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whoknowsyourfuture · 1 year

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Knives Out 2: The Glass Onion and And Then There Were None

Spoiler warning for The Glass Onion.

So, I watched The Glass Onion and absolutely loved it, I think even more than the original. Of course, as with all media I fall head over heels with, I dive into the Tumblr tag for it, and I've noticed something interesting. I've noticed a few people talking about how it draws from Clue, but I haven't found anyone talking about the parallels with And Then There Were None, which is interesting because of how clear they were for me. To be fair, I have acted in a community production of And Then There Were None, so I know it very well. I thought I'd go over what I noticed linking the two since there are just. So many threads guys.

So clearly the setting is the most obvious, an over the top mansion on an island which is unable to immediately be accessible to those on the mainland. The second is in some part the invitations, even if in Knives Out they are both more outlandish and less individual, as the puzzles boxes were the same and not created by Miles, whereas the letters from U.N. Owen were designed specifically to get each person there. The third biggest initial thing is how Duke brings a gun to the island, which is also an excellent red herring for those familiar with ATTWN, as we're expecting it to become a big thing, but maybe not in the way it ultimately becomes significant. For those not familiar with ATTWN, one of the characters, Phillip Lombard, brings a gun at the behest of U.N. Owen, and he is arguably the most dudebro of the book, even if he has an extra depth we discover later on, which again is similar to Duke.

There are a few other little things that could be references or not that I'll run through before I get to the biggest ones. The islands are both run by significantly less staff than normal, with the Rodgers the only servants in ATTWN and robots in Knives Out. The hourly dong could be a reference to the record of accusations in ATTWN. Even Miles almost running over Duke could be a reference to one of the characters in ATTWN, as Anthony Marston almost runs another character off the road on the way to the island and does run over two children driving recklessly. Both stories even have detectives invited to the island, although motives are very different for those characters.

Then we come to Duke's death. Stroke for stroke, it is very similar to Marston's death in ATTWN. Accusations are levied, the party grows uncomfortable, and one character drinks, almost immediately dying. Poison is the immediate suspect, and it is discovered that they cannot escape the island until morning. This is where the parallels diverge, as everything happens a bit faster in Knives Out, but there is a period when all lights go out, and another body is found.

Finally, the simplest similarity, but it’s hard to notice as the story literally tells you not to notice. In ATTWN, ten people are on the island. There are ten people on the island in Knives Out.

Benoit Blanc

Miles Bron

Birdy Jay

Peg

Claire Debella

Lionel Toussaint

Duke Cody

Whisky

Andi/Helen Brand

Derol

Yeah, Derol. He literally goes ignore me, I'm not here, but he is the tenth living person on the island. This is also a bit obfuscated by Benoit telling Miles that he has invited 7 people to the island with reason to want him dead, which I think most people will brush over and think yeah, there's seven people there, either forgetting Peg and Whiskey in the moment or not counting Benoit, Miles or Derol. Arguably, there’s a case for either Helen and Andi counting as separate people, or the Mona Lisa counting as a person, but as for alive people on the island, Derol rounds it out.

There’s probably dozens of influences for the movie, just like there were for the original Knives Out, but I think ATTWN has a very marked influence that I thought was very fun and left lots of misdirections for those familiar with both works. I loved how it brought elements into the story, but did not try to be an adaptation. I’ve already watched Glass Onion twice, and I’m sure I’ll watch it plenty more times with how much stuff there is to catch for the wary viewer.

#knives out spoilers #knives out: glass onion #ATTWN #Knives out: glass onion spoliers #guys i frigging love this movie so much #and it's so #so #topical #imma be doing so much thinking on this movie

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canisolveagatha · 1 year

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Chapter 5(4 disappeared somehow…)

Thoughts on the writing

WTF I love Emily now. Seriously though, things are finally heating up, we have our first Death, we’ve got the premise, and all the outward details of each characters storied past out in the open, so we’re finally past the exposition stage. Not that I have a problem with Agatha’s exposition, she’s a phenomenal stage-setter, but there’s nothing like that slip from “Where’s where we are” to “Shit is happening”.

I think the most poignant thing that Christie does here is establish, point out, and chide our weakness for shitty people who make us love them through sheer force of will. The two “villains” in this scene are, of course, Lombard and Marston. Both of them show a callous disregard for human life. They represent two archetypes we see frequently in modern literature (And modern politics unfortunately): The monster who puts on no pretense about his identity as a villain, and the fool who does not recognize the impact of his actions on others, and so can barely be considered a villain. These two murderous archetypes have been used for as long as I have been reading, and they never fail to deliver. I rooted for Bray Wyatt against John Cena, and if there’s a man worth more than Jason Mendoza, I don’t want to meet him because my face would probably melt off, Raiders of the Lost Arc style.

That said.

I love how much of a balance Agatha Christie strikes here. I love that, in spite of her own racist inclinations, Christie does not make one single bone about Lombard being, as Shakespeare would put it, a damned, dealing villain, I love that every other person looks at him with shock and disgust, when he describes how “Natives don’t care about dying the same way we do”. I also love that she fucking crosses the child killer off her(I assume, Extensive) murder list, as her first target. Cuz I don’t care if he’s too stupid to understand the consequence of his actions. I don’t care if when I picture him, I get a little turned on because boy can Christie write a bad boy archetype like no ones’ business. He kills two children and he deserves to have been brought to some sort of justice. And while this blogger believes that vigilante justice is often the work of weak chinned self-inserters who would have NO idea what to do in an active shooter situation (Why is Trump here? Why is he here? It’s been two years and he’s chillin in my solve blog), there’s some entertainment in watching the Immortal Man get what’s coming to him. If Lombard is next, I wouldn’t lose much sleep, but I think she’ll keep him around for longer in order to give us someone to root against. Everyone else is at least at this point presumed to be a victim.

Liked this chapter a lot. Getting the reactions from everyone was a very solid payoff. I have been wondering what is up with the foreshadowing on Marston the whole time. They kept describing him as seeming immortal and full of life. I knew his death would be significant, now I know why. It was the breaking of the seal. Christie wanted to make VERY sure that we felt this first one from the characters’ perspective.

I find the way she is using the doctor and the detective as authority figures to be interesting. It reminds me of a game of Werewolf or Mafia, it behooves the killer to kill the people who might have a hand on thwarting them early. But this killer, or as you will later in this post read, killers, seem to be totally in control of the situation, The job will get done, one way or another.

What a fucking Hypocrite Macarthur is. My god. Bitching at Lombard about abandoning men with what he did. What a lil bitch.

Important Questions

Who is going to die next?: IDK, I don’t think any of my foreshadowing pan out as I thought it would ;A; I couldn’t have picked Marston as the choking victim if you paid me, so who knows if any of my predictions will come to pass. Then again, maybe Christie doesn’t feel the need to pander to her audience, maybe she puts foreshadowing in where it feels natural and not where it doesn’t. After all, if she put in a nod to every single one of them, I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only one who solved the mystery before it was even begun. Maybe some of these are…red Herrings.

Who is innocent and who isn’t?: I think this is a more fun question than any other, even whodunnit. I think Vera, MacArthur, Emily, and the Rogers’s are just completely undeserving of the accusations they’re getting. Marston certainly wasn’t blameless, nor is Dr. Armstrong. Lombard. Obviously. I think Wargrave could go either way, I’m very torn on him. Blor seems too guilty to not have some true blame in what he did.

How did the poison get in Marston’s Glass?: On one hand, Emily is the only person who does not rush out to see the gramaphone. She would be with the unattended glass, and therefore able to slip the poison in. It would also explain some of her demeanor, and the statement “In the midst of life, we are around death”. This could allude to the fact that she knows the killer is still in the room, because it’s her.

On the other hand, the Rogers’s are sketchy as shit. That fainting thing I mentioned in the Chapter 4 post, and them having control over food and drink? Pretty suspect. Could be either of these two.

Who took the china doll: I think each character is instructed to take their piece once they’ve killed a person. Or. Something like that. Still working out the details on this Battle Royale Theory.

How does the Organizer know all these things?: I have two theories on this: First, that the organizer is a set of individuals. Armitage, Hugo, people who have been wronged by the 10 and are seeking revenge. Two: not very different, that the organizer is one person, but is getting the info from these people. I think this is more likely, because how would all these people have met. I mean. Strangers on a Train works a lot less well if there’s like 10 people yammering about forging a murder agreement. I think it would have to be someone involved in law. Someone who had seen all these cases and had the connections to have seen them come and go. Most of the 10 have mentioned, or do not need to mention, that legal proceedings were a part of their situation. Someone who had seen these cases, or heard of them, and got an inclination that justice was being miscarried. In any case, many of the individuals who are hiding something have mentioned a person they knew who could have been a witness to their deeds. We’ll see how this plays out.

What happens next

Well, presumably the 9th little soldier boy is going to kick off. We now have pretty definitive proof that they’re going to go in order, so next will be someone who “Stays In Bed”. Pretty clear cut. Someone is going to die overnight.

So, all these characters have gone to bed, so conceivably any of them could be the one who “Doesn’t wake”, but I think it’s either going to be Macarthur (Doubtful, I think he’ll be the one who “Stays behind”, based on his whole weird semi-suicidal monologue.

), because we have about as much closure as we need on his story, or, highly more likely, Mrs. Rogers. She is specifically mentioned as having gone to bed and is sleeping, and we don’t need perspective from her to get closure on the Rogers story. We can get that through Rogers.

Whodunnit

Fuck it: NARRACOTT! NARRACOTT! I’m going with my weird ass theory that this dude in the boat is the mastermind behind it all!

Okay. Here’s a fucking NUTS theory: what if each of them is supposed to kill the other. Hear me out. Each of them has something for which they could be blackmailed, accurate or no, and each of them has dealt closely with death, and in the organizer’s(as I will now be calling the party or parties responsible for this situation) eyes, they’re all already murderers. And yes, we’ve got a light into each of these peoples’ minds, but that has never stopped any good author from concealing what they need to. What if this isn’t Saw, what if it’s Battle Royale?

The one problem I have with this theory is Narricott. No, I’m not stuckon that wild Hare theory still, now that I have something juicier. What I mean is that he has a whole bit while driving them out to the island, where he talks about the last group to go out there and muses on them like a total creep. If this was a battle royale situation, that still requires an organizer, if it’s happened multiple times. I suppose Narricott could be the organizer, but idk, that just seems off. He seems smart enough to be a murderer, but not necessarily smart enough to run a Battle Royale by Request service. Then again, who knows, we saw only a small glimpse into his head, enough to know he’s in on it.

#solve blog #agatha christie #and then there were none #ATTWN #mystery #mystery literature

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illyrian-dreamer · 2 months

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And Then There Were None – Part 1

Azriel/fem!reader

Synopsis: In the lead up to the war, Hybern releases a catastrophic spell that wipes out all humans, sparing just one.

Abandoned in the desolate human lands, you scavenge to survive long enough to find your family.

Reluctantly, you are found by the Shadowsinger as fate intervenes to guide you under his watchful eye.

Part 2>>>

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Death, blood, suggestions of miscarriage

Twigs snapped beneath your boots, your steps heavy with exhaustion as you stumbled through yet another town, as barren and deserted as the last one.

Exhaustion and dehydration weighed heavy, wisps of dust caking your skirts, your boots the only thing to disturb the rubble in days.

There was no concern for a carriage that might pull up behind, or a bossy merchant to yell at you to clear the path. While the ghosts of the life that once flourished echoed in closed shops and abandoned stalls, you stopped looking over your back days ago.

There were no plumes of smoke from chimneys, no distant chatter or laughter or cries. Safe from the occasional grunts or mews of abandoned cattle - there was not a single sign of life, and no human in sight for the past ten days.

A jarring cramp ripped from your abdomen, pulling you from delirium with urgency.

Water, food, bathe and sleep. That was why you were here.

You tried not to think about how quickly resources were depleting, even though you were sure you were the only one using them. Without people to treat water, the stagnant liquid became increasingly dangerous. And you couldn’t farm a vegetable to save your life, and had spent too long journeying to have tended to any crops.

You’d have to go further into the woods soon, find a fresh stream, perhaps hunt too. But you'd need strength for that, and you had just about run out.

At least it was spring, and at least the trees bloomed with fruit as you travelled from town to town, feet blistered and chapped. You cursed you parents for not teaching you formidable survival skills - fighting, hunting, even the ability to ride a gods damned horse would have been an incomparable luxury these past hellish days.

A clang of guilt, and frustration quickly churned to longing. Gods, you hoped they were alive. You would do anything to have them here, to journey this devastating isolation together, the little ones too. You prayed to the Mother for the umpteenth time that day that they were safe and well.

It was not a concern when you woke to an empty house almost a fortnight earlier. Your father was likely at the market, your mother hard at work at the tailor in town. Your siblings were hard to catch at this time of year, with school out of term and the warm spring air, they would spend each waking moment by the river if your parents let them.

It wasn't until you spotted your fathers wheelbarrow through the speckled glass of your kitchen window, held by rotting wood. Empty and unmoved, his tools lay flat on the ground, untouched since the day before. You could have sworn he told you he’d be at the market by dawn.

Scanning the room, your eyes flicked to the doorway where your mothers workbag lay untouched. Needles sat poked in balls of yarn as stray thread sprawled over leather - but an eery stillness sang to you at your parent’s tools.

Names and calls went unanswered, and after a quick search of the home you ran outside, urgent to ask your neighbours where they had gone, your heart fastening with every step.

Too frantic to observe the lack of movement and noise from your own street, you rapped on the door, waiting only a few seconds to push the rattling screen and forcing your way in.

Names went unanswered again, and it was instinct that steered you straight for the nursery. You halted at the sight of new born's empty crib, blankets rippled as if the babe was taken straight from it’s sleep.

Your calls turned frantic as you scoured each room, an upsetting, looming sensation creeping over your skin.

Bursting from the home, you shielded your eyes from the bright sun as you scanned the street with urgency. Your only greeting was a quiet breeze and snort of a horse left abandoned by a cart - as if it had stopped it's journey halfway through.

In a panicked haze, you searched the next home, and the next, and the next. The dizziness found you then.

Clearly there was an emergency of some kind. But you had been abandoned, left to sleep until midday amongst the quiet. The thought pained you.

More calls to anyone who might have stayed behind, yet still no answer. Your heart was a thunder in your ears.

Had the war finally reached you? Had your family fled in the dead of the night? You shook the thought from your head – they would have woken you, would have needed your help to escape with the youngens.

And then you were running – yelling, sprinting through the dusty streets, voice breaking as you dashed from home to home, shop to shop, calling, crying, pleading.

You were utterly alone. You had been left there, alone.

In a swarm of panic, you pressed a palm at your heart, willing yourself to calm. It was a dream, surely. You were not abandoned, only stuck in a nightmare, the kind that often found you as murmurs of Hybern’s army reaching human lands became louder.

In that dizzying thought, you willed yourself awake, forcing your eyes open to the walls of your dark and cramped room, to the noises as your siblings shouting and playing from downstairs, to the whistle of the kettle and the creak of the wood as your father came to wake you.

But the light was blinding, the sun as true as the your abandonment.

Beads of sweat that ran down your neck, a gnawing anxiousness building in your stomach as it heaved and cramped, nausea and panic churning to one.

Something truly terrible had happened.

And in that moment of utter disbelief, a stabbing pain ripped from your stomach, so great it forced a whimper from your throat.

As silent trickles of blood ran from your thighs to your knees, tracing your calves beneath the fabric of your skirt, you found a numbing sort of courage. Pushing your legs forward, you mindlessly heeded the road out of your home town, and on to the next.

People. You needed to find people.

————

Ten days, and still not a single sole in sight. Each home, each tavern, each market and farm left eerily untouched.

The silence was enough to drive you mad, if not besides the aide you so desperately sought. This was not your cycle - although the pains were familiar. You had known what you were, what this was.

Almost a fortnight, yet the blood still came. Slower now, spotting instead of trickles. You had stolen clothing from abandoned shops, food and water too. But you were distraught, moments away from folding into utter madness. And you were weak – very, very weak.

Water, food, a bath and rest. A list you repeated to yourself, your body begging to prioritise sleep with every step as you approached a farm at the town’s edge.

With a weak hand, you pushed past the gate to the yard, large rusty barrels sat open where a cow and her calf now drank. The water was murky with a distinct smell, but it would have to do. Tomorrow, you’d find fresh water tomorrow.

The trembling hand that dipped to the cool water hardly looked like your own. Dirt lay thick under your nails, your skin littered with cuts from the countless times you had shattered windows of stores and traders homes, scouring the stock for preserved goods and weapons.

Bringing the cool liquid to your lips, you ignored the taste of iron as you willed it to soothe your throat - hoarse from the endless calls that went unanswered.

Ears pricking at sudden growl behind you, you jerked at the site of a pack of dogs who approached on stealthy paws. Their eyes were hungry - flicking between you and the calf. Once loyal farming dogs you were sure, now abandoned by owners and left to fend for themselves. They had formed packs - clever things. While you were sure they couldn't kill you, you didn't have the strength to fight an infection if they got close enough to sink their teeth.

From your side, you unsheathed the hunting knife you had looted from a previous town. Swinging it with unpracticed skill, you shouted at the pack, your heart thundering as you waited for them to recline on hindered paws and leap.

They pack seemed to weigh you up, deciding the calf was an easier target. You fled inside the house before you could see it meet it’s end.

The home was neat, and you almost cried at the sight of a loaf of bread sitting atop the kitchen counters. Mould had attacked it’s edges, but you tore at it, fisting mouthfuls of the centre, dry crumbs coating your throat it was an effort not to choke.

Your stomach lurched, unhappy with the quality of the food and water, but you didn't care. You were on step closer to rest.

Another jarring cramp from your stomach, and you faltered, gripping at the wooden table as you trembled to keep yourself upright. This ailment, how much longer would you last? Sleep begged at you, your body moments from giving out. You’d have to forgo the bath, and prayed to the mother you’d find the strength for it in the morning.

Forcing yourself to the bedroom, swaying with each stumbled step, consciousness was already slipping as you collapsed on the bed, clothes and boots in tact.

————

It was a feverish sleep, your body doused in sweat as you stirred often, jolting awake in panics, phantom calls of your family mixed with the flap of wings, and the crunch of stone and rock under heavy boots.

Then a voice, voices – ones you were sure they were part of your slumber.

But as those footsteps got closer, you woke in a startle, your heart fastened as you blinked furiously.

Voices. Humans. People. Alive, well enough to talk.

You leapt from the bed, ignoring the spin of your head as you clambered to the window, peering behind sheer drapes to the street in front.

Your stomach sank. Lurched. Then sank again.

A large, demonic figure stalked for the home. Wings arched behind it’s head, it’s figure blackened by the leathers it bore, sword and knives strapped around.

And, wisps of some kind. Deadly, reaping magic.

Fae.

Fae had come.

Knees buckling, you stumbled back a few steps.

The world around you reeled as adrenaline coursed through. You would have just moments to prepare if you wanted a chance to survive.

Knife. Your hunting knife. Still strewn at your hip.

Grasping it’s hilt tightly with a trembling hand, you scanned the room for the best place to hide.

The cupboard was too obvious, and there was room under the bed - but there’d be not enough to swing your knife, only enough for them to drag you by the ankle…

The gentle click of the front door opening, and it took all you had not to whimper in panic.

Scrambling for the door as quietly as possible, you pressed your palm to your mouth, begging yourself not to cry as you pressed yourself behind the wood.

From what you could hear over the thunder of your heart, the steps of the fae were quiet despite it’s size.

“Anything in there?” a deep voice boomed from the street. You jolted at the volume. More than one, then.

There was no reply from the creature in the home, only the creak of the wood as it made it’s way through.

“Really, Azriel? Are we to check every home?” Female this time, impatience and ignorance laced in the somehow ancient voice.

No response again, instead a footstep, right by the door.

Something tickled your ankles then, and it was beyond you to stifle your compulsive scream.

Black furling wisps coated your boots.

And then the door opened.

The creature made it one step inside before you had aimed your knife for it’s heart.

A prepared, cool hand caught your wrist inches from it’s chest. Your bones crushing in it’s grasp, and you let out a yelp of pain.

It’s face - his face - was one of shock. “S-sorry,” he stuttered, dropping his grip all together.

You blinked back in shock, ignoring at the throb of your wrist as you snatched it back.

For a dumb moment, you stared at each other with equally wide eyes. The male didn't seem to know what to do.

“You’re human? How are you here, where-?"

The males sentence was clipped short as you drove the knife towards his chest again.

Quick as an asp, he caught you by the forearm this time, more gently too.

Hazel eyes scanned you, his features schooling as he called over his shoulder. “I’ve found someone.”

You were sure you looked mad, grunting with the effort to pull your arm from him, breaths ragged, eyes and hair wild. The male studied you as he might a rabid animal.

Behind him appeared an even taller male, his form more terrifying than the one that gripped you.

“Mother above,” the new one whispered, scanning you in the way the first one had.

“L-let go of me,” you rasped, pulling your arm back, tears stinging at the pain of you surely broken wrist began to swell.

It was a odd detail to note, the scars and ripples of the fae’s hand as he gently unfurled your fingers, prying the hunting knife from you before releasing his grip.

“Let me see,” the female’s voice piped from behind, the males struggling to fold their wings further, cramming into the room to let her through.

You faltered back on instinct, legs hitting the edge of the bed.

As the female broke through the males, harsh silver eyes scanned you up and down. She was half their height, a little shorter than you actually, but the depth of her gaze kept your hands by your side.

“Seems the Mother has spared one after all,” she muttered, nose crumpling at your scent.

Your answered with a scowl.

“What is your name?” it demanded.

“Amren,” the taller male warned, his eyes flicking back to you with softness.

You refused to answer. Couldn’t if you wanted to.

Amren sighed, casting her head sideways to the one with rippled hands. “She bleeds.”

“I know,” he answered, hazel eyes not breaking from you. You blushed, furious and humiliated.

He stepped around her then, the movement graceful and soft despite his size.

“You need aide.”

You gulped, unable to process his words. “L-leave me be,” you demanded, voice hoarse as you tried to create more distance between you and it.

He crouched in front of you then, leathers stretching against ripples of muscle. You noticed them then, jewels, saphires, humming from his body as if they were alive.

He followed your eyes curiously, before answering you with a soft smile.

“These are siphons,” he said plainly, giving one a friendly tap.

You snapped your eyes back to him, disgust forming your features. “You are here on behalf of Hybern?”

The female snorted from behind, earning a shove from the larger male beside her, his siphons glowing red.

The one in front of you studied you. “No, absolutely not.”

You scowled, not inclined to believe them.

“We come one behalf of our High Lord Rhysand, and High Lady Feyre. Rulers of the Night Court. Do you know of them?”

Feyre - the human women who had freed the fae from the grasp of their enemy. You knew the story, the heroic tale of a human women who gave her life for the male she loved. Had heard of her triumphs Under the Mountain, that she had been made into fae herself in exchange for her sacrifice.

“The-the curse breaker?”

A small smile cocked on both of the males faces.

“That’s right,” the one crouched in front answered. “She sent us to retrieve you.”

A panic surged within you. “Me?” you spat. Oh the ignorance of the fae, as if you were some pawn to pluck and place elsewhere.

Azriel frowned, eyes dancing as he realised the mistake in his words. “To help you, of course. There has been-"

"No-n-no. My family, they will seek for me-"

Azriel's brow pulled with softness, his tone falling flat. "We will search for them. Meanwhile, you must see a-"

“Where are the others?” Your voice was louder now, eyes dancing in panic, chest rising with fastening breaths. Had they taken them too? “The people, they've left, I don't know-"

“We are searching for others. You are… the first we have found.”

Your mind reeled. How could that be? You had searched by foot - but with those wings, and the strength and power of fae…

“WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE OTHER HUMANS?” the volume of your voice shocked even yourself, that strength, that demand from deep within your chest.

Azriel gave you a pained look, before standing to turn to his counterparts. “Amren, can you heal-?”

“I’m spent,” she cut off the male with a flick of her fingers. “Those canines out back were hardly enough to keep me going until sundown, so forget about healing. Unless you suggest I drink her blood, though I doubt she’d survive.”

Mother above.

You were too hazed to see the glare both of the males cut her.

“Then she will need to see a healer before we can continue.”

“She might refuse,” the larger one countered.

“If she’s smart, she won’t. She won't survive out here on her own,” Amren muttered, cleaning her nails as she leaned one on leg, checking her cat-like claws for flecks of blood.

They continued their mutter without once turning to you.

“There is no option here. I’ll take her to Velaris, and return once she’s safe.”

A shaking, blubbering anger grew within you, the creatures in front of you as ignorant and obnoxious as you had always been told fae are – to discuss your own fate as if you weren't in the room.

A killer instinct flared in you then, and you remembered the second knife you bore, hidden within your corsette. A pocket knife, a tool from your father to help pit and peel the fruit from his farm.

The oak handle was cool in your left hand, the right throbbing and limp. With the last remains of energy, you pushed up from the bed, swinging with all your strength - aiming for the blue-siphoned back.

In a graceful turn, the male caught your arm for the third time. You had to blink at the speed with which he stopped you.

Bracing for cruel, unforgiving anger, you were instead met with sympathetic eyes.

Loathing coiled within you.

“Release me,” you spat.

“I’m sorry to do this,” was all he said, and then pads of those rippled fingers were grasping your jaw, pressing to the pressure points of your neck with precision.

Grunting to fight his grasp, you didn’t struggle long before a ringing in your ear grew to defeating silence and the world tipped to black.

Part 2 >>> AN: HELLLOOO! And welcome to ATTWN - massive shout out to @kindasleepywriter for finding the perfect name for this series! I so so hoped you liked part 1. I edited it like a million times, still not 100% happy with it, but I think I just needed to get it out. Fair warning - this fic won't be light hearted, our reader is going to go through some really heavy stuff. I'll of course put my warnings ahead of each part, but please know I plan to explore some darker themes surrounding mental health etc. If you'd like to join the tag list for this fic, let me know in the comments! Always love hearing your feedback, and thank you so much for reading! <3 Nic

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