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finalmere · 1 month

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WHEN: A few days after her attack. WHERE: Meredith and Stevie's apartment. WHO: Meredith. WHAT: Meredith deals with her grief and increasing paranoia.

Paint swirled around on the paper plate Meredith was using as a palette. She hadn’t done much of anything the past few days, smearing color against canvas had been the only thing keeping her from completely losing her mind. Work gave her a few extra days off, it seemed being the sole survivor of a murder gave her a bit of leeway. It was just as well anyway, no part of her was ready to face her coworkers and feel their eyes staring daggers into her back. No one knew how to talk to her or approach the subject, she wasn’t sure how to either. Wicked’s Rest wasn’t exactly a stranger to odd goings-on, deaths and disappearances were a common occurrence. But not only had Meredith never been a part of one of the stories that passed from ear to ear, she usually scoffed at them. She assumed most of the sensational tales that spun around her university were hoaxes and jokes pulled by drunk college kids. She never believed in Bessie or things that go bump in the night. Now she didn’t know what to think.

A loud noise came from across the apartment and Meredith’s head snapped up. Her paintbrush fell to the floor with a clatter and she tried to scramble to her feet and stumbled backwards. A shaky hand reached for the kitchen knife that hadn’t been far from her side since she got home. She inched towards Stevie’s bedroom door, her feet careful not to step on any of the creakier floorboards of the cheap Harborside flat. She wasn’t sure she was ready to face her demons again- but before she had to make up her mind, a small feline came lumbering out the cracked door, loudly meowing up at Meredith likely in protest of the giant knife in her hand.

“Fucking hell,” she groaned, smacking the blade down on the kitchen island as she sighed. “You’re back.” In her death Stevie had left behind a cat. He was a stray that seemed to be drawn to the apartment. He’d somehow make his way on their fire escape where Stevie began leaving small plates of food. Eventually she started propping her bedroom window open and he’d come and go as he pleased. Meredith would start to come home to find them curled up on the couch together.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” she told him, a pause lingering in the air. “She’s not here.” She couldn’t believe she’d avoided people for days and now she had to have this conversation with a fucking cat. She felt a pang of guilt in her gut. Mere had never considered herself much of a cat person, but she felt a sudden kinship to the creature who was likely mourning just as she was. “Hang on, I think I know where she kept the food.” She walked around the counter to find the cabinet that was stacked with small cans of cat food. She cracked one open and dumped it on a plate, her nose scrunching in disgust. “Here,” she said, placing the plate down in front of him. “Bon appétit.” Mere sat herself on the floor next to him, her back leaning against the wall of the kitchen island. Her eyes stared through the window across the room as she listened to the quiet noises of a hungry cat. “She’s not coming back,” she said softly, and she swore for a moment he stopped to listen. “But I guess I have nothing else to do with the food so I suppose I can keep putting it out for you. Until it’s gone.” Her head fell back, gently hitting the counter behind her. After a moment, she felt the soft fur of the stray cat rest against her bare leg. She took a second, then carefully scratched his head. For the first time since the attack, she let a tear roll down her cheek.

#solo.

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ohwynne · 1 month

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TIMING: Current. PARTIES: Wynne & Mealla (NPB) LOCATION: Saol eile SUMMARY: A banshee invites a wandering Wynne over to tea and speaks of their impending sacrifice. It brings up memories. WARNINGS: Hints at abuse (cult), medical blood (vein mentions)

"You know, I have seen many people die. Have you ever? Seen the light leave their eyes, I mean. I have seen it often. Sometimes it’s almost peaceful, like our sisters in our pit who are giving themselves over to a slow death — but most often there’s something sharp in their eyes. Emotion! Oh, I cannot help but wonder what your eyes will portray. Fear or anger? Relief? Peace? I so love it when they look peaceful."

Every day Wynne woke from nightmares. The improvised beds were not comfortable, nor was the stench of death in the air but at the end of the day it was the lack of Ariadne that made them sleep most fitfully. It seemed they had grown too dependent on her ability to siphon away bad dreams and now they were left to play catch up on all the ones they’d evaded over the past months.

So every day they woke from nightmares.

Most of the time they dreamed of home. The estate on the shore of Moosehead lake would merge with the estate the banshees called home merged with the barn. Irish lilts came from the mouths of their former loved ones. Their parents lived in white cottages and showed their fangs, ready to sink them in their neck. Nora’s head was ripped off clean. Wynne could not stop screaming. Regan rose in the air with inky eyes and an echoing, berating voice. Siors held his ceremonial knife and brought it down. Iwan pleaded, begging them to stay as he was bled out on the altar.

Every day they woke from nightmares in an attic that seemed smaller every day and so every day Wynne got out. They walked the streets of saol eile hoping that an answer would come to them, that somehow they would find a solution to the situation they had gotten themself into. That they’d have an eureka moment and finally realize how to get Nora to want to leave. The right combination of words and facial expressions, the exact way to make her fold without doing some irreparable damage.

They were supposed to leave in one day, but it was hard to feel optimistic. Nora was angry. Elias still was a tall man with a beard destined to die. Regan was nowhere to be found. Wynne was desperate.

So they kept walking and they kept hoping for a metaphorical hole in the fence. It was good to scope the perimeter — they had known exactly where and how to run when they’d left home because they knew the place like the back of their hand. It would be good if they knew the way. It would be good —

It would be good if they succeeded. But how much luck was one person allowed? How often was someone allowed to evade fate? Wynne should have died on an altar, but didn’t. Wynne should have died in the barn, but didn’t. Wynne should die here, but didn’t want to. Was want enough? Was determination? Was bravery? They were surrounded by a people that revered death and saw human sacrifice not as a necessary evil but more like a past time. How could it be enough?

But they kept walking anyway.

That was until someone stopped them.

Sometimes the banshees talked to them. Wynne regressed into a former version of themself when they did, cowering and gentle and submissive. Most of the banshees looked down on them, pushed them aside after a comment or two. They weren’t nice comments, but they also weren’t particularly mean — they just were aligned with the doctrine, odd and confusing but something Wynne was trying not to think about too much. They weren’t here to investigate the banshees. They were here for the hole in the fence and to find a way to convince people to leave.

But this banshee looked at them with wide eyes that went from inky to a dark brown, taking them in. “You are perfect.” They were ready to stammer something in response. They didn’t want to know how or why they were, nor did they want to argue. The banshee took their face in their hands before they could, though. “I will make you tea.”

They were guided into the banshee’s house where a kettle whistled merrily and the walls were lined with mounted animals and bones. The banshee sat them down on a chair (Wynne was not sure where the control of their body had gone as they let themself be guided and pushed onto the seat, but they figured it might be best to remain pliable) and ran around to gather the things needed for tea.

It took a short three minutes and then there were two steaming mugs between the pair of them, a scent of a herbal mix filling the room. A small animal bone laid at the bottom of their mug of tea. Wynne knew better than to thank the banshee, so they just nodded.

“I heard — oh, you — yes, I heard about the arrival. We get so few of you that just arrive, that are this — this perfect.” The banshee was speaking in a tone that was euphoric, hands folded around her mug. “You know, I have seen many people die. Have you ever? Seen the light leave their eyes, I mean. I have seen it often. Sometimes it’s almost peaceful, like our sisters in our pit who are giving themselves over to a slow death — but most often there’s something sharp in their eyes. Emotion! Oh, I cannot help but wonder what your eyes will portray. Fear or anger? Relief? Peace? I so love it when they look peaceful. Oh!” She moved her hand and some of the tea sloshed on the table. Wynne noted a moment too late that she was extending it. “I’m Mealla.”

With a bit of hesitation they shook it. “Alys.” Mealla was blinking at them and they realized that she was waiting for an answer. They didn’t know what their eyes would show when they were going to die. They didn’t want to know because they weren’t going to die.

Once, they had sat like this with the real Alys. She had been one of the elders back at home, one of the people closest to Siors and one of the people that Wynne sometimes got to spend one on one time with. When they did, it was special. It was special when an elder took time out of their day for you, to dedicate their energy to you. Whenever the real Alys had spoken, Wynne had listened with such intent and concentration that it sometimes gave them a headache.

She had spoken of how their position was an unique gift. That dying in serenity was their gift to the commune. “Wynne,” she’d said as they walked the shores of the lake, “I need you to think about that moment. About every single second of it. You need to paint it in your mind’s eye. To imagine it in detail.” She’d made Wynne hold the jute rope that would tie their hands on that inevitable day, make them feel every fiber with their fingers. One time she’d wrapped the rope around their wrists, not too tight and mostly for show. Just to make them familiar with the sensation. “I need you to try and feel it already so that when it happens, you know how to respond. A prepared person cannot be afraid. You need to be calm. You need to give yourself over to it. You can do that, can’t you?” She’d halted and turn to Wynne then. “For me? For us? I know you can.”

Mealla was still waiting for an answer. “Peaceful,” they said. “I’m ...” Your death means more than all of ours ever will. You are so special. “Honored.”

The banshee let go of their hand and returned to her tea, seemingly not minding that she’d spilled hot water over her table. “Yes! Ah — you did well to come here. You understand, do you? You — not so short sighted as other humans, thinking death the very sad end.” She mocked a human expression of sadness. It would be comical if Wynne wasn’t so scared. “Honor! Oh,” Mealla reached for Wynne’s face again, “You will bleed so beautifully. We can make it slow so you can feel the honor all the way through. Not many get such a death! Most die in boring ways. Old bones or weak hearts or someone driving a car badly or disease. You will get to feel it!” She pinched the meat of their cheek. “Do you have any preferences on where you are punctured? I hold some sway. I can arrange this for you. I personally enjoy the thigh, it’s so supple yet so very effective. It bleeds beautifully there. And the chest! It’s a canvas for carving. My si—” Mealla forgot herself as she nearly spoke of ancient family traditions not reserved for human ears. “You will make a very beautiful corpse, Alys.”

Wynne blinked. It seemed to go in slow motion, the way their eyelids made the world go smaller until it was nothing but a strip of light and then darkness. Then light again. The banshee was still sitting there. The hand was still on their cheek. They would make a beautiful corpse. They would be bled out. Not even on an altar, this time. Not even to save their community or spare their brother. Just because.

Once, at home, Siors had sat with them. This was even more rare than sitting with Alys. Siors was their patriarch — he was elusive and when he was present, he took center stage. He had a voice you wanted to listen to and when he turned all his attention to you, it felt like you were chosen. And though Wynne knew they were chosen, it was still different when it was just Siors across from them. It was exhilarating to have his presence be purely dedicated to them and so they’d sat upright and with all their emotions carefully wound up and put away. They’d breathed serenely. Alys and Padrig had taught them well.

On that day, Siors had shown them the ceremonial knife. They had seen it before, of course. Every ritualistic sacrifice was done by this knife. It had sunk into the necks of some thirty youths before them and hundreds of animals. It was something from back in Wales. Engraved and sturdy and sharp. Sometimes they’d catch him sharpening it as he watched his community. The day he’d shown them had been about a week before their sacrifice. Every day had been filled with preparation.

“This isn’t something to flinch at,” he’d said, turning the blade in his hand. “It is part of us.” He hadn’t asked them where they’d like to be cut, slit or punctured. There had been tradition to honor. The demon had liked his sacrifices a certain way. Siors had guided Wynne’s hand to their throat which had bobbed nervously. “Calm yourself.” It was a demand that they had listened to reflexively. He’d pressed their fingers against their pulsing artery. “There.” He made them tilt their head so the artery was more accessible. “Alys has explained it, right? How it needs to be calm. You cannot squirm, Wynne, nor cry. You remember how quiet Jac was? How good? How dutiful?” He had tilted their head towards them, thumb and index finger holding their chin softly. “I believe you can do that too. I’ll be gentle.” He had looked so sure of it that any doubt washed away. “I will be so proud.” They would make a good corpse for him. For all of them.

And now Wynne was staring at a woman who might have made them feel certain and special and chosen, had they not ran from that duty. Had they not come here with the intention to run again. But a lot had changed since they’d looked at Siors and Alys for guidance. They stared at her and felt her hand on their cheek and did not cry. They could not squirm nor cry — they had to press their feelings into a corner of their stomach and remain calm. They could not panic. If they panicked, they’d all know something was wrong.

“The thighs. I’d prefer that. It’s better than the neck.” Their voice sounded hollow. Their ears were ringing and it wasn’t because of all the screaming they’d heard. It was the overwhelming urge to run. The even more overwhelming urge to live, despite the threats that hung over their head like an ax. But they could not give the banshee an inch of fear or reluctance. To panic was to make them aware something was wrong. Nothing was wrong. They could only know something was wrong when they were gone along with Nora, Elias and Regan. So for now they remained seated. "Anything but the neck."

Mealla smiled. “You are right. the neck lacks creativity.” She pet their cheek. “Drink your tea.” Demonstratively she took a sip of her own. The tiny clavicle she'd dropped in it made music in her mug as it hit its corners. Wynne sipped their own. It was nice. At least the tea was nice. They wanted to drink more nice tea for years and years to come, but in stead Mealla continued to speak, “Do remember to enjoy the last of your days, Alys. It is beautiful that you are so open to death, but you must also remember that there is no death without life. The weather is nice.” It was raining. The weather had been very much misty and dark, as if spring was reluctant to come around. It would be better to die on a grey day — but they didn't want to die yet. Wynne was quiet, unsure of how to form words that weren't no and please and so filled their mouth with more tea. “Enjoy the last of them. Do this for me, and I will ensure it is your thighs we cut first.”

#solo.#ireland.#threads.#a good corpse.

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razorsharpteeth · 10 months

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TIMING: A few years prior. PARTIES: Samir & Pat LOCATION: Jacksonville, FL SUMMARY: The newspaper at Samir's work bears headlines of two murdered tourists. He's normal about it. CONTENT WARNINGS: Mentions of murder.

FLORIDA RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN: TWO TOURISTS FOUND DEAD.

JACKSONVILLE — The bodies of two honeymooners were found on the shore this morning by a local fisherman. “Looked like someone had gone to town on them. This freak’s gotta go,” he said, before going on to describe the ripped states of their bodies poking out of the sand. Local authorities have no answers yet.

Bex and Dawn were a newly married couple exploring the Keys on their honeymoon. The pair went missing the night before their planned departure a week ago and had not been seen since. Their bodies were found on the shore after winds blew the sand they’d been buried under away …

Samir shut the newspaper with force, hands clammy as he tried to neatly fold it and return it to its rightful place in the breakroom. Nausea took a hold of him as he shoved his chair back, a tremor spreading from his hands to his stomach to his lips.

It had happened again. It had happened in the Keys, it had happened in West Palm Beach, it would happen if he went further north. What would they call him then? Would he still be the Florida Ripper when he ditched his state? Clammy hands ran through his hair, then over his face. He needed something cool, so turned to the drink machine and used a few of his last dollars to buy a can of coke.

Pressing that against his temple, he wondered for the umpteenth time if his DNA would match that of the wolf inside. He thought of the deaths that hadn’t been written off as murders, but rather as animal attacks. He wondered what was more accurate. Murder by man or animal.

The door creaked open, one of his colleagues slipping in the break room. “Alright?” Pat saluted, offering Samir a grin before seeing his slack and sweaty face. He looked like a melting wax figure, desperately pressing a cool tin can against his head. “Shit. Like, are you alright?”

A nod. “Yeah, the fuck’s telling you that I’m not?” Samir’s eyes flashed up, anxiety twisting into something more manageable. Anger was ever-present and poorly suppressed, especially in a moment of apparent weakness. He bristled. “It’s just hot out, yeah? Bitch-ass humidity. Can’t catch a break.”

He tried not to look at the newspaper, which appeared to have not been touched. The headline was screaming at him from his periphery, but he kept his eyes trained on Pat for a moment, as if challenging him to say something. To give him an excuse to go off. What did it matter, anyway? He’d have to get out of town soon enough, find another place to do the same shitty work. Soon enough, he’d never see Pat or think of him again.

The other just held up his hands. “Relax, man.” Samir watched him sit down at the round table, fingers reaching for the paper. His stomach lurched. A drop of sweat ran down his back and he found himself straightening, fingers pressing in the can but not strong enough to do any damage. The monster inside would break it.

“Well, hey, gotta go. Break’s over. See you ‘round.” Exiting the breakroom before Pat could comment on Florida’s own local serial killer, Samir found himself outside in the humid, blaring sun. Steps were taken with haste, though none of it alleviated the tension that made his chest grow tighter, tighter, tighter. Not even throwing the can against a wall and watching it explode was enough to leash the rage inside.

#solo.

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nightmaretist · 10 months

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PARTIES: Ingeborg, Hendrik and Vera Beenhakker. LOCATION: Ingeborg and Hendrik's home. TIMING: 1972 CONTENT WARNINGS: Allusions to spousal abuse and disordered eating. SUMMARY: A day in the life of a newly haunted Ingeborg, stuck in an unsatisfying marriage and trying her best at motherhood.

It was like this every day.

Wake. Hear the baby crying, but be stuck in the tangle of sheets and the terror that held her. Try to breathe. Try to breathe. Try to breathe, Ingeborg. That first gulp of air reactivating her body, stirring awake now. Untangle from the sheets. Try to ignore the wetness of the sweat that clung to her back. Swallow. Shake her hands. Try to forget what she dreamed of. Try to remember what it had been. Check her legs and arms for scratches.

Try not to wake Hendrik. That was most important. Let him rest, because if he wakes before his alarm, the day will be before it could start.

Go to the baby. Clutch her. Hope that her scratches wouldn’t stain Vera’s baby clothes. Let her drink. Hum to her, in the hope that she’d get a little easier. Sway with her, the prettiest thing that Inge had ever known, the prettiest thing she would ever hold. Tell her about her nightmares, because she was too young to understand the horrible things she dreamed of anyway, and didn’t every child want to hear their mother’s voice?

It was like this every day.

Make breakfast for Hendrik, but never for herself. “Is your appetite still bad?”, he’d ask, but not out of concern. His fingers would reach, wrap around her wrist and hold it up. “There is nothing on here, nothing on your bones at all. You’re going to fade away.” And then what purpose would she serve him? Child-bearing hips disappearing. Even her mother was making snide comments now. He’d let go, tut with annoyance and read his paper.

Eight A.M., and Hendrik would be gone. The house a sanctuary. The baby would cry again, and Inge would try to quiet her, but she wouldn’t hush. Inge would think of what the doctors had said, about how maybe there was something wrong with her that caused the night terrors. Something to do with her child, too, and how new mothers were often afflicted by this type of terror and depression.

Maybe it was her fault that Vera wouldn’t stop crying. (Hendrik would insinuate it was, slamming doors whenever the child would not stop. He’d grab her and ask her why she couldn’t get Vera to quiet down. Desperate. He was just desperate and tired, just like her.)

It was like this every day.

She would try to sleep during the daytime, because somehow it was easier then. She would do the dishes. Slave in the kitchen. Vacuum every corner despite having done it already the day before. Have a staring contest with a sandwich and lose halfway through. Listen to Vera crying again, go to see her, beg her to quiet. Try and sleep, curled up on the bed with her babe — which might be the only moment where she felt at peace. The sun at its highest point, her darling child sleeping with her on the mattress that was just hers when Hendrik was out.

Five thirty P.M., dinner was served. Every day. Some kind of meat, with some kind of starch, with some kind of potato. If Hendrik’s beer wasn’t cold, the night would be ruined, so the beer was always cold. He would tell her of his day, smelling like the manure that hung in the air of their small village. He would not ask her of her day. He would comment on the food, hardly ever complimentary.

He would eat three plates, and she one half. “That’s why she keeps crying, because you’re not eating,” he would say, chastising and blaming as those were his favorite games. And then he’d retire to the couch (hand outstretched for another beer) and Inge would retire to the kitchen, to clean the mess she’d made.

It was like this every day.

Hendrik would drink a few more beers. Became the type of husband no one would speak of, but everyone knew existed. Vera would cry. Inge would loiter. Hendrik would suggest maybe his wife sleep on the couch tonight, because she had kept him up again last night. He wouldn’t ask what was happening to her, why she woke up every morning unable to breathe. Why she’d scream.

He’d just ask her not to. And if she was going to, to do it in the living room where he would not be bothered.

He would not hold Vera. He would not hold her, unless he wanted something else. He would not thank her for changing the sheets, making the bed smell fresh again even if his stench always ruined it.

He would retire to bed and Inge wouldn’t. She would sit on the couch and draw the things she’d dreamed with charcoal, staining her fingers and postponing what was sure to come.

Vera would cry, again. Hendrik would bellow to get the child to quiet. The charcoal would rub off on her daughter and Ingeborg would beg her to quiet, that she loved her so but she loved her most when she would be quiet, because otherwise daddy would get mad.

And then, eventually, she would retire. To the bed her husband banished her from, because in her still lived the hope that this night would be different. That this night, no dreams would come. That this night, if they did, he would hold her and help her breathe. That the next day would not be like this.

#solo.#:)

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bountyhaunter · 6 months

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TIMING: Recent. LOCATION: The 3 Daggers. WARNINGS: N/A. SUMMARY: Daiyu comes to cash in on a bounty.

The door to The 3 Daggers slammed shut behind her, the cold winter wind pushing the wood close for Daiyu like it was some kind of favor it was doing her. She paid it little mind, pushing into the warm space with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, bits of snow shedding from her hiking boots. Her eyes flicked around the place, trying to gauge if there was a familiar face here and, if so, that were to pose a potential problem.

Stanson (first name forgotten by her chaotic mind) she did recognize, and she slumped down on a chair at his bar, the bag crashing on a chair next to her.

“What can I get ya?” He sounded vaguely like his brother, though that could just be her fantasy filling in the gaps — the camps had been a long time ago, and it wasn’t like Daiyu remembered particularly much of her childhood. Camp had been a reprieve, though, that much was certain.

Daiyu looked up at the owner as she started to shrug off her jacket. “Cherry coke.” The jacket, too, was disposed on the chair, one leg pulled up to the chair. “And a bowl of peanuts? You’ve got those, don’t ya? I always love ‘em.”

She was quite hungry, after all. Her hunt had taken a long time, and though she’d brought a fair amount of snacks to keep herself satiated, it hadn’t quite been enough. She’d tracked the Ahuizotl for most of the day, keeping a close eye on the forests around her as she familiarized herself with the new area. And then, once she’d tried to confuse it by imitating it, everything had gone awry. The Ahuizotl had not fallen for it, as her imitation had been followed by a burst of laughter at her own attempt and well, it had gotten what she had interpreted as offended.

One (or three) struggles later and here she sat, its head in her duffel bag and her eyes on the bounty she could check off her mental to-do list.

A cherry coke and bowl of peanuts appeared in front of her face soon enough and Daiyu grinned up. “Appreciated.” She was quick to dig in, shoveling a few peanuts into her mouth and washing them away with fizzing coke.

“What’s in the bag, then?,” Stanson asked, just as Daiyu was about to go off on a tangent.

“Do you mind if I take off my boots? My feet got wet and — oh, yes, that, it’s –” She pointed at the bounty on the board not too far off from the bar. “That little bastard. He got my feet all wet, is what I’m saying. Fuckin’ freezing, this time of year, but at least he won’t be able to get any of those little kids who go ice skating, hm?”

Stanson gestured as if to say sure, in regards to her question. “It’s the same one, then?”

“Yeah, shit, of course it is. Checked its markings and all. Got it right here — are you the guy who I talk to for payment, or like …” She squinted at the bounty. Sometimes she did forget to check who she was supposed to go to for payment until after the fact. This had led to her fulfilling some bounties of by-then deceased clients. Always a bit awkward.

She disappeared behind the bar, untying her shoes and hanging her socks to dry over the little footrest of her barstool. Popping back up, she’d completely missed what the other had said. “Anyway! I got it right here with me. Sorry about the feet.” She wasn’t sorry.

“All good. Should stock some socks here if you’re gonna keep doing this though,” he said, which elicited a burst of laughter from Daiyu. “I’ll contact the person who posted the bounty — but not until I see.”

Easy. Daiyu didn’t mind a bit of showing off, and so she pushed her coat aside (which fell onto the ground, where it would stay for at least an hour) and opened the bag, pulling out the severed head of the Ahuizotl and placing it on the bar, right next to her peanuts. It didn’t ruin her appetite. Very little did. “There ya go.”

#solo.#cherry coke with peanuts.#threads.

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intxication · 1 year

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Paint it Black

The world had been burst open at it’s seams, and all the horrible things had come out of it. There was a total rewrite of his brain, sending Mathias into a daze. His conversation with Lee had a lasting impact on him. There were rules that he always assumed he was meant to follow, for the safety and wellbeing of the gang. He always made sure to stick to the shadows and to not be so obvious with his kills. He even wore a mask most of the time to conceal his face because he didn’t want to give an identity to his violence. Now suddenly he was told that he didn’t need to care about any of that. Mathias was a killer well before he had been a hitman for the Syndicate. It was in his nature to kill without reason or fear of consequence.

His mind was the loudest it had ever been, but Mathias wasn’t listening to it anymore. The voices called for the death of strangers he passed by, but he didn’t spare a second glance at any of them. The voices had some sort of order to them, and what Mathias wanted couldn’t rely on order. He wanted to act purely on impulse.

His legs took him through the city in the late night, which was the best time for him to do as he pleased. The only people out and about were those who didn’t have anywhere else to go, and those who were just in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Mathias could have picked any of them as he walked the streets. He could have ditched their bodies in a dark alley to not be found until the sun came up. Or he could kill in a place that wouldn’t go unnoticed for too long. As he walked down the steps to a subway station, he settled on the latter idea.

There were always a few stragglers in the cars late at night, usually with their heads down as they tried to get some rest on their way home. Quiet cars with maybe a person or two in them and no one waiting on the platform. A perfect setting for something terrible.

The last car on the train had two men in it, sitting close to each other. Mathias boarded without a word, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket with his fingers brushing the cool blade of his weapons of choice. As the train pulled away from the station he put his plan into motion.

It was surprisingly quick. He didn’t take his time like how he would if it was a job. This was all to just scratch an itch he hadn’t been able to get to in a long time. He closed the small space between himself and the two other men. The moment of of them looked up at him, his knife was already coming down. Words didn’t even have a chance to be formed as Mathias sliced through the skin, veins, and cartilage of the man’s neck. Blood spurted, covering all three in crimson. Giddiness filled him, and a smile twisted and stretched his face. The voices were still so loud, screaming that it wasn’t their time, but they still went ignored. The only thing Mathias listened to was a quiet whisper that sounded a lot like himself. All that could be heard was this is me. The next time he used his knife, it lodged itself into the man’s gut, slicing him open and letting all the viscera spill out.

The panic started next. The last man stood up and slipped in the forming puddle of blood. Suddenly the subway car felt a lot smaller than it was. With nowhere to run, escape was impossible. Another swing of the knife, and the man’s cheek split open in an angry red smile. The screaming came, and Mathias took it all in. This is what he should have been the whole time. He killed not because he was told to, but because he could and he wanted to. They could not regulate what he brought to the world. The man screamed and screamed until Mathias took his knife and stabbed it through his temple. It was like hitting an off switch on a machine, and suddenly it was so quiet. The body slumped to the ground, leaving a scene of pure violence and chaos. The racket of the subway was cut with the announcement of the next stop.

Mathias took his time to clean the knife on his shirt, suddenly feeling so much more himself. He needed this, and he wanted more of it. The sight of the bloody car brought so much joy to him. When the train came to a stop, Mathias waited for the doors to open before stepping off. Eventually someone would find his scene, and he was anticipating it. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, pressing buttons with bloody fingers. The dial tone echoed in the empty station and Mathias waited to hear someone’s voice on the other line.

“Hello, my name is Mathias I would like to report a murder I just did. It’s two men on the last car of the A-Train. You can come to this location if you want, but I won’t be here by the time you do”. He paused as the dispatcher tried to comprehend what was being said, then asked a simple why? “Because I wanted to. It’s not my first, won’t be my last. I’m going to do this more, it makes me feel good. I wish you luck, and goodnight”.

He didn’t let another word out before hanging out and tossing his phone on the tracks. Mathias looked up to where I assumed cameras were and gave a little wave, his face in full view. It felt good to finally have the freedom he always wanted.

#solo.#{—Killing Strangers—}#tw: murder #tw: violence #tw: gore #tw: death #//i dont think i missed any other triggers but if i did please let me know ;3;#//also also if you'd like to plot something off of this go for it :3

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gswnoeul · 2 years

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( tw murder )

The day sees you go about it as usual, leisure as any Tuesday could be. Through midday, you receive a call. The number is unknown but something compells you to pick it up and place it to your ear. The man on the other end enthusiastically exclaims your name. “Jeon Noeul!” His breath is labored over the other end, and a laugh cuts through the receiver. “That little problem of yours … that guy? Consider it … taken care of.” A clicking noise akin to a revolver muffled in the background. “Remember this: you fucking owe me one.” The other end clicks again. Then silence. The next sound that emerges from the receiver is a different voice: Every wish comes at a price.

The muddled sounds find clarity–it’s a voice of an unknown man, the sound of a gun, the words of murder and a threat that only crashes against his ears; he can’t make sense of what’s happening, can’t make sense of this, of anything. One moment the man has been in coma since years, and the next–

he’s dead, he tells himself, he’s dead–he’s killed a man, and he doesn’t have to move past that realization for his father’s shadow to wash over him; it feels cool, completely in his head but so real, so heavy; his shoulders curve and he stares, eyes still wide, breaths still paused, brim with a heat that forces his lungs to expand, to inhale. Of course he’s wished for this, for the only person who knew about what he’d done to finally find peace in heaven or hell, or wherever people who engage in illegal gambling activities go.

Still, Noeul never thought it’d happen this way: with a stranger showing up and ending someone’s life. And while it wasn’t Noeul who pulled the trigger, it feels as though this is all his fault: he has killed someone, he’s no better than his father; he’s just as cold, just as deadly, and even his hands feel distant, foreign, as though he’s changing in the aftermath.

Maybe this is what a murderer feels like, he thinks: cold hands, quivering lips, eyes that sting with tears, little pricks of guilt and confusion and that inevitable sense of doom. He’s wished for this, he reminds himself, and finally finds his voice to answer. When he opens his mouth, the line clicks dead already and Noeul is left staring at the wall, at the window, at the way the sky is clouded by a blank sheet of gray, grim and ugly.

He should be glad, he reminds himself, and yet he isn’t sure of what he seeks anymore, whether mercy or forgiveness, whether an opportunity to have a different outcome. He can only hope the threat was nothing but empty words.

#solo.#tw murder #/ finally got around to replying to this aaa sorry for being slow @ main !!#who would have thought noeul would feel remorse !!!

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bejihun · 2 years

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a taste of fame

sleeping in late until the afternoon hadn’t helped jihun in waking up any less tired than normal. was it because he didn’t get a normal amount of oxygen at his height? was his body reacting negatively? that conclusion sounded less threatening than anything that a doctor might tell him, so he was happy to accept it as the truth. rolling over onto his side with a loud, dramatic, and drawn out groan, he reaches his arm out and fumbles around for his phone. jihun always found himself hoping that he’d wake up to a surprise message or two from someone that he hadn’t talked to for some time. who else would be texting him? it wasn’t like he had many people in his contacts list to begin with. but something was off.

if he was lucky, jihun would’ve received one or two messages from his brother. not that they ever were anything interesting or worth responding to. but as he unlocked his phone, his eyes grew wide as he thought for sure that he had to still be dreaming. “what the hell—?” in bold black letters, his notifications were showing that he had nearly twenty unread messages along with several missed calls from his older brother. had someone died?

already mentally preparing for the news that his mother had suddenly died due to some tragic accident, jihun clicks on the popup. but no such luck. instead, he was greeted with multiple links to posts made by an old classmate. if his brother hadn’t decided to fill him in through the many sent texts, it’s likely that jihun wouldn’t have even recognized the name of poster. besides, the name of the individual didn’t seem as important as what they were boldly claiming. “i never put my hands on anyone!” he loudly exclaims, suddenly sitting up. he hadn’t been a star student by any means, but all that jihun wanted during high school was to be finished with high school. he wouldn’t have started any needless fights just to make the whole process any more painful than it already was. in fact, he had been so quiet through his school years, he was almost surprised that anyone remembered him enough to make up such baseless rumors about him.

dramatically dropping his phone back onto the bed, he tilts his head back while squeezing his eyes shut. “well, that’s it. your career’s over before it even started. what’s the point in even trying anymore? mom was right. you shouldn’t try to be something that you’re not. such a failure isn’t cut out to be a famous idol.”

the rest of the day, jihun only went through the motions. he arrived to his shift only three minutes late and performed his usual duties, but it didn’t feel like he was actually there. it all felt numb. what was he supposed to do now? work at the same convenience store for the rest of his life? keep being a nobody? when it was finally time to clock out, he kept his head down and didn’t even bother to give his coworker a farewell wave as he simply walked out of the building. slowly pulling his phone from his front pocket, already filled with dread, he sees another hoard of messages. why not add insult to injury? he clicks the link.

had his dad hired a lawyer, or something? no, as much as he helped his younger son with finances, there was no way he could afford something like that. so why was everyone suddenly on his side? instead of backing up the claim that he had been a ruthless bully, there were posts that actually contained the truth. they talked about how he had been a bit of a loner who kept to himself. they told stories of how he had been harmless. after all, it would’ve been difficult for him to have started such violent fights when he barely had the energy to keep his head up in class. why had another classmate, who jihun couldn’t even remember, taken the time out of their day to come to his defense? maybe it was one of those things that he wasn’t supposed to question.

#solo.#be:takeachance.

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bexstevie · 1 year

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Name: steven park Date of Birth: july 17th, 2003 Height: 166cm

Preferred Company: n/a Performing Resume:

received second place in a surfing competition in his sophomore year

Inspirations: michael jackson, yoojung, yuna, tony hawk, tony alva, kelly slater, stephanie gilmore, goeun, kyle hanagami, my dad? Additional Talents/Skills:

english fluency

skateboarding

surfing

cpr + first aid training

very adaptable, go with the flow

optimism & good energy

Why are you auditioning for NEXT GEN?

on christmas, this nice lady gave me a card to contact for auditions. and i didn’t go. stuff came up, i got sick, and i honestly thought she was just meeting quota. but she was nice, and i felt bad, so now i’m gonna try here! i never really thought about being an idol before. i like dancing, and i like making choreography. it’s the new year so...figured i’d try something new! i don’t have too much faith i’ll get in, but you never know until you try, right?

Audition Tape: ( here )

#BE:NGS1P1 #solo.#( for tagging purposes )

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gswsoohyun · 2 years

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Some things are bound to happen as the universe wills them. The leaving of a package on your doorstep, your caretaker placing the object within on a high shelf, a calming day seated on the couch with calming music in the background. Minji runs the vacuum along the floor, adding a slight hum to the air. Beneath the droning, a soft tinkling begins to chime. A familiar tune that you do not quite hear. The shelf just above you rattles and shakes, the wind up piano. It scoots across the floor centimeter by centimeter until it teeters over the edge and falls ... right atop your head. Your eyes dot with various colors, then total darkness. It does not hurt nearly as much as you expected but it is enough for a visit to the emergency room.

OOC // Your wish has been fulfilled. The result of this wish will have echoes throughout your character’s journey. Answer the submit with your character’s reaction to the result; doing so will count for activity. Additionally, while your character recovers from his injury, he will be endowed with TELEKINESIS. Please refer to the features page or message the main for more information.

Soohyun wakes up to something familiar. It's antiseptic, slightly bitter, coying and thick in the air, mixing with the smell of soap and diluted bleach. The steady beeping of hospital machinery, keeping track of his heartbeat. He closes his eyes from the bright white lights, focusing on the slow beep, beep, beep. It's rhythmic, almost like a metronome.

He tries to remember how he got here. He remembers a calm day at home, the sound of Minji vacuuming throughout the living room. He's leaning back on the couch, eyes closed as he listens to the song playing from the radio. The notes crinkle through the air, mixing with the vacuum and Minji's soft humming. He had opened his eyes for...something. Maybe Minji had spoke to him, or the song had changed to something that struck a chord. He remembers looking up at the ceiling, staring at the blank white before feeling something strike him on the head, coloring his vision before blacking out.

As he opens his eyes now, he takes in the site of a doctor in a white coat speaking to Minji, who is wringing her hands in worry. The two turn to him at the same time. Minji grabs one of his hands, speaking a mile a minute until the doctor steps in.

"Mr. Kang, you gave us a real scare there. Do you know where you are?"

Soohyun's throat felt hoarse and dry. "The hospital."

The doctor smiled, kind. "Yes, good job. I'm going to ask you a few questions you might find a bit silly, but I'd love if you answered them anyway. Is that alright with you?"

He nodded, eyes looking around the room. "Yes, that's fine."

"Thank you. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"

"I was at home. Something...something fell. That's the last thing I remember."

The doctor nodded. "Good. Apparently a music box fell on you. Luckily head wounds always look worse than they actually are. Do you remember how you got here?"

Soohyun shook his head, wincing. "No. I don't remember anything after that. It's kind of...can I have a glass of water?"

The doctor nods. "Of course, Mr. Kang. Let me take some vitals first, and then you can have whatever you need."

Minji puts a cup of water she had grabbed down on the bedside table, watching as the doctor began checking Soohyun over.

Here is what no one in the room notices:

The cup of water moves.

#encounter.#solo.#loving soo's eleven moment

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freddybeezy · 6 months

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Sol-Angel 🖤✨🦀

21’ - 23’

Shot By: Rafael Rios, Kobe Wagstaff & Courtney Yates

#solo.#solange knowles #solange #blackfashion #black girl aesthetic #black style #black photographers

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hexgirling · 11 months

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“that character is a war criminal” that character is from a fictional fantasy world and did not attend the geneva convention

#this is my favorite tweet i ever made #rip twitter #fictional villains #the darkling #aleksander morovoza #anakin skywalker #halbrand #daemon targaryen #daenerys targeryan #house targaryen #rhysand #kylo ren #ben solo #jess speaks

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ohwynne · 11 months

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TIMING: November 2022. LOCATION: Protherian estate, on the shores of Moosehead lake. WARNINGS: Mentions of animal murder, abuse. SUMMARY: In a moment of clarity, Wynne decides to leave the commune and everything they know and love behind.

The moon stood bright on the night sky, nearly full but not yet, and shone through the curtains of Wynne’s room. One of the best in the estate, with one of the better mattresses (lined with the remnants of animals long past) and vivid oil paintings on the wall. Depicted there was Wales, the fields, the horses, the sheep, the forefather and even gythraul, hiding in many corners of the painted canvases.

Wynne was awake, staring at the dress hanging from a clothes hanger from their wardrobe, half reflected in the rusting mirror. It was the dress they’d have to wear the next evening, on the moment in the night when the betrayer’s moon was highest. Dark cotton, a simple cut that would hang from their shoulders to their ankles. A low neckline, so there would be no pushing away the fabric when the patriarch would slide his hunter’s knife to their throat and slit.

They hadn’t been able to eat today. Since the last ritual, mealtime had become a strange thing altogether, with people asking Wynne’s blessing on their food, with Wynne sitting on the main table, looking over all Protherians as if they were a lady in a medieval hall. They were glad they could make people feel a little better, that there was some worth in this position they’d been granted. The honor, they reminded themself, the honor of doing something that would be good for the entire community. How many other people can say they’re going to do such a thing in their life, Wynne?

They sat there sleepless for hours, staring at the dress of death, fiddling with the phalange of a rabbit as if the repeated motions would make their heart feel a little easier. There was so little time left and here they sat, completely alone. For a straight hour, Wynne considered going to their parents and appealing to them, but there was no bravery. No use in it, either: they wouldn’t listen to them, if they voiced their fear and reluctance of dying. To them, it was a gift — to have their child be chosen to perform the highest honor there was among Protherians, to have the Hughes family name be immortalized forever, to be thanked for their sacrifice for the years to come.

Bravery did come eventually, though. The panic that raced through their body made it feel like they were being chased, and weren’t they? If they remained here, they’d not make it another twenty four hours. Their mother and cousins would come to help them dress, stick flowers in their hair and scented hair on exposed skin, would whisper words of admiration and jealousy. Eirwen would pull their hair on accident and speak with a venomous nature that Wynne always wanted to meet with that same vitriol. If you’re so jealous, why don’t you go up there and die? If they remained here, Siors would walk up to them laid on that altar and whisper the name of gythraul in their ear and slit their throat, completely. He may as well be chasing them now.

Wynne didn’t have a suitcase. Protherians didn’t travel, especially not those intended to die. But there were bags in this room, a backpack used for days out to the town for trading and shopping and smaller ones, for carrying things around on the estate. They were thrown on the bed. Then a bundle of clothes, their ritual dress tossed onto the floor in a pathetic heap. More clothes. A picture frame of them and their brother. Two of the books they liked to read. Notebooks, their own. An extra pair of leather shoes, sturdy and strong. They packed as if Siors was on the other side of the door with his hunting knife, trying to make as little noise as possible and trying even harder not to cry.

The instinct was easily suppressed. Their facade of acceptance was teetering and slipping, but the lack of emotion and fear in regards to their own situation remained. All there was was instinct, a ringing in their ear. I don’t want to die, I don’t want them to watch me die.

When their bags were filled to the brim they buttoned close their coat, pulled a thick scarf around their face and neck, and spent one last moment writing a note. They didn’t have any words besides: I don’t want to die, I’m sorry, so they didn’t write more. It was placed on their bed. For the first time in ten years, they didn’t make it before leaving their room.

On socks, they moved through the building where the community slept. The doors were bolted shut with keys they didn’t own, but Wynne knew from their days of sneaking around with Beca (who hadn’t wanted to be with someone about to be nothing more than a sanctified martyr) that the kitchen window propped open with ease. Out they went. Put on their shoes, their toes already cold from the frigid air.

They stood there, staring up at the dark building and all the dark ones around them. The sheep and chickens and horses were all sleeping, as were the dogs. Maybe one of the barn cats was hunting, though. Not even Collen could be seen prodding a fire. It was like they were the only one left alive, rather than just the only one awake.

They stared, wondering where to go next. They had no plan, despite the fact that they had imagined doing what they were doing for years now. As if the plan had already written itself in their mind, as they smiled and bowed their head and killed a chicken at the altar and just let it all happen, continuously, convinced that the honor they were supposed to feel was real. Something must have happened during all that pretense – if that was what it had been, and not just duty – and now here they stood, viscerally aware of the rate of bus tickets in the next town over. Of the fact that they had to get money, that they had to start walking soon before the first people started to rise. That it would be a long walk, longer than they were used to. That there was so much out there, though, and that most of it would be time they wouldn’t have had here. Every second on the run was one more second lived than intended.

And yet, there was the doubt. Doubt was betrayal, they knew that — but who were they betraying with this doubt? Because wanting to stay was to be loyal to the community as they were supposed to.

Maybe this doubt was disloyalty to themself, then. It wasn’t a thing Wynne had ever considered before.

And so Wynne kept pushing onward, breaking the glass of the building only elders were supposed to go into. They breathed hard through their moment of thievery, a rule that was punished severely among the members of the commune — they were expected to share, after all, and not take for themself. They stepped over cracked glass with three thousand dollars wrapped up in old papers, stuffed in their coat pockets. They considered smashing it all to bits, all the things in that building where they had never been. They considered ransacking it and reading every bit of paper they could get their hands on, as if there would be an explanation of why it had to be them, why it even had to be anyone, why people were like this and even more dangerously, why demons were.

But they were running, not researching, so they moved. Their steps heavy, their heart heavier. There was one stop left to make.

Wynne kneeled at the altar, their bags on either side of them. The stone table was engraved with ancient markings, or so they had been told, the grooves having turned permanently darker from the blood of previous sacrifice, or so they had been told. From one of the pockets on their skirt, Wynne pulled some dried lavender. There was no fire to light it with. The rabbit phalange joined, next to it. They breathed in deep and exhaled deeper, tears streaming quietly.

One small sacrifice was made, Wynne nicking their thumb on the sharp edge of the bone on purpose and watching a steady drop of blood form. It was a clumsy process, the bone not sharp enough and their tears blurring their vision, but once it came they smeared it on the stone.

They didn’t know what It would do to the ones that remained here, in gythraul’s domain. They didn’t know what It would do to them, once they left and were practically asking to be hunted down. But this was a plea, the first one made in years. This time, there was no one to hear them make it and thus, no one to strike back. No backhand from their mother, no retribution from their mentor Padrig, no silent fear from their brother. There was just them whispering, “Please,” as if there was any reasoning to do with demons.

And in spite of their doubt, and in spite of their fear, Wynne got up with their bags and started walking. Only once, they looked back over their shoulder, to the commune that slept while they were wide awake.

#solo.

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tonsillessscum · 5 months

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Leia post in honor of Carrie Fisher’s passing which was 7 years ago today.

#star wars #leia #princess leia #leia of alderaan #leia skywalker #leia organa #Star Wars memes #Carrie fisher #Han solo #leiahan #empire strikes back #a new hope #return of the jedi #ristarwars

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nightmaretist · 1 year

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haunted by your own narrative. || solo.

TIMING: About five years ago. PARTIES: Ingeborg Endeman & Marcia Clarke. SUMMARY: Inge intends to haunt the nightmares of Marcia, a recurring victim of hers. She ends up haunted in stead, by her own poorly repressed memory. CONTENT WARNINGS: Hospitals, bugs, mentions of child death, mention of breastcancer.

Smells were hard to imitate in dreams, as if the subconscious was merely designed to recreate visions and sounds and nothing else. But the smell of hospitals was so deeply present and visceral in Ingeborg’s own mind, that she was able to imitate it for others if she focused hard. That stale, sterile smell, of cleaning agents and bleach, that smell that had embedded itself in the very lines of her brain. A smell that seemed to haunt a fair amount of people, as if hospitals were a monster in and of itself, where people walked into its maw and came out haunted.

What dull thing, Ingeborg thought. What boring, bureaucratic, modern tragedy! To her, there was little inspiration to find in those white hallways and its doctors, the drab meals. Sure, there was death and decay – popular topics of nightmares – but what excitement lay there? What artistic value? And yet ever since the month spent in hospital with Vera, Inge’s mind kept drifting to hospital scenes. So too, did the mind of Marcia Clarke. How depressingly drab her nightmares had been before the mare’s intervention — hospital scene after hospital scene, sick family members.

Sure, it was a valid fear, losing others. Ingeborg found it existed within mortals and immortals alike, sat somewhere in her being too — but if you got to choose what someone was afraid of, it certainly shouldn’t be something as downtrodden as that. What good had come of heart attacks, anyway, besides bad love songs and even worse poems with tired metaphors?

So Ingeborg walked the halls of a dream hospital, pouring the smell of sterile death around her. It oozed from her as Marcia waited behind one of the doors in the hall, as she had been doing every odd Tuesday and every even Thursday night. Inge’s feet clicked on the hospital linoleum, clawed things making scratches in the surface and creating a sound that Marcia – still in her empty, dark room – could only hear come closer, accompanied with the smell that took her back to other times.

Marcia’s fear grew as Ingeborg grew nearer, the talons on her fingers growing, scratching at the door. Swinging the door open, she entered. Nurse’s uniform hiding monstrous form, a mask hiding a red smear of a mouth. The light shone in from the hallway as she tapped her clipboard, tutting her tongue. “It doesn’t look very good,” she said, shaking her head in genuine disarray. This too, was an artform: acting. She had more interest in the visual arts, to be sure, but there was some fun to be found here too. She didn’t always take center stage, sometimes opted for nightmares more abstract or larger than just her, but with Marcia it was so simple. A bug crawled from her pen and she shook it off, and as it fell on the floor it began to multiply. She let it.

Staring at her clipboard – this was supposed to be an act, a part of the performance – her eyes got caught on a few words. A surname from a past life — Hendrik’s surname, the one her daughter had gotten and kept even after they’d separated from her father. Vera Beenhakker, with diagnoses that were all too familiar to Inge. The bugs at her feet crawled up her legs and she shook one of her paws, scattering some of them but not able to fight it. “Mrs Clarke, I’m afraid —” She had to finish this dream, the way she always did: on a cliffhanger, with an amount of dread that would haunt Marcia until the next Tuesday or Thursday, but the bugs crawled higher. A bird cawed (the bird belonged to the dreams of another, not Marcia) and Ingeborg wondered if it was possible that her hands grew clammy. She stared at her talons, then at the name Vera Beenhakker, at the diagnosis, borstkanker, at the birth year, 1971.

Marcia was piping up, suddenly, the woman growing brave now that her nightmarish foe wasn’t acting as it always was. “There’s something on your face.” Why she would say such a thing, Ingeborg didn’t know — but she reached up with her now-human-again hands and patted her cheeks. Something wet, but not quite: it was cold and slick, sparkled as she pulled back her hand. “Are you alright?” Her eyes flickered from her hands to Marcia, the woman with suddenly a lot of guts.

Ingeborg dropped her clipboard, ripped off her mask and snarled, revealing three twirling, forked tongues and sharp teeth that snapped as her warped voice spoke: “He’s already dead! He’s been dead for months, and you must drop the act! I implore you to drop it, ma’am, for your own sake if not your children’s! He’s dead, cease your futile denial, you fool!”

The nightmare ended there, all darkness and Ingeborg back in her own body. Marcia had to be panting in her bed by now, clutching her sheets before turning to her husband, sleeping peacefully next to her. But it mattered nothing to her, now: while she felt somewhat satiated, she also found herself panting, resting her hands on her knees and staring at the darkness in front of her. This had to be it, then, the end of her nightmare-relationship with Marcia Clarke — not only because she might be revealing too much of herself, but because she was startlingly aware that hospital-nightmares would be a no-go going forward, unless she wished to be haunted by her daughter even more.

#solo.

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