ANTICHRIST | phan ✔️

woods for the wicked

TRACK TWENTY SEVEN
"tammy faye"
nicole dollanganger

👼🏻

1975

michael lester had a gramophone just like the one lizzy grant had received as a wedding present, which she knew she'd never be using.

"y'know," lizzy started off, looking across a living room now stained with red crayon, "she wanted vinyls for her birthday, carmen did. her last birthday was 4th november 1970, and she wanted vinyls."

the girl was sat on the floor with her back to a crimson couch and her knees to her chest, the wedding white of the nightdress she wore under an open dark coat streaked with the same blood that was soaking into michael's shirt like holy wine. the bloodied boy was slumped down against the wall on the farthest side of the room, the blood on his neck and clothes a contrast to the baby blue wallpaper behind him. the baby blue reminded lizzy of the last time she'd seen carmen's eyes, in a orange-lit bedroom through the haze of sleep, and the ghosts of words she vaguely remembered haunted her ears.

"...goodnight lizzy..."

michael tried to say something, but whatever it was was swallowed by the angel knife stuck in his throat. the look in his eyes told lizzy he knew that his life was wavering like an altar candle battling a church draught, and his diminishing gaze burnt into her like a stepfather's cigarettes on a little brunet boy's arm. lizzy needed a cigarette.

"november 1972," she repeated,nightdress rustling as if caught in the cold night wind as she drew her knees tighter to her chest. "i bought her three vinyls for a present. she wanted this one record that i had...this 60s one, maybe 50s...i don't know...but i loved it too much to give it to her, so i lied. i lied and said i'd lost it, so i wouldn't feel like i had to give it to her..."

lizzy laughed at that, her laugh as pretty and sad as the smiles on her lips had grown like headstone ivy over the years.

"...i should've just given it to her," she whispered, shaking her head with her eyes on the carpet she was tearing at with her nails. "i should have just given her that fucking record, michael."

the living room was nearly as silent as a graveyard garden for a moment, the only sound being the tick! tick! ticking of the clock sat on the mantlepiece in place of porcelain angels and grunts of pain from michael, his hand on the angel handle of the knife he didn't dare pull out of his throat. lizzy felt the velvety warmth of his blood trekking the same path down her cheeks as the tears had done when she looked father lucian in the eye that church floor grey morning, stood in the aisle as he pretended to pray at the altar, her voice echoing off of the walls like an angel choir of all the angels had lost the girl they loved.

"...tell me it's not true...tell me she's not fucking dead..."

lizzy took a steady breath before she started to talk again, as if she were about to confess to that same fucking hypocritical priest.

"you have a son, michael, did you know that? you have a son and his name is philip. he's three. i tried to find out where they took him today but - "

she broke off with a bitter laugh.

" - but father lucian had me taken out of the church whilst he prayed. or rather, whilst he pretended to pray. they locked the doors and i was just out there on my own screaming like some kind of mad woman and banging on the door because...because..."