laugh,   and  a  gaze  cast  down  to  his  cup.     rocked  to  sleep,   wedged  against  her  hip,   and  you  can’t  even  say  her  name.     his  index  nail  catches  on  his  thumb.     a  poking  hangnail,   probably,   begging  to  be  plucked  like  a  single  dandelion  in  the  middle  of  a  bright  red  meadow.     an  un-stolen  moment:   mirror-less  and  silent.     alone   as  you  stare,   again,   back  at  her  relentless  gaze.     a  pair  of  pale  lily  pads  middling  her  moon-curved  eyes.     ‘   that  kinda  dance  sounds  like  yours,   rather  than  mine.     wouldn’t  you  say  you’re  also  immense   –   or  are  you  too  tidy?   ’     the  soft  timbre  of  a  lost  restraint.     born  anew  in  his  light  tease.     he  rolls  the  imagined  crick  in  his  neck.     a  blushed  smile  like  a  drunk  drawn  to  blurred  glass.     (   fogged  memories  and  the  peach  pit  it  spits  into  your  stomach.   )     she  wouldn’t  like  that.     rewind,   rewind.     pause.     beautiful.     play.     to  the  red  sun  that  leaks  upon  a  calm  sea.     jack  snaps  his  fingers,   gestures  between  them.     ‘   like  fresh  laundry  and  its  stinking  basket.     there,   now  i’m  all  out  of  similes.     you  got  the  last  one.   ’

his features lack angles. she hasn't considered the lines before, his mouth is usually moving too fast for her to notice. emerald gaze maps the soft curves that shape the portrait of his face, framed by the forward flop of brown tendrils that always refuse the hold of his overly applied gel — ( it is hard to imagine him with his hair shorn off, so she does not suggest it, as much as it tempts her so, just to see if he'd heed ) it's the eyes that betray him — narrowing them into menacing beady slits don't quite shed the lustre of youth to her.

" i thought you were more eloquent — " it would sound as patronising as it is, if the words aren't accompanied by earnesy blinks. he opens his mouth at an event and hay flies out on a good day.

" would you prefer me to be more like someone else ? " a tilt of the head, and a signifying perk between brows, reflected in the glinting edge of steel. when her gaze finally gives him respite, teeth briefly pin the softness of her lip, cup lifted while she breathes in the aroma. " immensity, there was light in the paint, stillness in between. obscuring the shadow side of itself... most shadows loom large, but not that one. " what she omits his how she'd also found the strokes mildly child-like.

[8blud]

lilac  mornings   /   white-out  afternoons.     a  day  grows  bitter  when  memory  speaks  its  permanence.     when  the  dogged  begin  to  balk  at  its  once  silent  mouth.     no  longer  a  mere  pavlovian  response:   her  clean  figure  sidles  close  to  his  own,   and  he  will  remember  his  dirt-packed  reflection.     (   un-fucking-believable  bitch,   and  her  stupid  little  camera.   )     for  her  eyes,   a  scowl  darkens  his  shadowed  sockets.     the  sunken  pout,   laid  beneath  his  mask,   is  for  him  alone.     ‘   the  press  will  –   ’     clenched  jaw:   this  chagrin  won’t  pass  his  ticking  muscles.     under  his  teeth,   it  becomes  buttery.     pools  past  his  teeth  like  gathering  spit  for  an  altar.     ‘   y’gonna  publish  the  photos  of  the  shrine  on  your  bedside  table?     my  candlelit  picture  right  beside  your  own.     nothing  comforts  you  like  a  reflection,   yeah?   ’     his  tone  teeters  down  to  a  grumble.     despite  himself,   he  grabs  her  bicep,   gently  like  a  web  wraps  around  a  fly,   and  tries  to  pull  them  to  the  room’s  outskirts.     ‘   tricky,   tricky.     if  you’re  gonna  dote  on  me,   you  could  do  me  the  solid  of  feeling  warmer.     just   ( … )   tone  down  on  the  bitch-speak,   citizen  kane.     someone,   i  won’t  name  names,   might  start  calling  you  fake.   ’

Indeed, in the midst of the gilded sparrows gracefully sweeping across the cityscape, Anchali is ensconced within her den of mahogany allure. She assumes the role of a vulture to her very lively prey. The camera flash captures fleeting moments, and in turn, her expressions metamorphose swiftly – a brilliantly feigned smile evolves into a smug smirk, echoing the contours of her ego. ""I can't wait until that one hits the press." She revels in her success, a profound sense of self-satisfaction elongating her posture. "I presume Page Six will dedicate its ink to our little brunch banquet. I trust you received an invitation; after all, your presence is cherished within our circles." With a hint of playful condescension, she contemplates the cheek-pinch-worthy nature of Jack's countenance. In a melodious tone, she teases, "No coronations on the immediate horizon, my dear, but if a last supper is more to your liking, we might just accommodate a change of plans." Anchali's words are laced with both charm and a subtle hint of mischief.

[dogbleed]

‘   where’s  the  hole  of  shit   ––   my  face?   ’     he  plants  a  dramatic  falter  into  his  step,   as  he  edges  closer  to  her.     scrunched  brows  and  open  arms,   surrendering  before  the  bite  can  sink.     but  the  teeth  are  stray  barbs,   flicking  off  their  wire  in  her  drive-by  snark.     offence  skips  by  him  like  a  smooth  stone  against  a  placid  lake.     jack  passes  a  look,   instead,   into  the  lobby  mirror.     from  his  crinkled  gaze   –   cornered  into  amusement,   as  he  always  feels   –   to  his  jutted  pout.     maybe  she   is   sick  of  him.     too  sweet  like  petals  coated  in  honey.     the  words  are  there  before  he  can  speak.     he  can’t  help  himself.     ‘   huh.     no,   you’re  right.     a  face  only   your  mother   could  love   ( … )   good  taste  can’t  be  genetic,   hmm?     at  least  you’re  not  getting  two  shitty  faces  for  the  price  of  one.     that’s  a  privilege  reserved  for  those  liars,   right?   ’     almost  a  light  press  of  weight  in  his  tone.     a  flick  in  his  sentence  like  a  boot  caught  on  a  pebble.     tricky,   tricky:   the  worm  always  finds  dirt  to  swallow.     casual  lean  on  the  lacquered  wood,   inviting  her  to  share  space  with  him.     an  unfound  kindness  presumed  into  the  fold.     ‘   you  won’t  lie  to  me   ( … )   were  they  alone?   ’

closed for — @dogbleed ( jack ) location — borderline hotel .

does this man have a home of his own ? seriously , she was starting to get concerned . yeah , she's seen her fair share of characters waltz in & out of her hotel ( some , she'd never see again ) , but this guy . . . god , she had to see him at least once — maybe twice — a week now . but in all honesty , she enjoyed having the little menace around . even if she did pretend to want to gouge his eyes out with her acrylics every time he stepped up to the desk to check in . " GETTIN' REEEEEEEAL sick & tired of your shit , jack hole . " shaking her head , the brunette blew a raspberry from her lips as she didn't even bother to check the guy in — having done so the second she saw his name pop up on her reservation list . " oh , look — " & let the kiki begin . " — i found out what was goin' on with that couple on the third floor . i'm quarantining that room & having the staff use a hazmat suit to clean . don't even wanna know where the blacklight picked up the most SUS stains . & i've seen some shit . "

[8blud]

here  your  eyes  open,   yellowed  by  dead  air.     glossed  in  a  funeral  home’s  bare  light.     by  the  same  dust  from  the  flicker  of  a  camera  lens.     he  procures  his  hand  of  polaroids,   then,   and  traces  a  few  almost  paper-cuts  into  his  lips.     an  image  on  a  screen  will  never  re-produce  the  fun  of  a  photograph  in  hand.     unless  your  face  blurs  into  the  background  like  a  dog  peering  out  of  a  wet  window.     nip  that  thought  in  the  bud.     now.     pictured  fresh  cadavers   –   that’ll  comfort  you   –   ripening  in  the  balmy  night  without  a  careful  thumb.     their  dried  foreheads  await  the  scheduled  ritual:   oiled  in  the  shape  of  a  cross.     (   holy  god,   who  made  you  so  morbid?   )     a  twitch  in  his  features.     a  stray  grin  or  a  fraying  scent  in  his  nose.     you  could  be  worse;   you  could   always   be  worse.     he  who  kills  isn’t  he  who  worships.     jack  stares  after  the  gaunt  man,   closing  the  door  and  following  him  slowly  into  the  next  room.     there’s  a  spasmed  need  to  bemoan  the  soft  harmony  between  them.     scuffed  banter  between  quiet  hunters,   right?     except  he  plays  nice,   nicer  than  you.     awakens  something  that’ll  yawn  for  the  rest  of  your  life.

something  grotesque  swathed  in  cotton  like  a  childhood  memory.     close-eyed  and  wishing.     this  time,   the  script  will  like  you.     this  time,   your  hand  will  scalp  the  pelt  from  its  meat  as  your  father  watches.     you  will  be  better,   this  time,   when  scripture  releases  its  hold  on  your  shoulders.     a  human-shaped  grip:   whose  hands  are  those?     un-aged  freckles  or  wrinkles.     soft  like  moth-eaten  flesh.     a  sweet  hum,   caught  in  his  throat  like  a  sickly  cough.     ‘   that   sounds  like  something  a  sweetie  would  do.     i  thought  your  name  was  orson  lloyd,   patron  saint  of  mr.  horne’s   best  boy   behaviour.   ’     his  hands,   absently,   drop  the  pictures  like  a  wad  of  cards.     (   the  game  plays  itself:   you  have  nothing  to  hide.   )     and  then,   they  clasp  behind  his  back  while  he  idly  shadows  orson.     you’ll  always  follow  the  blood-trail.     no  matter  how  faint,   no  matter  how  pulse-less.     ‘   i  can’t  wine  without  my  dine  but  that  could  disappoint  you,   couldn’t  it?     i  won’t  do  that.     not  to  you.     right?     y’could  put  it  into  the  skull  of  my  first  kill   ( … )   think  i  still  have  it  at  home.     i’ll  bring  that  too  after  you  uh,   decide.   ’

❝ only just a little. ❞ there is a truthful simplicity to the answer ; of course orson is disappointed to discover that a knock on his door at such a late hour does not come bearing trinkets for his fond dissection. and he'd be a liar to say he'd not felt a thrill of sorts at the sight of one jack horne in his camera ; it is rare orson takes company whilst at work ― his art is often underappreciated, if not altogether scorned ― but the man before him now is different. orson knows this ; has seen it demonstrated, in fact, behind the locked doors of a preparation room. he's bore witness that same quiet vigor but once before, when his own morbid curiosity was reflected back at him in the polished steel of a scalpel in his father's hand decades prior. lips remain in a faintly upward twitch, barely there but just on the cusp of teasing. ❝ not too terribly. but only because it's you. ❞

striding further into his office with the expectation that the other man is will lock up behind them both as he enters, orson is drawn back toward open cabinets. it's too early. and yet, for all that he often finds himself sniffing at the metallic, salted earth beneath a hunter's feet, not once has orson been made to feel he's begging for scraps. not at jack's hand, and not in spite of his fickle impatience. a fixture in the background of the lives of many by design, orson is rarely seen. but a huntsman requires a keen eye, does he not ? hands catch on hooked fingers behind his back and orson maintains a gaze on warm mahogany shelving even as the the temptation of an offer threatens a glance toward a favored associate. needn't look too eager !

❝ kind, indeed. you spoil me, jack. ❞ for all that it sounds facetious, orson speaks nothing but truth. as it stands, the majority of his operations within hanging man involve disposing of the visceral evidence of the organization's finest : the armed & brainless. if he had a dollar for every dripping bag of useless waste dumped on his doorstep for disposal, perhaps he could replace the many antique carpets they've ruined with their stains. ❝ it isn't often i'm presented with options. ❞ a pause, and he turns only then to look toward jack once more. ❝ it would appear i've forgotten my manners entirely tonight . . . can i offer you a drink ? ❞

[8blud]

a  possibly  irregular  heartbeat  in  his  chest.     jack  grins  loosely  at  the  older  man  as  he  chuckles,   softens  his  gaze  with  a  haze  of  respect.     an  awkward  hunch  over  the  table,   as  he  flicks  between  the  food,   the  drink  and  the  big  man  himself.     what  kind  of  god  damns  its  believers  for  embodying  its  perfect  creation?     evolved  or  not,   your  heartbeat  condemns  you  all  the  same.     (   would  you  let  them  go  unpunished?   )     that’s  beside  the  point.     a  human  can  be  cruel;   a  god  is   righteous.     your  punishment  isn’t  deserved  or  owed.     they  don’t  watch  you  squirm  and  bleed  for  their  entertainment.     it’s  a  simple  truth  of  existence:   an  ever-present  need  like  ending  a  sentence  with  a  period.     jack  sucks  his  teeth,   flickers  his  gaze  around  kaz’s  face.     with  his  plethora  of  wispy  bonds,   kindness  can’t  find  his  mouth.     even  if  it  wants  to  bury  itself  within  him,   it  can  only  tap  incessantly  at  his  closed  teeth.     ‘   yeah,   that’s  what  they  grow  in  their  little  underground  greenhouses.     big  hairless  balls.     got  too  many  un-fucked  hands  to  need  more  of  those.   ’     he  sips  from  the  given  drink.     a  bit  refined  for  his  taste,   but  he  wouldn’t  reject  an  offer.     again,   he  sucks  his  teeth  and  itches  at  his  nape.     ‘   i’d  argue  too  many  libraries  is  what  landed  us  here  in   ( … )   fuckless-ville.     all  work  and  no  play  makes  jack  a  very,   very   dull  boy.     an’  no  one  likes  to  be  the  boring  pussy.   ’

𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻    𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋    –    capping    at    five    [    3/5   ] 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾  +  𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇    –    the   red   lantern   ,   past   midnight.

 half   of   a   cigar   nestles   elegantly   between   thin   lips,   a   pool   of   smoke   rises   beneath   the   soft   glow   of   a   paper   lantern.   his   thin   frame   settles   onto   a   wooden   stool,   legs   spread   apart,   and   the   top   buttons   of   his   collar   reveal   vibrant   ink   hues   of   red,   green,   and   black.   The   cook   quickly   took   notice,   and   what   was   initially   a   forty-five-minute   wait   fleshes   into   immediate   service.   an   empty   glass   now   overflows   with   sake,   and   the   smell   of   oden   breathes   into   an   exhausted   complexion.   his   bionic   arm   extinguishes   the   cigar's   flame   on   the   concrete   floor   beneath   him.   now,   with   both   hands   pressed   together,   he   proclaims,   "ごちそうさまでした   (   trans.   thank   you   for   the   meal   )“   breaking   apart   wooden   chopsticks,   he   explores   the   broth,   savoring   pieces   of   stuffed   tofu   and   daikon   radish.   not   quite   like   home   but   close   enough.

 the   presence   of   another   person   beside   him   grows   heavy.   he   orders   the   chef,   "another   !   for   my   friend   here."   a   masu   cup   appears   beside   his   guest,   along   with   an   assortment   of   japanese   delicacies.   his   bionic   arm   reveals   the   sake   label   to   his   guest   before   he   proceeds   to   pour   the   clear   liquid   into   their   glass.   kaz   returns   the   blue-toned   bottle   to   the   wooden   surface.   "you   think   that   new   fancy   pill   can   grow   a   limb   back,   or   at   least   make   me   think   it   did?"   he   chuckles,   and   his   men,   dressed   ironclad   black,   laugh   too.   you'd   wonder   what   invokes   the   men   to   laugh.   a   joke   hasn't   been   uttered   but   they   laugh.   they   do   because   kaz   laughs,   and   the   comfort   of   the   unassuming   izakaya   is   threatened:   there's   a   snake   slithering   amongst   us.   "can't   deny   they   got   balls,   though.   big   ones,   calling   themselves   anunnaki,   like   those   sumerians   believed   and   shit."   he   hunches   over   to   devour   a   piece   of   tempura   shrimp.   "that's   why   i   keep   telling   everyone   we   need   to   build   some   libraries,   get   the   kids   back   in   school.   fuck   do   we   need   another   club   for   ?”

[8blud]

he  looks  at  her,   again,   and  finds  nothing.     the  back  of  his  own  head,   maybe,   fading  into  the  air  as  her  clear  eyes  peer  and  blink.     an  embodied  woman,   who  plumes  into  smoke  before  his  eyes.     where  a  hunter’s  gaze  fails,   the  worm’s  soil-gritted  eyes  prevail.     hungry  for  the  absence,   for  the  ribs  that  can’t  regrow  sinew.     a  brief  widening  of  his  eyes  interlaces  with  his  pause.     so  quick  to  reciprocate  the  game.     well,   if  she  wants  to  go  there.     ‘   yeah,   an’  most  women  recoil  at  the  thought  of  me  using  a  tissue   ( … )   let  alone  around  them.   ’     your  tone  edges  the  line  of  nonchalance.     a  sideways  glance  at  her,   then  a  tingle  on  his  plastic,   hollow  skin.     (   if  she  lacks  breath,   you  will  breathe  twofold  for  her.   )     itchy  like  regrowth  on  a  newly  waxed  face.     there,   that  pinch  of  drive  in  your  right  nostril.     the  bottomless  ambition  that  puts  a  spring  into  your  silhouette.     he  taps  his  breast  pocket  as  he  inches  his  own  pile  of  chips  forward.     read  the  innuendo:   bigger  than  her  little  tower.     ‘   no  need  to  worry  your  little  head  about  me   ––   i’ve  got  some  crusted  leftovers.   ’

Liena's eyes examined her cards, a stoic expression tucked behind her mask. She was rarely the type to play games like craps or poker, but when the choices were that or endure the carnival games, she would rather try her hand at gambling. At least this way this could win more than just an oversized teddy bear.

A tight-lipped smile slipped onto her face as she listened to the man speak. There was something about being in a presence of a cocky man that Liena quite enjoyed. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she could help cut that off at the root and bring the man back to earth. ❝Excellent, then I trust your feelings won't be too hurt when you leave this table with nothing other than a tissue.❞ His next comment caused her brow to raise, ❝Cute. Most men buy me a drink first before they talk about blowing.❞ There was a ghost of a smile on her lips at her joke, the emotion soon fading as she turned her focus back to the game. She slid some chips forward, eyes darting towards her masked opponent as if to say: let's see your next move.

[8blud]

the  heart  hides  with  its  hands;   dirty  hands,   dirtied  heart.     knock  once,   hard,   on  that  chest.     listen  to  its  hollow  reverberations,   how  the  heartbeat  won’t  keep  to  its  enfleshed  prison.     running  barefoot  through  the  woods,   as  all  devoured  things  do.     you  hum  mechanically,   instead,   like  he  could  surprise  you.     ‘   no?   ’     jack  falls  into  line  with  him,   shoulder  to  shoulder,   eyes  the  crowd  from  wit’s  vantage.     a  canted  head  pairs  with  an  unabashed  point  in  another’s  direction.     ‘   what  about  them   ––   they  more  your  type,   huh?     although  i  have  to  confess:   they   would   tell  me  what’s  uh,   what.   ’

pawing   the   wad   of   cash   in   his   pocket,   a   sheepish   blush   creeped   across   his   sun   -   golden   face,   hidden   by   the   confines   of   his   mask.   a   fox   handed   it   to   him,   not   to   throw   the   fight,   but   just   to   give   the   other   guy   a   chance.   let   him   get   a   few   good   licks   in.   it   was   strangely   flattering,   if   not   a   betrayal   of   his   integrity.   

still,   he   took   it.   and   let   some   rookie   nail   him   once   or   twice.   "   jack,   "   wit   tilted   his   head,   and   said   his   name   in   a   long,   low   tone.   a   warning.   "   you   know   i   don't   kiss   and   tell.   "

[cainhood]

lilac  mornings  idle  on  a  clouding  limbo.     sweet-stuck  at  the  bottom  of  a  glass,   like  cocktail  residue  baked  under  a  light  sun.     a  can  of  cola  discarded  upon  a  window-pane  by  equally  tacky  child-hands.     you  don’t  remember  these  hands.     too  fickle  to  let  memory  brew  into  something  nice.     your  hands  deaden  after  the  nursing  gulps  of  whiskey,   and  its  wedge  of  lemon.     sour  tongue,   sharp  heart.     (   glory’s  in  the  guts  when  you  reach  deep  enough.   )     a  fully-written  page  rips,   and  your  eyes  blink  again.     the  amber  drink  warms  his  liquid-smooth  veins.     reddened  like  an  off-shore  haze  of  the  waking  sun,   like  a  heart  cracking  a  thick  skin  of  embalming  fluid.     day  break:   you  awake.     cute  rhyme  for  a  boy-carcass.     and  still,   his  gaze  darkens  as  the  sun  rises.     watch  the  blank  page  fill,   again,   with  a  past  you  might  remember.     each  time  is  different.     it  could  write  something  old,   long  forgotten  beside  a  cactus  like  a  desert-hung  carcass.     redacted  to  your  liking,   to  your  mother’s  liking.     whoever  deserves  the  re-write  today.     no  memory  remembers  itself  perfectly.     today  it  spews  something  new.     something  newly  old.     a  moony  little  assistant,   sidling  up  to  him  with  kitten-round  eyes.     a  half-sigh  thrown  with  a  burgeoning  smile.     played  reluctantly,   like  he’s  not  enjoying  this.     ‘   well,   your  best  pal  can’t  just  let   any  old  sally   in  here  now,   can  he?   ’     a  simple  rounded  look   –   wears  her  curt  rule  in  that  raised,   plucked  brow   –   and  he  bridges  the  gap  for  the  receptionist.     his  own  brows  raise,   and  she  cedes  the  ball  to  his  court.     his  game  now,   that  aster  whitlock  can’t  play.     they  should  learn  what  a  proper  morning  greeting  looks  like.     right?     ‘   an’  i’d  hate  to  reprimand  someone  for  doing  their  job   ( … )   y’telling  me  she   really   doesn’t  recognise  you  yet?   ’

WHO: Aster Whitlock & Jack Horne (@cainhood) WHERE: Ichibangase /Eisher Corporation, front lobby

Though Aster had been working as the Ichibangase/Eisher Corporation's COO's assistant for a couple of months now, they still found the job to be stressful and overwhelming. Every day they woke up and expected to be fired, and though it hadn't happened yet, they still braced for that familiar speech. It was practically a given at this point--- they knew they'd forever be seen as the pathetic younger sibling, and though they hoped this job would help turn that image around, they still held their breath as they wandered into work.

Well--- tried to wander into work. They had overslept this morning and hadn't realized they left their employee ID badge in their apartment until they got to the lobby. They had hoped the receptionist, a face they greet every morning and at the end of every shift, would recognize them and let them into the building, but they found themself being denied entry instead.

❝Dude, I'm telling you--- I'm an employee. I'm Millicent Eisher's personal assistant. You can look me up on LinkedIn or something to prove it.❞ They had been having the same back and forth for ten minutes, but the receptionist remained skeptical.  ❝What kind of burglar wears business casual, anyway? And why would I walk through the front door and check in if I wanted to rob this place?❞  

They were about to give up and admit their blunder to their boss, but the sight of JACK HORNE changed their mind. If they could get him to vouch for them, then maybe the receptionist would give in and let them enter the building. They shuffled over to him, hands awkwardly hanging at their back as they hummed,  ❝Jack... my old buddy... my best pal.❞ They swung on their heels a bit, trying to avoid direct eye contact as they continued,  ❝Could you go and tell the receptionist that I work here? She seems to think I'm trying to rob the place or something.❞ 

[cainhood]

your  lungs  strain  among  rib-made  beings.     therein  the  height  of  a  colourless  solstice:   your  heart’s  contusing  memory  of  absence.     a  chasmic  want   –   amidst  film’s  freckled  air   –   to  ensure  you  won’t  be  alone.     this  salts  your  tongue,   with  every  wet  reel,   while  the  image  sours  into  place.     in  this  black-and-white  scene,   you  aren’t  alone.     she,   always  a  she,   would  wear  skin  the  same  shade  as  her  hair.     you  would  dine  on  shrimp  that  melts  in  your  mouth.     cigarette  smoke  would  bundle  her  curves  tight,   like  winter  wool  on  sheep-skin.     grace  her  with  a  smile;   your  canines  would  peek  past  your  upper  lip.     your  name  would  be  august  garvey.     you  will  never  define  enough.     teething  on  breast  milk   /   crossing  gazes  with  your  brother.     his  picture-dead  eyes  that  live,   finally,   when  they  don’t  blink.     lineally  closed   –   older  than  paper,   younger  than  wheat  fields   –   on  a  freshly-made  bed.     your  father  would  be   ––   here,   your  father   ––   but  the  typewriter  catches  on  your  dead  memory.     a  sigh  or  a  sputter;   regardless,   it  cannot  hold  this  breath.     it  burrows  past  this  inherited  broken  bone.     what  remains  of  your  father.     oh,   you’re  always  right.     you’re  always  right!     what  a  boring  wad  of  words.     overplayed  hock  of  shit.     isn’t  that  right?     she   would  not  be  so  weak.     the  hunger  wouldn’t  pre-exist  her,   after  all.     let’s  start  again.

INT.   THE  SUPINE  OVERLOOK  ATOP  AN  IVORY  TOWER,  ONE  TIRED  STRETCH  AWAY  FROM  HOLDING  A  STAR.   THE  GREYSCALE  OF  STORIES  TOLD  COAGULATES  INTO  BERRY-JUICED  GLOOM.   ALL  BLUE  FATHER-LIGHT  /  ALL  DUSKY  MOTHER-BLED.   A  FOX  SAUNTERS  INTO  THE  HAWK’S  NEST.

far  from  home’s  wet-soil,   the  fox  stands  upon  the  funnels  that  line  the  sky.     disgusting  thing,   it  will  hear,   where  are  you  going?     to  stand  astride  a  red  winner.     to  watch  when  the  mud  chokes  the  hawk’s  rival  like  forest  roots  that  feed  on  bird-bones.     its  feathers  woven  to  wool.     and  then,   you  think,   you  will  define  enough.     (   finish  what  i  started,   little  lamb.   )     an  ashy  thought,   for  a  brother-ful  man.     you  return  to  it,   for  you  don’t  think  to  kill  it.     her  silhouette   –   loud  and  deadly,   like  an  adder’s  tongue  to  the  rabbit-hearted   –   ebbs  and  flows  with  the  evening’s  waking  shadows.     he  eyes  the  blackened  television  screen.     a  clicked  tongue.     his  discarded  suit  jacket,   onto  the  cold  window  seat.     ‘   don’t  tell  me  i   missed   the  blue  moon  show.     my  micro-nap,   for  you,   would’ve  been  for  nothing   ( … )   the  old  tube  suits  you.     a  real  bona-fide  canned  smile   ––   y’learn  that  in  front  of  a  mirror?     i  get  it.     i  like  to  look  too.   ’     vapid  syllables:   lost  to  his  broad  grin.     they  dissolve  in  his  pool  of  empty  nothings.     even  in  the  wake  of  truth.     how  alive  an  actor  becomes  when  it  has  an  audience.     your  own  voyeur   /   beyond  a  god’s  watchful  eye.     he  settles  into  a  chair  opposite  hers.     each  brow  hair  tracked  by  his  thumb-nail.     ‘   really  put  a  nail  in  that  coffin,   mill-i-cent.     your  mother   would  be  proud.     y’hear  it  too,   yeah?     her  pouring  that  spitty  drink  i’d  get.     lucky  me,   i’m  with  a  new  shining  star.     y’think  you  earned  the  congratulations  yet?   ’

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.

Millicent's office at ICHIBANGASE //. EISHER CORP ;  ━━━━  Shibuya, Tokyo, Japan. for @cainhood //. 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.

❝ 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑! 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑! is it true that there has been a burgeoning question of leadership in the company amongst you & your older sister since your mother had officially stepped down a year ago? ❞

THE THING ABOUT MILLICENT EISHER, whose silhouette has shadowed the television screen with a practiced vulnerability, whose RUTHLESSNESS will one day strike it with stunning tyranny, is that she is always living a truth.

Even now, withdrawing a cigarette from its pure gold art deco case & setting it against the cupid's bow of her lip as she reviews her earlier press conference from the perch of her desk, she watches as she leans in to a statement that should've stabbed an icepick of fear into her heart for someone KNOWING, with a sincere hike to her brow. ❝  i don't know about that. here at ichibangase / eisher, we focus on always operating in a polished and professional manner. the support between all of us is very prevalent. ❞ Her televised self says. There's none of Malvina's canary-catching coyness in the way she replies.

There's no game to be in on.

You're well-practiced — have  your  own rules  to  fit  into  the  system  of  safety ;  you  know  how  to  wear  the  right  thing,  to  never falter in your reactions,   you  can  curtsy    &    smile    &    play  up  to  the  game with the best of them.

❝   perhaps you should learn  to  pay  attention to the right things instead,   watanabe-san.   ❞    Millicent  snares  at the reporter  in  the  center  lens  of  her  stare.    Her  gaze  is  a  STEEL  PIERCE  set  behind  the  careful  art  of  mascara’d  lashes  lined  to  perfection.   A  poised,   painted  lip  curls  around  her  next  comment  as  it  leaves  under  a  rehearsed  emphasis.    ❝   what  we’re  doing  here  is  very  important.   ❞  

In  a  showman’s  flourish,   she  flicks  both  hands  out  to  the  cameras.      ❝   we  are  one of the largest tech corporations worldwide    &    who  better  to  represent  the  future  than  us,  no?   ❞    the  plasticine  smile  straining  at  her  lips  says  there’s  no  room  for  disagreement.    When  Millicent  speaks  again,  her  voice  dips  its  register  like  she’s  speaking  directly  to  the people watching.     ❝    i  can’t  see  any  reason  why  you  wouldn’t  want  to  be  a  part  of  that.   ❞

Millicent turns it off, sighs & swerves in her chair, overlooking Tokyo's skyline. This  hour  of  the  night  is  dipped  in  neon  shades  of  blues, pinks, and greens    &    so  her  rich  hum  runs  indigo  with  its  assent.  It’s  a  typical  spring  evening  replete  with  a  thick  fog  rising  up  from  the  ground  hanging  under  the  moon’s  dutiful  watch.   She thinks: a  cut  between  the  shoulder  blades  is  a  lesson  to  be  learned  to  always  watch  one’s  back,  to  never  feel  a  depth  of  TRUST  to  the  point  where  vulnerability  is  on  display  to  receive  the  deep  sheath  of  a  sword  between  its  slats.

She  has  the  ENTIRE  WORLD  at  her  fingertips    &    endless  hours  to  peruse  it.    Her  mind  is  more  than  a  lockbox  of  all  the  information  pored  over,   more  than  all  the  moves    &    twists    &    insults  thrown  that  she  used  to  ingest  only  to  learn  how  to  mock  her  own  body  into  the  fray.    Millicent's  flippant  fingertips  bat  at  the  air  in  a  simple  gesture  that  begs  the  question:    could she have done better?

It's not an inquiry she is given the chance to further deliberate when she makes note of footsteps echoing against the marble floors of her office. Foolishly thinking she had been the only one around, she'd left her door open.

❝   jack. ❞    She turns to face him, a  lacquered  nail taps the cigarette at the end of the ashtray.   An elegant,   one-two  rap. With her left hand, she reaches for the drink she'd made herself some time ago. ❝   shouldn't you be at home getting your beauty sleep? ❞