15 Works by wiremother
Listing Works
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“It ain’t your fault,” he said gruffly, tying off her bandage. He stayed squatted a moment more, searched her face. Cherubic, in a way. Glossy-soft, like paint. Cracked to a million fuckin’ pieces right in front of him.
Ellie shrugged, scoffed, rolled her eyes. Fourteen, he thought. Her tear ducts welled up, a couple of beads wobbling there. A twinkle in her eye, quivering stars. Too proud, in the midst of it all, to let them tip over. Not again.
A flash, then—her in the bar, scrubbing at her face. The squeeze in his chest. It wasn’t my first time.
The sun beams down on them now. Insects humming, running water somewhere close. Her silence, louder still. Her footsteps his only indication she is there at all.
There’s been an itch, something he’s longed to say, searching for the words. To another person, another child, another life—It’s not on you to save the world.
He aches, words limp in the cage around his heart, draped over ribs. Carcass-like, rotting. That tiny grave.
It’s kind of the whole fuckin’ point.
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“Gerald,” Teeth tells him, apropos of nothing, a crackling fire between them. The last two awake; Scooter swaying in the lull, a grass-blade in the wind. Destined to go wherever other forces push him.
Scooter blinks everything into focus, urging away the sleep-blear that’s smeared everything blurry. Hmm? he croaks. Clears his throat, tries again. “What?”
“My name,” he says. “It’s Gerald.”
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“Thank you.” You look him in the eyes as you say it. You inject it with sincerity, as much as you’ve got. Which must be more than you think. Then again, you’ve always given yourself too much credit.
“What are friends for?” Then he’s out of the car, popping the trunk. A new beginning, maybe. Put it all to rest.
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Will’s eyes catch on his lighter, his pack of smokes. He thinks of Hannibal: his neatly-styled hair, his perfectly-pressed suits, the way he emanates something that borders on inhuman. He thinks of Hannibal and he wishes to see him on fire, chewed like paper beneath flame—wilting into nothingness.
Hannibal’s in Wolf Trap, now, and Will finally knows what he’d like to do with his newfound control.
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Julian leads and Henry follows. This is how it always is.
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Dr. Lecter seems to be regarded as much bigger than he is.
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It is wrong, whatever they share. In many ways, there is a portending wickedness embedded within it, ingrained in the mold—like it would have been there regardless of what they’d done. Like they were each born with it.
or Clarice meets Bedelia in an online roleplay forum used by its members as an outlet for grief, they both teach each other a little about how good it feels to be evil.
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‘You are a child,’ she spits, low. ‘A child in the house of a man grown. Do not speak to me of love as if you have ever received it in your life.’
Something knots within me, winding around my bones. It will be interred with me upon death, this wickedness. I see it before me, finally. A space I can fill, the clear path to a long-awaited victory.
‘Show me,’ I tell Mrs Danvers, whispering so the words don’t crack apart as they leave me.
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Freddie is the one who finds her.
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There’s been a shift somewhere—it’s no longer about the going to dinner or the wanna come up for a drink? or the careful presentation. Beverly isn’t quite sure when that changed, or when she started liking it.
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When Hannibal stabs him, it feels like a privilege. When the blade pierces the soft, pliant flesh above his navel, he can’t help but feel, for a moment, a glimpse of relief.
Allowing someone to scar you is an act of devotion.
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Freddie bats her eyelashes coyly, features poised as though chiseled from marble. Her skin looks painted on, glossy-soft, like if Bev were to reach out and touch her, her fingers would come back slick and stained. Her breathing increases incrementally until she levels it with a well-practiced, deep inhale through her nostrils. This is what Freddie does to her. She knows what Freddie would like her to do in return.
Series
- Part 5 of love & death
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Fielding all thoughts through a predator/prey binary is freeing. Dehumanization works in Randall’s favor, stripping the driver of basic human traits until all that’s left are the vestiges of man. Murder doesn’t exist outside of human nature—only survival. And, right now, both of them are animals.
Series
- Part 4 of love & death
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Beverly’s been dead for less than two weeks when Brian finally hits his breaking point.
Series
- Part 2 of love & death
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He’s gazing down at the corpse lovingly, as though it’s something heavenly to behold. As though he wishes it were a girl instead.
She knows who he'd like to have lying before him.
Series
- Part 1 of love & death