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Smooth as Glass

Getting the mail has, for as long as Margot can remember, been something of a performance. When he was a kid, one of Mason’s favorite tricks was to tamper with any deliveries Margot might have been receiving. It started small, as most of Mason’s pranks did; a mislaid letter or a package from a distant aunt that had been prematurely opened, robbed of its treats and presents. At the time Margot had been distraught; missing candy and torn up birthday cards are, after all, enough to render a toddler utterly devastated. But as they grew so too did Mason’s mail interference scam escalate. No longer was it enough to remove the contents–now he’d figured out that replacing them with something nasty was an even better way to get a rise out of his sister. And then there was the trip out of her room, down the grandly curving staircase, through the parlor and formal living room and into the entrance hall to collect the mail in the first place. Most people would have thought nothing of this four minute sojourn. But the older she got, the more Margot’s heart rate accelerated any time she found herself having to leave her room.

Of course back in the good old days Margot’s mail hadn’t ever contained much of interest. Candy and sweets, sure–sometimes a book of Bible verses or a twee note-taking set embellished with flowers and kittens. Boring stuff–nothing that ever held Mason’s attention for more than a handful of minutes. Privately, Margot suspected Mason had been crushingly disappointed that during their teenage years he’d never discovered any illicit love notes or salacious deliveries. Margot would sooner have exchanged sweet nothings with a rabid wildebeest than with a human male, and so while Mason’s intrusions into her personal correspondence were still frequent (and obvious–he never bothered to reseal the envelopes properly, and more often than not made a show of having sloppily licked the sealed flap to ‘try’ and close it up again) she never heard much from him on the subject. There is, after all, not much leverage to be had in bank statements, credit card offers, and notes from charitable organizations.

Today is different.

Timing her trip to the front door is key. Margot knows the mail is delivered early–between half past seven and half past eight. She also knows that it’s highly unusual for Mason to wake any earlier than 10am unless he has some special reason to do so. She’d been banking on his absence from the main house last night, but to her disappointment she’d heard him meandering up the stairs at two am, pausing at her bedroom door and then evidently thinking better of it, slumping instead into the hallway bathroom where sounds of his repeated and violent stomach purging could be heard. She had no idea what he’d been doing and she didn’t want to know, but if the state he’d been in was anything to go by, Margot can’t imagine he’ll be emerging from his room bright eyed and bushy tailed to collect the mail.

She makes it to the hallway without incident, hovering awkwardly in the main hall like an uneasy ghost, all slender and gaunt in her nightgown. She wraps her arms around herself like a shield, eyes fixed on the grandfather clock. Mason isn’t the only interloper she has to contend with; this delivery is…sensitive, and it wouldn’t be the first time her father had paused in the lobby to insist, in his booming voice, to know what his daughter had ordered on the world wide web this time. Usually it’s nothing; books, phone chargers, chewing gum–all the things Margot would buy in a store if she could bear venturing outside the house for long enough.

Of course, if the delivery comes as promised, she might yet manage it.

At 7:45 exactly the iron hatch slides open, vomiting letters and parcels all over the marble floor. Margot drops to her knees, rifles through them hastily. Molson, Molson, Molson, one suspiciously shaped package for Mason, and…–yes! It’s here!

She practically dances back to her room.

In her haste to open the package, she forgets to lock the door to her room. Her heart is in her throat, fluttering so fast she’s certain it’s about to burst, about to flood her mouth with its viscous contents. Oh, this is the best kind of sickness–anxiety borne of expectation, not fear. She rips open the dull plastic wrapper, brushes aside the invoice, the tissue paper.

The material is just as she ordered; a thick yet flexible woven fabric, custom designed to her measurements in a deep, unfussy shade of black. No frills, no patterns. No embellishments whatsoever. Function over fashion, just as she’d requested. She runs her fingers over it as though caressing the finest gown in her mother’s closet–reverently.

In a moment she’s slipped out of her nighty, standing in front of her full length mirror in just her plain black boyshorts. She forces herself to look–to really look. For months now she hasn’t been able to stand the sight of her own body. She showers in the dark. She dresses in the dark, or under the weight and safety of her bed sheets. She can’t exactly place when anxiety gave way to revulsion, but for the past year she’s spent the majority of her time pretending to be a sentient mist, shapeless and ephemeral. But they are there, still. Those lumps and curves that make her so different to Mason, so completely and utterly his opposite.

She wastes no time in tugging the binder over her head, struggling for one panicked minute to adjust it enough to pull down over her chest. It fits snug, like an embrace. Or a choke hold. Margot runs her open palmed hands down the length of her body, from clavicle to jut of hip bone. Barely a ripple. Smooth, like polished glass.

“Let’s see how you like me now,” she whispers to her own reflection.


@masonverger-rising


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Halloween

masonverger-rising:


“Keep an eye on me? On me, Margot?” He shakes his head and pushes his glasses up – he’s still getting used to them, getting used to seeing clearly for what must be the first time in years. It made him so mad when he realised that he needed them, that the headaches were more frequent, and that most people weren’t looking at the world in vague slabs of colour and shape.

“What kinda idea do you think I’m gonna get?” Would she say it aloud? If she does he can take her up on it. Well I wouldn’t have thought of that, Margot, but if you insist … She’d hate that. “Besides …” He smirks to himself, looking around at the decorations and then dragging his eyes up Margot’s body, at the dress which nips in at the waist just so and the bloody paint, the makeup, the marks of violence on the fabric.

His ghostly sister-bride.

“You always wanted a big Halloween party, didn’t you, Little Sister?” He grabs her hand and holds it between his. Mason’s suit is vintage, a dark Edwardian jacket with a dove-grey waistcoat. The jacket is lined with shell-pink satin, and his shirt cuffs and the pale fabric over his chest are splattered with the same blood-red paint that mars Margot’s dress.

“And look at us – don’t we make the perfect couple?” He sets his top hat back on his head and squeezes his hand around hers. “Why so glum, Margot? Don’t you like it?” They look like a couple who’ve been dug out of a grave, a pair of ghosts haunting the family home.

A vicious, ugly feeling coils in Mason’s chest. He’s dissatisfied and it makes him want to lash out. He drops Margot’s hand and steps back inside to fix himself a drink and check that the candy is all to hand. He wants to be ready when the children begin to arrive.

It never used to be this way, with Mason–the rapid cycling between unnervingly tender and then all at once distant, reclusive. When Mason’s mood had flipped, before, it had careened wildly from sweet to sadistic. Now, there’s this strange middle stage; a withdrawal into himself, an internalized anger that Margot can’t quite figure out. She doesn’t know what’s changed, or even precisely when the shift occurred–just that he seems further away, now. Less specifically focused on her and her perpetual torment. 

She should be grateful, really. All these tiny, thin-limbed bodies acting as stand-ins, as miniature Margots. If she could ignore his monstrosities for long enough, he might give up on her altogether–forget she even existed. She’s older now, after all. And Mason has never had a particularly lengthy attention span. Some of the novelty must have worn off, at this stage; he knows her body so intimately, the way it cracks and splinters.

When he turns and disappears into the house, Margot stands on the threshold, one foot raised partially off the ground, the silk toe of her heel peeping out from under mountains of tulle and torn lace. Threshold; such a beautiful word–this limit between one thing and another. It’s so tempting to pivot as a ballerina might, to turn her back on him and his ghastly horror show and return to the main house, lock her doors, barricade herself in the safety of her room. He won’t come after her, not tonight. Not with so many fine distractions delivering themselves to his doorstep, practically gift wrapped. 

What’s stopping her? Margot glances back over her shoulder again, takes her bottom lip between her teeth and chews. If she’s honest with herself–really honest–is she here because she wants to play the hero? Will her presence really deter Mason? Has it ever? 

A familiar sickness uncoils in the pit of her stomach, moves like a serpent through her gut and up into the pitch black cavity of her chest. She counts her accelerated heartbeats. 

Jealousy, then. Jealousy and fear–nothing noble about it. Because as much as she wants to be done with it all, as much as she wants to close the door on her brother and wipe him and his sadistic bullshit from her mind, she can’t. And this game he’s playing, whatever it is–this cat and mouse, this pulling away from her–as much as she wants to pretend otherwise, the smallest, most twisted part of her is hurt by his indifference. 

It’s the same part that’s still flattered by the way he looked at her when he called them the perfect couple. The part of her she wishes she could gouge out with a scalpel. 

“Mason…?” the elevated toe comes down over the lip of the doorway, is followed by her other foot, one over the other in quick succession until she catches up with him in the opulently furnished living room. “…are you alright? You seem….”

And what does he seem? How do you read a monster? She lets any possible end to the sentence die on her tongue, looks up at him with a mixture of concern and disgust. 



britstevenson:

Mary Mason wardrobe appreciation


Send me a misconception you think people have about my character and I’ll explain if it’s true or not

canadaintheraw-deactivated20140:


smallestshrike:

//Some of you know that in my other life I am a professional writer & shit. I wrote this review of the best horror movie I’ve ever seen for @themarysue & you should read it & also see the film for reasons. 


if you donate to my sister’s gofundme $20 or more i’ll write you a drabble

masonverger-rising:

here’s the post http://smallestshrike.tumblr.com/post/133321168136/hello-fannibals

and here’s a link to the fundraising page https://www.gofundme.com/kiaalice

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Hello fannibals!

smallestshrike:

You may not remember me; I’m Kia! I write fanfic under smallestshrike on AO3 and FanFic.net, and I also write as @margotverger-rising here on Tumblr! Some of you may also follow my personal, @alicedescends 

What many of you may not know is that I’m an immigrant. I’m currently living in the US on an extended student visa, and attempting to file for permanent residency after undergoing a horribly abusive, traumatic marriage which I had to end to save my life. 

I’m crowdfunding for my legal and immigration fees here on GoFundMe. I’ve got a bunch of rewards available, including fanfic drabbles and longer fics, so if you’ve ever wanted me to write something for you, now might be your chance!

Thanks for listening :) - it’s not easy for me to ask for help, but I’m really struggling to make everything work at the moment, and sometimes struggling just to keep my head above water. Every little helps. <3


Snip snip.

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Halloween

red masonverger-rising:

“You’ve got powder on your dress.” Mason smirks and eyes Margot up and down, looking at the diaphanous layers of her full skirt and her pale hands clutching at the fabric. He’d made her wear it, of course. You’re not allowed at my party if you don’t dress up. And of course Margot had been desperate to come along when she’d heard his plans for the evening.

The real party doesn’t start until ten. A good, civilised hour. But Mason had gone all out this year, decked out the Owning Mills house in lights and carved pumpkins, streamers of crepe paper and cutouts in the windows, the upstairs windows cast disturbing shadows onto the lawn and the front porch has been set up with a veritable cornucopia of smoking cauldrons and shrieking figures.

“The kids are going to love it.” He stands at the front step and looks up at the porch, at Margot in her dress and her scowl. “And I have so much candy to hand out this year – the kids are going to flock here, don’t you think, Margot?”

And if there’s leftover chocolate, well. Margot is going to have to help him get rid of it one way or another.

“Looking forward to it, Little Sister?”

@margotverger-rising

As children, they’d never been allowed to participate in Halloween. Molson had considered it an abomination against God, a heathen holiday celebrated only by pagans and atheists. Margot had always liked the idea of it, even though it had scared her a little. The opportunity to dress up, to disappear inside a costume, wrap yourself in another identity. To Margot, who felt uncomfortable in her own skin on a daily basis, Halloween offered the tantalizing possibility of embodying her real self. A possibility that, of course, she was annually denied.

Now that they’re all grown up, Margot still hasn’t completely sloughed off the expectations of her family. Sure, technically she has the freedom to do as she pleases. She’s 21: legally an adult. She could leave–go somewhere new, establish a life for herself. But then what? She has no qualifications, no money, no experience dealing with the real world, as Molson ceaselessly reminds her. You’re no good on your own, Margot. You need someone to look after you–Mason will do that, when I’m gone. Family is important, Margot. Family don’t turn their backs on each other. 

She takes her freedoms where she can get them, experiments with her daily costume, a happy medium between familial expectation and genuine self-expression. A dash of red lipstick here, like blood smeared around her mouth: war paint, a battle cry. Slim-line jackets, pants instead of skirts. 

Paradoxically, tonight isn’t about freedom. If Margot has learned anything in life, it’s that getting what you think you want is rarely the joyous experience you imagined. Finally, she gets to celebrate Halloween–but it’s not going to be much of a celebration, since she’ll be spending the whole time babysitting Mason. 

Originally, when he’d said he was having a Halloween party, Margot had resolved to make herself conspicuous only by her absence. Another night hiding in her room with the doors locked; same old, same old. Have a party, Mason. Excellent idea. Stay at Owning Mills–it’ll be one less night I have to sleep with the lights on. 

And then he’d mentioned trick-or-treaters. There were plenty of neighboring families, the kids of the wealthy and privileged, offspring of family friends. And then, of course, there were the disadvantaged youth. The kids Mason liked to target; starved of attention and love, desperate for the smallest moment of joy and levity. Well, Mason could provide both of those things in spades. Those things, and a whole lot more.

Owning Mills is resplendent in gaudy seasonal paraphernalia; twinkling lights, a fake cemetery among the rose bushes, cobwebs strewn across the front patio, studded with glitter-encrusted spiders. It’s a little kid’s spooky wonderland. Margot has to concede it: Mason has really outdone himself. The thought sends shivers down her spine–and not in a manner that is seasonally appropriate.

She’d dressed for the occasion, as she’d been told to do: a worn out vintage wedding dress, shredded to pieces and stained at the edges with red dye #40. Her hair is tangled with dried roses, a crown of fake thorns, her eyes smudged with makeup to make her look ghostly, hollow–more so than usual. Maybe this, in a sense, isn’t a costume at all. Just another layer, another facet of the real Margot–whoever that is. 

She scowls up at him, lip curled in contempt.

“I’m only here for them,” she jerks her head subtly at the dimly lit driveway leading up to the house. It’s empty–for now. Soon, it will be illuminated by the chatter of youthful voices, the glow of ghoulish pumpkin-lanterns. “Papa said to keep an eye on you. Don’t get the wrong idea.”