Suicidal Ideation Cw? - Tumblr Posts

She's knows she's at a loss when the fucking octopus wraps another tentacle around her and rolls them over, but Anne hasn't yielded a real fight in years, and damned if she's going to start doing so now. She gasps and sees stars when Ed bangs her on the fucking deck, momentarily winded. Between that, the hand pinning her by her wrist, and the way Ed leans over her, Anne's dazed subconscious has time to reckon it almost romantic. Until he lays a bar down on her fucking windpipe and the daze fades back into the frenzy for survival.

Anne does, in fact, go for the eyes, but misses them in the struggle. She scores him well across cheek and nose, though, the fucker, hand falling back down to the arm on her throat to see if she can't find the leverage to pry it off, after all.

"Fucking--!" She's spitting mad still and fighting to think of something half-clever or distracting to buy her time. She'd kick him off but he's thought of that; she works to free a leg all the same, eyes stabbing up and through his like broken glass. She only catches Jack's name and some semblance of the word "worth," figuring he must've said some shite about her being Jack's whore (what else is new?, but it's a damned sore button to press and he knows that).

"JACK RACKHAM CAN SUCK MY TIT IN HELL," Anne thundered, wiggling her leg free at last, "HE'S GOT FUCK-ALL T'DO WITH THIS!" Anne rams her leg up fast between Ed's, knowing it's hardly a fair thing to do to a man and not caring a whit that she has.

Rather than hit a pair on the way up, though, Anne's knee goes all the way to the empty space at Ed's crotch. That breaks through the blood-red fury of it all, cracks Anne's attention wide and brings it back to the man on top of her. What in the ever-loved fuck...?

He'd expected to get bit. Surprised, that he hadn't been yet. Edward had never had any kind of expectation that this would be a clean fight, otherwise he wouldn't have grabbed for her hair in the first place.

"The fuck else is it supposed to be? Fucking..." Ed trails off as he snarls back at her, struggling with her as she scratches and flails at him in a bid to get on top. He doesn't have to look to know that she's drawn blood at his wrist with the slice of her nails. At least the fucking fight wasn't to the first blood...

He hooks his leg with hers. The fucking thing is already on fire, so there's no point in being precious with it. He'd rather she kill him than lame him in all of this, but something about being on the deck wrestling in front of his crew like pups has distracted him from his desire for the abyss. Using his weight for leverage, he rolls them and slams her back down on the deck. Shifting his grip he grabs for the hand that has been scratching at his wrist and pins it above her head. Using his other arm to bar across her throat means that he's giving her nearly the entirety of his weight. And a damned good thing, too, because he's certain she'd slip away otherwise. She still might go for his fucking eyes with the hand that he didn't manage to pin.

"Fucking... yield," he growls to her, keeping her leg firmly twined with his. "Jack's death isn't worth this and we both fucking know it."

Anne stares for a moment at Mary's thumb over her knuckles. That’s just the issue. She doesn’t want to be anyone anymore.

You don’t get a second chance in life, normally, and here’s Anne on a second, still unhappy. James. Jack. Even with Mary’s hand over hers, Anne can’t shake the knowledge that Jack will eventually find out, either through his own wits or the rest of the crew’s, and then that’ll be the end. That’ll be Mary marooned, or her, or both, or worse, and it’ll all be because Anne is Anne and Jack is Jack.

And that inescapable knowledge pulls bile up to the back of her throat.

But she can’t think of a pretty lie, even for Mary’s sake.

“No one. But I want t’be no one for everyone; seems a quieter way, that, if living’s t’be suffered longer.”

I don’t know who I am anymore.

Mary was quiet -- that was hardly unusual. She often was. She tilts her head slightly, giving Anne's words some consideration.

She could sit there and recount the great things Anne had done, things that could define a person. She could insist on the traits that she knew Anne to possess. All of the things someone might do when faced with the challenge of telling someone who they were. And that was exactly the problem.

She didn't want to tell Anne who she was. That felt like packing a wound with salt.

She reached out and picked up Anne's hand, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles, "Who do you want to be?"

Anne is quiet for a moment following the plea. Doesn’t seem right, man like Israel Hands begging for death. She finds she can’t look at him laid low like this—not the injury, but the defeat. Feels like it should be a private thing, but with Ed in the state he’s been in, Frenchie asked her to disappear and keep their illicit company…well. Company.

Disquieting. When the lump in her throat proves too big to swallow around any more, Anne lets out a shaking breath of her own. She tries to cover the shaking with a cough, a clearing of her throat, but she knows he knows. Just like she knows he’ll let it slide.

Anne meets his eyes with a level stare, plumbing their depth. He means it. She has no doubt he means it. That’s what finally manages to draw her voice out, steadier than it has any right to be.

“If it comes to it, Iz…you can count on me f’r it. But not a moment before it’s really come to it. Is that goin t’be now, or are ye gonna sack back up and suck it up f’r another day? ‘Cause I’ll promise ye this: the second ye’re really gone, there won’t be nothin’ ‘tween him and the rest, an’ nothin’ t’bring him back asides. Lord knows he en’t gonna fuckin listen t’me—en’t e’en looked at me since he got back—and lord knows he en’t listenin t’Frenchie ‘r anyone else.”

the very air you breath smells like a rotting corpse.

The sound that came out of Izzy was intended to be a laugh but it... wasn't. It sounded broken, more tears than anything that could be called mirth. She was right. She was fucking right. The little room they'd hidden him away in stank of his rotten fucking leg and the fever-sick sweat that still stuck his hair and his clothes to his body.

With all of that rot, he wouldn't be surprised if he was breathing it out just as much as he was breathing it in.

"Kill me," he said as that horrible noise he'd made petered out in his ears. "Please, Anne. Have some fucking mercy."

Send me a meme.

@starlightintheirwake ⚓️

Anne sat with her back to the damp rock wall of the grotto, her boots pressed against a different, smaller rock lodged in place at the edge of the water. The grotto smelled of wet and wood, a sort of mildew not entirely unpleasant to smell but certainly not a place to spend hours in, like she was now. Lost. Looking through the water not to its dark depths but to a time long past. The bottle she nursed has long since slipped through her fingers, much emptier now than when it had entered the grotto.

She didn’t stir even when her privacy was intruded upon, though she heard the rattle of the bottle moving on their entrance. (If she laid down here and died, would anyone even notice?)

“Fuck off, I’m busy.”

Day Two: Favorite Interpretation

Death takes a while.

The body doesn't surrender easily. It labors and struggles through blood spilling from wounds in rivulets; through age and infection and mutation; through ischemic cell damage and faltering brain tissue and the insurmountable armory of death—the body endures, until it can't anymore.

The mind endures as well. Or it tries.

People are stubborn. Bullheaded. Stupidly convinced that eventually, they'll push past the wall and find themselves in some transcendent tomorrow. She's stubborn too, she supposes. Clinging to false hope of some grand, sweeping change that will give her the life she wants, some karmic reward for—what exactly? Doing what was asked of her? Not throwing her own family to the wolves? Does she really think she deserves some splendid future of music and passion for doing the bare minimum?

A stupid hope. She clings to it still.

Her dreams of ancient concert halls, reverberating with symphonic majesty, have not yet been snuffed out. Not for lack of trying. She throws herself into her work, tries to make housework her art, redirect her passions to something sensible. Nevertheless, her mind always wanders, caught up in fantasies of keys beneath her fingers, handwritten sheet music before her, and a gentle hand upon her shoulder. A voice in her ear saying “look, dear, at what we have created together”.

When she crawls into bed after a long night of hand-scraping dishes and frowning over bills, her brain betrays her, casting her in the role of a talented up-and-coming musician, respected and liked by her peers. Living in a modest but cozy apartment, composing by day and playing to hushed crowds by night. She imagines herself in a larger, nicer bed than this one, still replaying the sonata she played that night, safe in the arms of a kindred spirit.

She tries to kill these dreams, but deep down she wonders if they're not, in turn, killing her.

Death takes a while.

Morning comes. She rises. Cooks. Drives her siblings to school. Works. Picks up her siblings. Comes home. Cleans. Cooks. Helps with homework. Works through the family's finances after the others have gone to bed (they don't need to worry, they don't need to know). Sleeps.

Rises.

Cooks.

Cleans.

Sleeps.

Rises.

Cooks.

Cleans.

Sleeps.

Rises.

Cooks—

A theater hidden away from the world, decked in red and black and green. Secluded and splendid. A place no one knows. No one but you. You could stay there, for a while. For as long as you wish. Stay, and create, alone in this perfect refuge. Stay, and retreat from the endless procession of identical days. Stay. Stay. Stay.

“Scarlet?”

She pulls herself free from the fantasy. In her distraction, she’d minced the vegetables they were supposed to have for dinner into an inedible dust. The knife, clean and sharp, gleams in the flickering fluorescence of the kitchen.

She turns away from the counter and looks down at her sister. Rose’s brow is furrowed. She hugs herself and grimaces as she looks up at her de-facto (distant, foolish, absent-minded, poor-excuse-for-a) guardian.

“What’s the matter, Rose?”

“Is everything okay? You seem a little…” Rose gestures absently, fumbling for the right word. “…Troubled.”

She considers, for a single insane moment, telling her the truth.

No, Rose, everything isn’t okay. Your siblings are acting out, I'm having to choose between rent and Ruby's medicine, and your grandmother is probably dying. Everything’s falling apart and I can’t even bring myself to care because the only thing that feels real anymore is the fantasy I can’t kill.

But she stops herself, and forces her face into a convincing smile.

“Everything’s fine. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

Rose looks as unconvinced as Scarlet feels.

That night, she dreams of a duet. Of a lilting dance of harmonies so perfect, so sublime, that she wakes up in tears. It’s an odd sensation. She hasn’t properly cried since she was ten. Feeling childish, she goes to the bathroom to splash some water on her face and school her expression into its usual placid mask. As she’s heading into the kitchen and start breakfast, the phone rings.

Mother.

Someone needs to bring food and wine to their grandmother. She’s not feeling well, you see, and she would just be over the moon to get a visit from one of her lovely grandchildren.

Well.

She could use the exercise.

The drive to the path is uneventful. The soft morning sun and the cries of countless birds don’t even register as she walks the familiar path without straying.

Until.

Until, a stone’s throw away from her grandmother’s house.

She hears the music.

The duet from her dream.

In the woods. Close enough to taste.

Before she knows it, her feet are off the path, and her mind is a thousand miles away, wrapped up in sonatas and symphonies that promise to silence her every agony.

Into the forest she walks.

To a theater hidden away from the world, decked in red and black and green.