[Shortly before curfew, when the rush dies down, Camille will take a silent seat at his side. A respectable distance. Their last conversation still burns hot in her mind. A repeat now might break something, real or metaphorical.
[ He's just here in the cabin, a bunch of stuff scattered around him. Bloody damp cloths, bandages yet to be applied, a... fucking... spine......
He's also got what appears to be a ring between his fingers, on a string, looking at it. His thoughts have a dull hum of Elise... to them.
He vaguely looks up at Camille. With his eyepatch gone you really can see that he only has the one eye, the other one being nothing else but a half-closed lid. No secret second eye here this whole time even though that'd be sick and funny in its own way. ]
...
[ He makes some kind of rough sound that sounds hoarse and wheezey. The silence is because his throat isn't doing so hot. He's still in his Nood Doods uniform :(. ]
[LOWE IS THIS A LITERAL HUMAN SPINE I NEED TO KNOW
But god good. It's enough to make her turn tail. He can't even speak. What can I even fucking do here? Her mother would be salivating. She can envision her swooping on him like a vulture, picking him apart with her loving care. Alcohol wash, fingers in the wounds, sickly sweet medicines. She'd make an invalid of him by the night's end.
The idea makes her queasy. Still, her eyes catch on that ring and her own fears shift aside.]
They used her against you. Didn't they?
[No need for an answer. She's seen and heard enough from other people to know what happens on these trips. Camille meets his eye. Lifts her hands but only for show and tell.]
[okay but is it HIS??????????? i've got so many concerns
He says it so bluntly he may as well have answered with his knuckles. She doesn't react much outwardly. It's the stiffness that's the tell. There was a dog?]
Not in places like these, no. [She shakes her head.] These little excursions all sound like rigged games. Not the real thing.
[ Well he isn't a goopy pile on the ground. He's hunched over where he's sat, the knobs of his spine just barely visible over the flat surface of his uniform... under the emblazoned embroidered text reading The Nood Doods :pensive:. ]
Sure. I knew that.
[ Because he already knows Elise and Pickles were dead, that's just a reality he accepted a long time ago. Still, it doesn't erase the shock and ripping open of wounds. ]
Okay. [It's a start. The absolute barest margin. Doesn't change what's happened though. After finding her dead in the first place. Seeing the imitation horror in Prehevil. Now this.]
[She's seen this before. At rehab. Not for booze — for cutters. Her teenage roommate had been high emotions one week, and then dead air for a day. Maybe two. Then she pulled the bleach off the janitor's cart and drank it down.
Camille's hands don't shake as she reaches for the bandages, but they might. She at least knows the basics. Took care of herself for years, nary an infection in sight. She'll set to work quietly, moving where she's needed.]
Can you tell me what happened? [Her eyes flick to his.] I heard something about "demons."
[ I need people to be okay in Sharp Objects, I say this as a person who's playing from a canon where you can just straight up commit suicide at any point in the game if your Mind reaches 50 even once.
He doesn't meet her eyes. He just still seems to be blankly looking at the ring in his hand. By the way the glove on his right hand seems to have an awfully loose finger. If she takes it off she will discover that he is in fact no longer with a ring finger. Yayyy. ]
Demons' tournament. Killing festival. Again.
[ Who said third time's the charm? Right, Matsuno. ]
[Sharp Objects :handshake: Fear and Hunger, no one has ever been or ever will be okay.
She does take the glove off. The nub of bone is enough to make her wilt. She swears under her breath instead, reaching for whatever passes as antiseptic around here. Clean it, cover it. Does it need pressure still? She does shake now, one riotous dance down her spine, and then adrenaline covers for her.
She'll work quick. Take directions if he gives any. Pretend not to see the glove where she'd tossed it aside. Hearing "third time" gives her the chills. Camille looks up at him, crestfallen.
And swallows back the platitudes.]
For god's sake, don't they have any imagination? [Why him? Every goddamn time.]
...Was it the same as the one from your home? Or was it someone else's?
[ It actually looks like. Not as fresh as the rest of him and was already bandaged. By that I really mean it looks like it's been taken care of once but it's still 'less than 24 hours' level. ]
Someone else's, probably. Some kind of island. Spartan entertainment of demons.
[ He rattles off the vaguest of details with the hollowness of someone who can't be assed to care anymore. ]
[He's gone. Isn't he? Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe it'll be worse. Wherever his mind has fled, she's not able to follow.
Bet Karlach could make him feel better.
Stupid. Letting Lavi's anecdotes and distantly witnessed interactions gnaw at her when Daan's bleeding and burnt away. But she can't help it. She's never improved a situation. Just left it neutral or made it worse.
Made it about herself.]
I'm sorry. [Small words for an insurmountable situation. She's gotten a fresh bandage on the stump at least, good and tight.] ...I'm glad you made it out.
Oh? Nothing to be sorry for. Just another in a chain of events. We'll all be feeling even more sorry by the end of the week. We always do.
[ Even if Camille missed the last one and she was a part of the problem of the previous one before that, surely she has an idea of how it always goes. ]
["A chain of events." Sure. From a distance that's what you can call it.]
There's plenty to be sorry for. [Her voice is soft. She wishes she could say unyielding, but she's never been good at standing on any ground.] You keep taking hits nobody should have to bear. People keep getting hurt. Lost.
I'm sorry for it because they all matter to me. More than their own deaths. More than the things they're forced to do.
[ Sorry. That's all anyone can say. It's more than he usually hears. How come he never got to hear those from the people that actually leave and hurt him? Why is it always somebody else who says it to him on their behalf? ]
...
Okay. Thanks.
[ It's just easier on everyone to accept it. The offerers to hear it be accepted, himself because it ends the conversation quicker without struggle. ]
I don't expect you to feel better. Or grateful. Not in hours, or days. [She returns to cleaning him up, steadier now.] Things like this don't shake off with nice words, no matter how well intended. Especially not fresh out the gate.
They call this sort of thing "preaching to the choir", or so I hear.
[ Nothing new he's heard, always the same. His suffering is both of old but fresh, things from years ago overlaying atop the ones barely months old. From a polished rock back to something you'd find in the dirt -- where he'd always been from, in the end. ]
[hjdjgdgjd Maybe they're too scared to call him out, he's already at his limit.
The name doesn't just silence him. Camille's eyes trace the lines of those scratches. Fingernails? Or a more monstrous take on them?
She hasn't forgotten the stitched up corpse.]
Hold still.
[She's gentle as she starts. If he reaches for her or flinches she'll hold. Wait for the go ahead. The rebuke. It has to be done though, sooner rather than later.]
[ He just. Doesn't really respond to it, is the thing. Turning that ring over in his hand one more time. The scratches are savage but human, and in particular, a bit gnarly right around his empty eye. ]
[The eye — not freshly gone, but freshly agitated for sure. She brushes the hair out of the way, dabs softly. Her stomach does a flip but her expression stays cool.]
She really did a number on you. Was she made up like a demon?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
WEEK 4: Thursday
Her voice is low as she murmurs to him:]
Rough day?
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He's also got what appears to be a ring between his fingers, on a string, looking at it. His thoughts have a dull hum of Elise... to them.
He vaguely looks up at Camille. With his eyepatch gone you really can see that he only has the one eye, the other one being nothing else but a half-closed lid. No secret second eye here this whole time even though that'd be sick and funny in its own way. ]
...
[ He makes some kind of rough sound that sounds hoarse and wheezey. The silence is because his throat isn't doing so hot. He's still in his Nood Doods uniform :(. ]
Cw: mentions of medical/caretaker abuse
[LOWE IS THIS A LITERAL HUMAN SPINE I NEED TO KNOW
But god good. It's enough to make her turn tail. He can't even speak. What can I even fucking do here? Her mother would be salivating. She can envision her swooping on him like a vulture, picking him apart with her loving care. Alcohol wash, fingers in the wounds, sickly sweet medicines. She'd make an invalid of him by the night's end.
The idea makes her queasy. Still, her eyes catch on that ring and her own fears shift aside.]
They used her against you. Didn't they?
[No need for an answer. She's seen and heard enough from other people to know what happens on these trips. Camille meets his eye. Lifts her hands but only for show and tell.]
I've washed up. Can I help with anything?
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He pockets the ring. ]
I killed her. And the dog.
Doesn't really matter what you give to spare people in the end.
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He says it so bluntly he may as well have answered with his knuckles. She doesn't react much outwardly. It's the stiffness that's the tell. There was a dog?]
Not in places like these, no. [She shakes her head.] These little excursions all sound like rigged games. Not the real thing.
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Sure. I knew that.
[ Because he already knows Elise and Pickles were dead, that's just a reality he accepted a long time ago. Still, it doesn't erase the shock and ripping open of wounds. ]
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Okay. [It's a start. The absolute barest margin. Doesn't change what's happened though. After finding her dead in the first place. Seeing the imitation horror in Prehevil. Now this.]
Can I help with your bandages, Daan?
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[ He. Has lost all will to care. The way he says it is quite blank. ]
CW: AGAIN. SELF HARM AND SUICIDE MENTION. i hate it here.
Camille's hands don't shake as she reaches for the bandages, but they might. She at least knows the basics. Took care of herself for years, nary an infection in sight. She'll set to work quietly, moving where she's needed.]
Can you tell me what happened? [Her eyes flick to his.] I heard something about "demons."
cw: suicide mention
He doesn't meet her eyes. He just still seems to be blankly looking at the ring in his hand. By the way the glove on his right hand seems to have an awfully loose finger. If she takes it off she will discover that he is in fact no longer with a ring finger. Yayyy. ]
Demons' tournament. Killing festival. Again.
[ Who said third time's the charm? Right, Matsuno. ]
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She does take the glove off. The nub of bone is enough to make her wilt. She swears under her breath instead, reaching for whatever passes as antiseptic around here. Clean it, cover it. Does it need pressure still? She does shake now, one riotous dance down her spine, and then adrenaline covers for her.
She'll work quick. Take directions if he gives any. Pretend not to see the glove where she'd tossed it aside. Hearing "third time" gives her the chills. Camille looks up at him, crestfallen.
And swallows back the platitudes.]
For god's sake, don't they have any imagination? [Why him? Every goddamn time.]
...Was it the same as the one from your home? Or was it someone else's?
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Someone else's, probably. Some kind of island. Spartan entertainment of demons.
[ He rattles off the vaguest of details with the hollowness of someone who can't be assed to care anymore. ]
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[He's gone. Isn't he? Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe it'll be worse. Wherever his mind has fled, she's not able to follow.
Bet Karlach could make him feel better.
Stupid. Letting Lavi's anecdotes and distantly witnessed interactions gnaw at her when Daan's bleeding and burnt away. But she can't help it. She's never improved a situation. Just left it neutral or made it worse.
Made it about herself.]
I'm sorry. [Small words for an insurmountable situation. She's gotten a fresh bandage on the stump at least, good and tight.] ...I'm glad you made it out.
[Even if he isn't.]
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[ Even if Camille missed the last one and she was a part of the problem of the previous one before that, surely she has an idea of how it always goes. ]
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There's plenty to be sorry for. [Her voice is soft. She wishes she could say unyielding, but she's never been good at standing on any ground.] You keep taking hits nobody should have to bear. People keep getting hurt. Lost.
I'm sorry for it because they all matter to me. More than their own deaths. More than the things they're forced to do.
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...
Okay. Thanks.
[ It's just easier on everyone to accept it. The offerers to hear it be accepted, himself because it ends the conversation quicker without struggle. ]
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Don't say things you don't mean.
[She isn't chiding or harsh. Just flat. Matching him.]
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At that rate, I'm afraid the only answer I can give you is nothing at all.
What's a man to do with options like those, hm?
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[When one door closes and all that.]
I don't expect you to feel better. Or grateful. Not in hours, or days. [She returns to cleaning him up, steadier now.] Things like this don't shake off with nice words, no matter how well intended. Especially not fresh out the gate.
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[ Nothing new he's heard, always the same. His suffering is both of old but fresh, things from years ago overlaying atop the ones barely months old. From a polished rock back to something you'd find in the dirt -- where he'd always been from, in the end. ]
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[He's not wrong though.
She moves to the front of him, soaking a new cloth from the bottle.]
Is it all right if I help with your face?
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...
[ He goes quiet again at the mention of his face. There's a heavy thought of Elise...
Well it's not an outright refusal but do with that what you will. ]
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The name doesn't just silence him. Camille's eyes trace the lines of those scratches. Fingernails? Or a more monstrous take on them?
She hasn't forgotten the stitched up corpse.]
Hold still.
[She's gentle as she starts. If he reaches for her or flinches she'll hold. Wait for the go ahead. The rebuke. It has to be done though, sooner rather than later.]
...Were these from her?
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Yeah.
[ He just. Doesn't really respond to it, is the thing. Turning that ring over in his hand one more time. The scratches are savage but human, and in particular, a bit gnarly right around his empty eye. ]
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[The eye — not freshly gone, but freshly agitated for sure. She brushes the hair out of the way, dabs softly. Her stomach does a flip but her expression stays cool.]
She really did a number on you. Was she made up like a demon?
[Or was she in stitches again?]
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