𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 ▹ Shreya - Blog Posts

besides being a lifelong part of the town, shreya's gone to the memorial to cover it for the paper. she expected it would mostly be a puff piece with some in memoriam type parts to balance it, make it a respectful piece. but as soon as the veil drops, there's a gasp, and suddenly the piece isn't an article commemorating the town's losses. it's replaced with something darker, something hard to read and something even harder to write. "what the hell?" she murmurs, wide eyes flicking over the extra names, the names of people she knows, some of people she cares deeply about. when alara grabs her hand, shreya glances over, the realization that alara's own family is represented on the new list washing over her. "fuck. i... do you want to get out of here?" is what she asks, empathy bowling over the journalist inside of her.

LOCATION : the candlelit memorial , sometime around 5pm . open to everyone .

there  was  something  so  surreal  about  the  things  that  were  happening  in  red  creek  ,  for  the  first  time  the  thoughts  touching  her  in  more  than  just  a  passing  way  .  when  she  was  younger  ,  she  had  been  so  idealistic  ,  protected  by  her  parents  and  looking  forwards  to  life  .  she  thought  now  that  maybe  her  eyes  were  opening  little  by  little  to  what  was  really  going  on  and  how  those  losses  must  feel  ,  empathetic  heart  bleeding  more  and  more  for  those  left  behind  .  she  isn't  there  for  personal  mourning  but  to  think  about  the  lives  that  have  been  lost  ,  to  consider  the  hole  they  left  in  the  world  and  all  their  lives  .  then  ,  the  veil  is  pulled  back  and  there's  more  writing  than  she  remembers  ,  a  second  for  her  brain  to  catch  up  to  the  foreign  thing  that  is  taking  place  ...  she  doesn't  make  a  noise  as  others  seem  to  have  some  kind  of  reaction  .  blink  once  .  instinctually  ,  she  reaches  out  and  grabs  onto  the  hand  of  the  person  standing  beside  her  ,  having  came  alone  ,  separated  initially  from  anyone  .  it  is  almost  a  knee  jerk  reaction  but  she  doesn't  let  go  ,  least  of  all  trying  to  comprehend  the  presence  of  her  sisters  name  .  not  a  word  spoken  .  fight  ,  flight  ...  freeze  .

"yeah, if you're a masochist who wants to get your heart broken, a mess is alluring." and she had plenty experience with that sort of attraction unfortunately, but it always made for a good story and isn't that what really mattered at the end of the day? "alright, alright, relax, i'm just giving you shit. the article was fine, bash. not a lot you can fucking do in this sort of situation." shreya shrugged before taking a long drink of her dirty shirley. she stirred the straw around, tilting her head to the side and humming, "i mean, i'm glad i didn't have to write it." she'd rather stick to the not highly publicized stuff. she was, of course, a self-proclaimed personality hire.

THE SMOOTH BUZZ WAS a lazy attempt to rid of any frustrations vibrating within his body. the whole town felt on edge, ready to fall at the slightest drop of a pin. he shrugged at shreya's rebuttal nonchalantly. ❝ never mentioned beauty , some people would argue even messes can be alluring , ❞ he meant that truly, even if it wasn't relevant for the woman side him. what were humans if not all poetically broken? still, the dig at the headline caused his lighthearted mannerisms to tighten. it wasn't something he was particularly proud of, which was unfortunate considering he was rather protective over his work. but news came out, deadlines were due, the opportunity was painted in red that now stained his hands. ❝ right , like i had a fucking choice . ' hey bennett , can i take the day off to mourn this latest tragdy ? ' ' yeah , let's just shut down the register for the day . ' that sounds practical . ❞ he mused with irritation, rolling his eyes in irritability as he downed his drink in response.

The best way to contact me is to meet me in my dreams at 3am

If I don’t drive you crazy then what’s the point

"i'm a mess?" shreya scoffed at her coworker/friend?/whatever the fuck that one summer was, dirty shirley clutched in her hand as she advanced toward him, "look in the mirror, dude. even on my worst day, i'm beautiful. ask anyone." she flashed a smile. she was teasing (mostly). "i don't even know how to play poker and i don't plan on ever learning, so we're safe." she was fine with knowing go fish and a number of drinking games — seemed more necessary. "plus, you shouldn't call me a mess after your headline this morning," she joked, poking bash in the ribs playfully as she deadpanned, "you're lucky i spent the morning processing and reflecting on the tragic events our town has been plunged into and not stationed at my desk, typing away like that cat who plays piano."

LOCATION: REDSTONE BAR TIME: LATE NIGHT STATUS: OPEN STARTER

WORDS PAINTED ON THE HEADLINE always tended to be main goal at the register. bash; however, prided himself on an immersive story that held facts. unfortunately, the only facts seemed to be everyone knew fucking nothing. still, the entire day had escaped sebastian as vision went blurry once hues grazed upon the same words over, over, and over again . . . there was nothing to be proud of with the article and quite frankly, he planned to erase any association to the scattered theories by having one, two, five drinks. it didn't help that since the notice of another local dead, pressure only skyrocketed for the next leak. after all, you're only as good as your next story.

attention whipped to another as they somehow caught his attention enough to lower the glass from his cracked lips. it would have been difficult to hold back the smirk peering on his lips if he gave a fuck enough to try to hide it. ❝ well aren't you a fuckin' mess , ❞ he blurted out the honesty as he took in the other's appearance. ❝ what ? you can't actually be trying to hide it . if so , definitely don't part-take in poker any time soon , ❞

She shuffled into the kitchen, running a hand through her messy hair as she took in the sight before her, "So glad it's you and not the goddamn Boogeyman." The timing of the joke is, admittedly, horrible, but she's never been subtle. "What time did you get here?" Shreya thought she might have heard something in the middle of the night, but she figured it was either her brother or her cat. If it was anything else? She was willing to face the consequences and die honorably. "Now, if I bought even a single piece of asparagus, I think the world might end. The Boogeyman, who is obviously surveilling me as one of the town's top journalists, could notice my change in pattern and suspect me of knowing something and BAM dead." She sat at the small table by the window, sighing dramatically, "And you wouldn't want that, right?"

Then, Shreya sobered slightly, resting her elbows on the table, "I'm surprised you don't have to work right now. Is it not all hands on deck?" She asked, already thinking about what she may have to write about the incident this coming week. "It's really fucking awful." And there's no way to get through it but to joke about her own mortality, obviously. "What's the sheriff saying? Anything?" She added, "This is all off the record, by the way, I'll save my scheming journalist bit for at least noon."

closed starter with: darshan and shreya (@chappcdlips) setting: shreya's home, 9am, the day after the incident

His eyes fluttered open, and a strangled gasp forced its way out of his painfully dry throat as he struggled to recognize his surroundings, but the panic settled as the comfort of familiarity took hold. It was Shreya’s couch, in Shreya’s living room, in Shreya’s home, where he’d let himself in at 3am after finding sleep impossible at his own home. Darshan wiped the trail of drool off his cheek, sitting up and stretching his aching back before wandering to her kitchen, opening the fridge- only to see a truly meager selection of food between the tupperware containers of his own leftovers. A stray carton of eggs saved the day, and he’d set off to make breakfast when he heard the shuffle of feet. “Hey, lazy bones. Did I wake you?” His voice was casual, but there was an unmistakable horror laced in every syllable. How could he shake the guilt? How could he cope with the relief he felt when he confirmed that the young girl found dead in town hall was not his family member? As if that made it better- that the loss was not his own. “You should really get some vegetables in your fridge, or something, you know. Even an apple, or a single piece of broccoli. Give your poor microwave a break, before it unionizes against you.” 

GERALDINE VISWANATHAN 2024, ph. Andrew Jacobs for Vanity Fair

DRIVE-AWAY DOLLS (2024) dir. Ethan Coen

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry written in October 1920, featured in The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Vol.2, 1920-1924