[Nowhere to go. No guts. She can all but feel the cold rock on her back as the liquor pumps through her, back where it belongs, tingling in every inch of skin, the starry sky above sent spinning like a whirling dervish.
And didn't feel so sweet to give in?
Camille closes her eyes. Reworks her jaw, her thoughts. Clears her face of wet tracks and threats of sniffles.]
...Good. [She wets her lips and opens her eyes. He's horribly beautiful in his fright. Drawn pale like porcelain, soft hair sticking to the sweat of his brow.] Because you can't. Not now.
[She wants to hold him. She wants to run. Fuck, she wants a drink. A razor. There's space yet, she can make room. New words can rise and she can stick to turtlenecks. Her skin is buzzing for it. He looks so hollowed and she's the one who scooped him clean.
Will that be the word of the day? "Scoop"?]
There'll be somewhere to go, Daan. We just can't see it yet. Doesn't mean it's not there.
[ Everything is really too much all of the time. He's just a dirty stone from the woods that people picked up and polished. He sits pretty on a shelf and people comment on that for him, like the translucency of his surface is a quality to be adored. He's clean enough on the surface, nice enough to look at and keep around.
Some strange sentimentality people project on him that keeps them from skipping him over the waters to drown under the still surface of some lake in the woods. ]
Then Camille turns. Walks away. Leaves. Even paced in the footing, even as her breath quickens, face heats.
He fucking hates you.
How can he not? After a display like that? Snapping at him, like it's his fault she's back to walking the earth and he's letting her down by, what, feeling the same damn misery she is?
And he has that thing whispering to him. It's not like the abstract urges she'd felt that week. It's alive, with thoughts and sentiments that make too much sense to ignore.
The moment she's out of his sight, she bolts. Far, far, far. Not even a full day back and she's shot one good thing dead to the ground.]
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YEAH...yeah.... Cw: suicidal thoughts, self harm/alcoholism mentions
And didn't feel so sweet to give in?
Camille closes her eyes. Reworks her jaw, her thoughts. Clears her face of wet tracks and threats of sniffles.]
...Good. [She wets her lips and opens her eyes. He's horribly beautiful in his fright. Drawn pale like porcelain, soft hair sticking to the sweat of his brow.] Because you can't. Not now.
[She wants to hold him. She wants to run. Fuck, she wants a drink. A razor. There's space yet, she can make room. New words can rise and she can stick to turtlenecks. Her skin is buzzing for it. He looks so hollowed and she's the one who scooped him clean.
Will that be the word of the day? "Scoop"?]
There'll be somewhere to go, Daan. We just can't see it yet. Doesn't mean it's not there.
no subject
Some strange sentimentality people project on him that keeps them from skipping him over the waters to drown under the still surface of some lake in the woods. ]
Fine. I heard you.
But I really do need you to leave right now.
no subject
Then Camille turns. Walks away. Leaves. Even paced in the footing, even as her breath quickens, face heats.
He fucking hates you.
How can he not? After a display like that? Snapping at him, like it's his fault she's back to walking the earth and he's letting her down by, what, feeling the same damn misery she is?
And he has that thing whispering to him. It's not like the abstract urges she'd felt that week. It's alive, with thoughts and sentiments that make too much sense to ignore.
The moment she's out of his sight, she bolts. Far, far, far. Not even a full day back and she's shot one good thing dead to the ground.]