#that's just with black survival too. in any case. that request was very nigh on impossible for a quotes blog

[blacksurvivalnostalgichanges]

I'm pretty sure u know whi this is, but can I request an incorrect quote that involves Chiara?

i usually write quotes just based on anything i found that i felt was quote-worthy or fit a specific character, there isn't a lot i can do on that end aside from, i guess, like, choosing her more often in the quotes that could fit a lot of characters

you can look up (character)blacksurvival in my blog to see all/most of the posts i made that involve that character, though. could scratch the itch if you haven't done that, i'm stating it mainly because i often assume something in my tag system is clear until someone goes "why did you tag this hydrogen peroxide??" and i have to realize i never actually stated it directly

small tip:sometimes when you look it up it displays it in a weird order, if that happens try finding a post with the tag you're trying to look up and clicking it. i don't know why it yields different results but it does. i often look up my own posts when i want some sort of inspiration for any specific character or pairing

[ave--michael]

Demon Lover | Michael Langdon X Reader

Pairing: Michael Langdon X Demon!Fem!Reader

Summary: Y/N, a powerful demon, has spent the last eighteen months wreaking havoc on the survivors at Outpost 3. Things only get more fun when Michael arrives and finds himself irresistibly drawn to her.

Warnings: Demonic possession, death, language, knife/bloodplay, ritual sex, Y/N being evil because she’s a literal demon from hell...

A/N: Requested by anon. I couldn’t make this work as a straightforward imagine. I just needed alternating POV and lots of description and demonic dirty talk. I might have gone too hard with this one. Sorry? 

From the moment Y/N breathed in her first lungful of irradiated air, she knew that she was going to adore this new world. She had never been permitted to venture to the surface before; though she was ancient by human standards, she was relatively young compared to her infernal sisters, and had spent her time confined in hell to tend to the souls of the damned.

But Armageddon, at long last, had come. The gates had swung open. And all manner of pestilence and devilry had swarmed out into the light. Y/N seized her opportunity in the clawing chaos. Finally, she had gotten her chance.

As she strode out into the ashy waste to which the humans’ realm had been reduced, stepping around rubble and piles of corpses with her bare feet, she wondered what glorious opportunities she might find.

Soon enough, she found Outpost 3. The curving monument stood out against the blasted landscape, the only evidence of humanity standing in an empty clearing. Something sinister in the lines caught her attention. She closed her eyes, reaching out with her mind, and sensed the presence of human beings closed within. Humans, and the sticky residue of old magic.

In an instant, she was inside. She wandered invisibly through the halls, observing the humans in their color-coded outfits of purple and gray. She listened to their conversations. She listened to their thoughts.

Yes, she decided. This place was fertile ground. But if she was going to stay, she would have to do something to blend in.

She passed her hands over her face, casting a glamour to don a human guise. Their soft skin, their colorful eyes, their dull and nearly useless teeth, which looked so badly suited to biting and other sorts of fun.

She would be a gray, she decided. Her tattered, black vestments, little more than gauze wrapped about her form, transformed into one of the staid, modest uniforms of the help.

The clicking of heels and the heavy thunk of a cane on hard floors resounded down the corridor. Y/N turned to find a woman in a high-necked dress, her hair in a severe updo, her face a mixture of confusion, anger, fear.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where did you come from?”

Y/N reached into the woman’s mind, locating her name.

“Ms. Venable,” she said, adopting a tone of servile familiarity. “I finished dusting the library. Where would you like me to go next?”

Ms. Venable gave a small shake of her head, as though trying to shoo away a meddlesome insect, as the thoughts Y/N projected into her consciousness circled around and settled themselves into her mind. New, false memories formed. A face turned from stranger to well-known employee, a name retroactively appearing on Cooperative rosters that Ms. Venable had picked over with neurotic meticulousness.

“Go-- go help them in the laundry,” Ms. Venable said, her voice gaining confidence. “And don’t let me catch you dawdling like this again.”

And so the months passed. Y/N fed off of the humans, delighting in how easily she could manipulate them, stoking their existing flaws and petty differences into infernos of rage. She wound them up like living toys, let them go, and watched as they went for one another’s throats. She bewitched the radio to play the same songs on a loop, driving them all to the brink of madness.

Once, she even possessed the body of one of her fellow female grays. Y/N wore her like a glove as she slunk down the hall to the men’s quarters, finding the room effortlessly. When she opened the door, the man inside was surprised, but he welcomed her into his bed as she had known he would. She had noticed the glances he exchanged with the girl she inhabited, thinking that they went undetected. She knew that they were struggling to resist the temptation to break Ms. Venable’s rule of total abstinence.

She had decided to help them along.

When she came in his arms, she exaggerated her cries of pleasure, making sure that they would be heard. Y/N vacated the girl’s body as soon as the bedroom door burst open, revealing Ms. Venable and Ms. Mead. She hovered, invisible, back pressed against the ceiling to watch the scene play out below. The shock on the girl’s face when she found herself in the arms of her crush without memory of how she got there. Ms. Venable’s outrage. The boy’s utter despair when he realized what would happen to them next.

The gunshots the next day rang in Y/N’s ears like a chorus.

Yes, Outpost 3 was fun, but over time Y/N had to admit that she was lonely. She longed for the companionship of her own kind, someone who would see her and know her for what she was. She had little enough hope that it would happen without her returning home, but then, he appeared.

“My name is Langdon…”

“...and I represent the Cooperative.”

Michael surveyed the survivors assembled before him, unimpressed with what he saw. Spoiled rich people, whose only merit justifying their survival was the number in their bank accounts. Banal in their petty hatreds, mundane in their evil. Boring.

The Apocalypse, like much else in Michael’s life, had been a disappointment. It was supposed to be different after the bombs dropped, his birthright fulfilled, the world delivered unto him to control. But so much had carried over from the time before. More people bowing and scraping before him, paying hypocritical lip service to get what they wanted.

Any everyone wanted something. Whether it be status, or security, or sex. Even the starving, cancer-ridden wretches outside begged him, for salvation, for mercy.

No one, he had decided, truly deserved survival. The Collective had served its initial purpose, but already they were setting up the new world in the same tarnished image of the old.

Michael continued the introductory spiel he had prepared, describing the sad fates of the other Outposts.

“What happened to the people inside?” the young, brunet man asked; Timothy, if Michael remembered correctly from the files he had reviewed.

“Massacred.” Michael relished the syllables, much as he had relished destroying each and every one of the people in those Outposts. Discovering their secrets, watching them tear at one another, first with words, then with things far more deadly.

He dangled the tenuous promise of the Sanctuary before them. “I have been sent to determine if any of you are worthy and fit to join us,” he said, each word more false than the last. None of these people would ever find a safe haven again.

Armageddon--for real, this time--was nigh. Soon enough his work here would be done. Everyone before him would be dead. He would collect Ms. Mead. And he would move on.

As he continued, he watched the survivors’ faces, barely containing his amusement at the effect his words had. Confusion, disbelief, fear, even delicious, self-righteous anger… All except for one.

Standing by a bookshelf at the back of the room, nearly concealed in shadows, was a girl, dressed in the gray dress of a servant. She obviously did not share her fellows’ fears. Her face was lovely, eyes dancing bright in the candlelight. When Michael caught her gaze, the corners of her lips quirked upward in a smile. If anything, she looked satisfied.

“I look forward to meeting each and every one of you,” he said, and in her case, he meant it. He was not sure what made her different, not yet, but he intended to find out.

Michael cut his interview with Gallant short, pleased that the abrupt ending would not only torture the other man with frustrated desire, but also allow him to begin his session with Y/N sooner. To satisfy his curiosity about her.

A knock at the door. He slid the panel open to reveal her, looking the very portrait of service in her dowdy uniform. But her eyes glittered with something unspeakable.

“Are you ready for me, Mr. Langdon?”

And he had said yes, bade her to enter the room, have a seat. But now he wondered if he had been ready, after all. Things were not going according to plan.

For the entire interview she had spat nothing but lies at him. Everything about her story rang false, even things that no one should have any reason to lie about. Details as mundane as her name.

“You can check my file if you think I’m lying to you,” she said when he called her on it.

“I don’t want to read your file. I want to hear it from you.”

“Hear what?” She regarded him from across the room with her chin up, defiant. “Something dark? Something salacious?”

Michael shifted, feeling the physical effect of her words. He had been leaning against the desk; now he pushed off of it and stalked toward her, keeping his eyes locked on hers in the low light.

“Do you have anything dark to share?”

“Perhaps.” A slow, luxurious shrug from the infuriating girl. “Maybe I detest all the other grays. Maybe I resent my servile position. Maybe I’m planning to murder a purple out of spite. Or maybe I’ll set my sights on Ms. Venable.”

He was now standing in front of her. She paused, letting her eyes run down the length of his body and back up again.

“Or maybe, after I went to bed last night, I thought about you while I fingered myself.” She bit her lower lip. “How did you sleep, Mr. Langdon?”

It was working. Her effect on him was palpable, his frustration obvious in the furrow of his brow, and in the firm set of his mouth. His mouth… He had a mouth that even a saint would commit murder for even the chance to taste.

Slowly, he bent down, bracing his large, ringed hands on the armrests of the chair in which she sat. Trapping her. He was close enough that she could smell his scent. He might bear the face of an angel, but he smelled of brimstone. He smelled like home.

When he spoke, his voice was low, dangerous. “Tell me who you are.”

“You’re so interested in our secrets. But what of yours, Mr. Langdon?” She pressed her mind forward, seeking spaces in his thoughts, ways in. “Who are you… Michael?”

He was good; he only allowed himself a brief flash of surprise before he once again schooled his expression.

“Stop,” he said, simply.

“Stop what?”

“I can feel what you’re doing, and I would advise caution. Go prying into my mind, and you might regret what you discover.”

She chuckled. “Such a big, strong man, protecting a weak girl like me from himself. I’m quite capable of handling you.”

She longed to prove just how well she could handle him. His proximity had her pressing her thighs together, desperate for any relief from the throbbing between her legs. The tepid pleasure she had wrung from that insignificant human boy would be nothing compared to letting Michael take her.

He would punish her for every insubordinate word that had sprung from her lips. She could almost feel his hands on her, jerking her up out of the chair. He should just do it. He should grab her by the hair, bend her over the chair, rip that…

“...awful dress off of you and fuck you until you cry, until you beg me for the mercy of allowing you to cum.”

He was panting with emotion by the time he finished the sentence.

“Unique interrogation technique, Mr. Langdon.” She let the sarcasm dripping from her words clue him into the fact that as their thoughts had tangled, he had spoken aloud. His face went hot with embarrassment.

She smiled as she stood, forcing him to step back or else find himself pressed up against her.

“I think that I should go. I’m sure Ms. Venable has some assignment or other for me.” She briefly cupped the bulge of his erection. “And you should collect yourself before your other interviews.”

She released him and turned to go. His arm shot out, fastening around her waist and drawing her close. Their faces mere inches apart.

“This is not finished. Come to my room. Tonight.”

“I’ll consider it.”

She closed most of the scant distance between them. Her lips ghosted over his in an almost-kiss. And then she vanished, leaving him empty-handed and alone.

As difficult as it was, she made him wait, knowing that her pleasure would be all the sweeter when it was tinged with his longing, his suffering. Instead she toyed with Gallant. He had so obviously telegraphed his desire for Michael, and it was easy to pull a filthy scenario out of his head that she could render real enough through illusion.

It worked. Gallant ended up whipped, rejected, confused. But now that she had a hint of real fun, of challenge, the simplicity of watching one pathetic man’s ruin did nothing to satisfy her.

She knew what would.

She opened the door to Michael’s room, unlocking it with the wave of a hand, and was greeted with the unexpected coppery tang of blood on the air and the sight of Michael naked. He looked up in surprise, stopping as he drew the knife in his hand up from wrist to bicep.

“Don’t stop because of me.”

With each step she took toward him, she became less human, more herself, allowing her eyes to go dark and the aura of her power to billow around her. When she stepped into the circle of candles burning on the floor, she was naked and wild, ready to claim and be claimed.

He was so hard that it looked painful, his cock swollen and straining toward her.

She took the knife from his hand and drew it across the tops of her breasts, opening two shallow lines that seeped blood so dark it was nearly black. Michael bent to run his tongue over the cuts, drawing a moan from her lips at the contact.

“You taste like honeyed wine,” he said when he came up for air, before pressing a blood-smeared kiss to her mouth. Between kisses, he continued: “And like the rot of the grave, and the sweet end of all things.”

His hands gripped her face; she turned to lick at his skin, until he got the message and slipped one thumb into her mouth for her to suck before pulling it out with a soft, we pop.

She smiled up at him with delicate, sharp teeth. “You taste like a dark dawn, blooming black and terrible upon the eastern sky.”

They fell upon each other with savagery, sinking onto the floor. Michael had never felt anything like the way their bodies melded together in a frenzy of pulled hair and nails and teeth digging into flesh. He felt that he could never be deep enough inside of her, could never fuck her hard enough to slake his desire. But when she came, clenching wet and tight around him with his hands wrapped around her throat, it pushed him over the edge.

When he withdrew from her, the candles surrounding them guttered and extinguished themselves. He looked down to find that the wounds on his arms and across her breasts had healed, and she had returned to something like her previous guise. Closer to human, but with a dark beauty that he could not mistake.

When she reached up to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, it was shockingly tender.

“Come,” she said. “Let us go and claim our new world.”

[stars-in-my-damn-eyes]

An Improbable Turn of Events - Chapter 1

Before I start: I just want to disclose that I don't write very often and this chapter is shit. I will probably improve with practice, but bear with me. Anyhow, this is a fanfic. It's a Bestiary fanfic (which is the creation of @the-world-of-the-bestiary). It features some Bestiary OCs of mine. I hope it is passable.

(Beta-read by @righteous-room-people)

It was a pretty big jar, all things considered. Variant had never really been an expert on jars, but she had enough passing knowledge to know that the one she was looking for was pretty large for a jar, and, given that it was covered in ornate symbols painstakingly carved into the glass, it was also rather easily identifiable.

Furthermore, the fact that it held a deep indigo crystal which floated slowly up and down within it as it pulsed with a soft lavender glow and illuminated the fine purple dust floating around it, made the stupid thing incredibly obvious and absolutely unmissable.

Even so, despite the odds, Variant found herself unable to locate it. It hadn't been in the secure, nigh-impenetrable safe where it was supposed to be, so she'd turned the stupid place upside down in her search for her good-sized and rather noticeable glowy rock jar - heck, she'd even gone through the underwear drawer and the sofa cushions - to absolutely no avail.

It seemed very likely that the glorified nightlight was lost.

Somehow, an object being kept in an almost ridiculously secure safe that absolutely nobody except Variant knew the incredibly long and complex code to had vanished into thin air.

The situation was not ideal.

Variant sighed to herself. Never let it be said that she was not a patient faun - she'd taken it upon herseld to look through every single nook and cranny of the house at least twice, which was a task made twice as difficult due to the fact that she only had one working arm. She'd search the house again, in fact, just to double-check that she hadn't somehow managed to miss the massive, obvious artifact she was searching for, but the occupant was rising along with the chilly, late-autumn sun.

She wasn't about to leave such a precious relic in her own house, after all - she visited Faun-anin once in a blue moon, and she had more sense than to leave the magic rock in an empty house for decades at a time.

Under the impression that she was making a sound decision, she'd opted to give the damn thing to a friend for safekeeping and now it was lost.

As she slipped out of the window, Variant cursed the house's owner under her breath. Sunny was incompetent and lazy, sure, but all he had to do to complete this particular task was to not open the safe, which, given the fact that he'd forgotten the code immediately after locking it, was a pretty easy task.

In Variant's opinion, he deserved to have his house ransacked. All she had wanted to do was slip into Faun-anin, grab the rock-jar, and leave immediately, but apparently nothing could ever go right for her.

She made her way across the town and got into her truck before anybody saw and recognised her. She started up the engine and set off, tragically jar-gem-less, and started to drive in the direction of the next settlement over.

And that was when the second thing decided to go wrong that day, despite the fact that the sun had barely risen. Today was not simply a bad day. Variant had had bad days before - on one memorable occasion, she'd accidentally set her jacket on fire whilst camping out in a barn in the middle of nowhere - and she could handle them.

No, today was not simply a bad day.

Today, Variant mused as she watched black smoke flow ominously out of her bonnet, was perhaps the worst day of her entire pathetic existence.

***

The sun was hovering just above the horizon when Variant returned to the little town she called home. She pulled her car into a small clearing that housed four other vehicles and sat back in the driver's seat, letting a loud sigh escape her lips. Now, to decide what to do about the jar. Gods damn her hubris - she shouldn't have been content with merely trusting that it was safe in Faun-anin. She should've ensured it was safe. Variant snorted at the irony of the situation - oh, the irony. She'd been downright stupid to assume that she'd be able to drop her guard once she'd stored the crystal with her friend. Sunny had told her that he'd protect it with his life, but that didn't mean he'd be able to do so. She'd gone after it too, after all, and it really was idiotic of her to assume it was hers for good after her success.

In her hubris, Variant had fucked up. Badly. To top it off, the damn crystal wasnt going to find itself, and Variant couldn't afford to let its whereabouts stay unknown.

It looked like she was going to have to clear her schedule for next few months.

But first, a more important task awaited.

The small café in town did fantastic sandwiches.

***

Centaur Enforcers weren't unheard of, but they weren't common either. Due to this, Variant could be reasonably certain that the centaur Enforcer looming over her car like it was an exhibit in a museum was in fact one Jennet... Jennet... actually, Variant had forgotten her surname. If she had one. Did centaurs have surnames?

Great going, Variant. First you lose your most important possession, then you end up having to drag your car to a mechanic at the break of dawn, and then you forget your own roommate's name. You're a genius, truly.

Jennet turned around, confirming that she was indeed Jennet, and half-smiled at Variant.

"You're not allowed to park there," she greeted.

"Other people are parked there," Variant shrugged.

Jennet snorted. "Other people are going to be told not to park there too, Variant. Shockingly, parking restrictions apply to everyone."

"Does it matter, though? I mean, I'm parked in what is essentially a hedge. Look at it. It's practically swallowing the cars."

Jennet offered another small smile. "If it's to your disliking, I suggest you move your vehicle."

"Shut up, Jennet," Variant scowled, rubbing her forehead with her good hand. The Enforcer regarded her quietly, apparently indulging Variant's request.

"Are you leaving?" Jennet, breaking the silence.

"Yeah. I was just headed home."

Jennet gave a her nod and stepped away. "See you there, then."

Variant dipped her head, returning the gesture, and started towards the vehicle.

"Hey, Variant," Jennet called after her.

"Yeah?" Variant opened the door, not bothering to face the Enforcer.

"Is everything ok?"

Variant became vaguely aware of the familiar feeling of a headache beginning to form tapping at her skull.

"Everything's grand," she said.

***

Jennet came home sooner than expected, but not by much. Variant had already gone to bed by the time she heard the creaking of the front door of the aparment opening and the tapping of hooves on the wooden floor.

"I'm back," Jennet announced.

"I realised," Variant muttered, loudly enough for the centaur to hear. Gods, she was tired. She hadn't slept at all last night, opting to do a bit of breaking and entering instead.

Jennet paused, tapping a hoof on the floor. "How much did you sleep last night?"

"Very little. Close to none."

Jennet hummed thoughtfully.

"Why ask?"

"No reason," the centaur said airily, opening a cupboard. "You just seemed tired."

No shit.

"That's why I'm going to sleep," Variant said, annoyed. "Right now."

Fortunately, Jennet took the hint, and didn't bother Variant with any further questions. It had been a very long and horrible day, after all, and she was looking forward to it being over.

Variant rolled over on her bed and tried to focus on the sound of Jennet making herself dinner rather than the fact the most important thing she owned had been stolen, and all she knew about if was that it had happened between about twelve years ago and today.

Fuck that gem-jar and everything to do with it.

***

The crystal pulsed with a lavender light, illuminating the dim office.

"So this is it?"

The troll and the faun opposite him nodded.

"That's definitely it," the faun said. "Right where she left it way back when. It apparently never occured to her to move it."

"More likely, she just trusted that it would be safe with her friend," the troll said bluntly, tapping their fingers on the table.

"Shut up, Wherever."

"Does it perform its function correctly?" hissed the man. "Can it really reverse probability?"

The troll, Wherever, sighed. "You told us to get the Valosyn Crystal from Faun-anin, and we did. Whether or not it works is not our problem."

His eyes blazed angrily as he shot a glare at the apathetic troll. "Then you will activate it, and if it fails to accomplish its task, you will not be paid. I do not hand out money to incompetents."

"I am very competent," Wherever muttered, with no real indignation behind their words. "But 'test the Valosyn Crystal' was not in the job description."

"Shut up, Wherever," the man snapped at the offending troll. Their faun counterpart smirked at them.

"Go on then, bro. Turn it on," Wherever smiled at the faun, who immediately stiffened.

"I hate you."

"I know."

He reached out tentatively and yanked the lid off the jar, taking the crystal out.

"It's perpetually on. If you want it off, stick it in the jar and that should hold it," he muttered, holding it out.

"Hmm," the man hmmed. "Well, I suppose we should try it out. Do you have any suggestions?"

"We shoot Wherever and see if they survive? Under normal circumstances, that's pretty unlikely."

"Or, we shoot you, since you suggested it," Wherever supplied. "Alternatively, we could test it in the long term."

The man's eyes glittered. "How so?"

Wherever shrugged. "Set a really obvious trap. Something that it's unlikely someone would fall for. Then, wait for someone to take the bait."

"I see," he said, looking at the troll appraisingly. "In that case, I have another job for you."

[ecotone99]

[TH] Nigel's Memoir.

Snap!

The pencil Nigel was spinning, albeit somewhat poorly, between his fingers broke violently. “Oh bloody— !” Nigel caught himself before ranting, grabbed another pencil, and decided to get back on task. Not the task of spinning his pencil; the task of writing his memoir, which was commissioned to him by the British Council of Grief and Trauma. He pondered what line he should write next. Eventually deciding on, “While I do miss her, I am happy that the car wasn’t damaged at all in the crash.” He then immediately revised the ‘While’ to be an ‘Although’. Next he, continuing his trend of desperate revisions, erased the entire sentence, instead opting to write “I was, albeit sad to lose her, relieved to know that the car survived the crash.” Nigel was still unimpressed with the line, so he, again, erased it.

Not even writing a single line in his morbid memoir, Nigel, after hitting himself softly, stood up to wander his study. Eventually, after gazing at the window Isabella used to sit at, and noticing it was raining, he made his way to his refrigerator. “Now, what should I drink?” He contemplated pathetically. His fridge was filled with two belongings: alcoholic beverages, and powerful melancholy. It smelled as if he had opened many of the drinks prior, even if most of the drinks were nigh completely full. He first picked up a large, unopened, bottle of champagne— which was gifted to him at his retirement by some colleague he failed to remember the name of . “No” he sighed, “It’s celebratory, if I plan on drinking this, I should finish my writing.” He then ruled out all of his wines and beers. “They’re too unprofessional!” He thought. Continuing to do this to various liquors, specifically scotch and bourbon, he narrowed down his choice to two drinks: Whiskey, and Vodka. Finally, he decided that this whole exercise was pointless, as he wasn’t going to drink anything anyway; he returned to lie his face miserably on his desk.

Knock! Knock Knock!

Somebody was at the door. Nigel, too tired to greet his visitor, simply replied, “I’m not interested!” under the assumption that some sort of door to door salesman was attempting to sell him something that he didn’t want nor need.

Knock! Knock Knock!

The agonizing banging continued, and began to mutate Nigel’s exhaustion into agitation. Nigel responded again, this time with a raised voice, “I said I wasn’t interested! Please, for the love of god, move along!”

Knock! Knock Knock!

It grew more intense. “Go away!” Shouted Nigel, more distraught than ever. Trying to make his intentions clear as daylight, Nigel shouted, “Cut it ou—!”

Crash!

The door fell over, carrying with it both the hinges, and some of the door frame. Inward came a large spectre dissimilar to anything Nigel had witnessed throughout his 53 years of being. The phantom’s smell, despite being utterly unique, brought upon memories of the odors of black licorice, burning rubber, and tobacco. The noises it made continued to follow the pattern of its figure and scent, wherein, while being completely impossible to compare to any sound heard before, they held the same mood of sounds Nigel associated with sorrowful moods.

Nigel, feasting his eyes upon what he believed to be certain doom, used the last remaining bit of energy he kept within his hollow corpse of a body to dart his way behind a nearby bookshelf to sit, cower, and hide.

Nigel began to flirt with many ideas, one of which was that he had actually drank alcohol, but had become so flushed that he lost all memory of doing so. However, albeit reluctantly, Nigel had assured himself that this couldn’t be the case, as he had no motivation to drink enough alcohol to reach such a state.

Continuing to ponder a possible escape someone in his shape could pull off, Nigel was out of luck. “What would’ve Isabella done in such a situation?” Nigel asked himself. Nigel kept following this train of thought for quite a while, but soon grew more and more distraught. “Errr… even she wasn’t clever enough to get herself out of this—” Nigel repeatedly bashed himself on his forehead. “What sort of cretin am I!?! She was perfect, but I am not” Nigel sighed angrily.

Thoughts of both terror and loss echoed in his mind until they grew into tears. These tears were a waterfall born from the peaks that were his eyes; waterfalls that made a small pond on his newly bought khakis. “Isa… Isabella,” cried Nigel softly, “It should’ve been.. No! You didn’t deserve it.” At that instant, an epiphany was birthed within Nigel’s psyche. Nigel, still teary-eyed, smiled for the first time in the past two weeks, and then stood up.

Nigel made his way around his study, returning to the other being within it immediately. “Well, whatever you are, you have me beat.” Nigel said, lifting his hand in the air to signify surrender. “Just do it.” Nigel sighed. “I no longer deserve a life. All I request is that you deliver my soul, spirit, or whatever you call it to my beloved—” In that moment, Nigel’s eyes locked with the spectre. It’s eye’s, large and green, irradiated a strange sense of nostalgia, a force that Nigel had lacked for quite some time. The being etched increasingly closer to Nigel, who stood completely (and somewhat fearfully) still, eventually cuddling against his body. The creature, fully rubbing its body against Nigel’s in some form of hug, let out a voice that Nigel held very close to his heart, it was a woman’s voice. “I’m sorry” she announced as she began to step back. Tears once again swept the face of Nigel, now speechless. “I was never able to say goodbye” she sighed, “So... Nigel, goodbye.” The spectre began to fade just as Nigel was about to embrace it. Nigel was, once again, alone.

He made his way back to the desk where he was writing his memoir; he didn’t lay his head down this time. Instead, Nigel grabbed his pencil and finally came upon the line that satisfied him: “While I may be somewhat relieved about the fact that the vehicle was not damaged, loss billows through my heart as I think about the death of my lovely wife, Isabella”

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