#rangry ayevah

[shivroy]

EXTREMELY sketchy fullbody pics of the odesza’s kingdom trolls! i love... shapes.... 

[shivroy]

rangry’s story (tw for graphic descriptions of injury) (please reblog if you read!)

i don’t sleep in recuperacoons anymore. it reminds me of being sedated. i can’t have blankets either, because they used to drape heavy ones over me to keep me from squirming when i slept. too much movement strained the sutures, or could cause them to rupture, they said. they told me many things. i refrain from saying "taught" - teaching, i like to think, is done with good intentions. 

i can’t deal with the liquid inside coons either. i am always afraid things are going to seep into me, or out of me, as though i am not sewn closed.   

instead of a coon, i lie on a thin mattress in the hive - my hive, i need to tell myself that i can own things now. it reminds me of the table they placed me on. at least this one isn't chilled metal; the overdone image of a theatrical operating table. the setting for my movies. nothing i can own fails to remind me of my movies. 

i can't look down at myself, at my raised topography of semi-precise incisions, without shaking. i can't begin to shake because it means i won't sleep that night. i take my showers in the dark, and blindly, noisily knock over bottles of cheap shampoo and swear. it’s better than the alternative. i also use a washcloth to apply soap. i need the barrier between my body and my hands, it dulls the feeling. 

i miss her when i lie on my bed, in moments i am alone and thinking. at least we used to have each other, all of us, and we would comfort each other after filming. we learned our own little tricks: spit can fend off infections, they'll be angry but if you rip pieces off your cloth dress, the strips can be used as bandages. we would save extra food for the girl who had most recently been filmed. we all knew it was spiked, the food, the drink, and we figured she could use it. it acted like a cheap knockoff for the anesthesia they denied us. almost. better to be out of your body while it healed. or tried to heal. 

i wonder what happened to her. did she have it worse, or did i? it's a question that does me no good to consider. i lay on my bed, i cross my hands over my stomach, try to ignore the thick ridge i can feel down my middle, a meeting of two halves, and try to ignore how sweaty my hands become. i wonder where she is. can she get around? we had to help her walk, constantly, everywhere, after they snipped off her toes. it ruined her balance. it would ruin anyone's balance. she tottered around on knobs. she was reduced to the grace and rhythm of newborn deer. walking on stilts of marbled skin.  

i never got to feel her fingers entwined in mine. they were already gone by then, and other pieces of her too. carefully removed, thoughtfully filmed, casually distributed for a reasonable price to those trolls willing and wishing to pay for her movies. 

i become angry, then. really angry. furious. true to my fake name that has become the real me. i want to scream and i do. i am starting to shake, i claw around in my mind for her name, her real name, but it has left me by now. we promised, through humid whispers at night, we would remember each other's real names. i have forgotten. i feel evil for this. has she forgotten mine? does she feel evil too?  

your name is like your address, they told us. it is only useful to others, and it is only used to find you. you can change it, get up and move away from it, and you adjust to the change. nothing much is lost or missed. it is better if you forget your name. most of us did. i have. rangry is not my name, but what else do i have to remember myself by? 

all that remains of her name is fauxfu. the kitschy, mocking titles they assigned us on a whim. childish names. but then again, we were children. we hated the names because they were not our own; we despised their sharp and unkind accuracy. we were reduced to these names. now they are all we have left. 

she was a faux fuchsia. some maroon girl they had snatched up off an island, bearing an uncommon fuchsia resemblance. they had already cut off her ears, to conceal her lack of fins - no customer would blink at this, they were used to the girls in the movies having parts or them missing, but they perhaps were angry about this. they would have liked to see her fins removed on film. the full fantasy of royal deflowering. 

they always remarked that they were lucky to have her. they edited her blood color in post to make it pinker. her movies sold for the most. ravenous lowbloods loved her, or hated her, it didn't really matter, but she was a living, screaming representation of their fantasies. death to the heiress. death to the fuchsia. ruin her. brutalize her. make her immobile, as she has immobilized us. it was therapeutic. bleeding justice, all fake, sold for profit. 

i was like her, but lesser. there's a certain hatred for cobalts among plenty of groups. seeing my organs, little pouches, long and slick, intestines, ones i can’t name, drooling out of my open body, strange invertebrates, legs cut open, touching my caramel-smooth femur, being filmed holding my shuddering heart in my hands, inner me becoming outer me, a transformation, was their act of revenge. i am a vessel for their hatred, their release. or i was. 

i was too little to understand why they were doing this. why i had been taken from my home. why it hurt so much. why there was a market for snuff films. 

they called us movie-stars. 

i dont think i blame these lowbloods. the ones who captured us, and the ones who watched us. i hate them, but i understand them: if i had the chance, i would place my oppressors on a cold metal table and cut them to pieces, too.