timshel
𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩
-
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timshel
𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩
4:13PM
coded by weldherwings.
Last edited:
oxytocin
love drug
clementine !
uthe boat • stoked • w/ jasper!!
idiot
𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.
-----------------ｔｉｆｆａｎｙ.
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laburnum gold
you know ;)
wrapped around 
" two weeks ago and started typing.
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allure
angel eyes ♡
Last edited:
honeyfrog
sugar, honey, sweet (she/they)
Jack was late.
Another hour and he wouldn’t have known what for. That’s how intense making an omelette could be.
“Alright, this is the last one. You guys are gonna have to split.” His voice warbled with uncharacteristic caution as he heaved the cast iron skillet over his right shoulder and set it with a dull thud on top of a faded orange dish towel folded at one end of the dinning room table, which trembled slightly with the effort. “Dig in, monsters.”
Eileen and Jacob McNamara showed little gratitude as they set to dismantling the six -egg mosaic slathered in cheese that their eldest brother had prepared for them. A master chef Jack was not, but it was a good enough breakfast—even if was hardly balanced, slightly constipating, and came forty-five minutes after three.
He’d been late for everything these last few days, it seemed. Breakfast, grocery store shifts, fixing a friend of a friend’s busted headlight (although that might have been on purpose; the guy was Yankee-like, bit of a snob, and Jack didn’t like him much anyway). It was behavior bold in contrast to his ever-punctual mother, who left for work at exactly six in the morning three days a week and often didn’t return until well after nine. Maybe it was the chaotic atmosphere of these days, carrying the pressure of keeping nine siblings and himself alive and occupied while they did their best to get by. Maybe it was the heat; maybe too much weed. Whatever the case, something made him lose himself a little around this time of year. Everything slowed, down and time didn’t feel real anymore.
He was vaguely aware of his phone vibrating in the pocket of whatever pair of slightly stained basketball shorts he’d tossed on after waking up an hour ago, but his focus was on brushing the loose shredded cheese off the counter and into his other hand to toss back into its bag.
“I’m gonna start cleaning up,” Eileen piped from the table before the skillet had even cooled. She was the only McNamara child who remained in the kitchen alongside Jacob, who was seven and had a tiny yellow glob of egg stuck under his right nostril. Eileen was twelve, keen to remind people that she’d be thirteen in two months, and taking after her brother’s compulsive responsibility fast. She ran her fingers over her pin-straight red-blonde hair in a way almost identical to her mother and began heaping empty plates into her skinny arms. The other children had gone tearing into the house and out to the yard almost as soon as they’d finished, feeding off each other’s manic energy and the freedom of a fresh summer. Jacob was just the kind of man to take his time, but Eileen prided herself on being patient, and hardly ever as reckless as the rest. It made Jack a little sad.
“El, you don’t have to do that,” he said gently, reaching down to wipe the yolk off Jacob’s lip. “You can go—Jesus...”
The last word was a curse beneath his breath. He drew back quickly and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, greeted with a screen full of messages from the group chat. Oh shit. Yeah, I’m late.
A part of him almost felt bad for being irritated at the constant buzzing from his closest friends as he closed the two cartons of eggs and hurriedly threw them into the trash can under the sink. Jacob looked up. “Where are you goin’?”
Jack glanced over his shoulder, mouth halfway open. “Gonna hang out with some friends today, buddy.” He opened the fridge door, closed it, and looked over at Eileen piling eight plates into the sink, a bottle of Dawn dish soap gripped firmly in one hand. “Jasper and Clem and Tiff and them.”
“Can I come?”
Jack grinned to himself, admiring his little brother for asking despite knowing the answer. “Maybe next time. It’s boring stuff.”
The little boy went back to his last bites of omelette, unperturbed. Jack stepped close enough to Eileen to catch her attention. “Can you handle everyone today? I’ll leave you guys some cash and you can get pizza for dinner or something.”
Eileen raised her eyebrows without looking up, having a sense of humor that Jack was convinced she was largely unaware of, which made her that much funnier. “How much?”
He ruffled her hair until she was visibly annoyed. “Get it outta my dresser, thanks child.”
He went out through the garage, tossing aside a torn gray tarp to retrieve a case of beer that weighed a little less than what he’d been hoping for, and was warm, but that was less of an issue (Jack was nothing if not crafty, and he’d drag the case through the water alongside the boat if they gave him too much shit for it). He whipped out his phone again as he opened the passenger side door of a beloved but undeniably shitty red Oldsmobile and tossed the beer to the floor.
4:57pm: y’all got any food??????
Being used to going without it sometimes made it the least of his concerns, but Jack liked to be prepared, and giving El money for pizza had put some hungry ideas into his head. He wondered if it was part of Clem’s haul. To a lesser extent, he wondered how she’d “got her hands” on the Mike’s to begin with.
The small but alluring variety of fast food restaurants on the way to marina beckoned to him, but Jack knew Jasper had his panties in a twist already, and he tried to just be grateful that he’d thought to bring the beer. Mike’s is for girls, he could imagine sneering at Clem, and being socked hard in the shoulder for it, if he was lucky.
He came to a rolling stop perhaps a little closer to the dock than he’d meant to. He couldn’t help but grin as he looked at the boat, and made gradual eye contact with his friends, who had no doubt been waiting.
The car door kicked up a cloud of dust as Jack emerged, arms spread wide in mock confusion as he took in the sight of Tiff’s roller skates and Clem’s bike. “I could have picked you up!”
Another hour and he wouldn’t have known what for. That’s how intense making an omelette could be.
“Alright, this is the last one. You guys are gonna have to split.” His voice warbled with uncharacteristic caution as he heaved the cast iron skillet over his right shoulder and set it with a dull thud on top of a faded orange dish towel folded at one end of the dinning room table, which trembled slightly with the effort. “Dig in, monsters.”
Eileen and Jacob McNamara showed little gratitude as they set to dismantling the six -egg mosaic slathered in cheese that their eldest brother had prepared for them. A master chef Jack was not, but it was a good enough breakfast—even if was hardly balanced, slightly constipating, and came forty-five minutes after three.
He’d been late for everything these last few days, it seemed. Breakfast, grocery store shifts, fixing a friend of a friend’s busted headlight (although that might have been on purpose; the guy was Yankee-like, bit of a snob, and Jack didn’t like him much anyway). It was behavior bold in contrast to his ever-punctual mother, who left for work at exactly six in the morning three days a week and often didn’t return until well after nine. Maybe it was the chaotic atmosphere of these days, carrying the pressure of keeping nine siblings and himself alive and occupied while they did their best to get by. Maybe it was the heat; maybe too much weed. Whatever the case, something made him lose himself a little around this time of year. Everything slowed, down and time didn’t feel real anymore.
He was vaguely aware of his phone vibrating in the pocket of whatever pair of slightly stained basketball shorts he’d tossed on after waking up an hour ago, but his focus was on brushing the loose shredded cheese off the counter and into his other hand to toss back into its bag.
“I’m gonna start cleaning up,” Eileen piped from the table before the skillet had even cooled. She was the only McNamara child who remained in the kitchen alongside Jacob, who was seven and had a tiny yellow glob of egg stuck under his right nostril. Eileen was twelve, keen to remind people that she’d be thirteen in two months, and taking after her brother’s compulsive responsibility fast. She ran her fingers over her pin-straight red-blonde hair in a way almost identical to her mother and began heaping empty plates into her skinny arms. The other children had gone tearing into the house and out to the yard almost as soon as they’d finished, feeding off each other’s manic energy and the freedom of a fresh summer. Jacob was just the kind of man to take his time, but Eileen prided herself on being patient, and hardly ever as reckless as the rest. It made Jack a little sad.
“El, you don’t have to do that,” he said gently, reaching down to wipe the yolk off Jacob’s lip. “You can go—Jesus...”
The last word was a curse beneath his breath. He drew back quickly and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, greeted with a screen full of messages from the group chat. Oh shit. Yeah, I’m late.
A part of him almost felt bad for being irritated at the constant buzzing from his closest friends as he closed the two cartons of eggs and hurriedly threw them into the trash can under the sink. Jacob looked up. “Where are you goin’?”
Jack glanced over his shoulder, mouth halfway open. “Gonna hang out with some friends today, buddy.” He opened the fridge door, closed it, and looked over at Eileen piling eight plates into the sink, a bottle of Dawn dish soap gripped firmly in one hand. “Jasper and Clem and Tiff and them.”
“Can I come?”
Jack grinned to himself, admiring his little brother for asking despite knowing the answer. “Maybe next time. It’s boring stuff.”
The little boy went back to his last bites of omelette, unperturbed. Jack stepped close enough to Eileen to catch her attention. “Can you handle everyone today? I’ll leave you guys some cash and you can get pizza for dinner or something.”
Eileen raised her eyebrows without looking up, having a sense of humor that Jack was convinced she was largely unaware of, which made her that much funnier. “How much?”
He ruffled her hair until she was visibly annoyed. “Get it outta my dresser, thanks child.”
He went out through the garage, tossing aside a torn gray tarp to retrieve a case of beer that weighed a little less than what he’d been hoping for, and was warm, but that was less of an issue (Jack was nothing if not crafty, and he’d drag the case through the water alongside the boat if they gave him too much shit for it). He whipped out his phone again as he opened the passenger side door of a beloved but undeniably shitty red Oldsmobile and tossed the beer to the floor.
4:57pm: y’all got any food??????
Being used to going without it sometimes made it the least of his concerns, but Jack liked to be prepared, and giving El money for pizza had put some hungry ideas into his head. He wondered if it was part of Clem’s haul. To a lesser extent, he wondered how she’d “got her hands” on the Mike’s to begin with.
The small but alluring variety of fast food restaurants on the way to marina beckoned to him, but Jack knew Jasper had his panties in a twist already, and he tried to just be grateful that he’d thought to bring the beer. Mike’s is for girls, he could imagine sneering at Clem, and being socked hard in the shoulder for it, if he was lucky.
He came to a rolling stop perhaps a little closer to the dock than he’d meant to. He couldn’t help but grin as he looked at the boat, and made gradual eye contact with his friends, who had no doubt been waiting.
The car door kicked up a cloud of dust as Jack emerged, arms spread wide in mock confusion as he took in the sight of Tiff’s roller skates and Clem’s bike. “I could have picked you up!”
timshel
𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩
5:32PM
coded by weldherwings.
Last edited:
Husk
wears heelies to escape his feelies
Elias Dawn
--if good boys smoke good drugs then consider me an angel--
Mood: apathetically manic, somehow.
Interactions: Arlo
laburnum gold
, Skylar
allure
, Mari
coeur
Mood: apathetically manic, somehow.
Interactions: Arlo
laburnum gold
, Skylar
allure
, Mari
coeur
code by fudgecakez
They say history sticks to your feet. Sometimes something minute made him reflect upon remembrances of his rapid ascendance into opulence; a reminder that while Elias shaped to fit the mold expected of him, a rift remained. Six feet under, veiled, and yet still persevering with perpetuity.
Never did the recollections bog him down or burden him. Rather, the abstract kindled fascination.
To step from a more impoverished life to one that differed so much so it fell into the realms of drastic gave him an edge, a broadened perspective. Its benefits were altogether lucrative.
No matter his roots, he now thrived within the universe of the so-called elite. All gentrification and privilege and the conceptualization of superiority. In contradiction, it was nothing Elias bought into. No matter how well he performed pompous airs for the masses.
Still, the years he spent shuffling from household to household, all of which varied in economic status, was not a topic he favored the tedium of broaching. Whether it be for the sake of discussion or dissection; repetition of telling his life-story long ago grew old.
Even to dwell on it wearied him, and the causation had nothing to do with having a turbulent upbringing or anything along those lines. Instead, it stemmed from a more selfish notion that he served his damned sentence being impecunious and perhaps the universe owed him some fucking financial stability.
Although, given that he had many capricious proclivities which, well, chipped away at his foster father’s thinning patience, eviction always loomed.
Plus, his continual coveting of thrills that promised the taste of an adrenaline rush convoluted matters, and with how his dearest dad monopolized and ruled over the house, the threat was no bluff.
As it stood, Elias had irons in the fire and all were unfit of his standing as a bonafide Yankee. A poor sod turned well-to-do.
With money, the ravenous hunger of need became satiated and for a while, it gratified.
Yet, there came lulls and stretches of idleness in-between that were stifling; an unbearable monotony, insufferable in the way it wrenched like a fanged maw to the throat. These intervals were when Elias often became ensnared in a wild abundance of nefarious pursuits.
The rabbit hole, deep as it ran, was the catalyst for the necessitation to lie again and again through the facade of a genteel teen. Which inspired a vague sliver of wry mirth since he knew the ruse kept his family at bay, riddled with faith, and profound belief his prior run-in with the law quelled the bulk of his delinquency.
Not that it came to fruition. Lesson learned- lie to his parents, fuck the system.
Now with frequency, he duped his parents into believing all that transpired set forth the burgeoning of growth that tamed him. Let ‘em remain blind since, without hindrance, he trekked down the same damned path of dealing drugs and chasing whatever high filled the voids.
Ah, no, a strain had sprung like a weed after his irksome ordeal with the law over a baggy of weed. Although, it heightened his meticulousness, giving him the distance and leeway to continue selling.
The struggle sourced back to how he structured himself so he became a Yankee through and through even if it tore him between two classes suffering from an ancient schism.
Act out the role, force a smile- it was always the same game, and he considered himself fortuitous that the feat of playing two opposing groups came with remarkable ease.
Between spat venom and unending distaste, many developed tunnel-vision in their hatred- a pivotal downfall which created an opportunity for Elias to sell drugs to both classes.
How he mastered the art of duping the bickering parties remained enigmatic while having a middle-man complete most of the transactions for him. Oh, what others will do to line their wallets. Meanwhile, Eli did this in his leisure, and why the hell not? Take a gamble, raise the stakes, forget the fabricated persona and the woes of youth.
A cheery ding from his phone interrupted his musings, and he fetched it to see what fuckery had transpired in the group chat. Elias stood propped against a stark black Lamborghini Veneno with a cigarette suspended between his lips as he read the latest conversation.
4:20pm: ah haha i'm too
to be 
4:21pm:
to my 🛥4:22pm: i have
n 
4:24pm: I’ll be there xx
4:24pm: 20 minutes or so kk?
Ah, so Arlo had concocted a scheme (what the hell did he have in mind that involved fireworks?) Elias reckoned and drugs as a bonus which had him sold. Although he did not go without when it came down to drugs, all too familiar with inebriation and sedation to numb the pain of life or to indulge in ecstasy- whichever fit the mood. Being a dealer, getting a sundry of drugs was his forte, although if he could bum off Arlo, sure as shit he would.
It did not matter that he was the newcomer in the group with all its exclusivity. A clique he weaseled into, well, no, rather he came into it as natural as possible, all fluidity in his flow and confidence.
While he had ties to the Dixies, he obscured the connection. Instead, he took to putting up a front of aversion.
4:28PM: emoji morse code up in this bitch. im down, gimme 40.
Another excuse to escape the critical eyes of his foster father. Which he already did by driving somewhere in the sticks, yet he itched for a better diversion and Arlo, Skylar, and Marisol were riots, fitting the bill. Despite fretting over them discovering he mingled with the Dixies, he fancied their company.
So, he extinguished his cigarette, not that he cared if this place burned.
With that, he made his way to where the crew gathered. An extravagant yacht, fitting of that premium rich kid status. As per usual, late, yet not without fashion. If not for Arlo, he might have brought something himself.
However, Arlo dipped into the trade of cocaine more than he did and the fucker promised drugs, for free, no less.
“So, what’s the sitch, bitches?”
After regarding Arlo, Skylar, and Mari, cocksure and brimming with a more manic shade of energy, he found himself fixated on the firework gun; another way to spark some chaos, break and bend laws, or rather, fuck shit up.
“Please tell me you’ve fuckery planned, Arlo, baby?”
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allure
angel eyes ♡
laburnum gold
you know ;)
honeyfrog
sugar, honey, sweet (she/they)
Jack could pride himself on usually never getting too far in over his head when it came to typical shenanigans. Part of it was being the oldest of ten, part of it some natural inclination towards something responsibility-adjacent— survival, maybe. Yeah, that’s what he’d call it. Making sure you weren’t caught shoplifting, keeping it down when you drank too much, driving like an absolute dork when you had weed in the car. Common sense, one might call it, but less so for the people he surrounded himself with, and not at all to the people who could get away with it.
Survival wasn’t something he thought he’d have to tap into that night. Groggy though he was from his late start, the presence of his friends always perked him up. Even with the fierce divide between he and Clem on the nature of beer and drinkers of beer (“fucking psychopaths”, sure), she was a riot, a perfect compliment to his more reckless, chaotic nature, and though he stared wide eyed as she regaled them with the tale of her (very warranted) breaking and entering, he found himself beaming near uncontrollably, admiring her to no end.
And Tiff—well, there was still a touch of weirdness between he and Tiff. It wasn’t so much that he had anything to feel weird about, just that she was his friend, and, well—things didn’t usually last too long in that department after what they’d done. But that was the past, he had to remind himself, and he sat by her on the tattered seat, feeling that unmistakable clutch of anger in his chest while she recalled her own lively day, offering to lay the guy out if he ever caught him in the street.
Then there was Jasper. There was something about him (maybe his size, maybe his perpetual but somehow totally endearing grouchiness) that made Jack want to smack the shit out of him every time he saw him—but in a friendly way, of course. Kind of like wanting to squeeze a really cute animal. He didn’t like to think of the implications there, but it didn’t stop him from lingering behind the other boy on their journey to the sacred spot, one arm slung perpetually over his shoulders, ruffling his hair, pressing a cold beer to the back of his neck, trying to get a rise out of him, because who was Jasper if he wasn’t irritated with Jack?
All in all, he couldn’t have asked for more. There was a genuine happiness sitting near perfectly in his chest as he passed the blunt between them, a beer sweating in one hand, tree frogs singing, the Charleston air oppressively hot but familiar all the same. He could have stayed there for eternity.
That’s about when survival kicked in.
It started with Jasper’s voice. It caught Jack’s attention as sure as if it were an air horn blown square in the face, though it wasn’t anything close to concerning. His eyelids were heavy as he looked up at Jasper. “Huh?” It was a low, stupid-sounding noise that came from deep in his chest. He coughed, ashed the blunt, and handed it off to Tiffany before climbing to his feet, using the leather seat to pull himself skyward. “You said Yankees?”
It didn’t take long for him to spot it. Who couldn’t? It was a thing straight out of a glossy tabloid, the kind of boat that belonged in sky-blue waters under a headline that read “TOM HANKS CAUGHT CHEATING ON YAHCT?!” It was the kind of boat that Jack always longed for, but would have never found the courage to take out of the harbor for fear of what might happen. Of course, the people on that thing didn’t have those kinds of worries. They’d buy a new one.
Jack rolled his eyes, though not at Jasper. “Probably their parents,” he muttered, knowing it probably wasn’t true, but more so wanting a reason to draw their collective attention away from it. Who cares? he thought, even though a flicker of resentment was already building in his belly. Let ‘em do what they want, we’re having a good time.
He turned to sit down again, hoping to pave the way for just that mentality, knowing it was just as unlikely. And that’s when the boat exploded.
He didn’t have enough time to react as smoothly as his childhood dreams would have predicted. Their vessel leered dangerously into the murky water, and for a moment the world tilted into the abyss, ushered by a wall of sparks that engulfed the scene behind him. Jack cursed. Tiff screamed. Jasper’s elbow caught him in the ribs and he felt goosebumps rise on his arms, the fear you could only feel in a situation where you were utterly helpless. Half-crouching, Jack was knocked to his hands and knees, and he struggled to keep himself from rolling straight into those depths that seemed now so omnipresent. Water, fire, and then—from the reeds, a glint of ivory just catching the light—a carcass.
It’s what his brain told him it was. It’s what he needed to believe. He needed to believe it so badly that he constructed a story around it, even. A deer shot by a hunter who then limped to his death by the water. Maybe a gator had got him. Jack even felt bad for it.
Then something else—hair. And in his mind he knew it was hair, long brown hair that had turned caramel in the light. That’s how he knew. And yet, still—a dog, it’s a dog, it’s one of those long haired dogs, poor dog. Something building in his stomach, not sickness, not yet, but almost. The numbness of his high was maybe what held his eyes there, searching for the answer he wanted it to be. Or maybe it was that feeling. That deep, solid feeling, like a cinder block, like cement dripping through his veins, killing the appetite he’d had, killing the drunkenness, killing a little part of him he wasn’t totally conscious of until now, when it was gone, obliterated. Because it was a person that he was looking at, and that was the truth. It was a woman, pale and bloated and mostly submerged in the water, face down, her hair a nest around her, a handbag (a fucking handbag, that was the worst part; this was a person, a woman, a handbag), wrapped around her neck, thin and bone-white, partially obscured by a lily pad bouncing in the choppy water, the aftermath of whatever had just happened.
And what had just happened?
That was the part that mattered the least. Because as sure as he knew this woman was dead and floating in the water before him, a person who was no longer a person, but a body, real and raw, not the kind they dressed up at funerals, but dead, dead, dead, dead—he knew he was dead, and in Hell. This must have been Hell.
Then he heard screaming. Though it was sharp and angry, it wasn’t the souls of the damned. It was Clem.
His ears were ringing, but he turned to look at the other three, all of them peering over the edge of the boat, shouting and cursing and kicking up a whole fuss. His knees were drenched in Mike’s Hard Lemonade. No, scratch that. This wasn’t Hell. This was painfully real.
“Hey.” It was a low rasp just under his breath, completely imperceptible even to him. Shaking hard (something he would have been embarrassed of in just about every other situation), Jack rose, taking his eyes off the body for the first time, which felt wrong, somehow, as if he were denying the truth of it. There was some kind of commotion across the water—more incomprehensible yelling, coming from the yacht, the harbinger of death—but everything was muted, a low buzz in his brain. Jack’s first instinct was to reach for Jasper, but the other boy seemed furious, his face creased with something unreadable as he stood peering down at the side of the boat. Only vaguely was Jack aware of the stench of smoke and sulfur in the air. Sulfur and something else.
Blindly his arm flew out, and he grabbed for the first person within its reach. The skin under his fingers was warm, moving, full of life. “Hey.” He hated how normal he sounded. Clem wasn’t even paying attention to him. Jack pulled at her arm, gently. “Hey, come here. Look. Look.”
Survival wasn’t something he thought he’d have to tap into that night. Groggy though he was from his late start, the presence of his friends always perked him up. Even with the fierce divide between he and Clem on the nature of beer and drinkers of beer (“fucking psychopaths”, sure), she was a riot, a perfect compliment to his more reckless, chaotic nature, and though he stared wide eyed as she regaled them with the tale of her (very warranted) breaking and entering, he found himself beaming near uncontrollably, admiring her to no end.
And Tiff—well, there was still a touch of weirdness between he and Tiff. It wasn’t so much that he had anything to feel weird about, just that she was his friend, and, well—things didn’t usually last too long in that department after what they’d done. But that was the past, he had to remind himself, and he sat by her on the tattered seat, feeling that unmistakable clutch of anger in his chest while she recalled her own lively day, offering to lay the guy out if he ever caught him in the street.
Then there was Jasper. There was something about him (maybe his size, maybe his perpetual but somehow totally endearing grouchiness) that made Jack want to smack the shit out of him every time he saw him—but in a friendly way, of course. Kind of like wanting to squeeze a really cute animal. He didn’t like to think of the implications there, but it didn’t stop him from lingering behind the other boy on their journey to the sacred spot, one arm slung perpetually over his shoulders, ruffling his hair, pressing a cold beer to the back of his neck, trying to get a rise out of him, because who was Jasper if he wasn’t irritated with Jack?
All in all, he couldn’t have asked for more. There was a genuine happiness sitting near perfectly in his chest as he passed the blunt between them, a beer sweating in one hand, tree frogs singing, the Charleston air oppressively hot but familiar all the same. He could have stayed there for eternity.
That’s about when survival kicked in.
It started with Jasper’s voice. It caught Jack’s attention as sure as if it were an air horn blown square in the face, though it wasn’t anything close to concerning. His eyelids were heavy as he looked up at Jasper. “Huh?” It was a low, stupid-sounding noise that came from deep in his chest. He coughed, ashed the blunt, and handed it off to Tiffany before climbing to his feet, using the leather seat to pull himself skyward. “You said Yankees?”
It didn’t take long for him to spot it. Who couldn’t? It was a thing straight out of a glossy tabloid, the kind of boat that belonged in sky-blue waters under a headline that read “TOM HANKS CAUGHT CHEATING ON YAHCT?!” It was the kind of boat that Jack always longed for, but would have never found the courage to take out of the harbor for fear of what might happen. Of course, the people on that thing didn’t have those kinds of worries. They’d buy a new one.
Jack rolled his eyes, though not at Jasper. “Probably their parents,” he muttered, knowing it probably wasn’t true, but more so wanting a reason to draw their collective attention away from it. Who cares? he thought, even though a flicker of resentment was already building in his belly. Let ‘em do what they want, we’re having a good time.
He turned to sit down again, hoping to pave the way for just that mentality, knowing it was just as unlikely. And that’s when the boat exploded.
He didn’t have enough time to react as smoothly as his childhood dreams would have predicted. Their vessel leered dangerously into the murky water, and for a moment the world tilted into the abyss, ushered by a wall of sparks that engulfed the scene behind him. Jack cursed. Tiff screamed. Jasper’s elbow caught him in the ribs and he felt goosebumps rise on his arms, the fear you could only feel in a situation where you were utterly helpless. Half-crouching, Jack was knocked to his hands and knees, and he struggled to keep himself from rolling straight into those depths that seemed now so omnipresent. Water, fire, and then—from the reeds, a glint of ivory just catching the light—a carcass.
It’s what his brain told him it was. It’s what he needed to believe. He needed to believe it so badly that he constructed a story around it, even. A deer shot by a hunter who then limped to his death by the water. Maybe a gator had got him. Jack even felt bad for it.
Then something else—hair. And in his mind he knew it was hair, long brown hair that had turned caramel in the light. That’s how he knew. And yet, still—a dog, it’s a dog, it’s one of those long haired dogs, poor dog. Something building in his stomach, not sickness, not yet, but almost. The numbness of his high was maybe what held his eyes there, searching for the answer he wanted it to be. Or maybe it was that feeling. That deep, solid feeling, like a cinder block, like cement dripping through his veins, killing the appetite he’d had, killing the drunkenness, killing a little part of him he wasn’t totally conscious of until now, when it was gone, obliterated. Because it was a person that he was looking at, and that was the truth. It was a woman, pale and bloated and mostly submerged in the water, face down, her hair a nest around her, a handbag (a fucking handbag, that was the worst part; this was a person, a woman, a handbag), wrapped around her neck, thin and bone-white, partially obscured by a lily pad bouncing in the choppy water, the aftermath of whatever had just happened.
And what had just happened?
That was the part that mattered the least. Because as sure as he knew this woman was dead and floating in the water before him, a person who was no longer a person, but a body, real and raw, not the kind they dressed up at funerals, but dead, dead, dead, dead—he knew he was dead, and in Hell. This must have been Hell.
Then he heard screaming. Though it was sharp and angry, it wasn’t the souls of the damned. It was Clem.
His ears were ringing, but he turned to look at the other three, all of them peering over the edge of the boat, shouting and cursing and kicking up a whole fuss. His knees were drenched in Mike’s Hard Lemonade. No, scratch that. This wasn’t Hell. This was painfully real.
“Hey.” It was a low rasp just under his breath, completely imperceptible even to him. Shaking hard (something he would have been embarrassed of in just about every other situation), Jack rose, taking his eyes off the body for the first time, which felt wrong, somehow, as if he were denying the truth of it. There was some kind of commotion across the water—more incomprehensible yelling, coming from the yacht, the harbinger of death—but everything was muted, a low buzz in his brain. Jack’s first instinct was to reach for Jasper, but the other boy seemed furious, his face creased with something unreadable as he stood peering down at the side of the boat. Only vaguely was Jack aware of the stench of smoke and sulfur in the air. Sulfur and something else.
Blindly his arm flew out, and he grabbed for the first person within its reach. The skin under his fingers was warm, moving, full of life. “Hey.” He hated how normal he sounded. Clem wasn’t even paying attention to him. Jack pulled at her arm, gently. “Hey, come here. Look. Look.”
idiot
𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.
-----------------ｔｉｆｆａｎｙ.
Corgi
I am a Corgi *3*
[ Amidala Tremaine. ]
by @leviathan.
oxytocin
love drug
clementine !
the boat • w/ the dix • fucking furious
timshel
𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩
6:05PM
coded by weldherwings.
Last edited:
allure
angel eyes ♡
idiot
𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.
-----------------ｔｉｆｆａｎｙ.
oxytocin
love drug
clementine !
the boat • dix • horrified
laburnum gold
you know ;)
Corgi
I am a Corgi *3*
Last edited:
idiot
𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.
-----------------ｔｉｆｆａｎｙ.
Last edited:
timshel
𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩
11:14 AM
coded by weldherwings.
Last edited:
honeyfrog
sugar, honey, sweet (she/they)
It’s hard to figure out what to do with your life after something like that. For the next however many hours (or was it at least a day- or more, even?), Jack’s existence clung to the notion that whatever had happened, wasn’t quite as earth shattering as it was. Part of him knew this wasn’t the reality of it, but he managed to keep that part quiet enough to blend in with the rest of his monotone day - however long or real it was.
All he knew was the sun wasn’t yet setting by the time he was home, stripping off his clothes in the laundry room as if they might be the source of this heavy feeling that had settled into his every stitch. The first level of the house was empty. Not entirely unusual - there were voices coming from upstairs, a faint argument, and more somewhere distant outside, down the street a little ways - but it didn’t matter. He felt his mouth set into a stony frown, just as impenetrable as it would have been questionable. But Jack didn’t have an excuse for anyone. Would he have told, if they pressed enough? Probably not. He could barely understand it himself.
He trudged into the kitchen in his boxers and opened the fridge door. Two thin, plain cardboard boxes were stacked on the first shelf, half crushed where they’d been crammed in unceremoniously. Jack lifted the lid of the top one with the tip of one finger, as if he might send the whole thing crashing down (he didn’t think he could handle any spontaneous noise right now). There were two slabs of cheese pizza sitting in the middle of a vaguely heart-shaped grease stain, looking a little sad. It almost made him tear up. And why? It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t done anything wrong. None of them had. And yet, there was a clutch of despair in his stomach, as if he’d become suddenly bloated. He felt the pressure in his chest and closed the door quickly. He wasn’t hungry.
He didn’t feel in need of a shower either, but it was the only thing he could think to do that would give him a valid reason to avoid the kids. He worried he’d lash out at them. One look at him and any one of them would know something was wrong. Not only wrong, but irreparably wrong, something that he - in all his might and wisdom - couldn’t fix. He wouldn’t let them see him like that. He couldn’t let them know that stuff like this was just within their reach. Closer than they thought.
He turned the hot water up nearly all the way, knowing it would only last ten minutes at most. He needed longer. He needed an hour, more. Briefly Jack wondered if the Yankees were doing the same thing. Was their pain erased the moment they got home, in saunas and king sized tubs, down comforters, maybe even therapy? He doubted it. But it sure as hell must’ve been a lot easier to deal with.
He didn’t know how long he was in the shower for, but the water had gone cold for a while by the time he got out. Usually he couldn’t stand it, but it made the physical reaction that overcame him there much easier to excuse - the dull throbbing at the front of his head, the stuffy nose, the puffy eyes, the urge to crawl right out of his skin.
He toweled off and elected for a pair of sweatpants that were entirely too warm for the weather, though the feeling of the fabric grounded him somewhat. Being the eldest, his room was frequently shared whenever there were nightly disputes or bad dreams had - but tonight, for the first time, he locked the door.
That evening was one of the few times he’d been sober and hadn’t remembered when exactly he’d fallen asleep. Stranger than that, was that it was a largely restful sleep - broken up only once by a hazy vision of the crack of light under his door, a somewhat urgent knocking and the sound of something adjacent to his mother’s muffled voice. That morning he woke, covered in sweat, dust motes dancing in the afternoon light that swept in through his broken blinds. When the anxiety resumed - hot, painful, like a swarm of bees rolling around in his gut - he reached for his phone. 38%.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the light before he could read whatever was on his screen. A few Snapchat notifications, then a string of texts - mostly from his mother.
ma: Are you okay?
ma: Elly said she didn’t see you come home. Are you home?
ma: You need to answer me Jack.
Two missed calls. Shit. The anxiety rose.
He almost put the phone down. His first instinct would have been to spring out of bed at the speed of light to find her and tell her he was here, that he was fine. But she would’ve been long gone by now. Instead, he shifted onto his back and typed out a quick message: “yeah mom i’m home and i’m fine, just really tired last night i’m sorry i love you”.
Clicking back to the home screen, he caught sight of another telltale red bubble. Again, his stomach churned. He opened Instagram and tapped the arrow in the corner. Heat began to rise in his throat and he struggled for a moment to breathe in. Somehow, this felt worse than the texts from his mom.
Opening the conversation virtually confirmed his suspicions. If there was any doubt, it vanished as he scrolled through the names in the group chat.
His fingers were trembling as he typed.
@jaaackk_ : are u sure that’s a good idea
All he knew was the sun wasn’t yet setting by the time he was home, stripping off his clothes in the laundry room as if they might be the source of this heavy feeling that had settled into his every stitch. The first level of the house was empty. Not entirely unusual - there were voices coming from upstairs, a faint argument, and more somewhere distant outside, down the street a little ways - but it didn’t matter. He felt his mouth set into a stony frown, just as impenetrable as it would have been questionable. But Jack didn’t have an excuse for anyone. Would he have told, if they pressed enough? Probably not. He could barely understand it himself.
He trudged into the kitchen in his boxers and opened the fridge door. Two thin, plain cardboard boxes were stacked on the first shelf, half crushed where they’d been crammed in unceremoniously. Jack lifted the lid of the top one with the tip of one finger, as if he might send the whole thing crashing down (he didn’t think he could handle any spontaneous noise right now). There were two slabs of cheese pizza sitting in the middle of a vaguely heart-shaped grease stain, looking a little sad. It almost made him tear up. And why? It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t done anything wrong. None of them had. And yet, there was a clutch of despair in his stomach, as if he’d become suddenly bloated. He felt the pressure in his chest and closed the door quickly. He wasn’t hungry.
He didn’t feel in need of a shower either, but it was the only thing he could think to do that would give him a valid reason to avoid the kids. He worried he’d lash out at them. One look at him and any one of them would know something was wrong. Not only wrong, but irreparably wrong, something that he - in all his might and wisdom - couldn’t fix. He wouldn’t let them see him like that. He couldn’t let them know that stuff like this was just within their reach. Closer than they thought.
He turned the hot water up nearly all the way, knowing it would only last ten minutes at most. He needed longer. He needed an hour, more. Briefly Jack wondered if the Yankees were doing the same thing. Was their pain erased the moment they got home, in saunas and king sized tubs, down comforters, maybe even therapy? He doubted it. But it sure as hell must’ve been a lot easier to deal with.
He didn’t know how long he was in the shower for, but the water had gone cold for a while by the time he got out. Usually he couldn’t stand it, but it made the physical reaction that overcame him there much easier to excuse - the dull throbbing at the front of his head, the stuffy nose, the puffy eyes, the urge to crawl right out of his skin.
He toweled off and elected for a pair of sweatpants that were entirely too warm for the weather, though the feeling of the fabric grounded him somewhat. Being the eldest, his room was frequently shared whenever there were nightly disputes or bad dreams had - but tonight, for the first time, he locked the door.
That evening was one of the few times he’d been sober and hadn’t remembered when exactly he’d fallen asleep. Stranger than that, was that it was a largely restful sleep - broken up only once by a hazy vision of the crack of light under his door, a somewhat urgent knocking and the sound of something adjacent to his mother’s muffled voice. That morning he woke, covered in sweat, dust motes dancing in the afternoon light that swept in through his broken blinds. When the anxiety resumed - hot, painful, like a swarm of bees rolling around in his gut - he reached for his phone. 38%.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the light before he could read whatever was on his screen. A few Snapchat notifications, then a string of texts - mostly from his mother.
ma: Are you okay?
ma: Elly said she didn’t see you come home. Are you home?
ma: You need to answer me Jack.
Two missed calls. Shit. The anxiety rose.
He almost put the phone down. His first instinct would have been to spring out of bed at the speed of light to find her and tell her he was here, that he was fine. But she would’ve been long gone by now. Instead, he shifted onto his back and typed out a quick message: “yeah mom i’m home and i’m fine, just really tired last night i’m sorry i love you”.
Clicking back to the home screen, he caught sight of another telltale red bubble. Again, his stomach churned. He opened Instagram and tapped the arrow in the corner. Heat began to rise in his throat and he struggled for a moment to breathe in. Somehow, this felt worse than the texts from his mom.
Opening the conversation virtually confirmed his suspicions. If there was any doubt, it vanished as he scrolled through the names in the group chat.
His fingers were trembling as he typed.
@jaaackk_ : are u sure that’s a good idea
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