(no subject)
Actions speak
louder than words
You wake up to bubblegum reality, a bodiless giggle springs out of the wall with echoes of mindless chatter. Your boyfriend was in the phone with you just last night, that dreamy baby, and he left you broken just two weeks prior, fucking someone else, bitches fucking bitches all of them. You lick your lips as you roll up, reach up for the nightstand, your teeth in water. Man, you really need to pee, but the bathroom smells of girly deodorant and dreams of doll-perfect face.
A throb of heart, and you can hear it: a scream. So loud and desperate, what did he do, what did he do, oh god...
The stench of blood is practically palpable in the air as you feel the rug under your feet, struggling for the bathroom door. Jeans wrinkled around your hip, top button missing. You lean heavily to the wall as you aim for the toilet. And what a pain it'll be to clean it up. You wouldn't fucking miss the ring if you were home, would you? Where are the manners of young people today?
There's a half finished vodka bottle in the sink, and you reach for it, careful not to spill. Your palm makes an ugly smear on the spotless mirror as you lean over the sink, downing third with one long gulp. Burning. Disgusted. Stomach convulses.
This is where you stand, these are your toes on smooth, cool tiles, your face pale and eyes bloodshot.
You put on a grin as you put on make up, painted lips, curving, twisting. Angels fall when you trail a tongue over your teeth, filmed with the passion of last night, texture of consumed filth. Disregard headache, turn and switch, old man dreams, calm, hurry disappears.
Work. You've got work to do. Crawford will be waiting.
Work it, honey. Those other bitches got nothing to you. Determination, pride, cruelty, the keys to success.
And you shudder as you sling yourself through it, like punching a fist through a god damn encyclopedia, every word a private nightmare of gunshot suicide, yours, theirs, what the fuck does it matter? You shudder and you shrug it off, all of it, focusing on Schuldig. Every piss-scented morning, clinging to your own god damn private, familiar filth with bloodied fingertips, refusing to slip into the no-name, off-rhythm thumbing of stranger hearts.