𝗷𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗶𝗸𝗹𝗮𝘂𝘀.

rasavada ( rusaasvuaad )

( n. ) the taste of bliss in the absence of all thoughts

❝...the sad truth is that the truth is sad...❞
—lemony snicket

❝...our souls have conversations words could never describe...❞
—bridgett devoue

𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀.

𝐍𝐀𝐎𝐌𝐈 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄

( lesbian, taurus, cxlv )

❝sounds like a pretentious bitch if you ask me❞ 

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄 (𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒) 𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐒

( straight, capricorn, xxxix )

❝the thought of your father makes me want to die, again❞ 

𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐒

( straight, virgo, xliv )

❝what? you didn't miss your old man?❞

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝘀, 𝘀𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝘄𝗼

in which jordanna jones finally loses her mind

OR.

everyone around her realises what a fucking psychotic bitch she is without humanity

She hated it.

She hated looking down at the French Quarter finding all the happy families staring back up at her mockingly, she hated how all the mothers gushed over their daughters—twirling their hair around their fingers as they straightened out their dresses while the fathers watched impatiently rolling their eyes, the sons mirroring them as they looked up to their fathers in admiration.

She hated how she had finally gotten used to the idea of being a mom, the idea of having that unexplainable, amazing, bond she had with her own mother growing up and she hated how the second she had it, it simply slipped her grasp.

Maybe it was karma.

Maybe it was the worlds way of laughing in her face, she hadn't exactly been the best person throughout her nineteen years of life, but was this her punishment?

Was it meant to hurt this much?

Cause it sure as hell wasn't fun.

Every time she shut her eyes she saw it, over and over again, it was like her mind was testing her. Seeing how much of it she could take before she snapped—how long it took for the image of her dead daughter to push her over the edge.

And everyone knew Jordanna wasn't exactly a calm person, per say. But that small amount of calmness she had going for her vanished . . . especially now that her emotions were heightened.

She was sure she was slowly going insane.

First her dead daughter now her dead mother.

Jordanna Jones had began seeing Mary fucking Adams, it wasn't as much as a dream, nor was it like when she died, it was way creepier—she could fucking talk to her freely, like a full on conversation and she could touch her—which made it slightly awkward as the Jones poked her mother in a daze—contemplating in her head whether her finger would go through her body or not.

Anytime she got annoyed . . . boom. Mary popped up out of nowhere. For a dead person, it was pretty hard to believe that Mary was . . . well, dead.

She always talked Jordanna down, well tried to. Jordanna flipped the switch, bye-bye emotions. It was hard enough before getting her to talk about how she felt, never mind now. But one night, after all of Mary's continuous efforts, she had done it, she had brought back her daughter, the one who was a sarcastic, fucking bitch and laughed at the most inappropriate times.

        One night she had finally gotten to her, she had gotten her to turn it on. To Mary and the rest of the population, this was the best news they had gotten in a while, to Jordanna . . . it was hell. Everything, every fucking feeling, every emotion, everything, came rushing at her—all at once. She didn't want it on, she didn't want to deal with it. She needed the grief, the pain, gone.

Why do you think she drank vervain every night? For the fun of it? She knew that one of The Original's would try compel her to turn it on . . . so she did everything possible to avoid it.

She remembered the feeling of it all . . . when it came coursing through her body—drowning her in it. It was horrible, all the emotion. She cried, and she cried, and she cried, until there was nothing left to cry. She broke a lot of things . . . she needed something to break, whether that be someone's neck or furniture she didn't care. So she did both.

The sound of Elijah's neck breaking almost sounded like the sound of the wooden crib breaking—though the crib hurt a lot more.

Her little temper tantrum fell short as Naomi made her way into the room, upon hearing the destruction, eyes widening as a glass shard from the mirror that had earlier hung on the wall of the nursery flew at her face, stopping merely an inch away from the tip of her nose.

Jordanna froze, looking down at the hand that was held in front of her—almost naturally, an instinct.

Her own eyes widened as she looked up to the Tate vampire whose hand reached out to the glass and threw it to the floor, mouth agape as she stared dumbfounded at the nearly transitioned vampire.

That was not supposed to happen.

AUTHORS NOTE

my beloved sexies i present to you, the well awaited... drama!

presented by the ever so lovely humanity-less jordanna mf jones.