#Allan Dulles

[immaculatasknight]

Evolution of economic warriors

[montysbookblr]

we gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams

-"The Mystery of Marie Roget", Edgar Allan Poe

[norththestrange]

"During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens" -Edgar Allan Poe, "The Fall of the House of Usher"

(Not my art nor do I know if it's "AI" I just don't give a fuck thanks have a great fucking day!)

[forthegothicheroine]

The sinful implication of such ["yellow"] books had come from France, where, from the mid-nineteenth century, sensationalist literature had been not-so-chastely pressed between vivid yellow covers. Publishers adopted this as a useful marketing tool, and soon yellow-backed books could be bought cheaply at every railway station. As early as 1846 the American author Edgar Allan Poe was scornfully writing of the "eternal insignificance of yellow-backed pamphleteering. For others, the sunny covers were symbols of modernity and the aesthetic and decadent movements. Yellow books show up in two of Vincent Van Gogh's paintings from the 1880s... Traditionalists were less impressed. These yellow books gave off a strong whiff of transgression, and the avant-garde did little to calm their fears (for them the transgression was half the point.) In Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, published in 1890, it is down the moral rabbit hole of such a novel that the eponymous antihero disappears, never to return. Just as the narrator reaches his defining ethical crossroads, a friend gives him a yellow-bound book, which opens his eyes to "the sins of the world", corrupting and ultimately destroying him. Capitalizing on the association, the scandalous, avant-garde periodical The Yellow Book was launched in 1894. Holbrook Jackson, a contemporary journalist, wrote that it "was newness in excelsis; novelty naked and unashamed...yellow became the color of the hour."...The magazine's art director and illustrator, Aubrey Beardsley, had barred Wilde after an argument- he responded by calling the periodical "dull" and "not yellow at all."

Kassia St. Clair, The Secret Lives of Color

[juyeonszn]

AND THEN THERE IS YOU

PAIRING ju haknyeon x f!reader (gn technically since there are no gendered terms)

WORD COUNT 1.17k

GENRES fluff ﹒very slight angst like blink and u miss it

WARNINGS another fic of mine that doesn’t require an 18+ warning… fawn in her tamed era 🙏, ur heart will ache from how </3 this is, mentions of divorce, reader had kind of a shitty childhood, reader also has some intimacy issues, hak is the most patient and kind person ever, throws up everywhere bc me when </3

SUMMARY he was content loving you until you were ready to love him.

MORE ANDDDDD my insanity strikes again!!!!1!1!1! aka in my dr. seuss william shakespeare edgar allan poe steven king arc 😍 my inspiration has been crazy lately, so enjoy this before juyeonszn goes into a drought deeper into the semester 😭 ANYWAYS MAE (@maessseongs) HERE U GO!! i kept it fluffier and kinda short bc it just felt right, i hope that’s okay with u! this is the last request from my 100 followers event so far ✨ prompts used are: 2, 7 >:)

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs

Relationships were a weird concept to you. Growing up, you’d never really been shown affection. Your parents weren’t the type to pack your lunch for school in the morning and send you off with a peck on the cheek followed by an ‘I Love You’.

In fact, they never told you that they loved you very often. Maybe a handful of times in your whole life did you hear those three words uttered from them. And even less did you hear that they were proud of you. It was worse when you took a step back and watched their own crumbling marriage.

As long as they’d been together, you never heard them tell the other how much they were appreciated. They fought more than they got along. You usually fell asleep to the sound of doors slamming and loud arguing in the hallway. When they finally decided to get a divorce, you almost cried out of joy. They were draining more out of you than each other.

So, perhaps that had to do with your fucked up view of relationships as you became an adult. You could never fully comprehend what love was since you didn’t exactly have stellar role models. Boyfriends came and went, losing interest as soon as they realized how disconnected you were. Your heart was never truly in it.

And then, you met Haknyeon.

Sweet sweet Haknyeon, who only cared about your happiness and your well being. Haknyeon, who didn’t ask you for more than you could give. Who didn’t push you for answers when you shut him out. Who patiently waited on the sidelines while you rebooted yourself.

If there were a higher being out in the universe, they’d done an excellent job at putting all the best qualities into Ju Haknyeon. By some miracle or a stroke of luck, he found his way to you. You’ll always think that he deserves better than you, but you’ll also always be eternally grateful that you have him.

As summer takes its last breath and the air begins to chill, leaves wilting to the streets and crunching below the feet of passersby, your motivation to get up in the mornings has started its tumultuous decline. You don’t know what it is about the change in seasons that continues to put a damper in your mood as the years go on, but it’s become almost too much to bear. It was no longer a dull pressure in the pit of your stomach and the back of your mind. Now it was a heaviness that settled in your heart and weighed you down.

It was a Thursday evening and you were tucked into bed already, despite a peek of the sun still visible over the horizon. Your head was pounding despite the room being silent. You curl into yourself further just as your bedroom door creaks open. Haknyeon whispers an apology, going to exit the room when he sees the state you’re in.

It was standard for him to leave you alone until you were ready to talk. He knew you had a hard time opening up, considering what you’d grown up with, and he didn’t want to be the person who pestered you to tell him what was wrong. He wanted you to feel comfortable coming to him first. Haknyeon couldn’t handle being the reason you were pushed to your breaking point.

But for some reason, this time is different. You don’t want to be left alone. You want to be held. You want him to kiss your forehead and tell you he loves you, unlike what you had when you were younger.

“Hak, wait,” you call, voice slightly hoarse. “Stay. Please.”

He’s taken aback by your request, but doesn’t hesitate to follow through. He climbs into the bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your center. In spite of the fact that this wasn’t a usual occurrence, that cuddling was something you’ve only done a couple other times, he embraces you as if this was second nature for him. As if holding you in his arms was his very life source.

“Are you sure?” He asks softly, words spoken gently into your hair.

“Mhm, I want this,” you nod, nuzzling into his arm. “I have never felt this safe with anyone before.”

Haknyeon’s breathing stutters. You’ve never admitted this to him before, you’ve never ever said ‘I Love You’, but he’s always been willing to wait. He understood that this was a new territory for you. He was content loving you until you were ready to love him, even if it took months— even if it took years. That’s how much he cared for you. In his eyes, you were the reason there were stars in the sky. You were the reason why the sun rose in the morning and why the moon shone at night.

He kisses your temple. “I’ll be here to protect you.”

You turn in his arms to get a good look at his face. Because it was so rare that you were this close, you wanted to memorize his features from this distance. You trace his cheekbones and jawline with your thumb, eyes flickering down to his lips.

You lean forward, minimizing the gap between you to press your lips into a sweet kiss, almost as sweet as him. Haknyeon gasps out of surprise, but quickly reciprocates your affection, bringing up a hand to cup your face. He allows you to set the pace, to move at a speed you were comfortable with in case this was all you wanted.

When you pull back to catch your breath, he smiles, taking in how pretty you were. He could never get enough of you. He thinks that was his biggest flaw, being so greedy when it came to you. He couldn’t help but indulge himself every time you let him, though if it were a sin, he’d gladly commit it over and over again.

“However many years we have left, I wanna spend them all with you.”

You feel the tears dripping down your cheeks before you register that you’re crying. You couldn’t possibly fathom how Haknyeon came to find love in the form of you; the hollow shell of a person who’s never felt the warmth of another human in their life. You didn’t think you deserved someone like him. The only logical explanation was that you were a saint in a past life, and the higher being you mentioned earlier was rewarding you for it.

But even so, he loved you. Enough that he wasn’t afraid to spend the rest of his life with you waking up on the other side of the bed.

He swipes away some stray tears with the pad of his thumb and kisses your nose. You let out a small laugh, connecting your lips once more. It conveys all you want to say, but you know saying it out loud will make it concrete. It’ll solidify what you’ve been building up the courage to finally tell him.

“I wanna spend them all with you, too.”

© juyeonszn. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[achenetype]

i’m in the business of losing your interest — kevin day // explicit

pairing: kevin day x reader

MDNI; explicit content, oral (m receiving), gender neutral reader, ex-raven!reader, past riko x reader, violence in flashbacks, riko is his own warning, reader has a warped view of consent and autonomy, slight allusions to stockholm (thanks ravens!)

you’re trailing behind kevin day as he pushes open the locker room door after a midnight practice. it’s pitch black outside, and the air seems to hang in place, hot and humid.

you catch the heavy door with your free hand and feel the impact travel from your fingertips to your shoulder. your muscles protest with the strain of the day; tiny ribbons of pain slither up your arm and settle in, making you all too aware of the dull ache that stretches through your whole body.

everyone is being ran ragged in preparation for the match against edgar allan. you know that. but there’s something off about it. the entire team seems on edge, like this match has much higher stakes than the normal collegiate sports amount.

you understand wanting to win, but you’d never trained so hard in your life—practices in the mornings were one thing, but practices at eleven and midnight were something else entirely. you’d barely had time to do anything besides work precision drills with kevin and practice passing and tackles with the rest of the team.

you’d set aside three hours to catch up on your homework yesterday, but you’d slept through them instead, too exhausted after trying to score on andrew for an entire practice to do anything but collapse into bed.

you spare a glance towards your backpack, leaned up against your locker, and sigh. that biology paper will have to wait.

kevin turns to you and tugs off his helmet. his hair is damp and he shakes his head, sending droplets of sweat flying. your own sweat sticks your jersey to your back, soaking through the fabric.

training with kevin was always ruthless, had always left you drenched in sweat and sore for days afterward. but it had never punched the breath out of your lungs like his eyes moving up and down your form did. normal practices, even night practices, had never made the room seem so warm as it felt to you now.

with no one else around, the world narrowed to a singular point; it mimicked the arc of the ball between kevin's racket and yours, a shimmering, invisible string connecting the two of you. tension threaded the space between you like a whip, snaking into every muscle and movement. it was electric and demanded feeding; you pushed and drove yourself until you couldn't give it anything more.

when you look at kevin, flushed and disheveled, with sweat dripping down his neck, you know that he's giving it just as much.

"good work out there," you say hoarsely. your throat feels raw, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

kevin flashes you a quick smile. "we're making progress."

that was another thing about kevin: nothing was ever good enough for him.

“my, uh, my blocking—” you start, and cut yourself off in the same breath. “you said it was sloppy, earlier.”

kevin nods. “you’re getting better,” he says, slowly.

this is so desperate, but you don’t even care.

you let yourself slide from one side of the lockers to the other, brushing your shoulder against kevin’s as you lean against the cold metal. “how?”

this is how it had worked back in the nest—you'd improve, slowly but surely. your learning curve wasn't as sharp as most of the other Ravens, but you could keep up and you were good at taking beatings when they came.

you'd smile up at riko, dizzy from his palm connecting with your cheek, tonguing at the cut on your lip where one of his rings had torn flesh. you'd taste the blood; it sat in your mouth like dirty coins.

you'd suck in a breath and rasp, "tell me again," and riko would stroke his thumb over your jaw before slapping you.

the crack of his hand against your face mixed with his words—your catches were better today. you would grin and spit a piece of a broken tooth at his feet. he would tangle his hands in your hair and yank you forward. with your face inches from his own, you could see every scar and dimple and imperfection. every time something had made a mark on him.

because riko let you see. because even when he hated you, even when you fucked up over and over, forcing him to punish you, he still trusted you.

you weren't sure if the same thing would work with kevin, but you missed the feeling so much that you had to try.

kevin runs a hand through his hair. "you're learning when to duck out of a grapple," he says. "when you got here, you wouldn't give up for anything. even if you knew you were outmatched."

"that's the Raven way," you say, light, joking. kevin raises an eyebrow and looks down at your chest, at the white 13 emblazoned on your orange jersey.

not a Raven anymore, his gaze seems to whisper.

he looks over at you and laughs softly. "you remember when dan paired you and matt together?"

"yep," you say, your face breaking into a smile—a genuine smile—at the memory. "i think i spent hours trying to get through him."

kevin nods. "you did. two hours, in fact."

you're a bit shocked that he remembered the exact time. kevin hadn't given you a second glance back at the nest until he walked in on you in riko's lap. you didn't think you were the kind of person people like him noticed.

"today, you turned out of my way like it was as easy as breathing," kevin continues. "and the ball didn't move an inch."

"did it," you murmur, stretching ever so purposefully so that your jersey rides up around your stomach.

he nods again. "you're improving faster than I thought. bad habits are hard to break." his shoulder brushes yours, gentle but firm with muscle, and he leans against you. "reckon you'll be better here than you ever were as a Raven."

your mind stops and starts for a few moments. it clicks like the sound that a car's turn signal makes: on-off-on-off in quick succession. before you can think better of it, you turn and lace your fingers with his, crashing your mouths together.

kevin pulls away, looking at you with something dark and unnameable. his face is flushed again, muddy red sitting high on his cheekbones. he licks his lips. they're the color of a fresh bruise and you hate yourself for it, hate yourself for what you've just done.

what you've just ruined.

"i'm sorry—" you say, your voice raw.

kevin's fingers are still laced with yours. it was a stupid move, to hold the two of you together like that. it meant that you could pull him around, but he could do the same to you.

you turn, your mind screaming get out get out go go go, but kevin's grip is tight. you can feel the ropes of his scar tissue against your palm, feel the twitch of his fingers as he runs his thumb over your knuckles.

"what are you doing," he murmurs. you can feel your breath coming in gasps, high and choked. "[Y/N]," kevin says again. "[Y/N], look at me."

you do, biting the inside of your cheek as you meet kevin's eyes.

"i should go," you breathe. "i need—i need to go."

your lungs feel the same way they did four months ago, when riko slammed his racket into your chest hard enough to crack your ribs. each breath feels like it could be your last. each drag of air through your throat is barbed wire, cutting you into tiny bloody ribbons.

kevin cups your face in his free hand and connects your mouths again, gentle but hungry. his teeth barely graze your bottom lip as you kiss him; you step backward until you feel the metal of the lockers.

"don't," kevin murmurs. "stay."

you kiss him again. he tastes like the second worst decision you've ever made.

"okay," you whisper. you slip your free hand under kevin's jersey and feel the scars there, ripples of tissue that break the uniformity of his stomach. some of these scars you remember, but some of them are new. you run your thumb over a puckered button of flesh on kevin's hip, feeling the shape of it.

you duck your head lower, mouthing at kevin's neck and his chest. sweat pools in the divots of his collarbones and you lick it up, flattening your tongue against his skin. he groans low in his throat and releases your hand to tangle his fingers in your hair.

“[Y/N],” he says. “is this—do you want this? really?”

you pause and laugh. “shouldn’t i be asking you that? i’m the one tryin’ to fuck you, aren’t i?”

he looks at you with something dark in his eyes as you separate your mouth from his hip with a wet pop. you lick your lips from your position on the floor, half-knelt in front of kevin like you’re praying.

for what? forgiveness? absolution?

what do you think doing this is going to accomplish?

“i know what it’s like,” kevin says, slowly, haltingly. “sex in the nest is simple because you don’t really have a choice. i’m telling you that you do have a choice with me.” he sighs and scratches lightly at your scalp. “so, do you want this?”

“i do,” you murmur, and it’s almost the first truth you’ve told all night. quieter, you say, “i don’t want us to be like we were before. i just—”

here’s what you think this is going to do:

“—i miss you,” you whisper, and let your forehead drop to rest against the sharp plane of kevin’s hipbone. you smell sweat, the faint chemical tinge of deodorant. “i miss us.”

you know there was no us. riko never let there be anything but no-strings-attached hookups between the two of you. you were their third, the moon that orbited a figure-eight between the gravity of their planets.

but you had always orbited a little closer to kevin. you think that was why riko hated you, when he left. a part of you left with him. a part that he couldn't get back.

(not only did he lose kevin, but he lost the part of you that was kevin, too. that somehow stung worse than anything. or you imagined it did—you're not sure anything could hurt riko. not anything you could do, anyway.)

but now kevin is here, standing above you in orange and white, with one hand in your hair and the other cupping your face. he does it tentatively, like he’s not sure whether such softness is allowed.

you wonder if he’s picturing you in red and black when he thumbs at your lips and presses down on your tongue.

you open your mouth wider easily, like you were born to do it. kevin smiles above you. “old habits, hm?”

a laugh bubbles in your throat, but it’s choked out when kevin pulls your face to rest against his clothed cock. he’s hard, even through the compression fabric of his shorts and boxers. you lap at him as much as you can around the fingers in your mouth before the hand disappears from your hair and reaches below his waistband.

to kevin’s credit, he’s more cleaned-up than he was in the nest. his happy trail runs in a thick line up his stomach, ending in a thatch of short-trimmed black curls just above the root of his cock. his thighs are thicker, though—stronger, more muscular despite the thick white stripes of scarring across them.

you press a kiss to his thigh, then his hip. he shudders above you and his hips twitch forward, the tip of his cock catching against your cheek and smearing precum there. he lets out a breathy groan when you press your lips to his tip and slowly sink down, hollowing your cheeks.

his hand moves back to your head and tangles into your hair, pulling tight as you bob your head up and down. you tongue at the vein on the underside of his cock; kevin lets out a whine in response, a tiny choked-off thing that curls up from his stomach and looses itself like an arrow from his lips.

kevin's hips rock into your mouth, staccato-needy-desperate. he's gasping something above you, something like god, something like you're so good, how did you get so good.

you pull back and whisper, "you. you."

when he finishes on your face and claps one hand over his mouth, when he cups your cheek and pulls you back to stand, your face still turned upward toward him like he's the sun, you know it:

you can never go back to being a Raven.

[mosertone]

“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom. I can feel the sadness like a fog rolling in, consuming everything, suffocating and thick. There is no escape, only the futile search for something that will dull the edges, if only for a moment.”

— Edgar Allan Poe, Letters

Art by Samuel Johnson Woolf. (litho)

[purgemarchlockdown]

I don't wanna just give Giving and taking, this is how to be in love

Hm...thinking.......

In societies of whatever description, however narrowly or broadly defined, women as a class are the dulled conformists, the orthodox believers, the obedient followers, the disciples of unwavering faith. To waver, whatever the creed of the men around them, is tantamount to rebellion; it is dangerous. Most women, holding on for dear life, do not dare abandon blind faith. From father’s house to husband’s house to a grave that still might not be her own, a woman acquiesces to male authority in order to gain some protection from male violence. She conforms, in order to be as safe as she can be. Sometimes it is a lethargic conformity, in which case male demands slowly close in on her, as if she were a character buried alive in an Edgar Allan Poe story. Sometimes it is a militant conformity. She will save herself by proving that she is loyal, obedient, useful, even fanatic in the service of the men around her. She is the happy hooker, the happy homemaker, the exemplary Christian, the pure academic, the perfect comrade, the terrorist par excellence. Whatever the values, she will embody them with a perfect fidelity. The males rarely keep their part of the bargain as she understands it: protection from male violence against her person. But the militant conformist has given so much of herself—her labor, heart, soul, often her body, often children— that this betrayal is akin to nailing the coffin shut; the corpse is beyond caring.

(Right-Wing Woman)

[yandere-romanticaa]

It is absolutely fascinating how I generally enjoy Edgar Allan Poe's works but the moment I am forced to read them for school (or anything really) there's nothing more dull on the planet. I'd literally rather watch paint dry.

[little-peril-stories]

The Queen of Lies: The Madwoman

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contains: asylum; outdated/problematic/ableist language; feelings of humiliation, hopelessness, and helplessnes; bullying; uncomfortable nonsexual nudity, lady whump

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 4350 || Approx reading time: 18 mins

The Madwoman

Teaser: Bree nodded, glancing up to inspect her seemingly benevolent jailer. He was a pale man, dark-bearded and bespectacled, with brown eyes wreathed in the red and grey hues of one who never got quite enough sleep. And no wonder. Would it haunt him, the sight of her watching and weeping as Baden departed, free as a bird while she remained an inmate of the asylum?

“Mrs. Hatchett?”

Bree stared at her feet, loath to meet the gaze the man who approached—terrified to see what expression waited in his eyes. She wondered if he could read what was in hers.

His footsteps were slow and soft against the wooden floor as he drew near. “I didn’t properly introduce myself,” he said, seating himself next to her. The bench built into the wall was uncushioned and hard as a rock, but he did not complain. Nor did he sit too closely; he left enough space between them that they could speak comfortably and unobtrusively, but their elbows did not brush.

Perhaps, Bree thought bitterly, he did not want to get close to her. Breanna Hatchett, the madwoman.

“I’m Dr. Armstrong,” he said, clasping his hands in his lap. “I’m an assistant physician here. We met earlier. I work under Dr. Richards.”

Dr. Richards. The all-powerful superintendent with the authority to scribble his name on a piece of paper and lock her up without a chance to plead her sanity, all because Baden had made his case first.

“Hello,” she said flatly, not meeting his eye. The floorboards must have once been a warm golden colour, varnished and glistening. Now they were dull and greyish, worn from years of being trod upon. She could bring herself to add no more to her greeting.

“It’s very nice to meet you.”

She swallowed. His voice was so cordial, as if he meant every word. But he couldn’t. He’d signed the page. He’d signed his name: A.A. Dale. He was just as guilty as Baden. And Gysborne. And Richards. She despised him.

A tear burned her cheek, rolling until it slipped down the slope of her jaw and dampened the collar of her dress. “Armstrong,” she repeated dully. “The paper said Dale.” 

“Oh. Yes. It does.” He sounded surprised that she had noticed the discrepancy. “Armstrong Dale is my full surname, but I prefer to be addressed as Armstrong.”

“What’s the first A for?”

Why was she asking? She didn’t truly want to speak to him. But striking up such conversation, even for a few scant moments, kept at bay the awful truth: that Baden had gone from Greyhurst Asylum and left her behind, imprisoning her in a way that said to the world he still cared for her and ensured her safety, when in truth her incarceration protected only his own immaculate reputation.

She could ignore Dr. Armstrong, certainly. But if she did not indulge the doctor in his discourse, she would be forced to admit to herself the awful reality—that there was some dreadful catharsis in stripping away the artifice behind which she’d hidden for much of her life. That it was almost a relief to bare the truth: just like Will and now his brother, she was a prisoner.

She always had been, and if Baden had any say in the matter, she would remain so until she was dead.

“You have a keen memory,” he said. “My given name is Allan.”

Bree nodded, glancing up to inspect her seemingly benevolent jailer. He was a pale man, dark-bearded and bespectacled, with brown eyes wreathed in the red and grey hues of one who never got quite enough sleep. And no wonder. Would it haunt him, the sight of her watching and weeping as Baden departed, free as a bird while she remained an inmate of the asylum?

She doubted it.

Allan Armstrong Dale was studying her, too, she saw, with a calm and dispassionate gaze. The pity she thought she had seen earlier was wiped away, and he scrutinized her now with only quiet, clinical curiosity.

“I expect you have some questions,” he said.

Swallowing a fresh onfall of tears, Bree looked back at the floor. “How long am I to be kept here?” What a selfish question it seemed, when Will’s brother would be interrogated and maybe even tortured the way Will had been, and Will would be hunted for crimes he had not committed.

Accusations which her self-serving lies had only corroborated.

“That depends,” he said. “Enough time to allow you rest and recuperation until you are cured.”

“But how long will that be?” she asked, clutching the fabric of her skirt, still damp from the rain. Although the outer layer had dried, her petticoat remained claggy and sticky against her skin, a disgusting sensation she would simply have to endure. Until Baden saw fit to return with more of her clothes, she had nothing else to wear.

“Many patients are discharged within several months,” said Dr. Armstrong.

Pain burst into her bottom lip as she bit down on it. Months. Months. How much time did Will have before Baden caught up to him?

Drawing in a long breath, Bree raised her gaze again. “Dr. Armstrong,” she said, “I am not mad. My husband is mistaken.”

Sorrow flooded into his eyes.

“In fact,” she said, her voice trembling, “if you—if you will grant me another examination, another assessment, I…” She blinked back tears. Calm. She had to stay calm. “I’ll prove to you I’m sane.”

“Mrs. Hatchett…”

Bree couldn’t help it; she flinched. And her visible reaction to the sound of her name was not overlooked by the doctor.

“Mrs. Hatchett,” he repeated, “allow me to be candid with you. Three physicians have ascertained through medical examination that you are suffering from a nervous disorder.”

“I’m suffering from no such thing.” Bree swallowed. “Mr. Gysborne doesn’t count. He’d do anything Baden told him to. Sign anything, whether or not he believed it to be true.”

Dr. Armstrong frowned at the implication of her words, but he went on, “The evidence Constable Hatchett provided was, in a word, damning.”

“But—”

“And you have not,” he interrupted gently, “offered a single compelling counterargument in defence of your sanity.”

With tears spilling onto her cheeks again, Bree went over in her mind Baden’s rant against her. “There are many things,” she said, “that my husband doesn’t understand.” That he could not understand.

To her surprise, Dr. Armstrong said, “I’m listening.”

And he was, she realized. But when she opened her mouth, the words caught in her throat. What could she say? How would it help her to confess that she had willfully, not under duress, freed Will from prison? Or to return to the story of how her arm had been cut, when it would require explaining that she had been helping to reunite the members of a criminal gang?

“I did forge his signature,” she said, deciding to avoid the subject of Iustitia aecum entirely. “To join the literary society.” How long ago that seemed now. With her damp handkerchief, she brushed away her tears. “But I did it because I knew he would never allow me to attend.”

An odd look came over the doctor’s face.

“And I couldn’t bear the thought,” she said, “of being forbidden to participate. To lose access to my friends, and all those wonderful conversations, and the opportunity to learn and read…” She paused, chewing on her lip. “So I didn’t give him the chance to say no.”

Schooling his features back to impassivity, Dr. Armstrong said, “There are some who would, perhaps, argue that it is within a husband’s rights to disallow his wife’s involvement in a society with whose ideals he does not agree.”

“And I would argue,” Bree shot back, “that it is not his job to police my actions, but to be a police officer. To uphold the law and keep his citizens safe.” She swallowed a sob. “And he can’t even do that.”

For a long while, Dr. Armstrong was silent.

Bree watched the window, letting him stew in the story she had not told. As it always did in the throes of autumn, the sun was setting despite the early hour. In the dying light, the few leaves still clinging to the trees had turned murky, rusted oranges and rich browns little more than muddy shades of grey. Bars, like the ones that had once stood between her and Will, obscured her view of the outside world almost as much as the sinking sun.

Will, who she had set free—and ultimately condemned. Will, who would suffer yet again because of her. Will, who would die. Jamie would get his penalty for being the leader of Iustitia aecum, but Will would be executed. Because of her.

“Is your arm in pain?” Dr. Armstrong asked suddenly.

With a startled gasp, Bree twisted her handkerchief in her hands, cursing her wandering thoughts and inexpedient distraction. The doctor thought she was mad; daydreaming and working herself into a panic while he was trying to have a civil, sane conversation would do her no favours. “No. Not anymore. Thank you.”

“I confess,” he said, “that I don’t understand.”

At the puzzled, probing quality to his voice, Bree swallowed and kept her eyes on the window.

“This cut, in the exact right—or perhaps wrong—circumstances, could have been devastating. Left to bleed or get infected, it could have killed you. It is no small wound. Someone did this to you, yet you stayed and then defended the man who hurt you. Why?”

The man who hurt you.

You stayed.

“I was frightened,” she told him. “I have always been so frightened.”

Dr. Armstrong’s brow furrowed, and she knew she had not said enough.

“Some things...” Her throat ached in the wake of this failure and so many others. “Some things are stronger than reason.”

As he opened his mouth to reply, the clang of a bell rang through the ward, and whatever he had intended to say was lost. “Shall I escort you to the dining room, Mrs. Hatchett?”

The name tore at her, vicious as teeth and claws. “Don’t call me that.”

Dr. Armstrong blinked. “Don’t call you what?”

“‘Mrs. Hatchett.’”

“But…that is your name.”

Of course, he spoke the truth. Of course, that was her name. Didn’t he understand? That in itself was the problem. “I know, but please, I beg of you. Please don’t call me that.”

Slowly, Dr. Armstrong nodded, and Bree recalled what he had said about preferring Armstrong over Dale. “What shall I call you, then?”

Dull warmth spread through her chest, dim as embers but emitting the faintest glow, nonetheless. “My maiden name is Cooper. Or Breanna will do. Just…not…” She gulped, shuddering. “Not that.”

“All right, Mrs. Breanna.” How strange it was to hear her given name follow Mrs. How terribly she missed being Bree. But how much better it was than the alternative. “Let’s proceed to the dining room, and then I’ll continue my visits.”

The dining room was small and crowded. Bree’s heart quivered as the doctor guided her inside and directed her to a table occupied by at least ten other women, some of them her age and some older. A slim measure of relief stole into her at the revelation that they all, to her eyes, looked perfectly civilized, some even kind-eyed and friendly. A few were fashionably attired, with lovely dresses adorning too-thin figures and disguising the wretchedness that lurked in each melancholy countenance.

“Good evening, ladies,” said Dr. Armstrong, eliciting a round of greetings. “This is Mrs. H—” He paused, then gestured and deferred to her. “Why don’t you introduce yourself and have something to eat?”

Bree blinked, and her resolve to detest him crumbled.

As if the lady next to whom she took a seat could read her mind, she said, “That new doctor’s not so bad, now, is he?”

“New?” Bree glanced back at the retreating physician, watching him quietly greet the patients at each table.

“Mmm hmm.” The woman might have been approaching fifty years, with streaks of silver in her hair and wrinkles around her eyes. How tired she looked, Bree thought, and yet there was a tenderness to her face that put Bree at ease. “Only started…oh, last week, perhaps?” She gave Bree a small smile that could not conceal the sorrow in her gaze. “And what’s your name, darling? I’m Mrs. Strickland. Eugenia Strickland.”

“I’m Bree…” It felt wrong, giving Will’s name for her here. “Breanna.”

“Pleasure to meet you, dear.” Mrs. Strickland laid a soft hand over Bree’s. “Did you only arrive today?”

Bree jumped when someone gave a loud shout across the room, and the sound of silverware clattering to the floor split the air.

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Strickland patted her hand. “You’re all right. That sort of thing’s bound to happen, even in this ward.”

“This ward?” Bree repeated faintly.

Mrs. Strickland nodded, and she did not elaborate, for dinner was being served.

It was unappetizing—boiled fish, the smell of which made Bree’s stomach turn. The poor, unenticing creature was accompanied by a small pile of potatoes, also boiled and dismally devoid of salt, crowned with a most meagre dash of yellow butter.

Bree could only stare at the plate.

“Come now, love,” said Mrs. Strickland quickly, seeing that she did not move and her eyes were filling with tears. “You must eat up, or the nurses will report that you’re refusing meals.” A quick squeeze, and then her hand was gone. “You mustn’t give them more reason to believe you’re unwell.”

Bree looked up from the food, astonished. Was Mrs. Strickland just as sane as she was?

“I don’t think I can,” she whispered, swallowing the sickly taste already brewing in her mouth.

“Well,” said the woman apologetically, “you really must try.”

Bree picked up her fork and forced herself to take a bite.

Dinner was underscored with quiet chatter, though not everyone participated. The other women were kind, mostly—those who weren’t merely remained silent and ignored her. Bree wanted to weep at the sight of so many hollow cheeks and haunted stares.

“Did you see the new girl?”

Bree stiffened at the sound of a voice—not one of the other patients, but a tall, blonde-haired woman in a black dress and white cap who was looking right at her with an unmistakable smirk upon her face. Bree’s stomach plummeted. It was the nurse from earlier.

“Did you hear the story?” the nurse asked smugly. “I did. I was there when they brought her in.” Her bored-looking colleague shushed her half-heartedly, but the woman went on. “You want to know why her police officer husband dumped her here?”

Bree suddenly found she could not make her body move. The effort of lifting her fork to her mouth seemed a monumental undertaking. All that mattered was what that golden-haired nurse said next.

The nurse sneered, “She ran off with some criminal.”

The other woman gasped.

“Didn’t make it far, of course, but, oh, what a scandal.” The nurse’s eyes glittered. “If you look hard enough, you’ll even see for yourself. The indecent little mark that man left on her neck. Well…not so little.” With a widening smile, she brushed her spiny fingers along her throat, a prattling laugh spewing forth. “I saw it. It’s obscene.”

“You’re making things up, you insufferable gossip,” said the woman next to her, but now her gaze was wandering across the room, too.

Bree ducked her head, blood rushing in her ears as her face flooded with heat.

“I most certainly am not,” the blonde nurse giggled. “Could I dream up such a story? A constable’s wife running off with some good-for-nothing jailbird for a nice, dirty f—”

Before she knew what she was doing, Bree slammed her fork back down onto the table, sending a crack and a thud through the room.

Mrs. Strickland jumped at the noise, shock giving way to bewilderment and then fading to understanding as she followed Bree’s gaze. “Oh, you must ignore Miss Dugford,” she said quickly. “She’s a terrible gossip, and mean-spirited to her core, but she’s Dr. Richards’ niece, so she’s not going anywhere.” Blanching, she glanced furtively around the room. “She will try to rile you up. She does it to everyone. You mustn’t rise to her, or she’ll run straight to her uncle. She’s gotten more than one poor girl sent to another ward.” Lowering her voice, leaning closer to Bree’s ear, she said, “This is the nicest ward, Breanna. You don’t want to get on her bad side and end up somewhere else.”

But Bree’s heart was still pounding, blood still screaming, breath still choking. How dare that nurse open her mouth and speak on matters about which she knew absolutely nothing? And how dare she speak so brazenly about what was supposed to be only between her and Will?

A memory struck—Baden tipping her chin up to reveal the bruise to Dr. Armstrong and Dr. Richards, displaying her body like it belonged to him, turning what had been a beautiful moment of shared ecstasy into something shameful, perverted, and humiliating. And now this woman, this Nurse Dugford, was doing the same thing—in front of everyone.

“Maybe if we ask nicely,” Miss Dugford said, cloying sweetness oozing through every word, “she’ll show you, too. If she’s willing to lift her skirts for a filthy thief, surely showing off a little bite on the neck won’t be a problem.”

With Mrs. Strickland’s warning ringing in her ears, Bree said loudly, her eyes on the nurse’s, “Don’t you dare come anywhere near me.”

Dr. Armstrong, speaking with a fatigued-looking girl who could have only been sixteen or seventeen, looked up, immediately on alert. Dr. Richards, who was circling the room in silence with cool indifference on his face, turned to peer at Bree, too. He did not look pleased.

Miss Dugford crossed her arms. Although she met Bree’s gaze, she kept talking to her friend. “And, oh, you should have heard her! How she cried and cried. Insisting all the while that she’s perfectly sane.”

And with her full, pink lips curled and crooked, her eyes still on Bree’s, Nurse Dugford smiled.

***

It was with relief that Bree abandoned her not-even-half-eaten supper and allowed herself to be led from the dining room, but that relief was short-lived, for the nurses took her to a bathing room and bade her and everyone else to prepare to wash up.

“What’s happening?” she squeaked to Mrs. Strickland.

“It’s bath night,” said the woman, seeming to droop as she nodded toward the rusted metal tub. Her fingers moved slowly and wearily, untying the cord at the end of her silver-streaked braid.

“But…” Bree looked around, the few bites of dinner she’d choked down sitting like lead in her stomach. “There’s one tub, and…” She counted quickly. “Twenty of us.”

“Yes.”

The implications made Bree’s skin crawl. “But what of privacy?”

Mrs. Strickland sighed and patted her arm. “What of it?”

Bree watched in horror as the girl at the head of the line removed her clothing, bit by bit, until she was stark naked. In front of everyone.

“Come on, then,” said Miss Dugford to the next girl as the first one stepped into the bathtub and immediately began to shiver, whimpering audibly as a nurse began to scrub violently at her skin and hair with a lump of beige soap. “Hurry it up.”

“They can’t make me do this,” Bree said, backing away. “I won’t bathe in front of everyone.”

But another nurse nudged her back into line. “Yes, you will.”

Hugging her arms to her chest, Bree said, “I will not.”

“You will,” said Miss Dugford, listening from the front, “or we’ll help you along, and you wouldn’t want us to use force, would you, Mrs. Hatchett?” Her head tilted to the side. “And you’re a right mess from the rainstorm, there, dear, so don’t you want a nice, lovely bath to clean up and look less…” She smirked. “Less like you came straight from the barnyard?”

Mrs. Strickland reached for Bree’s hand and squeezed. “Now, Nurse Dugford, I’m sure she’s just nervous. It’s her first night here, after all. There’s no need for such…” She took a deep breath. “Comments.” To Bree, she said, “It’s nothing to be afraid of, Breanna. Quick as a flash, and then you’ll be on your way to bed. Won’t that be wonderful?”

Bree shook her head. How could the others accept this? Stripping naked in front of one another, no privacy to speak of? And the way each girl left the bathtub shaking uncontrollably, it had to be ice cold…and by the time Bree even got to it, the water would be filthy, if it wasn’t already.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Sounds like Mrs. Hatchett needs some help getting undressed,” said Nurse Dugford, a snide smile crossing her face. “I didn’t think that would be a problem for her.”

Bree recoiled when the other nurse extended her hand, fingers reaching for the buttons of her dress, too distressed at the prospect of being forcibly disrobed the care much about Miss Dugford’s lewd insinuation or the titters that went through the group. “No! Don’t touch me.” Tears were already threatening to spill down her cheeks. “I don’t. I don’t need help.”

“Come on, love,” said Mrs. Strickland sadly, and Bree saw she was unbuttoning her dress, too. “You’ll be all right. It’s just once a week. You’ll get used to it.”

No, Bree vowed as she gave in, fingers shaking wildly with each loosened button. She certainly would not.

When she plunged into the frigid, greyish water, Bree bit into her tongue hard enough to send a burst of blood swishing through her mouth. The nurse with the soap and washcloth scrubbed her skin so vigorously, she wondered if that wouldn’t bleed, too—if it wouldn’t send swirls of bright red into the horrendous murk that was supposed to pass as bathwater.

The nurse did not return Bree’s clothes, but instead handed her a slip of coarse grey flannel, stamped and numbered: G.I.A., Ward 7, slip #103. To be used as her nightgown, she said. Bree found her request went entirely ignored when she asked through chattering teeth for a towel to dry her soaked, tangled hair.

“There’s a good girl,” Mrs. Strickland whispered. “I know. It’s horrific. But you made it through. We all must do what we can to just make it through.”

Bree buried her face in her hands. As Mrs. Strickland stroked what were surely meant to be comforting circles onto her back, Nurse Dugford and her colleague giggled.

Half-dizzy with exhaustion, humiliation, and fury, Bree allowed herself to be led to the room where she would sleep by a dark-haired nurse who guided her through the draughty, winding halls. She was sullen and unfriendly, but she wasn’t Miss Dugford, and Bree did not mind that she was silent.

Silent, that is, until they came to a room with starkly painted white walls, a single bed, and no window. As she ushered Bree inside, she said, “All right, Mrs. Hatchett. Give me your shoes, please.”

“What?” Bree gaped at her. “I’m not giving you my shoes.”

“Yes, you are. You can’t keep them overnight. It’s one of our rules.”

“Absolutely not,” Bree said. “You’ve already taken my clothes. I will keep these, thank you very much.”

“You will hand them over,” the nurse said impatiently. “It’s the rules, Mrs. Hatchett.” The woman tapped her foot against the floor. “Now. Chop-chop. Give me your shoes.” She gestured to a small chest outside the door. “They’ll be right here ’til morning. Locked in and kept safe.”

“If they’re just going to be right there,” Bree snapped, “then why should I give them up?”

The nurse pursed her lips, refusing to respond, and the answer came to Bree anyway: to discourage attempts to flee in the night, of course, for what woman with any sense of propriety would run around outdoors in stocking feet and a threadbare slip that barely qualified as a nightgown?

“Now be a good girl and do as I say,” the nurse said when Bree did not continue her complaints. “Or else I shall call the doctor, and we’ll have to give you chloral to calm you down.”

Chloral. Bree did not know what that was, but it certainly didn’t sound like anything that was going to help her.

With a frustrated sob, she tore off her boots, then flung them at the nurse’s feet.

“There’s a good lass,” said the nurse, “although you ought to have more impressive manners for a lady, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Bree said, wrenching off her stockings.

The nurse sighed. “Good night, Mrs. Hatchett. I’ll be locking you in now. Is there anything else you need before I go?”

Bree shook her head. Mortified tears were already slinking down her cheeks. Furious at her own weakness, she scrubbed them away.

The sound of the key turning in the lock induced an eruption of wracking, heaving sobs. This couldn’t be real, and yet it was. She really had been hidden away, not deposited like a jewel in a safe but imprisoned behind bars and locks and keys.

Bound, too, by fear and guilt.

Will haunted the edges of her thoughts like a phantom. How was it possible she had woken up only this morning, nestled in his arms and with his lips on hers? How could everything have gone so dreadfully wrong in less than a day?

And Jamie—arrested—all because Curt had been searching for her—because he’d recognized her—and Jamie had merely been caught up in her recapture—

All of them must resent her. Jamie, Colette, Geoff—they all had to hate her to her very core. Will, most of all. No doubt, after everything, he wanted nothing to do with her ever again.

Would he have been better off, she wondered, pressing her face into the lumpy pillow to muffle her sobs, if she had never seen fit to enter his life? At least his brother would still be free. At least he wouldn’t be facing execution.

Would they both have been better off, had their paths never crossed?

At least she wouldn’t be here.

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[immaculatasknight]

Opiate of the gullible

[nevermorgue]

Nevermore OC posting time...

I have Auguste, a Swiss-French private investigator. He is inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's Auguste Dupin series (HIGHLY recommend reading it) Age of death: 22 Birthday: February 4th 1920s France An odd man who is scarily good at his job. He lives off the bare minimum, preferring to care little about materialistic items. He is scarily good at reading people, able to predict even thoughts if he can successfully follow someone's train of thought. He has been successful in many cases he was hired to handle, but his biggest weakness is anything that focuses on his own feelings. He is the most socially awkward man on the planet, and his constant poker face doesn't make it any better. He can see someone's expression and have a pretty good guess as to what they are feeling, but would struggle to recognize the same emotion in himself. He goes undercover as a fence to investigate an uprising in faked decoys of a specific product in the market. He unfortunately gets a little too nosy and gets "silenced" (beaten and buried half alive). He has no sense of personal space, always breathing down someone's back whether it be to observe them or just look at what they're looking at. It's a little creepy, but he sees it as "doing his job". He isn't unfriendly, but he most certainly comes across that way with the dull, flat tone of his voice. He has messy ash blond hair and grey eyes. His bangs tend to hang over his eyes, and his hair is a bit unkempt and fluffy looking. He is 6'1, and his uniform consists of a black and white open, thin fabric trench coat over a white button up and dress pants, his suspenders hanging at his sides. He has a pin on his jacket of some sort of golden symbol, matching the golden rim of his circular glasses. tldr: socially an idiot despite his scarily uncanny ability to solve logical situations. would put his fork on someone else's plate with no remorse. No ideas for his spectre yet, but he's definitely neutral.

[nerislair]

I'm actually a bit disappointed in Austria, for song about being possesed by ghost of Edgar Allan Poe it was a bit dull, I'll forget it so fast :/

[ravenpostpublishing]

An Abridged Excerpt from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death" (1842)

"The 'Red Death' had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avator and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.

"But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys … The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the 'Red Death.'

"It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

"It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial suite … [The] windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color … But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

"It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before...

"[It] was [Prince Prospero's] own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm ... There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments...

"And thus too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust…

"The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror..."

– Edgar Allan Poe, 1842

To read the entirety of this classic tale and bask in its ghoulish glory, please do pay a visit to The Raven Post.

To contribute your own short story to The Raven Post's library, please visit our Submissions page.

[liminalflares]

"During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was - but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me - upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain - upon the bleak walls - upon the vacant eye-like windows - upon a few rank sedges - and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees - with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium - the bitter lapse into everyday life - the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it - I paused to think - what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth" — Edgar Allan Poe, "The Fall of the House of Usher"

From The Illustrated Edgar Allan Poe by Wilfried Sätty

[cryingabtab]

Save Me A Spark - Part 16

Warnings: Angst, Crying

Pairing: Austin Butler x Cassie Hale (OFC)

Word Count: 1.4k

“All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe

Cassie awoke on Rory’s couch with a pounding headache. Hangovers are a bitch. Especially when you’re already dehydrated from crying. She rubbed her eyes and glanced around. Rory was asleep on the other side of the couch. Hazel and Ash were nowhere to be seen. Cassie wondered if they’d gone home or crashed in the guest room. She supposed she’d find out later.

She reluctantly pushed herself up off the couch with a quiet groan, squinting her eyes in an attempt to relieve the pulsing pressure behind them. She walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water and the bottle of ibuprofen that was set out the night before. As she swallowed the medicine, she glanced over at the clock on the oven. It was 7 in the morning. She groaned quietly, knowing that she probably wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, no matter how bad her head hurt. She made her way back over to the couch, grabbing her phone off the coffee table before laying down on the couch again.

Before she could get herself curled up and comfy in the throw blanket she had been using, her phone began to ring. She stared at the caller ID for a moment, her heart jumping into her throat. Her next door neighbor, a precious elderly woman, was the one calling. Did something happen to her? How fast would she be able to get to her if something did? She wasn’t home. Quickly, Cassie answered the phone. “Miss Opal? Is everything okay?” she questioned upon answering, her voice groggy, but urgent.

“Cassie, sweetheart,” Miss Opal responded. “Everything is fine. I’m assuming you aren’t home. But there’s a young man sitting in the hallway in front of your door. I think he fell asleep. I wanted to see if you knew him before I did anything about it.”

Cassie closed her eyes and let out a loud sigh through her nose. “Is he blonde?”

“He is,” she hummed. “You know him?”

“I think I’ve got an idea,” Cassie grumbled, rolling her eyes. How dare he show up at her door after all of this? “Just leave him there,” Cassie continued. “I’ll be there to get him off the floor soon.”

“Alright sweetheart,” she sighed. Then she hung up.

Cassie pressed the palms of her hands into her sore eyes, groaning louder than she intended to. Luckily Rory didn’t wake up. She ordered an Uber before closing her phone and standing up. She quickly, but quietly, found a notepad and pen, quickly scrawling out a quick explanation and setting it on top of Rory’s phone that sat on the coffee table. Then, she grabbed her purse, slipped on her shoes, and took a deep breath before stealthily leaving out the door to meet her Uber. She knew this was going to be the longest ten minute drive ever. And she was not looking forward to the destination.

Austin woke up to quick footsteps rushing towards him. He lifted his head from where it rested on the door, wincing at the dull ache in his neck. His eyes softened and welled up with new tears when he saw the source of the footsteps.

Cassie stopped in front of him. “Get off the floor,” she whispered through gritted teeth. The look on her face was that of annoyance, but you couldn’t miss the sadness in her eyes.

“Cassie,” Austin whispered, not trusting his already trembling voice. “Please I-”

“Austin. Get off of the fucking floor.” She crossed her arms as she looked down at him. She took deep breaths as her thoughts raced. I just need to get him out of here, she thought, I can’t cry until then.

Austin choked back his tears as he slowly stood up and steadied himself. He pointed his focus back at Cassie, tears beginning to stream down his face like an endless river. “Please,” his voice trembled. “Can we talk?”

“You need to leave,” Cassie whispered, now looking up at him, arms still crossed tightly over her chest. “You can’t be here.” Her voice broke on the last word as the dam broke and thick, heavy streams of intense emotion ran down her cheeks. She was pissed at the entire situation. The absurdity of it all. The audacity of this man.

“No,” Austin took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Cassie couldn’t even bear to look at him anymore, her head cocked to the side and eyes angled at the floor. She was getting more and more overwhelmed by the second. She was trying her hardest to keep her voice down, which proved difficult trying to talk with the lump in her throat. “And even if there was, I still wouldn't want to talk to you.”

Austin pressed his lips into a thin line and squeezed his eyes shut. No sound but soft sniffling filled the quiet hallway. “Fine,” he finally whispered after what seemed like an eternity. “Just know, Cass, I am so, so sorry. And I am going to do everything I can to make this right.” With his head hung low, he began to make his way down the hallway, away from Cassie.

She slowly turned to watch him walk away. His shoulders were slumped, head down, and his hands constantly wiped at his face. He looked awful when they were face to face and he looked just as awful walking away. For some reason, this made her cry harder. She hurriedly unlocked her door and went inside before allowing herself to sob. She cried until she physically couldn’t. Then, instead of falling asleep like her body desperately begged her to, she grabbed her guitar and her notebook and began to write.

After hours of strumming and scribbling, Cassie had zoned out staring at one of her lyric sheets. A loud pounding at the door caused her to jump back into reality. She rubbed her eyes and let out a shaky sigh as the knocking continued. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called out weakly as she stood from the couch. She opened the door and there stood her bandmates. She moved to the side so that they could come in.

“Dude we’ve been trying to call you,” Hazel started.

“I’ve been busy. Didn’t hear it,” Cassie murmured, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed.

“Well what happened?” Ash asked.

Cassie explained to them everything that had transpired that morning. She seemed eerily calm, but in reality she just felt numb.

“So he just left?” Asked Ash, eyebrows furrowed.

Cassie nodded and hummed in response, not meeting anyone’s eye.

No one knew what to say, exchanging looks of confusion amongst themselves. The silent communication was interrupted by another knock at the door. This time, two quick heavy raps. Cassie groaned as she trudged back over to the door and swung it open.

“Delivery for Cassie Hale,” said the chipper man at the door.

“That’s me…” she said, raising her eyebrows. “What is it?”

The man grabbed a large vase from the floor. It was filled with black and red roses, and some baby’s breath spread throughout. It was a beautiful arrangement; she couldn’t deny that. The man handed the vase to Cassie and was on his way. She walked back in and bumped the door shut with her foot before setting the vase down and checking the card.

The girls huddled around her as she read it. She let out a borderline growl before tossing it on the counter and stomping to her room, shutting the door behind her.

Rory scrambled to grab the card. Hazel and Ash gathered around her to read it.

‘ “You have a place in my heart no one else ever could have.”

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

I miss you. I’m sorry.

Love, Austin’

They all three rushed to Cassie’s room. Thank God she hadn’t locked it. Upon entering, they saw Cassie laying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t even look at them when they came in.

“Talk to us,” Hazel sighed as she walked over and forced her to sit up.

“I don’t like that he has such a hold on me,” Cassie started. “I don’t want to be upset. I shouldn’t be upset. Not when we just got signed and are that much closer to making our dreams come true.” Her voice got louder as she spoke.

“Well,” Ash hummed. “How about we all go out tonight? We can celebrate our victories. And, it might help distract you from this shitty situation.”

There was a moment of silence as Cassie stared at Ash, considering her suggestion. She decided at that moment that she was not going to shed any more tears over this.

“Yeah,” she finally agreed. “That sounds like a great idea.”