Comments Posted By WearyWater

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After four years of darkness and distance, we connect again. But I am not the version of myself he’s used to—or the one he wants. I am fearless and bold, ready to spit on life before me. I tread on empty compliments and demand attention in the form of fearsome intellect. I am not the shy little girl he knew growing up, the one who used to quake under covers and wished to be invisible the moment attention was trained on her. I am unabashedly me, ready to suck the teat of life offered before me until it runs dry. I’m not afraid anymore.
And so he no longer has any use for me.

» Posted By WearyWater On 11.16.2017 @ 10:50 pm


He scorched the underside of her good, cast-iron pans much in the same way he scorched her heart. Both were too good for the likes of him, yet endured the abuse.

Years later, she found, both would be doing as strong as ever without him around to try to misuse them again.

» Posted By WearyWater On 06.13.2017 @ 12:49 am

He scorched the underside of her good, cast-iron pans much in the same way he scorcher her heart. Both were too good for the likes of him, yet endured the abuse.

» Posted By WearyWater On 06.13.2017 @ 12:47 am


It would be breakout artist of the year, she guessed. That would be the title won by the end of the night. She could feel it in her bones. After all, she had given so much to her music—endless hours, endless amounts of money, endless auditions. More than so much.
So when the name was called, her disappointment was catastrophic.

» Posted By WearyWater On 01.05.2017 @ 11:35 pm


Her tongue twisted in her mouth. If anything, what came before was just a distraction. What mattered was now. This was real. Thieving time wound slowly around her as she began to take her first few steps.

» Posted By WearyWater On 10.27.2016 @ 12:06 am


The bus lurches to the right, gravel spitting from under its tires. She had been a fool for thinking this would be easy, a clean break. She looked out toward the darkened horizon as the greyhound lurched again. Even the weather seemed to be working against her.

» Posted By WearyWater On 05.31.2016 @ 12:01 am


The shift between enemy and acquaintance is sudden, and most definitely unexpected. It turns one summer evening, shaped between the little space allowed between two grappling bodies when the sexual tension finally, finally snaps. He’s there, of course, the subject of your violent fantasies–yet you can’t stop him when his lips collide with yours again, and again, and again.

After all, it was building up to this–either this, or death.

» Posted By WearyWater On 03.25.2016 @ 1:29 am

She turns to me, relentless, eyes dark in the moonlight. There’s something about her, something I can’t quite place, that makes my skin crawl and my stature shrink and my mouth taste inexplicably of bile. I don’t think I know her, not anymore. I wonder if I ever even knew her in the first place. Her lips are sharp and curled in amusement as she watches me.
Heart thudding, eyes damp, I am nothing but afraid.

» Posted By WearyWater On 03.25.2016 @ 1:09 am


The delivery was long—longer than she’d like to remember, now that everything was said and done. But it did create a sense of accomplishment as she held her daughter, looking at her wrinkled pink face. Like all that hard work had finally amounted to something.

Something wonderful.

» Posted By WearyWater On 03.18.2016 @ 9:00 pm


She didn’t always like to think about all that she had done to reach this far. All the bodies she’d had to step over. All the people cut down along the way. She was now a member of the exclusive few who had power. She couldn’t let a thing like guilt weigh her actions down anymore.

» Posted By WearyWater On 02.15.2016 @ 2:22 am


I’m good at disassociating.

While others stay trapped, walled up within their minds, I drift. My mind and body have been two separate entities for as long as I can recall. When life becomes too unpleasant, I have my escape.
At least momentarily.

» Posted By WearyWater On 12.12.2015 @ 12:59 am


Andrew looked at her. The weight of his skepticism was written in the crease of his brow, in the agitated twitch of his fingers. She knew, again, that this was going to be a failure due to their overwhelming similarities. Neither liked to carry responsibility, not even for their own actions. So to be held accountable for another person’s mistake?

» Posted By WearyWater On 11.24.2015 @ 1:05 am


They said they weight of the guilt would catch up with her far faster than the law in the end. They said that nights would be spent sleepless, staring up at the cracks in her plaster ceiling. They said that she’d never be able to make her hands feel clean again.

She smiles as she polishes her knife in the dying light of the fire.
They had said a lot of things, none of which seemed to be true.

» Posted By WearyWater On 09.12.2015 @ 5:04 pm


Her eyes are cavernously dark things, full of nothing but a vast, far-reaching void. They don’t flash and flicker like they used to in the firelight. There is no illumination from within her anymore.
She is utterly empty as she looks at him, a mere shadow of the person he knew her to be.

» Posted By WearyWater On 09.11.2015 @ 12:59 am


Society crumbled away not much longer after that, infrastructure and culture and morals fragmenting and scattering like pieces of a bullet-peppered plaster wall. The song of human progress no longer beat to the rhythm of of our hearts but the unified marching steps of thousands of hobnailed boots. If you ask anyone now, they’d tell you that our decline was a gradual thing—a slow descent into chaos through fear, poor policy and famine. But I was there, and I assure you: as true and undeniable as the sun in the sky, everything went to hell at once.

» Posted By WearyWater On 09.07.2015 @ 10:18 pm


Her house stood a ways back, shifting from clawed foot to clawed foot impatiently. The forest was dark around her as she watched the monstrous thing apprehensively. Still, in spite of her fear, she needed to see the witch who lived there.
They had business to attend to.

» Posted By WearyWater On 09.03.2015 @ 7:33 am


The only thing he really remembered clearly was how the stars hung low in the sky that night, twinkling and hazy and just as unreachable as her heart. Maybe orange moonlight braided itself into her mess of hair, curling from the late summer humidity. Maybe cicadas stilled in the magnolia trees, seemingly holding their breath as they waited for her reply. Maybe a thin brown mantis struck at a wayward moth, attracted to the false moon of the streetlamp.

He can make himself believe that any one of these things happened that night—but he can’t delude himself when it comes to the memory that matters most.

» Posted By WearyWater On 09.02.2015 @ 1:21 am


The late autumn sun slanted in through the windows, bathing the far wall a deep orange and elongating the shadows into long, inky limbs across the floor. In fact, the shadows lining the alcoves of the corridor were so dark that she almost didn’t notice him until he stepped out in front of her.
She knew that she should be irritated or surprised at the very least, looking up at his carefully impassive expression. But she could feel the anger practically radiating off him, and suddenly she found herself simply feeling nothing but unspeakably tired.
It would be a long night.

» Posted By WearyWater On 08.22.2015 @ 11:26 pm


There was something in her eyes that chilled him—a bright, untamable something that he feared would someday take over completely.

» Posted By WearyWater On 08.07.2015 @ 3:59 pm


There are always prices to pay, she thinks, surveying the crowd.
Central Street is sprawled before her, cracked pavement traversed by sunburnt tourists underneath the relentless August sun. It’s unbearably hot and humid enough that she almost needs to chew the air before she breathes it.
Sweat gathers on her upper lip. If she stands out here any longer, she just might just wither in the scorching light, might just join the melted gum wedged in between the breaks in the sidewalk. So she squares her shoulders and starts to walk.
After all, a job’s a job, and the bills won’t pay themselves.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.29.2015 @ 9:07 pm


Her feet falter for a moment, but she recovers herself before anyone else notices. There’s already a mounting sense of dread congealing in the pit of her stomach, worrying at the edges of her consciousness. Still, she follows the others, single-file, as her desire to run grows with each ensuing footstep.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.26.2015 @ 9:08 am


And just like that, with no prelude or warning, his infatuation developed into a full-blown crush. Blood rose to his cheeks, confusion evident as he stuttered around his words.
Unamused, she watched with a single eyebrow cocked.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.25.2015 @ 9:26 am


She lingered for a long moment, clearly still on the fence about whether to help him. Finally, she threw her hands up. “Oh, what the hell! It’s not like I was planning to do anything today anyway.”

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.24.2015 @ 7:42 am


There was a soft, threatening edge in the way his words curled around his tongue. “I could always show you, you know.”
The way he spoke, it wasn’t sharp or meant to be a reprimand. But the authority was still unmistakably there, warning her that it would be best to stay well out of his way.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.23.2015 @ 8:27 am


Rocks scattered from underneath his boots as he slowly turned to face her, echoing ominously as they bounced into the cavern. His voice rasped, breaking with uncertainty. “What are you trying to say?”
In the dim light, her smile almost looked carnivorous. She breezily supplied an answer: “That I’m the bait.”

The sound of her laughter masked the residual echoes of the falling rocks.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.22.2015 @ 7:11 am


She sways her hips, looking up through her lashes at one of the men at the bar. This late at night, the city is her playground—she’s free to do whatever she likes in those empty back alleyways with only the grimy stars above as her witness.
The man from the bar is approaching. She tries to tamper down her excitement, still moving along with the music, savoring the way it guides her feet like the deep, low thrumming is actually the city’s heartbeat.
“Care to get out of here?” He smiles; up close, his suit is much more rumpled than it had appeared from across the dance floor. But he’ll still have to do.
She fakes breathlessness, swinging her arms around his neck and giggling. “I thought you’d never ask.”
So she steps out into the cool night air and leads him down one of her alleyways, down one of the dimly lit arteries that make her city into such a monstrous living thing. They stop somewhere out of the reach of a streetlamp and immediately his lips are on hers, drunken and messy and nowhere near interesting enough to slow her fingers from reaching into her handbag.
(There was a time, she thinks vaguely, fingers closing around the cool metal in the depths of her handbag, when this was just about the money. But then she felt the rush of shooting a gun for the first time. And that’s when she realized that men would do almost anything for a pretty woman in a skin-tight red dress. That’s when everything went straight to hell.)

She smiles at the faded yellow moon above, hazy with smog and clouds. If the city knows what’s going to happen next, it holds its tongue.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.21.2015 @ 8:25 am


An indistinct, hazy feeling of comfort grew inside of her, expanding the walls o her chest cavity like a blight. She hadn’t felt this secure in years—probably not since leaving the safety of her mother’s arms. She dreaded the knowledge that she’d have to let go, but she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

After all, that was just part of growing up.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.19.2015 @ 8:55 am


Brows furrowed, the deleted the last few paragraphs of text, then stared at the mostly blank document in front of him. His inspiration was a fickle thing, allowing him to complete pages of his screenplay in one manic blur at a time, then have nothing more to add for weeks.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.18.2015 @ 9:42 am


He’s lounging in an armchair when she returns, fully making himself at home in her tiny apartment during the time it takes her to use the bathroom. (Ok, so maybe not use, exactly–she spent the last four minutes alternating between splashing her face with cold water and giving her reflection a pep talk in the cracked mirror. But he doesn’t need to know that, know the effect that he still has on her.)

“Oh my,” he all but purrs. Purrs! Like some goddamn, self-important tom cat.
His eyes linger on the water drops marking the front of her blouse and she swears she can hear the smirk in his voice without even fully looking at him. She remembers from past experiences just what that smirk does to her, and she knows that this is neither the time nor the place for any of… that… to happen again. “You look ravishing when you’re wet, love.”

If she flushes at the blatant innuendo, it’s because she’s angry. So very angry that he’s barged into her life again (and her heart, she worries) and somehow manages to look so obscenely good while he does it, stretched out upon her threadbare furniture like he never left her in the first place.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.17.2015 @ 1:02 am


She wished she had a way with numbers like the did words. Sure, there were sometimes letters involved–algebra was her favorite type of mathematics for a reason–but she still had trouble keeping it all those vaguely menacing quantities straight in her mind.

» Posted By WearyWater On 07.15.2015 @ 11:07 pm

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