Posted in Headcanon

Hollow Pretense

Elsa have to admit that she didn’t see this coming.

Though not a novelty, it still is unexpected. Even if she had to admit how much of wishful thinking it is to believe she could really be okay after that sorry excuse of a final goodbye. This kind of momentary relapse into a breakdown is bound to happen, sooner or later.

The problem is… it caught her off guard. Because she was fine. Coping, maybe, but she was unusually serene and most importantly, she had came to terms with their separation. She had accepted the series of coincidences that led to their demise, and even the insufficient exchange that marked the closing of their curtain.


It would be a lie to say that she had stopped thinking about him or no longer remember him. He is a constant presence in her mind still, and she spent precious brain cells to imagine how things would play out had he was there with her because she still long for his company. And he was always at the tip of her tongue, making it hard for her to not talk about him. Them. The way they were. But she was fully functional and she reminisced everything with soft smiles and hearty laughs. She recalled their memories fondly, appreciated each little stolen moments they managed to secure and cherished them with such affections,


Yet it is not until now, the unwelcome train-wreck of loneliness and longing hit her, swerving her wheel and drove her off her course. Suddenly, she had to fight the urge to cry and wail, mourning his absence and screamed her loss out so the world would hear her. So it would understand how living without him is the final curse that broke her because it’s too much to bear and doesn’t she had enough of curses to last her a hundred lifetimes? She wish, oh how she wish she could hold a knife against its throat and threaten until it pull some strings and arrange another series of coincidences until he is hers again.


Never until now, she vehemently yearn for a chance to see him again, to fall into a god forsaken relapse just so she can come home, at last. To rest her weary soul and stale bones in his embrace. To yield, for once, and hand the reign over to him because she is too spent and exhausted after endless days of navigating through this desolation and adorning the facade of someone unconquerable.



She wants to be his, again.



Because at this very moment, she had come to realized just how pervasive the emptiness of his absence is, the gaping wound on her peritoneum where her heart used to sit before he ripped it to held it tight in his hands, and the desperation of being thrown back into this ferocious sphere, all by her lonesome.



And she, for once, acknowledge the overwhelming urge to fell on her knees and beseech for something, anything, to ease the suffocating ache in her chest. Or to just return her back to her stoic apathetic state because truly.


There is nothing left to feel but pain, now that he’s not there.




After all, blood-thirst and ruthless executions could only distract her for so long.

She’s bound to fall back into this perpetual torment of losing one John-bloody-Constantine.







À la mort,

Prompt: Electric Century’s Let You Get Away.
“Wish there was something about me I could find to change, because baby I was crazy to let you get away.



An emotionally invested enthusiast of pop culture. Apathetic by design. Aesthetically offensive and eloquently candid. A sentimental heathen.

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