#130k

[insertdisc5]

You’ve said before localisation into French would be expensive and it got me thinking - what would the hardest part of translating isat actually be?

First thought is the puns, since they’re very language dependent and probably wouldn’t translate literally as easily

the hardest part is that it's 150k+ words

[egberts]

I do not understand why people put their following numbers on other websites in their description. they've got like significantly less fans on one site than another so they throw in their bio "300k on tiktok" like... oookay? and?

[lexosaurus]

"Lexx why did you name your fic Everything Was White because it shortens to EWW like ewwwww—"

LISTNE. listen.

The fic was SUPPOSED to be a twoshot, alright? i didnt THINK about the nAME because it was just supposed to be a twoshot

[therealsophiependragon]

was nobody going to tell me that Azula is apparently 152 cm?

[antiyourwokehomophobia2]

I got to be so real I kind of have mixed feelings about this post, and I'm not as mad rereading it as I was the first time I read it.

On one hand, I kind of agree that doing fucked up things to a fictional character doesn't necessarily mean that you're bad.

If I write a story in which a child is put to death, I'm not suddenly in favor of children dying. The person who wrote "the lottery" isn't in favor of people being stoned to death just because they wrote about it. I write stories all the time where characters are subject to homophobia or racism or general bigotry and I'm obviously not in favor of those things. However, there's a reason some stories that deal with the same subject matter are better received than others. There's a reason that even though "Avatar: the last Airbender" was written by two white men it's not called racist like some other works by white creators that handle POC.

I feel like the idea that how you approach fiction and fictional characters says absolutely nothing about you is insane.

If you watch a piece of media and then you go to write fanfiction about the media and you give all the white characters a good, happy ending but give all of the black characters sad ones where they're beaten to death, I absolutely think that says something about you! If you read/watch media with a fictional child and immediately want to write a story in which that child is raped by one of their parents, I absolutely think that says something about you and your character! The characters might be fictional, but you are not. Your choices do not exist in a vacuum. Why do you want to produce and see media where people of color end up unhappy and/or dead? Why do you want to write a lot of non-con? why do you want to see two siblings fuck?

Even though you didn't do anything to anybody in real life, I have to side eye why you're obsessed with seeing and writing that type of content. If you're writing a rape scene just because you like it (you don't comment on it or anything. In fact, it hardly ever comes up again) then yea, I do think you're probably a bit fucked up.

A white woman who writes all of her black male characters as "big" and "manly" and "dangerous" and "dominant" is absolutely revealing something about herself through her fiction! Maybe the fake black guy isn't being objectified since he's not real, but you can't seriously tell me that the white woman who wrote him has not revealed anything about how she views black men lmao. You can't tell me you'd seriously believe her when she says she's not racist.

I mean this site in particular talks all the time about the way certain groups are portrayed by certain authors. This site will be the first to cancel authors who write marginalized people in an unsavory light. If you think the fiction you consume doesn't matter, then you can never say anything about representation mattering ever again. A black child who only ever sees white characters cannot be influenced by that because fiction doesn't matter, right? You can't cancel an author for being racist. So what if all of their characters of color are portrayed as violent and evil? If what you write doesn't say anything about you, then that author is not racist at all!

I mean, seriously. How many authors have been canceled because they wrote black characters in a way that left the viewers with a bad taste in their mouths? How you choose to treat fictional characters absolutely says something about you!

I understand that fiction is how a lot of people deal with stuff. If something bad happened to you when you were a kid, you might want to see your favorite character go through that and overcome it, but the thing is: I feel like there's a line. I feel like too many of you use past trauma to justify what has honestly just become a paraphilia. Some of you don't read media about SA because you were SA'd and are trying to deal with it; you read it because you have a 'kink' for it. Too many of you hide under "healing" when you genuinely just get off on seeing fucked up things happen to characters. It's no secret that people who have experienced trauma sometimes go on to become abusive and perverse themselves.

The things that you enjoy and dedicate time to absolutely say something about you! Whether you think it says something good or bad doesn't matter, but the idea that it just exists in a vacuum and says absolutely nothing about your character and who you are as a person is quite frankly insane!

Even if you're writing it because you're trying to deal with trauma that happened to you or you're trying to create a safe space for people who have been through fucked up stuff, that says something about your character and who you are as a person. The stories you dedicate your time to reading and writing absolutely reveal who you are. We talk endlessly about the misogyny of male writers in the past and present. If posts like the one linked were true, then it wouldn't matter if a man spent all day writing stories where every single female character of his is treated like shit and assaulted. Media would be entirely unable to be criticized because the fictional characters aren't real and thus how you treat them says nothing. If a man with three daughters wrote a story where a fictional father SA'd all three of his children, that wouldn't be cause for concern at all? It'd say absolutely nothing about him? You wouldn't side eye him? You wouldn't be concerned if a primary school teacher spent all day writing stories where children are molested? You would send your child to a school with a teacher like that and be completely and utterly okay because "the fiction you write and consume says nothing"?

Of course there is nuance, but I don't like the way this post seems to absolve anyone into fucked up fictional stuff of guilt. No, reading and writing fucked up stuff does not *automatically* make you bad, but if you're doing it uncritically and because you get off on it, I'm not gonna pretend that's irrelevant to who you are as a person.

[amiti-art]

ToA Headcanon

At same point during Apollo's trials (or after them) Hera and Leto reconciled.

I think that best moment for that is after Jason's death.

After Hera saw how her husband did nothing to save his own son, her own chosen one. After she saw how little he cared for his life. How when she cried and grived, he sat at his throne unmoved and unbotherd, annoyed by her tears.

How he did nothing when Apollo, his godly son, his fellow Olympian, tried to kill himself so his friends, demigods, could live.

That was Hera's breaking point. When she finally admitted to herself that her anger was always misplaced. It was not her husband's bastard children she should hate but Zeus himself. She always knew that, deep down in her cold, broken heart. But it was easier to go after weak mortal women, nymphs or minor godesses. It was easier to go after defenseless innocent children who didn't asked to be born.

She was always doing that because she could not go against her husband, her king.

The same way Apollo went after cyclops when it was Zeus who killed Asclepius, Apollo's beloved child, because it was easier, safer.

So Hera, heartbroken after Jason's death, haunted by image of Apollo lying on the floor, bleading to death with an arrow in his chest, went to see Leto.

Because Leto would understand her pain as she was also suffering. Because Leto needed comfort as much as Hera did. Because they were friends once, before the Twins were born. Because Hera after over 4000 years finally understood that she had to apologize.

And maybe Leto wasn't ready to forgive her yet, but when she saw queen's pained face she knew that no one could understand her better right now, so she let her stay by her side for moment. One mother greaving the child that was wasn't even hers and one mother who could lost hers at any moment now, both longing for comfort when the father of both sons sat unbotherd on his throne while his childern were suffering and dying.

Maybe I'm giving Hera to much credit here but those 2 scenes she had in ToN are so heartbreaking to me. Come on, how many gods openly cries and mourns for their children? And Jason wasn't even hers. Nor is Apollo, but she was the one to tell everyone to shut tf up when they started to discuss who could become an Olympian in his place after he dies.

[zmwrites]

friends: what are your favourite ways to shorten a manuscript? crutch words to demolish, sentence structures to remove, scenes to cut…. all suggestions are welcome!

[anarchelsworld]

i now have every type of cat in stardew

my life is complete

[aevallare]

You know neil didn't actually read your writing, right?

you know i made your mom cum so hard that she saw stars this morning, right?

[penny00dreadful]

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.l // The Fire and The Body

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next [A/N] From this chapter forward, what I've posted is no longer canon, since I'm changing the ending back to the one I originally intended for the story. As soon as I have something to replace them with, I'll delete them from AO3 and Wattpad, but you'll still be able to find them as bonus content in the masterlist in my pinned post.

Conrad is struggling to scoop down small mouthfuls of oats, ignoring the gap in his molars and his captor’s silent company to the best of his ability, when, without warning, the already strange atmosphere of the morning turns hectic.

He has no idea what triggers it. One moment, they’re both mulling over their own – Conrad over breakfast, Davin over his phone, absentmindedly sipping coffee. The next, Davin sets the mug down and leans forward. The stillness in his posture makes Conrad look up, but his expression is hidden by his hair. His thumb keeps scrolling, skimming through writing. The news probably, it’s always the news.

Conrad uncertainly lowers his spoon to the bowl. “Wh—”

“There’s no fucking way,” Davin mutters. He looks up with an expression Conrad has never seen in him before, knit brows over half-squinted eyes, lips parted. His gaze drifts from Conrad to the table, then back to the screen. “It’s been one hour. How the fuck is it possible t—”

He stops.

“The house,” he says low.

Something in it has made Conrad lean back widen the distance between them, but before he can begin to ask, Davin pushes up from the table, rushing through the kitchen. He disappears down the hallway, the sound of his steps travelling, and Conrad hears a door swinging open with enough force to thud against the wall.

The uncharacteristic urgency makes him lightheaded. Instinct tells him there’s danger here, that he should do something, but he’s nowhere near steady enough on his feet; Davin had to lend a shoulder just to get him to the kitchen.

Hugging himself with his good arm, Conrad grits his teeth, listening intently to for the sound of footsteps eventually scaling the stairs, then the creak of floorboards, or occasionally, the sound of something dragging. Then it’s back to the stairs, heavier thuds on the descent.

When Davin emerges from the hallway, he’s carrying a large duffel bag over his shoulder, one identical to those he carried the first night. He doesn’t say a word, just drops it in the middle of the floor and leaves again.

Conrad stares open-mouthed at the bag.

He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Davin is clearly packing up; all he knows, really, is that as long as he’s this clueless about what’s going on, he won’t feel a hint of reprieve. Why would they leave the house, if this wasn’t the end, somehow? The knot formed in his chest overnight tightens with growing anxiety, until breathing feels difficult and strange.

Davin returns, setting down a second duffel bag as well as a rucksack. Jaw set, he unwinds an elastic from his sleeve, bunching up his hair on the back of his head.

Conrad nervously clears his throat. “Did, did something happen?”

One last twist of the elastic, lips pursed in an otherwise neutral expression, before Davin turns his attention to him, setting off in a rapid beeline as he digs for something in his pocket.

The sudden, determined approach makes Conrad instinctively stumble to his feet, whining at a half-step on his bad leg. His fear doesn’t make Davin slow down. The moment he’s within reach, he grips Conrad’s wrist, yanking his hand forward.

“Dav—”

Interrupted by a wheeze when cold metal locks around deep abrasions, Conrad accidentally struggles to pull away, which only aggravates the feeling. Once his hands are cuffed, Davin pulls him forward, but his legs give out again. He cries out, but still hears the low grunt of frustration as Davin scoots him off his feet, dodging an elbow to the face when bound hands flail at the loss of balance.

An arm under his knees, the other on his back, steady enough, but Conrad still clutches at the man’s clothes as they head for the entrance. His head is spinning. “Wh-what, what are you—why are you—”

Davin opens the front door with an elbow. The rush of freezing air hits Conrad like a wall, instantly raising the hairs on his naked arms and biting through the thin sweatpants, bare feet curling in some attempt to shield from it. There’s a car parked in front of the driveway that he hasn’t seen before, a shiny grey Mercedes with half-melted snow dripping from the roof.

“Where are we going? Davin, where are we g-…?”

Davin doesn’t answer.

Maneuvering him into the back seat takes a while, not helped by the fact that the rush of freezing air quickly makes Conrad shake. Following the gut feeling that he’s better off complying, he does his best to move along, but the effort to shiver makes his whole body ache. When Davin lifts his hands to zip-tie the handcuffs to the grab handle above the door, the pain in his newly set shoulder makes him jerk back involuntarily. It looks like resisting, and Renee might’ve made him hurt worse for it, but Davin simply tightens his hold.

Three ties secure the short chain between his wrists. Conrad flinches as Davin pushes the door shut, thoughts hazy, but he’s grateful to at least be out of the biting wind.

Davin briefly circles the car to retrieve something from the trunk. As he walks back toward the house, he’s carrying a large petrol cannister in each hand. Pushing the door open, he disappears into the house.

It doesn’t take him more than a minute minutes to reappear. By then, Conrad is fully shaking from the cold, legs curled up into the seat, one bare foot covering the other to save the remaining warmth. In the brief glimpse allowed before the door swings shut, he thinks he spots a flickering yellow light in the kitchen. A moment later, a flame licks up a wall in one of the downstairs rooms – Davin’s room, to be specific. It’s quickly followed by others, puffing out plumes of black smoke as they curl up a dresser, charring white paint by proximity alone. It’s hard to see through the reflections in the window, but he’s pretty sure the room is clouding up already.

Davin is silent as he ducks into the car. Fishing out his laptop from the rucksack, he flips it open on the passenger seat. From where Conrad sits, it’s hidden by the backrest, but he can see Davin’s eyes flicker intently back and forth, searching. Eventually he straightens up, and his gaze shifts from the continual flicker to slower, arching movements, as if he’s watching a fly walk across the screen. Pursing his lips, he settles back, turning the key in the ignition.

Conrad’s wide eyes fix on the house as the car sets off from the sidewalk. In the closest corner of the tile roof, another small, glowing tongue quickly darts out from under the gutter, disappearing, reappearing, joined by others. The fire has already spread to the rafters.

Not long after the drive has begun, Davin makes the first of many, many unanswered calls.

💵

It’s darker down here, but a bit of brass catches the fluorescent lights when Davin half-releases the clip into his palm. Satisfied, he pushes it back in, cocking the slide, and then sits back with a drawn-out sigh, resting his elbow on the center console. “You keeping warm back there?”

It’s the first thing he’s said to him directly since this all started, and now that Conrad’s been able to glean a sliver of context, it feels like whiplash. Not long after they arrived in the city, Davin found a roofed garage without CCTV, and Renee called back. As with the first call, Conrad only heard half of the conversation, but there was an austerity in Davin’s voice that made even him snap to attention. You need to focus. Calm down. Listen to me. A short list of directions, and further off-handed mentions of what sounds like an army of cars, canines, helicopters…

Whatever’s happening right now could well involve a hundred people, and indirectly impact a thousand others. Gleaning the scale of it all makes Conrad dizzy, not because he didn’t know his case had garnered attention, but because it feels as though it zeroes in now, it rears its head – all because of him.

“I should’ve brought your jacket,” Davin mutters absentmindedly. “Slipped my mind. I’m sorry about that.”

Cars line the rows of booths on either side of the entrance, but people only walk around in the distance, closer to whatever stairs or escalators bring them to the ground floor of the mall. Some push carts, some are groups or couples milling about their daily lives side by side, colorful clothes almost dot-sized. If Conrad screamed, if he clacked the cuffs against the tinted window, none of them would hear him.

Huddled in the corner between the seat and the door, he tugs at the cuffs a little to ease the discomfort in his shoulders. He’s not warm, but at least he’s not shaking anymore. “How did, how did they find him?”

Davin sniffs. “Pertinent question, isn’t it?”

Conrad’s breathing has gotten somewhat rougher during the trip, and it feels familiar in a way that makes him nervous. He licks cracked lips, trying not to wince with the battered side of his face. Whenever his eyes shift to the gun, it’s hard to pry them away again. “They’ll find your DNA in the house,” he says carefully.

It prompts a chuckle.

“Or in his car, or...”

“Mhm.” Davin turns his attention back to the laptop.

“Maybe they already know about you. Right? If they knew about him, then…”

“He’s close now,” Davin mutters.

“So are they.”

“I appreciate the concern, but these guys are decent enough to keep their distance in populated areas.” Davin waves the gun vaguely in the direction of the passenger seat. “You can’t even see them in the live feed.” 

Conrad clears something from his throat. “What’s the gun for, then?”

Davin casts him a glance in the rearview mirror. “Self-defense. Renee’s on a bit of a spree, it seems.”

“What, what – what does that mean?”

They both turn their heads at the distant sound of sirens, whispering eerily through the air. Not long after, a low thunk echoes down the corridor of parked cars. From a down ramp, headlights creep around the corner of a wall, a small, blue car Conrad’s never seen before. Its tires whine on smooth concrete, front bumper grazing in a rather inelegant transfer to the level floor.

Davin turns on the ignition.

Conrad is scared to move. His voice is small. “Did… Davin, did Renee kill someone?”

The car stops five, six yards from the Mercedes. Overhead lights reflect in the windshield, blocking the view of the driver, but the door pops open soon after, only to swing half-shut again.

Davin lets out a breath. He picks up a cap from the passenger seat, flipping up his collar as he steps out. Passing the rear window, he’s tucking the gun into the back of his waistband, appearing in the rear windshield with his arms casually at his sides, although his pace is quicker than usual. With the driver’s side door still ajar, the cry of the sirens is exponentially clearer, steadily growing in volume, second by second.

Conrad grits his teeth, watching Davin pull the blue door open and lean down, only to rise a few moments later with an arm draped over his shoulders.

Despite Renee’s height, his silhouette appears eye level with Davin’s: folded forward, head bowed, legs bent at the knee. He’s limping, generally seems off-kilter, as if he’d drift to either side or outright collapse if Davin wasn’t propping him up. When the door opposite to Conrad is opened, Renee practically falls inside. A smell hits, the sickly sweet, almost oily singe of copper.

Davin wastes no time getting him settled. Slamming the door shut, he ducks back in the driver’s seat and immediately sets off, weaving through rows of cars towards the far side of the lot. As they near it, Conrad begins to hear a continuous, low whir.

Renee’s hand leaves behind a glossy print on the seat’s leather, arms visibly shaking as he pushes himself up. “Hi, Connie,” he says, a tone that might’ve been casual if he didn’t sound completely winded. He dumps back against his own door with a pained expression, shoe dragging a muddy track on the middle seat as he draws one knee up.

It’s not until the Mercedes nears one of the exits and indirect sunlight refracts through the cabin that Conrad realizes.

Half of Renee’s sweatshirt, collar to waist, is covered in blood. It’s on his neck, on rolled-up sleeves, on his forearms and hands, and it runs down past his crotch, seeping into the denim on his thighs. A large patch of the fabric on his stomach is so saturated, the light reflects in the same way it would a puddle.

Conrad’s mouth opens.

Renee curls one hand around the other, gaze drifting out of focus. His skin is so pale, even his lips have lost color. “Ah… god...”

“Stay awake,” Davin calls back.

Letting out a vague laugh, Renee leans the side of his his head on the seat. “Yeah...”

Another short ramp feeds from the garage to a main street, forming a small queue of three cars, Mercedes included, steadily leaving the garage. Once they clear the roof, the sudden burst of daylight makes him miss, hands curling over the restraints. The whir is louder, beating the air like a fast drum. Overhead, a news helicopter circles the block, red logo stark against the sky.

Breath hitching in his throat, Conrad strains against metal to press his palm flat against the tinted glass.

Davin follows the row of cars slowly snaking around the perimeter of the mall, joining others as they shift toward the sidewalk at the sound of approaching sirens. He looks down, cap hiding his face as a police cruiser rushes down the oncoming lane, close enough to sound deafening as it passes by the Mercedes – for a split second, the mirrors are mere feet from each other.

Keeping his head on a swivel makes him dizzy, but Conrad can’t stop himself from staring out the back window, where the cruiser swings across the road to block the ramp they just came from. He lets out a small sound, heart hammering in his chest.

“When did they shoot you?” Davin says over his shoulder. He turns at a green light, following the flow of traffic away from the mall. “Hm? Renee.”

There’s no answer. Despite the rapid rise and fall of Renee’s chest, his eyes are closed, body swaying loosely with the movement of the car. Clusters of small scratches on his cheek and chin makes it look like he stuck his face in a pile of broken glass.

Davin curses.

The sound of sirens wanes before that of the helicopters, but even those are nearly inaudible by the time Davin blinks down a smaller street, then turns into an alleyway. Putting the car in park, he twists out of his seat, back pressed to the ceiling as he climbs across the center console.

Renee stirs when Davin maneuvers himself over him in the tight space, one knee on the seat while his other leg keeps balance on the floor. His gaze flickers, but doesn’t settle. He doesn’t react when Davin flicks a knife open, just murmurs. “F-… finger hurts.”

Davin snorts. “I think you have bigger issues.”

He lifts Renee’s collar and splits the fabric from top to bottom, peeling it off his torso. Two fingers gently pry at the edges of a seeping wound, almost like a star-shape on Renee’s stomach. The sweatshirt left behind a general haze of red, but already, darker streaks trace down his side.

“Does it go through?”

Renee slowly nods, not meeting his eyes.

“And this is the exit, mh?”

It takes a moment for him to think through the answer, and even then, it doesn’t sound entirely certain. “N-no, no, it’s…”

At the sound of sirens, Davin stops what he’s doing and stares intently at the street, but as the whining reaches its zenith, no cars drive past the alley before it once again disappears. They must’ve been on the main road. Letting out a tense sigh, he turns back to Renee, reaching around his side, seemingly to feel around. “Goddamn high caliber,” he says under his breath. He swiftly runs the knife down the sweatshirt from the other shoulder, cutting loose a square that makes up almost the whole front, which in turn is cut in half. “Did they sic a fucking sniper on you?”

Renee’s been expressionless, eyes following the movements of Davin’s hands. He squints at the question, brows furrowing slightly. “Tree,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“T-… tree. Or, uh… it went th-… through… uh…”

More comes out of his mouth after that, but it’s too slurred to make out, and his eyelids are drooping.

Before his chin can drop to his chest, Davin catches it. He sharply cracks an open hand against his cheek. “Stay conscious,” he says tersely. “Tree, hm? You got impaled on something?”

Renee blinks a few times. His eyes remain unfocused, but his breathing picks back up. “Y-you hit me.”

Davin hums an affirmation. He roughly balls up half of the blood-stained fabric and places the bundle over the wound in Renee’s abdomen, then guides his hand on top of it. “Hold this,” he says. “You don’t have to put pressure, just hold it.”

While Renee blinks down at himself, seemingly confused at the task, Davin undoes the clasp of his own belt, pulling it off in an arch.

Renee snickers lazily. “Ha, yeah…” A syllable or two per breath; he doesn’t seem to be capable of more. “You’re not… not my…”

Looping the belt behind Renee’s back, Davin bunches up the second half of fabric, feeling around for where to place it, before he props it in place by putting tension on the belt. He peels away Renee’s hand from the front, lining up the black strap with the cut fabric, the wound. “Alright, I need you to exhale as much as you can.”

Renee blinks vaguely at him.

“You understand?” Davin places a hand flat on his sternum, pressing down. “Breathe out.”

Hesitantly, Renee shuts his eyes and blows, cheeks puffing slightly as he does.

“Keep going,” Davin says, “keep going…”

 Two or three seconds later, he tightens the belt with a single, hard tug to the side.

Renee’s whole body jerks, one foot kicking Conrad in the process. His head snaps back and hits the window, veins in his neck standing out as he grasps Davin’s arms, airways frozen on nothing.

Davin closes the clasp with ease despite the hands clawing to push him away. “You’re good,” he says. “Deep breath.”

Renee finally does choke down a gasp, curling over his stomach, face contorted. He lets out a growl, deep in his throat, but weak. “I’ll f-fucken…”

“You’ll what?”

A gasp later, the sneer is already sliding into that distant look, heaving losing volume.

“Nope. Stay awake.” Davin grabs him by the chin again, pressing his head up and back against the window. Renee fumbles for his arm – Davin grips one wrist in return. “Get mad, Renee. You’ll what?”

Glazed, half-lidded eyes failing to properly focus on the other, sweat dripping down his face. He struggles to swallow. “Hah, you could’ve… You could…”

“I could,” Davin concedes. “But you made it personal, and I’m finding it hard to forget an attempted stabbing. Maybe I’d like you to feel it.” He leans in slightly, and his voice lowers. “You don’t get to touch me.”

Perhaps it’s the proximity, but Renee’s gaze widens and gains focus then, although the grip coiled in his sleeve still looks feeble.

Davin lets him go with all but two fingers still pressed into his wrist, and the thumb pushing contra. He lingers there for a moment, then nods. “Better.”

There’s a flicker of hatred on Renee’s face when Davin crawls back in the driver’s seat, one he manages to maintain for the first ten seconds back on the road, until a pothole makes him flinch, curling up.

A minute after that, maybe two, is all it takes before his body begins to relax again. His arms slack across his abdomen, eyes flickering with an attempt at movement before they roll back, and his head lolls to the side.

Some of the blood on his hands looks to have dried, a reddish brown splitting into separate continents. It’s only noticeable now that he’s unconscious and his fingers aren’t trembling.

“H-he passed out.” Conrad is already far away when he says it.

Davin shakes his head. “Kick him. We’re not far.”

As if it came in two distinct layers – one that managed to mostly coagulate before the other seeped through the resulting cracks, sticking peeling flakes to his skin. If Conrad throws up, he has a feeling that his heart might sneak its way up his throat and fall out of his mouth. Conrad can’t speak. He’s hollow.

“Kick him, Conrad.”

It should’ve ended with a death, one single death. A chance for his family to heal with the knowledge that at the very least, nobody else has to grieve in the same way. Why does everything have to get so dark?

It might not be good, morally or otherwise, but when his mind begins to blur, he leans into it. Conrad doesn’t kick. The body doesn’t kick.

The muscles of its arms relax, weighing heavy in the cuffs, but the pain in its hands is temporary, fades over time as circulation is diminished. As its breathing slowly evens, it closes its mouth. The driver speaks to it, and the sound melts into the noise of traffic. Light and shadow flickering over a vision filled with red, slowly dulled, desaturated, vanishing.

Nothing can be lost that wasn’t gained in the first place. The only thing that’s changed is… it’s…

The passage of time, maybe.

The body doesn’t feel a thing at the sight of Jackson Auto, but then again, that memory barely had any time to form. The garage door is open, letting the car turn into the floor of a shop with rows of blue shelves and stacks of tires, and an engine hanging from thick chains in the ceiling. There’s a grave in here, right in the middle of the concrete floor. About the size of a casket. Maybe it’s six feet deep, too.

The driver shouts something as he gets out. The garage front slides down, blocking out the sun as two other people rush out. Hastened speech, and the car vibrates with closing or opening doors.

The troubled breathing wasn’t just from fear. It’s still there once the body’s pulse settles, as if there’s bubbles in its chest with each inhale, a rattle in its throat.

Wherever they carry the dying murderer, the body doesn’t see.

It sits still, mindlessly staring at the grave.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[coldasyou]

romeo + juliet bringing mostly niche broadway discourse about bootlegs and audience etiquette to normal people on twitter dot com to argue about it's so over...