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clytemnestrea:

they’re all daughters, born and breed in the town their great great great grandfathers moved to. each of them a little twisted, a little mad with the years of solitude. all they have is each other, all they know is the cold, lonesome wind that rattles the windowpanes at night. they gather in the early dawn, their long hair leeched of colour and draped over their lace white dresses. they twist their long slender fingers and their lips ghost over necks, cheeks and chests. hours later, their dresses stained with grass and blood, they sit in the church, hands clasped together over a bible