When his cell phone chimes Mason is half-drowsing, absently petting Abigail’s hair where she’s sleeping with her face pressed against his chest, the warm weight of her legs tangled around his. She’s almost stopped bleeding.
He doesn’t quite register what the chime means until the second one, and he reaches over to the bedside table to grab the phone and put it on silent before it wakes Abigail.
He can just make out the text without his glasses, but he slides them on anyway, wanting to be absolutely sure that he doesn’t miss a single thing. Mason wonders if she’s shared his little gift with anyone — probably Lecter, that had been the aim, anyway. And who else did she have that she could trust with that sort of thing?
Mason has spent a long time making sure of that.
He realises that his heart is racing, he feels all choked up — he’s missed Margot so much in the few weeks that he’s been away, and it’s wound up in a little streak of hurt, that she wants so badly for him to be locked up in rehab again. As if that would help anything.
[text] personal? well i guess it depends on what you mean by that
[text] they’re certainly intimate
For a moment he pauses, thinking — he doesn’t want her to know how bad he’s felt being without her all this time. Wouldn’t it be better if she got a sense of just how easy it would be for him to leave her, abandon her and shut her away from everything that she’s ever known?
Abigail shifts in her sleep and he bites his lip, his thumb strokes across the soft curve of her cheek.
[text] you know i’m getting quite fond of little dead girls
[text] reminds me of when i was away on mission
[text] did i ever tell you about the orphanage?
She can hear his voice through the text. Hear it so clearly that he might as well be sitting next to her, pawing at her hair and whispering, that sort of grating tone he has, that twang that never seems to leave his voice even when he’s trying to be hushed and intimate.
Margot swallows. Her saliva tastes acrid, all of a sudden. The phantom flavor of blood and chemicals.
There’s no reason she should feel anything but terrified. No reason for her to indulge him, to keep this up: he’s obviously not bothered that she knows. Of course he isn’t. It’s what he wanted. And to feed into it further, to allow him to play these bullshit little games…even pretending at confidence, pretending at cold ambivalence, will have no effect.
He knows her. He’s always known her. Perhaps even better than he knows himself.
But her fingers are working over the screen anyway, as if fulfilling some personal destiny divorced from what Margot might actually want, what she might know is the correct and least psychologically damaging course of action. Her fingers want to touch him. Want to reach out. And this is the only way.
[Text] I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to hear some stupid torture fable. I want to know why you weren’t there, when I called River Oaks.
She sounds like a nag, like a scolding mother, and for a split second she thinks about deleting it, about starting over. Taking a different approach. But what? Concern? Affection? The pretense that she’s actually interested in hearing him reminisce about his ‘Mission Days’ (and christ, if she hasn’t heard enough of those stories to guess at what this one might be, even if she’s in the dark about the particulars).
To hell with it. It’s one of the main advantages, to text based communication. She can don a mask. She can pretend she isn’t sick already, isn’t shaking.
[Text] Because they said you never checked in, Mason. That you never turned up.
[Text] Where are you?
[[ It’s been a while. Have some adult!Vergers. Closed to the usual suspect, masonverger-rising. Vermont!Verse. After some therapy and some much needed contemplation, Margot decides to confront Mason about the package he sent her, and whatever might be going on with the little Hobbs girl…]]
Phones are easier than actually talking. With people—real people, face-to-face people—there’s all that business of eyes and mouths, fingers and hands. Even when they’re not doing anything offensive. The sheer presence of another breathing body makes Margot Verger uncomfortable.
And the physical presence of her brother makes her most uncomfortable of all.
Of course, he’s miles away. Hundreds of miles. She knows that, now—doesn’t know where exactly, but knows he’s not going to come creeping up behind her, his arms around her waist, his breath hot on the back of her neck.
Hello there, little sister…
The distance makes her brave. Braver, anyway. The phone is in her hand, and she’s almost brave enough to finish dialling before she presses the cancel button, her hands shaking. No. She can’t sit here in her childhood bedroom and listen to his voice. The mere thought of it makes her throat constrict, her skin crawl.
Instead, she brings up the messaging screen and starts to text.
[Text] I got your present, Mason. How thoughtful of you. I didn’t realize they permitted personal effects in locked down rehabilitation facilities.
[Text] Of course, I suppose a dead girl’s underthings aren’t really personal effects, are they?
Caroline does the ice bucket challenge! via Raúl’s Facebook Page
margotverger-rising this is all it is
Would you please look at how talented my bro is?
My favorite part is the neon pink outline.
And the perfect teeth.
What a babe.
It took a little longer than expected, but QUAINT MAGAZINE ISSUE #3 is live and ready for your eyeballs!
Featuring work from the stunning talents of masonverger-rising, laowenspoet, animalipedia, carolshillibeer & many other fine folk for whom we could not find Tumblrs (Caitlin Baird, Becca Shaw Glaser, Staci Schoenfeld, Courtney Hilden, Shelley Wong, Jessie Strauss, Sara Leavens, Susan DeFreitas, Melody Sage, Magda Knight & Chelsey Clammer) AND the artistic stylings of T Pomar, this issue is almost CERTAINLY out best yet!
Don’t miss out! Read it free online or for a small donation, download the PDF! Ebook coming soon!
Some of you know that in my non-fandom life, I teach English 101 to Freshman, and also work as a writer & editor. This is Issue 3 of the magazine I run/I founded, Quaint Magazine.
If you dig unusual, weird, and kinda creepy literature—if you like poems and storytelling, and if you value writers who are traditionally marginalized (women, queer folk, trans* writers, and those who don’t identify in the gender binary) then you might dig the work we publish. It’s FREEEE to read online, and THIS issue (this is the best part)—THIS issue features work by MY DARLING BROTHER masonverger-rising!
So what r u doin’? Go read it! Or at least go read Mason-mun’s stuff!