|❤︎ matilda ❤︎ (witchtrials) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-05-08 19:49:00
|Entry tags:||*log, cass reynaud, matilda montgomery|
Who: Mat & Cass
What: Mat has a brilliant idea to help get Cassie off the meds that make her not oracle-ey!
When: A Wednesday after this.
Where: Quiet Home
Cradled in that worry-burdened chest of hers, brooding, the thought of it was making her detonate inside with jitters. The thought of it was a watchfire of nausea in her throat. Eyeballs to entrails, she was nervous. Fuck, you’d think this was a blind date or something or a nude scene in an indie horror film where the director wants to bend you over, but it isn’t. It’s Cassie. She knows this bitch. But she’s just afraid that she’s going to fuck something up; that she’d fuck this up. That she wouldn’t be able to do it.
There’s a shabby, cyanic old man, hunchbacked and shivery in the joints, that lives across the hallway from her. Actually, a seasoned warlock lodging himself underneath whatever stupid magic radar there was waving over the meridian, sucking people who want to be left alone (like her) dry. He smells like unwashed scalp, diesel, rusted metal, thrift store musk. Sometimes, she ventures to the roof with him to smoke and they scream at the satellites and airplanes that pose as shooting stars in the midnight sky, gone mad in inebriation. When someone, horrified on the street, whirls around to find them, they duck out of sight, giggling like cartoon mice. She told him of her dilemma; she’s told him all of them, technically. He’s easy to talk to. She told him that concilium is a lot more difficult than it might look, he knew, boy did he know. He told her with gravel in his chest and jaundice in his seasick eyes, that in order to get into heaven, you have to raise a little hell. Oh, and here’s a Vicodin. Take half before going. It’ll calm your nerves. Consequently, late last night in the lionesses den, she’d rediscovered the unstinting, benumbed luxury of opioids.
The ghostheart white of the vehicle hushed into a slot near the rear of the building, pulsing to an excruciatingly appropriate song. The half-pill was ingested with an oatmilk latte scalding hot enough to make The Morning Star tremble. She approached the lithe, familiar figure awaiting the auger of her arrival.
“Miss me? Don’t answer that. Of course you did.”