she'd found him at the velvet-black entry of that alley, nothing but unresponsive bodies, a russian tongue and the hollow dripping of pipes left in his company. he didn't need to tell her anything, then, and even when he'd peeled off that shirt to fall to the floorboards of her apartment, revealing an ugly, glaring wound and most notably an arm that gave him away, she hadn't questioned him. that first night and every night that'd followed, karen had seen him as no more than a man with a story of all of the men he'd been before. a story she wanted to hear, but one she wanted to earn.
she understands better than anyone how the mainstream media can paint you red, how readily the public is willing to turn a blind eye to the truth beneath it all and accept someone was a monster. irredeemable, because then it didn't have to be faced. then there wasn't forgiveness. it's never what she wanted for herself when she started writing, when she took up odd jobs and worked up to the bulletin. she didn't want surface level, half-truths that fail to look at the human buried beneath the words.
she wanted the bones, the flesh, and all of the blood that hummed between.
typically she doesn't pay much mind to her phone, especially not at this hour, usually lost to the cushions of her couch or left atop the kitchen table with her keys. it vibrates gently beneath her notepad, and she's half inclined to ignore it, all the more so when a peak offers her some insight as to where the notification came from. while she may be able to argue that she'd had to download the app because of a lost bet, said bet hadn't included keeping it installed. she tells herself it's boredom, some inane form of entertainment, and whatever it is has her thumbing to open the message, amusement dancing in her hues as a smile takes full-bloom to her lips.
she snickers to herself, only because she can hear him saying those words, see that coy little expression that comes with it. )
We're really getting up there in the world, aren't we?
no subject
she'd found him at the velvet-black entry of that alley, nothing but unresponsive bodies, a russian tongue and the hollow dripping of pipes left in his company. he didn't need to tell her anything, then, and even when he'd peeled off that shirt to fall to the floorboards of her apartment, revealing an ugly, glaring wound and most notably an arm that gave him away, she hadn't questioned him. that first night and every night that'd followed, karen had seen him as no more than a man with a story of all of the men he'd been before. a story she wanted to hear, but one she wanted to earn.
she understands better than anyone how the mainstream media can paint you red, how readily the public is willing to turn a blind eye to the truth beneath it all and accept someone was a monster. irredeemable, because then it didn't have to be faced. then there wasn't forgiveness. it's never what she wanted for herself when she started writing, when she took up odd jobs and worked up to the bulletin. she didn't want surface level, half-truths that fail to look at the human buried beneath the words.
she wanted the bones, the flesh, and all of the blood that hummed between.
typically she doesn't pay much mind to her phone, especially not at this hour, usually lost to the cushions of her couch or left atop the kitchen table with her keys. it vibrates gently beneath her notepad, and she's half inclined to ignore it, all the more so when a peak offers her some insight as to where the notification came from. while she may be able to argue that she'd had to download the app because of a lost bet, said bet hadn't included keeping it installed. she tells herself it's boredom, some inane form of entertainment, and whatever it is has her thumbing to open the message, amusement dancing in her hues as a smile takes full-bloom to her lips.
she snickers to herself, only because she can hear him saying those words, see that coy little expression that comes with it. )
We're really getting up there in the world, aren't we?