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paradlselost · 20 days

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CRIMSON.

JOHN SEED X FEMALE DEPUTY

Sort of a dump, I was really debating on just publishing this as a WIP but I was halfway through the smut and decided to just finish it. Not my best, but I tried to go for a more canon accurate John, which means he’s a major freak in this sorry :/

I mentioned it in the fic but didn’t go too deep, I kinda love toying with the idea of a more selfish deputy - humanizing them. If I were to ever write a longer fic with more of an oc-ized version of the deputy would anyone read? Let me know.

I probably won’t post about John Seed or FC5 for a little while after this. I have ideas for a Black Noir (my bbg) fic and then a Father Paul Hill one from Midnight Mass cause I love religious trauma as y’all can tell. I do also like indoctrinated!deputy so maybe maybe eventually I write about that.

2.7k words

content warnings: mentions of cutting into flesh. smut — dubcon, choking, blood play (John being a freak sorry), dryhumping, oral (m receiving), fingering, debauchery in a house of God.

She should’ve known from the start, when the crackle of her radio sounded, interjecting her music with his voice; that this request was nothing but trouble. But rage had blinded her, wrath seeped into every pore in her body, selfishness.

It was never the Deputy’s plan to become the symbol for the resistance, even after the blades of the helicopter stopped, and smoke and fire billowed out from the engine. Even after Dutch saved her and enlisted her help, and despite the stories from countless other resistance members, she only really had one prerogative; save her friends.

Hudson, Pratt, Whitehorse. Trapped in the claws of the cult, it was her duty to get them back, and despite the help she had been giving to the resistance, those were the only three people she cared about.

He knew this, stalking her like a cat preparing to pounce, he watched every facet of her life from the moment she ventured into Holland Valley that he could. A selfish little thing, ripe for his obsession.

John Seed was a proud man, bold and brave as he had so eloquently begged Jacob to put in his song. His pedestal as a Herald inflated his ego, the knowledge that without him Eden’s Gate wouldn’t have prospered nearly as much fueled his narcissism, which is why he surrounded himself with only the peggies who would do anything for him.

He isn’t sure whether new members are supposed to pledge their lives to him and the cult, but it sounds so sweet when the floor pools with the blood of their atonement and he coaxes those little words from his new followers' lips. His tongue is coated in silver, he loves this new power, and she threatens to take that from him.

He knew she wouldn’t be as proactive if he crooned to her that he had a resistance member or two, and she would swing in guns blazing if he claimed to have Hudson right beside him. So, instead he played on her curiosity, that little nudge in the back of her mind that forced her to seek him out whenever he called. Like a moth to a flame.

“Fuck you, Seed!” Voice so filled with venom it might’ve burned a hole in the floor, he tilted his head at her profanity, a sadistic grin playing on his face.

Hope County was filled with little white churches, chapels with steeples that attempted to reach to the heavens above. She assumed they were much more lively before, now most were barren except on Sundays, when the peggies who could not fit onto Joseph’s compound would listen to him under random roofs of God.

This. He chose to be under the white ceiling specifically, to call her into the thing she had been fighting against. To hear her screams echo against the chipped painting that decorated the walls, for her blood to be stained on the old wooden floorboards.

Curiosity killed the cat. She was stupid enough to venture into his trap, falling to the ground when hit hard enough over the head, and now she was stupid enough to attempt to fight off the peggies that held either arm.

“Such profanity. You’re in a house of God, Deputy, mind your tongue.” He scolded her as if she was a misbehaving child, as if everything she had ever done could be chalked up to that. A spoiled rotten brat.

His fingers danced over the tools he had brought with him, his trusty tattoo gun being at the top, but an assortment of knives he also deemed fit for this occasion. Oh, the blood she would spill for him, he became giddy at the thought.

“Get off of me-! Woah woah woah- hey stop!” Yelping, she still attempted to fight off the peggies that held her arms, she shied away when he advanced toward her, tattoo gun in his hands. He had tried this before, she knew what he was doing.

“No one here to help you now, Wrath. Don’t try and fight, your atonement will hurt much less if you cooperate.” He was too calm for this situation, a practiced art he had been through hundreds of times. It was a skill, making people spill their most intimate secrets, a skill he had perfected.

The Deputy was a fighter, through and through, though John could understand Jacobs words. She was weak without her companions, without pastor Jerome stealing her from her atonement, or Nick Rye strafing his armed convoy, she was nothing now - and it was almost endearing to him.

With her hands bound, she resorted to spitting that same venom that she held in her words, marking his perfect face with her saliva. He grimaced, wiping it off his cheek before it trailed down to his beard, pretty blue eyes flashing with that same bloodlust that dictated his every waking moment.

It was shocking to even the peggies that held her when he grabbed her by her throat, pinning her to the ground and straddling her hips. His hands shook with anger - the same wrath that he deemed consumed her now making an appearance in himself. Two sides of the same coin, two heads of a snake.

Her head ached now, body feeling as though it was echoing. A second blow to the back of her head that surely would’ve knocked her out if the pain of his tattoo gun wasn’t keeping her grounded. She didn’t know how fast he had ripped her shirt, or how long it would take for him to carve her skin, but she was reduced to pained whines and pleas for him to stop.

And he relished in the noises she made. The blood that covered his hands and trickled down her chest wasn’t an unusual sight for the herald - but her being the one under him made it all the more exciting. His Deputy, his wrath, his perfect rival. The peggies that stood above him now didn’t matter, and what are they to him anyways? Expendable followers he could use, the Deputy was everything.

“Yes yes, c’mon, keep pleading…” How could he help it? Her eyes half lidded as she looked up at him, hands no longer bound by the peggies now loosely grabbing the wrist that held the tattoo gun in an attempt to stop him. She looked so pathetic under him, so why shouldn’t he grind himself against her when his pants were so uncomfortably tight?

Her words didn’t quite reach his ears, not as he waved his followers out - who hurriedly scrambled in embarrassment. The old church was silent, save for her soft sobs and his intense breathing. His hand still placed over her neck made her choke on her words, which only fueled his desire. He could crush her windpipe, her life rested in his hands, and maybe he would’ve if the nagging reminder that she was the only way he was getting into New Eden wasn’t playing in the back of his head.

His ticket, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun with her.

He removed his hand from her neck as he finished carving into her pretty skin. WRATH, her own personal scarlet letters. He hummed, looking down at her with lustful eyes, fluttering between hers and the blood that pooled on her chest and trickled down her body to the wooden floor below.

She hated the feeling that bubbled in her chest as the pain subsided, now only a dull ache danced with the look he gave her, how he rubbed the tent made in his pants against her. No doubt, a mark had been left on her neck - his handprint, a reminder. The world felt silent at this moment, when she should've pushed him off.

Selfishness. Prioritizing that small ache he gave her over what she should be doing. Finding anything to act as a weapon against him.

But she didn’t, not as his head lowered and she was greeted with his perfectly slicked back hair, shaking hands reaching to play with a strand. A soft grumble came from his throat, tongue lapping at the blood that trickled down the valley of her chest, tasting what he had drawn out of her.

“What are you doing-?” Her voice was soft, he barely heard it over the ringing in his ears. Too long had he been subjected to resorting to his hand when he thought about her, or messing up his silk pillowcases with his pretty ropes when she teased him over the radio. He had her under him, he wasn’t going to let her go now.

“Shh.” His voice was more scolding then he meant it to be, his tongue traveling from the blood he lapped at down to her budding nipple. He wasn’t gentle, and why should he be? After everything she had messed up for him, he felt it justified to bite down on her pretty flesh, pulling at the bud as much as he wanted.

He relished in the pretty, pained moans that fell from her lips, how her back arched into it. Two sides of the same coin, both reveling in whatever pain was brought to them.

The Deputy’s head tilted back, allowing him a chance to latch onto her neck as a vampire would, smearing the blood on his lips all over her pretty skin. He bit, marking her with his teeth over the forming bruises from his handprint. His hands, decorated in the crimson from his hold on the tattoo gun traveled down her body, painting her in her own red.

He slipped his hand below the rough fabric of her jeans, being met with a contrast, soft and delicate and slightly damp. A soft grumble left his lips at the feeling; which were still pressed against her pretty neck. He felt the way her breath hitched as he ran digits over her most delicate areas. Being so close to her neck, he felt how her muscles tightened and how her breath hitched in her throat.

Lifting her hips to meet his tattooed fingers, a small admission of need. She bit her bottom lip to suppress the noises that tempted to fall from her lips - not wanting to give him the satisfaction. They were still enemies, still rivals, at least to her.

John on the other hand seemed to be on cloud nine, relishing in how she moved against his hand, grinding herself through the fabric of her underwear. He bit down once more, slipping her out of her jeans and grabbing her hips, sitting up and pressing his pelvis against hers.

“John- John cmon…” Head thrown back, panting as she grabbed at the blue silk of his top. He tilted his head down at her, a sadistic smirk playing on his features.

He always took what he wanted, no matter who it was, and the Deputy was no exception to this. To him, it was God's Grace that placed them both here, that gave him the opportunity to rut his hips against hers.

The bulge in his covered jeans met her underwear, fucking himself against her covered cunt. He leaned down overtop of her, panting against her ear. Hot breath on her neck, the sounds of his soft moans mixing with his heavy breaths, and of course his restricted cock grazing just over her clit every couple of thrusts, it was enough to make any girl's eyes roll back.

He stopped, only for a moment, but long enough for her to let out a needy whine, lifting her head to see what he was doing. Tattooed fingers worked the EG belt off, letting his pants pool at his ankles. He wasted no time once they were off, underwear meeting underwear as the outline of his dick was much more pronounced.

“Fuck fuck, put your head back. Fucking-… good girl.” He groaned out, one hand leaving her hips and grabbing at her pretty hair, pulling her head back against the cold wooden floor of the church. She ached, head pounding and echoing from the injuries earlier - but the feeling of him fucking himself against her needy cunt kept her grounded.

In this moment, she needed him, needed this feeling to not pass out.

He tilted his own head back, sweat casting a slick sheen over his skin. A hand dipped against the drying blood on her chest, gathering what he could over his fingertips before bringing them to his lips, sucking on the bloodied digits. He groaned around his fingers, muffling the moans that threatened to fall.

The head of his cock strained against the blue fabric of his boxers, hips thrusting sloppily against her as his hand tightened on her hips, leaving pretty marks in his wake. One thrust, another thrust, and finally another before white pooled at the head, spurting out of the tiny holes in his underwear.

Panting, he finally moved his fingers out of his mouth, cleaned off the blood and tilted his head down at her almost mockingly; he got to finish, the cum that leaked from his underwear dripping down onto hers, and she didn’t get to. He relished in that, that power he had over her.

“H-hey! Not fair!”

“Oh, Deputy. Come here, maybe I’ll let you get off.”

He grinned as he stood up, fixing himself before moving back onto one of the pews, watching her scramble over to him. He had her eating out of the palm of his hand as she kneeled in front of him. Her head pounded harder, eyes a little woozy.

“Poor baby, rest your head, sweetheart.” He teased, a sadistic grin on his face as she nodded and rested against his thigh, looking up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. He couldn’t help himself, not if she looked so pretty right there in his grasp.

He tangled his fingers in her hair, watching her confused expression as he moved the blue fabric off of his legs, dick springing up as it was freed from the confinement of his underwear. Guiding her head over it, watching her part her pretty lips to suck on his leaking tip.

Milking his cock, swallowing the spurts of salty seed that spilled onto her tongue. She drained him for all he’s worth, looking up at him as he ran his fingers through her hair. He was soft and gentle in this moment, noises falling from his lips that told her how good she was doing. She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be sucking off John Seed of all people.

He grinned as he watched her, once he was satisfied with the way she suckled on him, he grabbed her chin and pulled her off of him. Guiding her up to her feet, he let her loom over him. She wasn’t intimidating like this, he didn’t know if it was because he had just fucked her over their clothes or because she was relying on him for an orgasm, but she seemed almost adorable.

His lips found her neck once more as she leaned against him, nuzzling her head into his shoulder. He forced her to stand, to spread her legs to allow his fingers to feel the now wet fabric of her panties. He hummed in satisfaction, moving them aside and tracing a finger over her slick folds.

A soft gasp left her lips, grabbing onto his shoulder and attempting to move back to look him in the eye. He grumbled, forcing her in that same position as he bit down on her neck, pushing a finger inside of her at the same time. He loved the moans that fell from her lips as he pumped a digit deeper inside of her.

Another finger stretched her out, deep enough to hit those nerves that made her legs tremble. She whined, shaking against him and propping herself up as he continued to pump in and out of her. He pulled away from her neck for only a moment, watching the way she buried her face against him and laughing softly.

He added one more finger before her legs fully began to tremble, grabbing onto his shoulder. Pumping more, fully reaching those nerves, which caused her to spasm around him, her orgasm flooding around his fingers. She rocked against him once or twice, chasing her high.

“Look at you, Deputy, needing me. Did I make you feel good? Use your words.”

#far cry 5 #john seed x deputy #john seed x female deputy #smut #john seed #</3 #fc5

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fedtothenight · 29 days

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hello my belovedest, if you have suggestions, I'm looking for a fresh, slightly sweet fragrance for special occasions. preferably nothing too strong or overpowering, as they tend to give headaches. no preferences on masc/fem/unisex. ty in advance and sorry if I'm inadvertently rude

hello beloved!! mmm this is tricky because it’s the opposite of what i would go for and i’m not sure what you mean by special occasion (date? weddings? evenings out?) but here’s a few that come to mind and are not insanely expensive. i haven’t tried most of them (i will mark the ones i have smelt and liked with (x!)) but they may fit the bill:

lazy sunday morning by replica (x)

father figure or missing person by phlur

pear inc. by juliette has a gun

white musk by the body shop (though this is more of an everyday scene - i have it! it’s lovely for the summer!)

pomegranate noir by jo malone (x)

isolabella by narcisse taormina (this one is a sicilian house!) (x) — i also love their zuccarata and colazione a taormina

pure musc by narciso rodriguez

l’eau papier by dyptique

white musk by monotheme venezia (super cheap)

outside of these, i can only think of niche perfumes even i wouldn’t buy full sizes or because they’re insanely expensive: mojave ghost or blanche by byredo, valaya by perfumes de marly, 724/gentle fluidity by mfk…

i wouldn’t bind buy any fragrance though — try and get samples! hope this helps (and not rude at all).

edit + self reblog moment to say where you could probably find some of these:

sephora

notino (they should have a policy whereby you can get a sample of the full bottle you're buying, try the sample, and return the bottle for a full refund if you don't like it)

amyrisessenze

independent perfume shops

remember you can also get equivalenti (dupes) of a lot of the most expensive perfumes i mentioned last! many accessories / perfume shops have them. :)

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archon-of-cyberspace · 1 year

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Genshin Impact: Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche, The Wanderer. Do androids dream of electro gnosis?

Friendly reminder: subject to change once 3.3 comes out (and/or I find more intel on Scara).

Buckle up, I'm writing about one of the characters I hate. It's ridiculous Sumeru slightly fleshed him out despite having his debut 2 years ago. Have the plot convinced me to give Scaramouche a chance? Absolutely not. Though it gave me quite an idea to make this post. Until 3.2. version this brat could not exist at all and we wouldn't feel the difference from storytelling perspective, trust me. Anyway…

Scaramouche, also known as Kunikuzushi, is a prototype of puppet brought to life by hands of the Electro Archon, Raiden Ei, who hoped to hide her gnosis in a living, breathing safe before locking her consciousness on Plane of Euthymia in order to prevent (or delay) erosion. Alleged safe was supposed to watch over Inazumians in her name — security measures in case Celestia wants to nail Inazuma. Only through eternity you are closest to Heavenly Principles and all that stuff.

The source of Scaramouche's problems is the fact that he is — as I mentioned before — a prototype, and prototypes have tendency to not meeting the expectation of their creator. Sooner or later, they get replaced by enchanted model.

First time's rarely the charm, with anything, really. — Viktor Vektor, Cyberpunk 2077

Why I quote different game? Well, if the title's not obvious enough, Scaramouche's identity crisis is a trope broadly used in cyberpunk genre, tech-noir and science-fiction in general. Besides, both titles — Cyberpunk 2077 and Genshin Impact — found their inspiration in Gnosticism.

I assume for Ei the puppet is the golden mean — we cannot ignore the fact how much Archons rely on their believers and present themselves in human's image. Think about it. Why Archons' Statues of the Seven portray people and not animals, for example? Because these gods need to feel a connection with persons they take care of, just like residents of Teyvat need divine guidance (or are convinced they need).

If cattle and horses, or lions, had hands, or were able to draw with their feet and produce the works which men do, horses would draw the forms of gods like horses, and cattle like cattle, and they would make the gods' bodies the same shape as their own. — Xenophanes

Fun fact: it's debatable whenever Archons are actually seen as gods in Gnostic texts. They're creators and rulers of physical world, sure, but Philo sharply criticized Platonist school and never referred to Archons as deity beings in his teachings, unlike Plato. Moreover, in Classical Athens archon was a term used to describe a clerk in charge of polis.

Recalling the day of creation of Scaramouche, Ei rejected him as too weak to become a deity when he showed human emotion — cry. That leads me to conclusion Scaramouche shares some characteristic traits with androids from Blade Runner (1982), based on a novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick. Especially with Roy Batty.

He finds his origin in Raiden Ei, but at the same time, his appearance is human. Scaramouche represents both words — divinity and humankind — but belongs to neither. Electro Archon doesn't want share her goddess status with him, while humans are — in Scaramouche's eyes — distrustful of him. Abandonment is such a piercing feeling it eventually results in violence and blasphemy.

Analogously to Roy Batty, a fugitive hunted by blade runners, seeking remembrance. He even killed his own creator, who not only admitted Roy was his best creation, but refused to take responsibility for Roy's fate in the same breath.

Scaramouche's final act is different, without chance to take his anger out on Raiden Ei. Instead, he becomes Shouki no Kami, deus ex machina, and quickly meets his end.

The higher you climb, the harder you fall.

His narcissism mixed with fear prevail in everything he does. Similar to Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment by F. Dostoevsky, Scaramouche's lying to himself as the realization slowly dawns on him. Holds so desperately to gnosis, a wisdom that doesn't belong to him, he haven't even thought what he possessed was but a mere chess piece, which true worth might be shown only as a part of something bigger.

Might be a lie, an illusion, but it's there… just around the corner. And it keeps you going. — V, Cyberpunk 2077

The Dendro Archon, Lesser Lord Kusanali or Nahida, practically takes role of Scaramouche's mentor and reflection in the mirror. To him, she's everything he was looked down upon for — a sensitive, thoughtful being. Most importantly, successful. Nahida punishes Scaramouche for blasphemy and hubris by taking from Scaramouche what he thinks he values the most — gnosis.

Do you know what hubris is? Arrogance before the gods. The Greeks saw it as a dangerous form of pride that invoked the goddess Nemesis, who would seek retribution. — Faith Seed, Far Cry 5

This time, the retribution is the death of Scaramouche and birth of the Wanderer. Thanks to Nahida, the Wanderer personally experiences allegiance to humankind. Receiving anemo vision is irrefutable proof of acceptance and symbol of freedom from previous life. Changing his identity from Harbinger to Wanderer is no coincidence either, because in tarot the Wanderer is sometimes called the Fool. What does this card mean?

You see, the Wanderer will have to learn how to live anew. Whatever happens to him in Sanctuary of Surasthana, isn't a change of heart per se, rather installing a new OS or restoring the factory settings. Let's look at the Wanderer's gacha splash art, shall we?

Source: r/Genshin_Impact_Leaks.

Obviously he stands out compared to other anemo users. He's still an android, similarly to Albedo, but his hurtful connection to Raiden Ei was severed as Celestia has taken their watch over Wanderer.

Quick reminder: Archons aren't directly responsible for distribution of visions and vision in Chinese localization means eye of god. I suspect visions function as a watchlist for every individual outperforming average Teyvat resident, whose soul may (and will be) sealed within — as I like to call it — Library of Souls, in exchange for temporary usage of elemental powers.

If you played Cyberpunk 2077 and remember what Mikoshi is in that game — I think Celestia in Genshin Impact practically works on the same terms. I'll write about it one day, I promise! Now back to the original topic.

Know the theory of colors? Add white to purple and you get blue.

In most cultures white is associated with innocence and purity, as well as death.

In Gnosticism, blue stands for spirituality and divine realms. Galactic pattern and dark, almost black shades around Wanderer suggest that stars in the sky of Teyvat have place even for an outcast like him… however this also applies to his troublesome past.

While studying history, you may notice how rare deep, strong blue color is. Main reason is quite trivial. The expenses of collecting material, ultramarine, were too big for average person; about five times more expensive than gold. If you could afford ultramarine, it meant you were among 1% through most centuries.

The inside of Wanderer's cape is cyan — symbol of youth, tranquility, sometimes royalty. Stories about royal heirs stripped of their wealth and sent to lifetime journey are quite popular in Gnostic texts. A clear indicator that despite living with humans and travelling in order to gain knowledge on his own, Wanderer comes from the will of higher power. Nothing and no one can deny his origin.

Wanderer continues to smirk and behave bratty, because — at the end of the day — he still is the fool. His story has barely started.

#Genshin Impact #Scaramouche #Kunikuzushi #The Wanderer #Sumeru #lore #lore thoughts #theory #Gnosticism #character analysis

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arizonova · 1 year

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The pauper and the prince/princess?

Please. Give me the equally rich families with their rich shenanigans. Give me the rich heirs with no-nonsense attitude and a pure power of Absolute Academic Weapon™️ to end the villain's career within one season as a side hustle. The main one at their current agenda is playing chess and shogi, trading sarcastic quips, and banter about nepotism and collective narcissism during a petit déjeuner in thee morning. Hawkmoth and Tomoe have already interrupted their tea ceremony dates like seven times and they ain't let that slide any more.

Power of luck and friendship? More like power of spite and annoyance. They are the "I don't know how to connect with the common people, but I do know how to find their flaws and their deepest fears" folks.

The "should I replace our prime minister and participate at the upcoming election? - please don't, we won't be able to gouge out more time between our trip to your manor estate in Wimborne, another trip to my minka estate at Kyoto and our Oxford entry admission" power duo.

"Miraculous: the Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir"? More like "Bummer: the Tales of a Deadbeat Butterfly Man and the city' clowns aka citizens". You bet the only silver lining during that narration would be about their gushing over homies Adrian and Marinette

#odnlb #just a midnight rant #kagami tsuguri #feligami #felix fathom #mlb spoilers #mlb #emotionally constipated dorks #aloof × aloof #the worth of a foil #one does not love breathing

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wildbeautifuldamned · 5 months

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Dummy Bottles CARON Perfume Bottle LE NARCISSE NOIR Black Stopper -2- READ ebay depietrob

#perfume bottle #perfume #jar #glass #caron

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la-cocotte-de-paris · 1 year

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5 Songs I Love

I was tagged by the lovely @wernerherzoghaircut to list 5 songs I've been obsessed with lately! Thank you, hun! :D

(In no particular order)

Mildred Goes To War by Carter Burwell

String Sextet No.1 in B Flat Major, Op. 18: II. Andante me moderato by Brahms (theme song from Les Amants 1958 and I'm so not over this music choice and idk if I ever will be)

Jon Batiste Interlude by Lana Del Rey

Cat People by David Bowie

Kill Bill by SZA

Honourable mentions go to Narcisse by Film Noir and Killer Queen by Queen <3

Now to tag 10 people (no pressure ofc if you don't wanna!): @little-miss-scare-all666 @melancholic--soull @mirandasinclairs @welcome-home-nyx @zeehasablog @sonybuzz42 @neednottoneed @gayvillainera @plague-memoria @jazz-vampire (and anyone else who'd like to ofc :P)

#damn that was lowkey difficult hahahaha #i listen to too much i stg #music #tag games #get to know me

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mariacallous · 6 months

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Is liking Ayn Rand a personality defect? Before she was the godmother of American libertarianism, Rand was a writer known for insisting on the virtue and beauty of self-interest. To her admirers, her books, including “The Fountainhead” and “Atlas Shrugged,” celebrate exceptional men and women who make their own flourishing a moral imperative. To her detractors, Rand’s novels, as Lisa Duggan writes in her 2019 study “Mean Girl: Ayn Rand and the Culture of Greed,” glamorize rapacity and violence; they grant happy endings to characters who showcase “contempt for lesser beings and a cool indifference to their suffering”; and they “provide a structure of feeling—optimistic cruelty—that . . . underwrites the form of capitalism on steroids that dominates the present.”

Since Rand’s death, in 1982, she has been embraced by tech billionaires (Peter Thiel, Steve Jobs, Elon Musk), free-market politicians (Ronald Reagan, Clarence Thomas, Rand Paul), and their acolytes. Elsewhere, she has become a pop-cultural bogeyman, ridiculous but unkillable. Find her on “The Simpsons” (“Russian weirdo Ayn Rand”), “Parks and Recreation” (“a terrible writer”), “Girls,” “Watchmen,” and “The Mindy Project,” invariably dressed as a menace or a punch line. The presence of “Atlas Shrugged” or “The Fountainhead” on a bedside table or Tinder profile is a waving red flag—reliable shorthand for latent sociopathy. A friend, in order to lend me a copy of “Atlas Shrugged” for this piece, stowed the paperback in a manila folder that she then stapled shut and handed off to my partner at their mutual workplace. He smuggled it down the hall and into his bag. “I didn’t think I’d get fired” if anyone saw the book, he explained, “but it wouldn’t look great.”

In “The Book of Ayn,” a novel by Lexi Freiman, Rand takes on a new role: North Star for the cancelled. Anna, a mid-career writer who comes from money, has just published a “contrarian” novel about the opioid epidemic, a satire of the rural poor full of “bad haircuts,” “misspelled tattoos,” and pants-shitting. “I had honestly believed I was writing a book so good it metabolized its own badness,” Anna explains, somewhat touchingly. Instead of the acclaim she expects, Anna gets dropped by her publisher and ghosted by her friends; even her old prep school rejects a last-ditch job application. On Twitter, she is enjoined to jump off the balcony of her pied-à-terre on Madison Avenue and to use her novel as a parachute.

Worst of all, a review in the New York Times suggests that Anna is that current-day bête noire, a “narcissist.” Devastated, Anna borrows a friend’s book on narcissism and reads that narcissists are “selfish, arrogant, and insecure,” “grandiose and fragile and incapable of handling any threat to their identity,” and that they “saw themselves reflected back everywhere, made grand narratives of their lives, but felt at their core that they were empty.”

To Anna’s horror, the descriptions remind her of herself. She is empty, she realizes. She doesn’t believe in anything; all she can do is make fun of people. Seeking a counternarrative, Anna gloms on to a tour group discussing Ayn Rand in a coffee shop and, soon after, orders a bundle of her works. She’s immediately enthralled. The books argue that “selfishness was a form of care” and that “wealth was a beautiful thing.” They claim that “true freedom lived . . . in the breaking of bonds and severing of ties.” As Anna reads, she feels her weaknesses becoming strengths. Her selfishness, she realizes, is radically ethical. She may not get invited to parties anymore, but she wouldn’t enjoy them anyway—she’s too radiantly liberated.

In “The Culture of Narcissism,” his famous 1979 study, Christopher Lasch writes that the narcissist can only overcome insecurity “by seeing his ‘grandiose self’ reflected in the attentions of others.” Freiman slyly casts Rand as Anna’s “grandiose self,” the mask she pulls on over her pain and vulnerability. Anna, you might say, has suffered a narcissistic injury and is turning to Rand to preserve her positive self-image.

An elderly millennial in the shitposting era, Anna shrouds her new obsession in layers of self-protective irony. Rand’s ideas give her solace, and being a “ ‘Randgirl,’ ” in scare quotes, appeals to her contrarianism, her desire to provoke and outrage the commenters who want her to jump off a balcony. When Rand was in her late thirties, she moved from New York to Hollywood to write for the big screen. Anna decides to follow in her footsteps. She decamps for Los Angeles and reinvents herself as a television writer, pitching a sitcom, inspired by “Bojack Horseman” (although she swears it’s not), about a farm animal named Ayn Ram. Even as Anna hopes to rehabilitate her hero for a contemporary audience, she places some distance between herself and her subject by wrapping Rand in the soft wool of humor—a defense mechanism that Freiman suggests originates in a tragedy in her early life. When Anna was three, her infant brother died “for no reason” in his sleep. Provocation “smoothed the edges,” she says, a fleece that muffled the sharpness of loss.

With its undercurrent of childhood trauma, “The Book of Ayn” evokes Mary Gaitskill’s classic treatment of the Randgirl plot, “Two Girls, Fat and Thin,” from 1991. That book’s narrator, Dorothy, imprints on a Rand-like character named Anna Granite after being abused and molested by her father as a teen-ager. “By the time I was seventeen, I had a very negative view of life, and a horrific view of sex,” Dorothy tells Justine, a journalist writing an article on Granite and her fans. When she discovered Granite’s books, Dorothy says, “suddenly a whole different way of looking at life was presented to me.” Ostracized at school, she draws comfort from Granite’s depictions of “proud outcasts . . . surrounded by the cold glow of their genius and grace.” In bed with her father, she clings to a dream of “strong, contemptuous beauty . . . indifferent to anything but itself and its own growth.” Dorothy comes to believe in a philosophy called Definitism—Gaitskill’s thinly veiled version of Objectivism, the doctrine developed by Rand—and it confers on Dorothy the power and value that she believes herself to lack; Granite herself seems to nurture the girl in loco parentis. As a college student, Dorothy buys an interstate bus ticket to attend one of Granite’s speaking events and imagines her idol, how “she would look at me and know everything I’d endured.” At the lecture, she weeps uncontrollably, convinced at last that she is “damn strong,” that she is “worth something.”

“The Book of Ayn” and “Two Girls, Fat and Thin” plead for sympathy for the Randgirl. Like Freiman’s Anna, Gaitskill’s Dorothy is a case study in vulnerable narcissism and, ultimately, a figure of pity. She retreats from the world and into daydreams about Oz and Never-Never Land, epic tales in which she plays the hero. She hides behind delusions of grandeur, raging when Justine asks her “stupid” questions. These are broken people to be handled with gentleness, the novels seem to argue.

But, in fact, both books have a more subversive intent: to trouble the distinction between Randians and everyone else. In “Two Girls, Fat and Thin,” Justine, the freelance journalist who interviews Dorothy, is disgusted by Granite’s ideas. She’s identified as “neurotic” and Dorothy is not; the contrast between them conjures Freud’s dichotomy between pliable patients who obediently adopt the terminology of their analysts and difficult patients who prove too self-absorbed to undergo transference. But Justine, who, unlike Dorothy, is pretty, thin, and popular, incarnates Rand’s notion of the beautiful brute more than Dorothy does. As a girl, she picked on schoolmates who had fewer friends; at one point, transported by “swelling arrogance” and “boiling greed,” she sexually abused a weaker child with a toothbrush. The more Gaitskill reveals about her characters, the more they blur together, as both selfish and selfless at once.

In her penetrating monograph “The Selfishness of Others: An Essay on the Fear of Narcissism,” Kristin Dombek describes a narcissistic behavior called “splitting,” wherein the narcissist idealizes that which soothes him and discards that which causes him pain. “Splitting” is also the main structural mechanism of the two novels—and a mental trap that both their protagonists and their readers must resist. Like “Two Girls,” “The Book of Ayn” is built on a seemingly clean division: Part 1 tells the story of Anna’s intoxication with Rand; in Part 2, Anna, breaking violently with Objectivism, goes to a meditation camp on the Greek island of Lesbos to try to murder her ego. Freiman’s Los Angeles is a cesspit of superficiality and selfishness, but the “Beloveds,” as the cultists who run the retreat in Greece call themselves, aren’t much better. The group’s master is known for his collection of three hundred and fifty Harley Davidsons and for releasing “a vicious strain of European bee into the hostile neighboring farmland.” Other seekers at the commune steal Anna’s clothes, cheat on their partners, and neglect their children. Anna, unconsciously emulating Rand, begins a love affair with a much younger man, a refugee from an unspecified war-torn country. Life on the commune can’t heal the effects of his “hard-core trauma,” he tells her. Only Hollywood can; he longs to “try the acting.”

So is everyone a delusional, self-serving, trauma-masking Randian narcissist at heart? You could call that the lesson of the Randgirl novels, although you’d be underselling their sweetness. The books mock their characters, but they also argue that egoism can be nourishing and even generative. Gaitskill’s treatment of Anna Granite, for instance, is unexpectedly sympathetic. When Dorothy first meets her idol, the older woman models kindness and empathy. Dorothy panics, unable to speak; Granite, Dorothy says, “stood and gripped my shoulders with both hands . . . her eyes radiated the gentlest strength I had ever experienced, her tough, hot, callusy hands supported me with the full intensity of her life.” Granite tells Dorothy that she can see her suffering but also her resilience and value. She offers her a job. Because Granite has willed herself to believe in her own worth, Gaitskill hints, she is alive to the worth in others. And, in awakening Dorothy to her own inner resources, Granite awakens the young woman’s sense of her fellow-humans as sovereign selves. In the hours before Granite’s lecture, Dorothy is transfixed by passing faces: “the jowls, the eye wrinkles, the bumpy noses, the flower-petal quality of young female skin.” When Dorothy was in college, individuals had streamed together into a monolithic threat. But “as I walked among the citizens of Philadelphia,” she says, “I felt as though I occupied a compartment of personal space that they instinctively respected as I respected theirs.”

Freiman finds less to salvage in Rand’s life or work, but the novel is rightly skeptical of the wellness industry’s promises to subdue the demands of selfhood. After failing to make a TV show and then failing to kill her ego, Anna takes stock. She comes to realize that she can’t write without self-esteem—and that writing, more than being a contrarian or even a good person, is her vocation. “There was only one thing that ever helped me,” she says. “One thing that had always been there, strung up at the threshold of my mind like tiny golden lights, enchanting me into life, dangling its whimsy and warm lozenges of hope.” This thing is writing—“only writing promised me happiness, or at the very least progress”—and the type of writing Anna wants to do, voicey and spiky and singular, requires an “I.”

Unlike the self-aggrandizer, the artist, Freiman implies, uses her “I” as an alloy, creating a material both durable and porous, blending what she has felt to be true with what she imagines might be true for others. The writing that Anna intuits will save her dangles at the “threshold” of her mind because it directs her both in and out. Throughout the novel, as she flails around trying to fill her perceived emptiness, what she fills it with are the words, ideas, and lives of roommates, romantic partners, Internet commenters, friends, influencers, yoga instructors, cult members, Antifa activists, and embarrassing conservative philosophers. She reads their books, goes to their events, and stays in their homes. By the end, her “I” has been vastly expanded: other people live in her head, whether she wants them to or not, shaping the innermost contours of her self. This vision of identity as plural means that self-assertion does not necessarily come at the expense of the rest of the world. It could even be a declaration of life on another’s behalf.

Both Freiman and Gaitskill play up the Möbius-strip aspect to selfishness and selflessness—when I stand up for me, they suggest, I am also standing up for you, because we are intertwined. At their most persuasive, though, the Randgirl novels don’t applaud the morality of self-interest so much as they paint self-absorption as a useful but transient phase. Freud characterized narcissism as a form of arrested development. The narcissist, instead of sprouting healthy attachments to others, remains stranded in the oceanic self-involvement of infancy. Gaitskill and Freiman rescue this creature from a state of frozen pathology, returning her to her rightful place within a developmental stage. Dorothy and Anna, perhaps, are just passing through necessary bouts of self-infatuation on their way to maturity. Late in “Two Girls,” Justine comes to appreciate the role that Granite played for Dorothy, even as she believes that Dorothy has outgrown Granite:

When you read Granite’s work not only did she awaken your sense of beauty and pleasure in life, not only did she illustrate for you a positive use of strength and power, but she provided a springboard for you to create an internal world richer and stronger than the external world which wasn’t giving you any support at all. But she was only the departure point.

Instead of a bogeyman or a red flag, maybe Rand is just a set of training wheels, or a trellis on which characters can temporarily support their unfurling selves. “Everybody had a moment of loving Ayn Rand,” Anna’s mother tells her—it’s a low point for our Randgirl, but a reassurance to readers, who are happy to welcome this lost sheep back into the herd. ♦

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illumins · 7 months

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CHAPTER FOUR

Etymology

Just as the night had lulled me into slumber, it also stirred me awake. My eyes, now open, gradually adjusted to the dimness of my room. Silver streaks of moonlight filtered through the curtains, painting the walls and furniture with a mysterious interplay of light and shadow, reminiscent of scenes from noir films. I meticulously traced every detail, my gaze occasionally drifting to the aged photographs adorning my walls. They were fragments of my past, not numerous, but significant enough to merit their place. Each image featured either Nana, Areum, or myself—those who had remained in my life for the long haul. It was both comforting and disconcerting. Nice things never last, I thought, a sense of dread accompanying the idea. While my grandmother found beauty in such transience, often remarking, ‘They don't last so other nice things can have a share in your life too’, I resisted the notion. I didn't crave more; I wished only to preserve what I had. ‘More’ frightened me, ‘more’ overwhelmed me, and I was hesitant to embrace it.

Minutes of internal deliberation yielded no resolution. My eyelids, no longer heavy with sleep, and my mind settled into a calm state. Interpreting it as a negative response from my brain, I pushed my covers aside and got out of bed. Peering through my window, I observed the serene night, its hushed streets illuminated by the soft glow of yellow street lamps and a blanket of rolling clouds. Usually, moments like this beckoned me for a peaceful stroll, the night offering solace. But now, as I gazed out, a nagging sense of danger shouted in my mind. The night was never truly mine; it belonged to someone else. The anger I had felt upon reading the letter resurfaced, gradually consuming me. I hate the night, no, I hate them.

I was not one to easily succumb to intimidation. Even as a child, when bullies taunted me with words, I stood my ground. Verbal jabs never affected me, but the moment a hand was laid upon me, I reacted with unbridled fury. Fists clenched, teeth sinking into flesh, kicks soaring as high as a horse. My grandmother had taught me to defend myself, a fact that had invited criticism from some. ‘How dare you raise such a thing? She bruised my child,’ they would complain. Or, ‘There are places for girls like her—troublesome—and that's nowhere near a neighborhood like this.’ But these words held no weight, merely masking narcissism and fear.

Yet that night, I had been intimidated beyond measure, dwelling in a perpetual state of terror. Reflecting on how easily I had panicked over a simple letter earlier filled me with shame and anger. They had made everything seem poised at death's door, and it infuriated me. Their words in the letter, carefully crafted like a viper's strike, amplified my frustration. They attack me and then attempt communication with a letter? What the hell. Returning my gaze to my desolate neighborhood, I clenched my teeth, slipped into my slippers, and wrapped a scarf around my neck for added warmth. If I want the night for peace, for myself alone, I can have it.

My heart continued to pound, even as I descended the stairs until I stood at the front door. Now, with my hand hovering over the doorknob, hesitation grew, though not as rapidly as the fiery rage that coursed through my thoughts. Just open it, Sora! I urged myself. And so I did. A gentle breeze wafted in from outside, tousling my ebony hair.

Stepping onto the porch, I took deep breaths, savoring the sensation of truly inhaling again. There were no short gasps of air; instead, my lungs were filled with the crisp autumn night. Once on the sidewalk, I scanned my surroundings, searching for anything out of place, yet finding only empty spaces. "It's yours, Sora," I whispered to myself, seeking reassurance. Convinced, I let out a light laugh, a sigh of relief. "I don't need Sincheng to escort me home to feel okay. I can do it myself. I am okay."

For several minutes, I walked down the street, studying my neighbors' homes. I was well-acquainted with their appearances, but my eyes couldn't resist wandering. Most adhered to a palette of cool-toned colors for their houses, while a few stood out vibrantly. Mine was among the vivid ones—a two-story yellow house with a dark wooden roof and small statues in the front yard. I had always cherished my home as a reflection of my grandmother's character—a quirky woman with countless surprises and stories to share.

The scarf that had been neatly wrapped around my neck gradually unwound as the wind picked up. It came in gusts, causing my hair to dance mid-air. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping my sweater would provide enough warmth for my nightly walk. I continued, my senses alert, until one gust of wind hit harder than the rest. It nearly blinded me as my hair and scarf flew about. Pushing my hair out of my face, I scoured the area for my scarf, which had landed in the street below. Walking back, I kept an eye out for any passing cars. I mean, there can't be any; there haven't been any for hours.

Before retrieving my scarf, I gave one last look around. Then, determined, I began walking toward it. Reaching down to pick it up, I inspected it to ensure it hadn't gotten dirty. I brushed away bits of cement, painstakingly picking them out with my nails. Afterward, I smoothed it down with my palm, unaware of the ring of light that had begun to glow behind the scarf. My mind slowly grasped the significance—there was a car approaching.

Time seemed to stretch as the car's engine roared. Why wasn't it stopping? Why wasn't I running? I stared at the approaching headlights, my fear akin to that of a deer caught in headlights. My breath caught, and my feet felt leaden. I wanted to scream, but even my voice felt trapped in this moment. All I could do was clutch my scarf to my chest as the car hurtled toward me.

As the light engulfed me, swallowing the feared night I had fretted over, a sudden tug at my back yanked me to the side. In a split second, the car sped past me, not stopping as it continued down the street. Disoriented by the abrupt shift, I clung to whatever had pulled me aside. Wide-eyed, I continued to watch the spot where the car had vanished, my breathing rapid as my heart raced to catch up with my adrenaline.

The arms that had encircled me loosened, and I tumbled onto the sidewalk with a moan of pain. Slowly, I rose to my feet, regaining my balance. Standing erect, I turned my attention to my rescuer—a young man. Soft, brown hair framed sharp cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and half-full lips. His hands rested on either side of his head as he panted, breathing deeply as if dispelling a headache. When he finally glanced up at me, our eyes locked.

We stood there, sizing each other up. I clung tightly to my scarf, and he remained in a maroon blouse and black skinny jeans. He patted down his disheveled hair and watched as I continued to maintain my silence. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Are you okay?” I replayed his demeanor from moments ago. “Are you?” I asked, pointing to my head to make myself clear.

Recognition flickered in his eyes as he understood my meaning. He brushed it off with an apologetic smile. “It happens sometimes. I'm fine now. But you seem pretty shaken up by what just happened, right?”

I nodded, still keeping my distance.

“I won't hurt you. I was just passing by and happened to be here at the right moment.”

Just passing by? I would have noticed you; these streets are quite empty.

“Thank you. Otherwise…” I glanced back toward the street where I had stood. “I would have died.” I returned my gaze to him as he spoke.

“I'm Mark. Nice to meet you. And you're welcome,” he replied with a sheepish smile.

I continued to observe him, noting his posture—hands in pockets, one foot slightly behind the other as he leaned back. His raised eyebrow conveyed his expectation for me to break the silence. I let out a series of quiet 'um's' in my awkwardness, but he remained patient. Eventually, I reached a conclusion. I guess he isn't bad, or at least not one of them. He could have let me die, but he didn't.

“I'm Sora. Nice to meet you too.”

He offered a warm smile, and I reciprocated it. During this exchange, I noticed his nose was bleeding. “Oh, Mark, your nose,” I pointed to my own nose as a reference. “It's bleeding.”

Mark reached up to his nose and attempted to wipe away the blood that slowly trickled onto his lips. I couldn't help but think, Um... I looked around for a nearby tree, found one in a neighbor's yard, and plucked a green leaf that hadn't yet turned ruby or amber. Walking up to him, I offered the leaf, which he snatched from my hand quickly, distancing himself from me. Had I done something wrong?

Noticing my startled expression, he quickly offered an apology, his voice tinged with sincerity, “Sorry... thank you though.” His gesture indicated the leaf now covering his nose.

“It's nothing, you should thank the neighbor though; it's their leaf,” I quipped with a hint of humor in my tone.

Mark, taken aback by my shift in demeanor, closely observed my newfound composure. My muscles had transformed from tense to relaxed, an unspoken trust apparent in my demeanor. Without warning, I approached him, causing him to instinctively step back, but I reached out and gently grasped his arm. My grip conveyed a clear message, an unspoken ‘stay,’ yet it remained loose enough not to appear threatening but rather gentle.

“Do you tend to have nosebleeds, or is this because of that headache of yours?” I inquired, my eyes probing him. Since my grandmother had begun to fall ill, I had become attuned to detecting signs of pain as potential threats. How could I not, given that any sudden ailment could potentially prove fatal for her ailing Nana? I had become a self-taught nurse through research and careful observation of how actual nurses cared for her Nana when they had been able to afford hospital visits. Now, here I was, tending to a stranger in the middle of the night.

It took Mark a few seconds to register the situation unfolding before him. However, when my gaze shifted from his nose to his eyes, he refocused on my question. “Umm... yeah... no,” he stammered, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I mean… haha…”

Watching him stumble over his words, I couldn't help but let a genuine smile spread across my face—an expression of awe and intrigue for the boy who had come to my rescue. “Take your time, Mark,” I said, savoring the sound of his name on my lips.

Amused by me, Mark chuckled and cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “Sora, you happened to hit me in the nose when I pulled you back,” he explained, emphasizing my name just as I had.

“I did?” I questioned, attempting to recall the sequence of events, but the adrenaline had blurred my memory. “I guess I did. Sorry…”

Stepping back a few paces, I looked around; the night had returned to its quiet state. It was still and silent, much like a few minutes before, but it felt eerie. There were no chirping crickets or bursts of aggressive wind—no wind at all, in fact. It's almost surprising there's still air.

“What, scared?” Mark observed my growing unease as my eyes darted around my surroundings.

Now back to him, I smiled and rolled my eyes playfully. “No, just lost myself for a bit.”

“Mhm, I do that too sometimes.”

A serene tranquility settled between us as we simply gazed at each other. “So, I... uh... should be going,” Mark gestured behind me, indicating the direction from which I had come.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. It's pretty late, so I should be heading back too.”

We both nodded but remained standing there a while longer, unashamedly allowing our eyes to wander over each other's figures. One observed every movement, every strand of hair, and every feature of the other. The other tried to memorize them, as clothing alone wouldn't suffice. So our eyes roamed every inch of each other's faces, carrying a sense of care and gentleness that neither could help but acknowledge.

I was the first to break the silence that had settled between us once more. “I'll head out first. Nice to meet you, Mark.”

Mark watched me closely, his eyes soft. “Nice to meet you too, Sora.”

#kpop fanfic #kpop ff #kpop au #kpop vampire au #haechan au #haechan fanfic #haechan #illumins #nct fanfic #nightdoveseries #mark fanfic #mark lee

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moratoirenoir · 5 days

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#caron #narcisse noir #ernest daltroff #luis buñuel #viridiana #tristana #journal d'une femme de chambre

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jadeect · 1 year

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L'âme de fond

- texte, concours, Narcisse

Il pleut. Le jeune homme ne s'en rend pas compte tout de suite, trop concentré sur le sable que ses pieds soulèvent à chacun de ses pas. A une centaine de mètres de lui, la mer s'affole, se livrant à une danse endiablée. Lorsque son regard dépasse la frontière du rivage, il s'aperçoit que les vagues ont été teintées de noir. Comme si, au contact de l'eau saline, le sable s'était changé en charbon, sous l'emprise d'une lointaine malédiction.

Il reprend sa marche -course de survie- parallèle à l'horizon. Il continue d'avancer.

Il jurerait que l'océan l'appelle.

Nyls.

L'océan est une sirène. Une étendue bleue déployant ses ailes pour l'atteindre, dont la voix déchirante le pousse à se réfugier dans ses bras, dont les serres viennent se planter dans ses épaules, déchirer sa chair pour châtier ses fautes.

Tu n'as pas su lui rendre sa vie.

Ils sont nés ensemble.

Elle est là, elle t'attend.

Il continue de marcher. Il ne s'arrête pas. S'il s'arrête, il risquerait de ne plus s'arracher à la voix langoureuse de l'eau trouble.

Ils sont morts ensemble, mais lui demeure encore.

Elle t'attend, Nyls. Son cœur te demande.

Un cœur qui a cessé de se battre, et c'est son âme à lui qui erre depuis, son âme qui tente de s'échapper ; qui aspire à se soustraire à ce corps et à ce monde. Elle divague, dans son corps et dans la ville, à la recherche de sa moitié. Bancale, saturée, elle tend vers celle qui la complète, la cherche sans relâche dans un monde où elle n'existe plus. Une odeur. Un geste. Un rayon de soleil. Une nuit agitée. Elle la trouve partout, mais ce n'est jamais elle.

Son corps porte son âme écorchée et un fardeau meurtri.

Nyls.

Il s'arrête.

Il hurle.

Son propre cri, percutant la falaise, déformé par le vent, lui donne à nouveau l'impression de l'entendre, elle. Elle appelle à l'aide, elle le supplie de le rejoindre. Elle le conjure de réunir leur âme, qu'elles se confondent à nouveau, se complètent encore une fois. Rien qu'une fois.

Elle est une sirène. Son cri est son chant, envoûtant et déchirant, un écho qu'il confond avec sa propre plainte, l'appelant à la noyade. Obsédant, il s'immisce dans ses pensées. Qu'a-t-elle ressenti ? Il s'est posé cette question des milliers de fois. A-t-elle eu peur ? A-t-elle souffert ?

Des milliers de fois, il s'est imaginé l'eau envahissant sa trachée, ses poumons, son corps irrémédiablement entrainé vers les abysses, le sel lui piquant les yeux. A-t-elle regretté ? Il se demandait si elle avait pensé à lui, avant que ses paupières ne se ferment, s'extrayant à la brûlure du sel, avant que son esprit ne se taise, que son corps ne cesse de lutter.

Egoïste, il espère que c'est le cas. Que, rien qu'une seconde, son visage, si similaire au sien, est apparu sous l'eau sombre, en face d'elle, comme un miroir. Que, pendant une seconde, ça lui a fait mal, comme ça lui fait mal à lui, depuis des années.

Il avait haï les dieux qui l'avait laissé mourir. Qui ont laissé ses poumons se remplir d'eau, son visage se bleuter, comme si l'eau salée avait déteint sur sa chair. C'est le visage que Nyls donne à la mort. Des yeux entrouverts, vides et à la pupille délavée, auxquels la peau s'est accordée. Des cheveux foncés par l'eau, des lèvres violettes et crevassées. Un visage qui l'a dévasté. Anéanti. La douleur s'est blottie au creux de sa poitrine, dans sa voix, dans ses yeux, et rien ne l'a jamais délogée. Il a appris que cette douleur ne se noie pas dans l'océan, qu'elle nous noie dans quelque chose de plus grand encore.

Mais il n'a jamais su. Si, quelque part, ce n'était pas ce qu'elle voulait. Pourquoi, lorsqu'elle s'est rendue compte qu'elle ne pourrait plus regagner le rivage, n'a-t-elle pas appelé à l'aide ? Ou bien l'a-t-elle fait, mais lui n'a-t-il pas été capable de l'entendre ? De percevoir la panique de sa sœur, alors même qu'il nageait dans le même océan que lui ? Il ne sait pas. Elle avait nagé vers le large, et s'était perdue dans l'immensité indigo, emportant avec elle un morceau de l'âme de son frère.

Esquinté.

Il fixe l'eau dans laquelle les battements du cœur de la jeune femme ont résonné pour la dernière fois.

Tout lui revient en tête, ses pensées tout d'un coup assaillies par les sept dernières années passées.

Il revoit les nuits passées à se consoler dans son propre reflet, les heures passées à s'abimer dans sa névrose. Le vide était toujours là, mais l'illusion persistait, cette impression que s'il levait le bras, il effleurerait sa peau douce et chaude. Alors il se fixait dans le miroir, divaguait, racontait à sa sœur -que quelques grammes d'alcool suffisaient à rendre réelle, des choses qu'il oubliait juste après. Il parlait, fixant son propre visage, confondu à celui de sa sœur à travers ses larmes. Il comblait le manque, parvenait à maquiller son absence. Il finissait par voir son visage, quitte à oublier le sien.

Son sourire, ses lèvres à peine plus fines que les siennes. Ses yeux, de la même teinte que les siens. Ses cheveux, plus longs. Son visage presque identique au sien, à peine plus féminin.

La mer rugit.

Devant lui, la jeune fille lui apparait. Elle est si belle. Elle n'est pas la défunte, au visage boursoufflé et à la chair salée, mais la jeune femme resplendissante et avide de vivre. Ses longs cheveux couleur or reflètent un soleil qui n'existe pas, ses yeux traduisent la joie que la mort lui a confisqué.

Nyls.

Le jeune homme sourit, fixe l'illusion trouble à travers ses larmes.

« Je suis là. »

Elle rit, et il jurerait que l'eau devient soudainement moins sombre. Il tend la main vers son visage, mais elle recule. Il fait un pas dans sa direction. Il veut effleurer sa peau à nouveau. Il veut qu'elle lui parle. Qu'il se réveille, et qu'elle vienne sécher ses larmes, lui murmurant que ce n'est qu'un cauchemar, que tout va bien.

Elle sourit encore, puis se met à courir vers la mer.

Pris de panique, il lui court après. Mais elle est plus rapide, et il ne parvient jamais à la rattraper. Il entend ses éclats de rire, sans comprendre pourquoi lui ne parvient pas à rire avec elle. Pourquoi il a si peur.

Elle s'arrête sur le sable humide, à quelques pas des vagues, et l'attend. Il la rejoint, essoufflé.

Nyls a de nouveau dix-sept ans, le soleil parsème la surface lisse de l'océan d'éclat blanc, ses yeux cherchent ceux de sa sœur, rieurs, rassurants.

On va nager ?

Les deux adolescents s'élancent vers le large.

Nyls est revenu ; sa sœur est restée sous la surface, prisonnière de l'horizon.

Le ciel s'assombrit à nouveau, la mer se teinte de noir, s'ébranle. Avec angoisse, Nyls regarde autour de lui, mais sa sœur a disparu, les vagues ont ravalé son mirage.

Il se rend compte qu'il a froid. La folie passée, il prend conscience du vent qui s'engouffre sous le tissu de sa chemise ouverte, caresse sa peau, de la pluie qui assaille sa peau, se mêle à ses larmes, glisse sur sa nuque, sur son torse. Il tremble, immobile face à l'océan, le regard à l'aube de la démence.

Il oublie tout. N'existe que la mer, infinie, ses vagues insatiables, son cri déchirant, et il ne demande qu'à aller s'y blottir. N'existe que la mer, et le cruel besoin d'aller s'y blottir.

Ne reste que sa jumelle, qui l'attend quelque part. Il n'aspire qu'à la rejoindre.

Il avance. Les vagues s'affalent à ses pieds, tentent de l'atteindre. Elles l'appellent.

Tu n'auras plus mal.

Il ne s'arrête pas. Ses lèvres entrouvertes laissent échapper un cri, une plainte douloureuse qui s'évanouit dans l'eau trouble, que le vent emporte. Un cri qui se mue en sanglots. Il ne cherche pas à essuyer les larmes, qui roulent sur ses joues et le lient un peu plus à sa sœur, donnant à ses joues le même goût salé dont le corps de sa jumelle s'était revêtu.

Il voudrait laisser aux vagues le soin de le ramener à la rive ou de l'entraîner vers le large. Alors il s'avance vers la lisière entre l'eau et le sable, tout en suppliant les vagues de le laisser se soustraire à la peine.

A l'instant où l'eau est venue lécher ses chevilles nues, il a compris que c'était pour de vrai. Qu'il s'offrirait aux vagues, qu'il leur cèderait son âme, pour pouvoir rejoindre celle, identique, qui lui avait été enlevée.

Le soulagement l'inonde. Il offre son visage au ciel, avant d'observer une dernière fois la rive tourmentée.

Il songe que c'est un beau décor pour mourir. Dramatique. Poétique. Le ciel et l'océan se lamente en cœur, se laissent aller dans leur mélancolie. Elle aurait aimé ça. Il aime ça. Le vent qui soulève des nuages de sable, se joue des vagues et de la houle, s'invite entre sa peau et sa chemise, s'immisce sous le tissu.

Il continu d'avancer. L'eau lui arrive maintenant aux genoux. Il ressent la présence de sa sœur. Elle est juste là. A côté de lui, elle l'encourage à la rejoindre.

Bien que la surface soit trop trouble pour qu'il puisse y discerner son reflet, il y voit le visage de sa sœur. Il jurerait qu'elle est là, à quelques pas de lui, qu'elle l'attend. Qu'elle n'a jamais quitter l'océan, qu'elle s'est ancrée dans les abymes.

J'arrive.

Son corps est trop engourdi pour se soucier de l'eau glaciale qui mord sa peau.

Quand l'eau lui arrive à la taille, il plonge. L'eau l'enserre, le lave de ses larmes, le berce doucement. Ses pensées, ankylosées, se sont tues. Il entend sa sœur.

Nyls. Viens. Tu verras comme c'est beau, ici.

Il nage, droit vers l'horizon. Il lutte pour rester à la surface.

Il nage vers le large, et pour se perdre dans l'immensité indigo.

Et puis, il arrête de lutter. Ses muscles se détendent, et la seconde d'après, l'océan l'a avalé.

Le calme vibre contre ses tympans, l'arrachant à la réalité.

Dans un dernier instant de lucidité, il se demande si c'est ce qu'elle a ressenti. Cette accalmie qui survient quand on arrête de lutter, quand on accepte de se perdre dans l'eau salée, de ne plus retrouver la surface.

Je n'ai pas eu peur, Nyls.

Il ouvre les yeux. Il la voit. Elle lui tend la main, pleure des larmes qui n'existent que pour se fondre dans l'eau saline.

Lui ne pleure pas.

Sa peine est anesthésiée ; il est plus proche de sa sœur à cet instant qu'il ne l'a été depuis sa mort.

Consolation.

L'eau l'enveloppe, et il la ressent comme la caresse de la défunte. Apaisante. Familière.

Ses poumons le brûlent. Son instinct le pousse à inspirer, à respirer, et il résiste un instant. Puis, il cède.

Quand il ouvre la bouche pour chercher de l'air et que l'eau s'y engouffre, il se rend compte qu'il était en apnée depuis la mort de sa jumelle.

Il respire à nouveau.

L'eau le borde, et il sombre doucement dans ses bras, s'ancre dans sa réalité ; une réalité où sa sœur n'existe qu'à travers son propre reflet.

Le bourdonnement cesse. Il lui semble que l'océan s'est figé. Plus rien ne bouge. Les vagues attendent, le vent s'attarde au-dessus de la surface. Curieux, il observe les retrouvailles de deux âmes écorchées dans les abymes de l'océan.

Nyls s'en va.

Enfin, son cœur bat à nouveau au même rythme que le sien.

#texte #écrit #amour #douleur #nouvelle #narcisse #mer #océan #fictif

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myhahnestopinion · 1 year

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THE 2022 AARONS - Best Film

75 films released in 2022 are eligible for this year’s ceremony. That ties a low with the pandemic year of 2020, but my goal was to focus on quality over quantity. Well, at least that’s what I told myself until I opted to watch Disenchanted over Decision to Leave. I did watch a lot of good films last year though. Here are the Aarons for Best Film:

#10. Scream

Ready or Not directors Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett were the first people brave enough to take a stab at Scream since the passing of director Wes Craven. They slayed at becoming its stewards. The fifth film’s satire has bigger prey in mind than just the slasher subgenre, cutting through a whole culture obsessed with reliving an idealized past. It’s a scary, and pertinent, reminder of how easily infantilized fan-bases can be weaponized against human beings, told with a sly style that would have made Craven proud. While the film features plenty of familiar faces and Ghostfaces, it’s the new blood of current and soon-to-be horror icons like Dylan Minnette and Jenny Ortega that really made the horror-comedy a scream.

#9. The Black Phone

Based on the short story by Joe Hill, The Black Phone recalls the best works of his father Stephen King. The 70s-set serial killer thriller grabs ahold of viewers with its supernatural hook - a phone that converses with the dead - but it’s the clever characters that will keep them captivated. Sinister director Scott Derickson slowly dials up the dread as young Finny Blake tries to escape the clutches of his kidnapper, with the looming specter of past victims making the cost of failure clear. The frightening film’s secret weapon is its resourcefulness, deftly deploying Ethan Hawke’s maniacal villain and eerie 8mm imagery as it lays the groundwork for an off-the-hook finale.

#8. The Batman

Since its debut, every comic book filmmaker has been riddled by the same dilemma: how to eclipse The Dark Knight. If director Matt Reeves, who sharpened his skill for thoughtful blockbusters on Planet of the Apes, didn’t solve the question, he at least gave a very good guess. Reeve’s reinvention pushed the envelope of superhero cinema by drawing inspiration from David Fincher, distinguishing itself in the competitive genre through grounded stakes and great spectacle. Abetted by Paul Dano’s riveting Riddler and Robert Pattison’s arresting, arrestedly-developed version of the vigilante, the twists and turns of the mystery noir keep viewers tightly-wound even after its dam breaks open.

#7. TÁR

TÁR’s composition is unusual: it begins with a full set of production credits, shown in reverse of traditional order. The switch-up is the opening salvo of a film fully intent on upsetting power dynamics. The three-hour character piece plays with audiences’ sympathies as it chronicles the collapse of famous (fictional) symphony composer Lydia Tár. The nuanced tale of narcissism takes some cues from modern day ‘cancel culture,” but the tenor is a tragedy as classical as they come. To alleviate trepidation, it’s important to note that TÁR isn’t as stuffy as it may sound: the coda of this unusual composition is a rollicking punchline as appropriate as it is unpredictable.

#6. Pearl

Pearl is a gem. Filmed in secret alongside its predecessor (more on that shortly) and released a few months later, the prequel extrapolates X into a compelling study of its eponymous character. The wickedness of the Oz-inspired technicolor terror contrasts itself through its singular focus. Tracing the lead-up to Pearl’s first string of murders in 1918 as her fairy tale dreams turn into a deranged fervor, the film keeps the body count going but the spotlight fixed on the incontestable star power of Mia Goth. Goth’s devotion to the demented ending guarantees that, while X is extricating, Pearl will always linger in the back of one’s mind.

#5. X

‘Elevated horror,’ the designation given to the recent trend of arthouse films, has routinely struggled to find the right balance between lofty thematic ambitions and expected genre titillation. X marks the spot. The trick was in fixating both on being unabashed about one’s nature. The thrust of Ti West’s throwback grindhouse flick, which documents a group of sexually-liberated filmmakers’ fateful encounter with an envious elderly couple, is a morality play about accepting mortality. The sexed-up slasher doesn’t skimp on penetrating flesh though, with gnarly gore effects designed by Wētā Workshop. It could have been objectifying and objectionable material, but West directs it all with a curious compassion; as a result, X multiplied wins for his films this year.

#4. The Banshees of Inisherin

Banshees is a lament of ghosting gone wrong. Martin McDonagh’s drama escalates an unconscientious uncoupling - truthful but tactless - between two life-long best friends to its most absurd and absurdly funny degree. Backdropped by the Irish Civil War, the boiling tension between the curiously incongruous but synchronously stubborn pairing of Brendan Gleeson’s ambitious Colm and Colin Farrell’s simplistic Pádraic highlights how quickly spite can erode one’s better angels. It’s a downbeat design yet Inisherin’s spirit lies in its impeccably witty dialogue. They may not be able to put their finger on whether it’s gaiety or grief, but audiences will be howling in response to Banshees for one reason or the other.

#3. Speak No Evil

Much has been said recently about horror’s use as a vehicle to process past trauma; Speak No Evil returns the conversation to the genre’s custom of cautionary tales. Danger lies ahead, not behind, of the film’s family when they accept an invitation to an idyllic weekend stay with a foreign couple. Evil preys on the unprepared; the insidious nature of its terror isn’t clear until its trap is already sprung. For the unassertive, the Danish film is uniquely devastating. The less said to prospective viewers, the better, though rest assured that Speak No Evil deserves every good word.

#2. The Fabelmans

Steven Spielberg has spent a lifetime doing his dream work and capturing his audiences’ imagination along the way. Loosely based on his own childhood, The Fablemans brings that wide-ranging filmography into focus. The assortment of anecdotes is one of the director’s funniest films and undoubtedly his most vulnerable. While this semi-autobiographical story could have been a simple victory lap for the septuagenarian, Spielberg’s sentimentality has always been far wiser than critics claim. The sure to be sacred text to future generations of filmmakers is certainly a testament to the magic of movies. Yet, even as Spielberg reframes his past, the learned moral imparted by The Fabelmans is really about what cinema is unable to control.

AND THE BEST FILM OF 2022 IS...

#1. Everything Everywhere All At Once

Movie multiverses may be inescapable at the moment, but no project encapsulates the concept’s infinite possibilities more than Everything Everywhere All at Once. The revolutionary martial-arts flick runs like The Matrix trading its estrogen for ecstasy as it awakens an under-audit laundromat owner to the larger worlds around her. The film’s directors, collectively credited as Daniels, learned the tools of the trade on the offbeat Swiss Army Man and apply that same sense of humor here: one that’s lewd, ludicrous, and incredibly life affirming. Able to transform a universe of humans with hot dogs for fingers from joke to tearjerker and back again, the film is continually unexpected but everything one’s ever wanted all at once.

NEXT UP: THE 2022 AARONS FOR WORST FILM!

#film #TheAarons #TheAaronsFilm #TheAarons2022 #best film #best picture #best of 2022 #top 10 #everything everywhere all at once #the fabelmans #speak no evil #the banshees of inisherin #x #pearl #tar #the batman #the black phone #scream

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