movie based.
indie & selective.
fc: christian slater
theme by mia

                    oh, dear mother,
                                        i love you.
             i’m sorry, i wasn’t good enough.

                                                dear father,
                                                          forgive me.
                                ‘cause in your eyes i just never
                                                                       added up 

                    in my heart i know i failed you,
                              but you left me here

                                        { a l o n e . }


drafts: 2 (not exhaustive)
asks: 3



——✍;;{ ✉ }

     A statement as that, so utterly dismissive, should have
     brought a gate over her eyes. The iron curtain of isolation
     should have slammed down over her irises. She shouldn’t
     feel more open. But Veronica had become the void, and
     she found she was most scared of herself in that moment,
     and the lengths she was willing to go to change him.

            She yanked her wrists out of his grip, or as out of it as
            possible with his grip on her like handcuffs, and sprung
            up off the bed, backing into a corner like a wounded deer,
            but with all the fire of steadfast willpower in her eyes. Her
            next words came out in a violent rush, tears pricking her
            eyes as her fingernails dug into her palm, scarlet beads
            trickling down her palm.

                     ”There’s no winning this. What do you think you’re fixing?
                       I don’t—I can’t accept this. Not from you, not from anyone.
                       It’s bullshit. B u l l s h i t. Give me a real reason, J.D.. God,
                       no, don’t. Don’t talk to me—just shut up and listen for once
                       in you life.

              Veronica was crying. Something in her snapped,
              something important, and she couldn’t stop.

                                     "You don’t know the difference between right and
                                       wrong. You’re toxic. I’m losing myself in you.

                  Everything was a choke or a sob, breaking points awkward
                  and words jumbled together. But the last phrase, the last
                  sentence—it was a whisper. It was a shattered and contorted
                  and terrified whisper. Because the horror of becoming someone
                  else, someone ruthless and cruel and damaged, was too great
                  for words. She dared not punctuate the air with thoughts floating
                  unwanted in her head, in case by uttering them they became too
                  real to erase.


     Instead of arguing, J.D. opts for silence, allowing
     (for once) Veronica to finish speaking before he
     responds. And by the time she’s finished, well —
     he doesn’t know what to make of it.

          Of any of it.

     Her words hang in the air long after having been
     spoken, the hard in toxic seeming to take up
     more volume in his mind than her confession. He
     swallows hard and tries to appropriate the right
     thing to say in response, but of course, the only
     sound he can produce is that of her own name.
     Even then, it’s soft, unarmored, tired. Pleading.

                    Tell me what to say.

                                     "Veronica … 

    He tapers off mid-word, eyes falling from hers to
     her hands. Either her fingernails are sharp or her
     hands are balled up tight, because though there
     isn’t much light, he can see the blood running
     down the mound of her palm and through her
     fingers. J.D. tries again.

                                     "Vern, babe, you’re bleeding.
                                       Whaddya say we go clean
                                       that up, huh?

     It’s a coward’s move. There’s nothing more he
     wants now than to get out of this conversation
     not only because she’ll never understand, not
     only because it’s a topic too heavy for the likes
     of them, but the more she asks for reasons, the
     more he finds himself incapable of finding any.
     He offers a hand. In that same dulcet tone,



*does something incredibly stupid or embarrassing* well, one day we’ll all be fucking dead. Everybody dead. We’ll all die. Fucking dead. Everyone. Fucking everyone gone. No more bad times.

psa. i am an agonizingly slow roleplayer — my muses are fickle and some days all i can manage is chat threads or shenanigans. other days i can pump out longer threads like no one’s business. if it takes me awhile on your thread it has nothing to do with you as a writer or me losing my muse for the thread. never hesitate to ask for my skype for in between threads for chatting and plotting and fun.

"My mother should’ve done something,
My mother should’ve done something,
My mother should have—"

— am kennedy, “Why does it still feel like it’s my fault?”


still not used to this tablet but im getting thereee




              “ I’m sorry, I’m totally lost. First day.
               New school. You are… you go here?

             "  Don’t worry about it. Yeah, I go
                      here. S’pose you’d like some
                      help getting to wherever you
                      need to be? 





'….So basically I'm
just a rubber band
with bones. Now do
get it? ‘

"I know what a contortionist
is. I just don’t get how you
do it. Don’t people have to
train for that at a young age
or something.”