Posted in Headcanon

Eight sixed

Hey there, Johnny boy. 

God, I can’t believe I’m actually writing a goddamn letter. With pen and paper and all. For you, of all people. Like you would even appreciate it. 

But shit, I don’t know what else to do. Smoking was your thing and I’d be damned if I let those killing machine come near my lips. And drinking myself silly is not an option anymore, not after the riot that happened last time I got myself wasted. And I run out of sleeping pills. 

And, most importantly, you’re out of reach. So since talking to myself is getting silly – not to mention I might wound up in a mental hospital – here I am. Writing a letter. For you. 

God. Where do I start? 

You know better than anyone else how bad I am at being weak. Not in front of people. Not in person. Like, I’m in the same room with Cullen right now (he insisted for a bonding moment. I suppose he’s just worried because he caught me during one of my…. “attacks”, earlier on) and still I can’t wake him up and talk to him. Moreover cry in front of him.

I guess at least I’m getting better at crying in silence.

Then again,  I don’t even know what I’m crying about. 

I mean, life has been dull and all and….

Okay. Fine. Maybe I’ve spent a little too much time mulling over you, our last farewell,  and your absence. Oh Johnny darling, my brain restlessly give me endless worst case scenarios and I’m suffocated. I’m not sure whether you’re pulling another disappearing act – despite me reaching out to as you made me promise to –  because your hands are once again tied or simply because…. you’re unwilling to deal with me and my problems. Because even you are getting tired of my shits. 

And wouldn’t that be ironic, luv? You, being the one who get tired of my shits when it’s me that everyone else – you included – said should be tired of your shits? And that you does not worth all these shits you’re putting me through?
Wouldn’t it be such a good joke if, at the end of the day, it is you who think I don’t worth all these shits I’m putting you through because it turns out that even a John Constantine found Elsa Bloodstone too unstable to handle?

That, or you’re just once again looking for anything wrong with us and you found out that apparently, I’m the one thing that is wrong with us.

So you can run away with your tails between your legs and disappear in your infamously cowardice manner. Back being the bloody bastard everyone warned me not to fell for. 

Fuck. Fuck you, Constantine, for reducing me into this blubbering mess. I am so much more than this. I shouldn’t even be writing to you but I’m just…. So… Damned…

Angry. At you. At the world. Even at myself. I should’ve known better, shouldn’t I? Foolishly thinking our reprieve would last. That I could count on you once again to always come to me when I’m in need. That everything’s alright and swell.

I’m mad because I let myself get lulled with illusion and allowed my hope to turn into expectations. 

I’m mad because I should’ve known better than to even hope. Because I don’t actually have any right to. I don’t have any right over you, to depend on you, or to even long for you. 

I no longer have that right, don’t I, Johnny boy?

Because on contrary to what you said…. 


You’re not mine anymore, aren’t you? 






(But by god, I still want you. And I know full well I would still take you back if you ever show up again because I am a sucker for you and you….

You’re my weakness.

And I’ve come too far to give up on you.)

She stares, at the tear stained paper in her hands. With all the scribbles she could barely read now.

And in one swift move, she crumpled it in her hands and throw it to nearest fireplace.

He doesn’t needs to know. No one, needs to know how Elsa Bloodstone spends her night.

All choked up in tears and regrets, alone, isolated from the outside world.






À la mort,

Prompt: @tenwordspoem – “Here, I wrote you another love letter you don’t deserve.”



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

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