The police clap Amma's twiggy preteen wrists in handcuffs, and they march her out the door of your crappy apartment with a firm hand on each arm. She's defiant but hot in the face, eyes wet and cheeks red. She looks at you with a clear burn, the sear of a laser, and you feel your skin sizzle.
When she's gone your editor and mentor, Frank Curry, swoops in with his wife to save you from the silence. They assume the space on your couch. They're here for you in your hour of need. You manage just fine, talking.
You slip a knife up your sleeve when they aren't looking, and you go to the bathroom.
You lock the door. You slip your shirt off and look at your handiwork in the mirror. Words you've carved into your skin from age thirteen to thirty, neck to wrists to hips and down to the webbing between your toes. There's a patch on your back left blank, nothing written there. It's been too hard to reach with finesse.
Today, you grind the knife around in that smooth circle, shredding your last patch of clear skin below the neck. When you're ready to start on your face Curry breaks into the bathroom.
He gets the knife out of your hand, and in short order you are in their care and living in their basement. Sharp objects under lock and key.
It's better that way.
cw: extremely intense body horror/self-mutilation/loss of autonomy
[ (slides one in the tag back so we can Process Together.)
well... marina watches this, caught up in the whirlwind of camille's memory, her eyes wide as she watches her with that knife, digging slowly into her skin, carving herself up in a way that marina is... unfortunately all too familiar with. all over her skin, she sees it - the words, the writing, on every inch of available space on her skin. the body a tableau of camille that makes her want to surge forward and wrap her arms around her.
she watches—can only watch, and it feels helpless, as someone takes that knife from her hand—
[Her carving feels small and groundless. Or perhaps it is a base. The fantastic has to build off mundanity, and where Camille cuts at herself for comfort, Marina cuts at herself to live. To kill. Her father — who she had the vague impression of being a sacrosanct piece of shit — manifests as a more literal pain in the ass.
In a gut-churning display of Cronenberg revelry, the father makes his own daughter a vessel. And she's still alive for it, mangled. Desperate and dying.
Camille cuts loose of the vision with preloaded tears. The jump from her last jab to Marina sawing at herself is a new kind of torture.
Wordless, she looks to the girl. Stretches, takes her body and pulls it into hers. Her cheeks are wet and her head is swimming.
[ she doesn't expect it, being pulled in, but when she does, there's a thing that violently leaves her like a release. like someone's pulled a lever and the dam's all broken. there's a heavy noise from inside of her before she breaks and just lets out a sob. it's soft at first, and she can't remember the last time she actually cried.
noroomfortheselfnoroomfortheselfnoroom—well she made room, damn it.
and she'll cry. she can feel the wetness and presses her cheek gently to camille's before burying herself into her shoulder and winding arms around her to tightly clutch her back. she shakes. ]
S'just a memory... it's a memory...
[ softer: ]
We're okay... [ not delusional: we're not okay, but we're okay as long as we're here for this moment. this is the meaning behind it. ]
Marina fits snugly into her arms. They're of a height for it, no strain to bend, no struggle to put a chin on a shoulder and let it out. Camille strokes her hair as they stand entwined, her pounding heart winding down to a humble thrum.]
[ quietly, chin on her shoulder, a slow steady stroking in circular motions along her back in turn. she tilts to press her cheek against her quietly. ]
[It makes sense. After that warping torment, what else was left to save?
Yet Marina stands here whole. Much less a cadaver than Laudna, but resurrected just the same. The tragedy and the shock of it are twisted together. Her mundane brain grasps for logistics first.]
[ she pulls away slightly, and the material of her outfit today is enough that she just has to undo the ribbon at her throat and unbutton one or two buttons on her shirt, peeling away the fabric to show a symbol, carved in, but since healed near the front of her shoulder. the very one her body had forced her to carve into herself. ]
No, I understand. Though — they might be able to shed some light on what it means for you to be here. Or what might happen if...
[No. Not now. Camille swallows, brushes a hair behind the young woman's ear.]
I don't understand these things. Nothing like it where I'm from. But if I can help you, or you want to talk, what the fuck else do I have to do around here?
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WEEK 2: Monday (1/2)
2/2 (REWRITE) ((SPOILERS, CW: self harm, gore, mental health issues, attempted face gore))
The police clap Amma's twiggy preteen wrists in handcuffs, and they march her out the door of your crappy apartment with a firm hand on each arm. She's defiant but hot in the face, eyes wet and cheeks red. She looks at you with a clear burn, the sear of a laser, and you feel your skin sizzle.
When she's gone your editor and mentor, Frank Curry, swoops in with his wife to save you from the silence. They assume the space on your couch. They're here for you in your hour of need. You manage just fine, talking.
You slip a knife up your sleeve when they aren't looking, and you go to the bathroom.
You lock the door. You slip your shirt off and look at your handiwork in the mirror. Words you've carved into your skin from age thirteen to thirty, neck to wrists to hips and down to the webbing between your toes. There's a patch on your back left blank, nothing written there. It's been too hard to reach with finesse.
Today, you grind the knife around in that smooth circle, shredding your last patch of clear skin below the neck. When you're ready to start on your face Curry breaks into the bathroom.
He gets the knife out of your hand, and in short order you are in their care and living in their basement. Sharp objects under lock and key.
It's better that way.
cw: extremely intense body horror/self-mutilation/loss of autonomy
well... marina watches this, caught up in the whirlwind of camille's memory, her eyes wide as she watches her with that knife, digging slowly into her skin, carving herself up in a way that marina is... unfortunately all too familiar with. all over her skin, she sees it - the words, the writing, on every inch of available space on her skin. the body a tableau of camille that makes her want to surge forward and wrap her arms around her.
she watches—can only watch, and it feels helpless, as someone takes that knife from her hand—
and well. monsters carve too, even when they don't want to. ]
they are such a fun and upbeat pair
In a gut-churning display of Cronenberg revelry, the father makes his own daughter a vessel. And she's still alive for it, mangled. Desperate and dying.
Camille cuts loose of the vision with preloaded tears. The jump from her last jab to Marina sawing at herself is a new kind of torture.
Wordless, she looks to the girl. Stretches, takes her body and pulls it into hers. Her cheeks are wet and her head is swimming.
But they are alive.
Alive.
Alive.]
sometimes you are miserable gals. together.
noroomfortheselfnoroomfortheselfnoroom—well she made room, damn it.
and she'll cry. she can feel the wetness and presses her cheek gently to camille's before burying herself into her shoulder and winding arms around her to tightly clutch her back. she shakes. ]
S'just a memory... it's a memory...
[ softer: ]
We're okay... [ not delusional: we're not okay, but we're okay as long as we're here for this moment. this is the meaning behind it. ]
OUR misery, comrade
[Despite everyone's best efforts.
Marina fits snugly into her arms. They're of a height for it, no strain to bend, no struggle to put a chin on a shoulder and let it out. Camille strokes her hair as they stand entwined, her pounding heart winding down to a humble thrum.]
How did you make it out of there?
no subject
[ quietly, chin on her shoulder, a slow steady stroking in circular motions along her back in turn. she tilts to press her cheek against her quietly. ]
That's... the end.
no subject
Yet Marina stands here whole. Much less a cadaver than Laudna, but resurrected just the same. The tragedy and the shock of it are twisted together. Her mundane brain grasps for logistics first.]
How? You're here now.
no subject
[ she pulls away slightly, and the material of her outfit today is enough that she just has to undo the ribbon at her throat and unbutton one or two buttons on her shirt, peeling away the fabric to show a symbol, carved in, but since healed near the front of her shoulder. the very one her body had forced her to carve into herself. ]
This thing.
no subject
Her eyes flick up again, searching Marina's.]
Have you talked to Laudna about this? Or Gale?
no subject
I don't want to come back as... that. I think I'm better off as I am, whatever happens to me.
no subject
[No. Not now. Camille swallows, brushes a hair behind the young woman's ear.]
I don't understand these things. Nothing like it where I'm from. But if I can help you, or you want to talk, what the fuck else do I have to do around here?