Well, the unfortunate, tiny little issue with the whole ordeal was the inability to go against his compulsion. It made murdering him in this sleep just a little tricky.
I don't blame you, you know. Debating doing it yourself. [After centuries of being collared, of being something other. Damned, if the same sensibilities exist in his world.] Glad you didn't, though.
I think there's at least seven thousand vampires who'd say it was the right call.
[She won't egg him about the subterfuge. Not yet anyway. But she does give him a look, private little smile. There and gone again.]
I think you'll be grateful for it. Eventually. Maybe the interim will be absolute shit. [How is he walking around in daylight? Did the magic here make some exception for him? In the same way that it yanked everyone's powers away, it may have made it easier to cope.] But you have people with you. Good people.
Don't take them for granted.
[No one's love is a guarantee. Hell, no one's "like" either.]
Perhaps. Adjusting won't be easy for them -- any concerns people had about me letting thousands of spawn run free when they haven't had the chance to learn some restraint weren't unfounded.
[ he was just too tired to take on that many deaths in one go. ]
I think if they got wind I appreciate them, they'd expect I had a stroke. [ look at him. he's the angry cat karlach's been trying to coax into letting her pet for ages. ] But it was a lot easier, facing Cazador, than it would have been alone.
[ it was a bloodbath (definite) or a bloodbath (potential, if spawn cannot control themselves).
at least he’s a pretty vampire to look at. ]
Do. They’ll be insufferable if they knew. [ they wouldn’t. ] … [ but he nods. ] I’m not sure how much of a secret this will be if this whole… memory thing continues, though.
[Somehow, she imagines they'd take it well. They already had Karlach and Laudna, Izutsumi, an eternal array of curses. Geto's disgusting worm thing. If Astarion were going to be a problem they'd have found someone exsanguinated by now. Karlach and Gale would vouch for him too. They're both very well liked, and she imagines they're decent judges of character.
Then there are her own experiences. Prior memory lane trip aside, he's just not that threatening. Pretty, piercing. But nothing that raises the hairs on her neck.]
That's the real bitch about this place. If it's not writing your sins on your skin, it's providing private peep shows into your head.
((combining two memshares for this: one is a direct excerpt the other is a rewrite for clarity. I apologize for the change in tenses but I am not changing them, suffer))
Alan loosened some cash to enroll Amma at the Bell School—$22,000 a year, not counting books and supplies—just nine blocks away. She made quick friends, a little circle of pretty girls who learned to yearn for all things Missouri. The one I really liked was a girl named Lily Burke. She was as bright as Amma, with a sunnier outlook. She had a spray of freckles, oversized front teeth, and hair the color of chocolate, which Amma pointed out was the exact shade of the rug in my old bedroom. I liked her anyway.
She became a fixture at the apartment, helping me cook dinner, asking me questions about homework, telling stories about boys. Amma got progressively quieter with each of Lily's visits. By October, she'd shut her door pointedly when Lily came by.
One night I woke to find Amma standing over my bed.
"You like Lily better than me," she whispered. She was feverish, her nightgown clinging to her sweaty body, her teeth chattering. I guided her to the bathroom, sat her down on the toilet, wet a washcloth under the cool, metallic water of the sink, wiped her brow. Then we stared at each other. Slate blue eyes just like Adora's. Blank. Like a winter pond.
~*&*~
On October 12, Lily Burke disappeared on her way home from school. Four hours later, her body was found, propped tidily next to a Dumpster three blocks from our apartment. Only six of her teeth had been pulled, the oversized front two and four on the bottom.
I phoned Wind Gap and waited on hold twelve minutes until police confirmed my mother was in her home.
I found it first. I let the police discover it, but I found it first. As Amma trailed me like an angry dog, I tore through the apartment, upending seat cushions, rummaging through drawers. What have you done Amma? By the time I got to her room, she was calm. Smug. I sifted through her panties, dumped out her wish chest, turned over her mattress.
I went through her desk and uncovered only pencils, stickers, and a cup that stank of bleach.
I swept out the contents of the dollhouse room by room, smashing my little four-poster bed, Amma's day bed, the lemon yellow love seat. Once I'd flung out my mother's big brass canopy and destroyed her vanity table, either Amma or I screamed. Maybe both of us did. The floor of my mother's room. The beautiful ivory tiles. Made of human teeth. Fifty-six tiny teeth, cleaned and bleached and shining from the floor.
3/3 (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 twenty nine, 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.
well the knife thing earns him a bit of a whole body shudder - like a little ripple because, well. he knows how painful having something carved into your skin is, he's just never done it willingly.
but there's a lot going on there. nothing that he visibly reactions to, not in the way camille had upon seeing his memory. he doesn't feel nauseous, nor the need to collapse. but he does lean his weight back a little, tilting his head. ]
I know it doesn't take a lot for someone to snap, but that seemed rather-- [ intense? pointed? ]
Astarion might come out of it with little more than private judgments, new considerations. Camille comes out stiff as a statue. Her jaw has clenched shut, her eyes are stuck on some distant point. Her arms have taken permanent post around her middle, as if she might obscure the jagged scars he's already seen. Her cheeks flush and her eyes are prickling. There is silence.
And then, low and utterly begrudging:]
Yeah? [A bitter inhale, and then more.] Family tends to be personal.
[She could just go for the door. What's stopping her? This isn't a conversation that needs finishing. He doesn't need to see anything else, know any more. He's already got the grisly gist.
Except she doesn't want a repeat of Aqua. He wouldn't gun for her like she did, but he might alert someone who would. Panic and supervision are the last things she needs. She's not relapsing. She just made a stupid mistake.
Camille meets his eye evenly. Speaks low.]
It's over. I don't want to go back to it.
[If she were being serious she'd have grabbed a fucking knife.]
I think I have a good enough understanding that you've got your secrets. I'm not exactly over the moon about having mine paraded all over the place anyway.
[ a silent, petty lil jerks coming to an agreement ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scrapdraught) wrote2024-06-09 08:28 pm
no subject
Surprised it took that long.
no subject
[ prickly, prickly. ]
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[Camille pinches the bridge of her nose.]
I don't blame you, you know. Debating doing it yourself. [After centuries of being collared, of being something other. Damned, if the same sensibilities exist in his world.] Glad you didn't, though.
no subject
I'll see how I feel about it when everything stops long enough for me to consider my choice, I suppose. [ he's quiet for a moment. ]
But perhaps being talked down was a gift I have yet to fully appreciate.
no subject
[She won't egg him about the subterfuge. Not yet anyway. But she does give him a look, private little smile. There and gone again.]
I think you'll be grateful for it. Eventually. Maybe the interim will be absolute shit. [How is he walking around in daylight? Did the magic here make some exception for him? In the same way that it yanked everyone's powers away, it may have made it easier to cope.] But you have people with you. Good people.
Don't take them for granted.
[No one's love is a guarantee. Hell, no one's "like" either.]
no subject
[ he was just too tired to take on that many deaths in one go. ]
I think if they got wind I appreciate them, they'd expect I had a stroke. [ look at him. he's the angry cat karlach's been trying to coax into letting her pet for ages. ] But it was a lot easier, facing Cazador, than it would have been alone.
no subject
Fucking vampires. What has her life become?]
Ooh, can't have that. I'll be sure to keep my lips well-zipped. [She smiles, nodding, arms folding more comfortably.] On all accounts.
no subject
at least he’s a pretty vampire to look at. ]
Do. They’ll be insufferable if they knew. [ they wouldn’t. ] … [ but he nods. ] I’m not sure how much of a secret this will be if this whole… memory thing continues, though.
1/3
Then there are her own experiences. Prior memory lane trip aside, he's just not that threatening. Pretty, piercing. But nothing that raises the hairs on her neck.]
That's the real bitch about this place. If it's not writing your sins on your skin, it's providing private peep shows into your head.
[And on that note...]
2/3 (EXCERPT) ((SPOILERS, CW: child murder, teeth extraction))
Alan loosened some cash to enroll Amma at the Bell School—$22,000 a year, not counting books and supplies—just nine blocks away. She made quick friends, a little circle of pretty girls who learned to yearn for all things Missouri. The one I really liked was a girl named Lily Burke. She was as bright as Amma, with a sunnier outlook. She had a spray of freckles, oversized front teeth, and hair the color of chocolate, which Amma pointed out was the exact shade of the rug in my old bedroom. I liked her anyway.
She became a fixture at the apartment, helping me cook dinner, asking me questions about homework, telling stories about boys. Amma got progressively quieter with each of Lily's visits. By October, she'd shut her door pointedly when Lily came by.
One night I woke to find Amma standing over my bed.
"You like Lily better than me," she whispered. She was feverish, her nightgown clinging to her sweaty body, her teeth chattering. I guided her to the bathroom, sat her down on the toilet, wet a washcloth under the cool, metallic water of the sink, wiped her brow. Then we stared at each other. Slate blue eyes just like Adora's. Blank. Like a winter pond.
On October 12, Lily Burke disappeared on her way home from school. Four hours later, her body was found, propped tidily next to a Dumpster three blocks from our apartment. Only six of her teeth had been pulled, the oversized front two and four on the bottom.
I phoned Wind Gap and waited on hold twelve minutes until police confirmed my mother was in her home.
I found it first. I let the police discover it, but I found it first. As Amma trailed me like an angry dog, I tore through the apartment, upending seat cushions, rummaging through drawers. What have you done Amma? By the time I got to her room, she was calm. Smug. I sifted through her panties, dumped out her wish chest, turned over her mattress.
I went through her desk and uncovered only pencils, stickers, and a cup that stank of bleach.
I swept out the contents of the dollhouse room by room, smashing my little four-poster bed, Amma's day bed, the lemon yellow love seat. Once I'd flung out my mother's big brass canopy and destroyed her vanity table, either Amma or I screamed. Maybe both of us did. The floor of my mother's room. The beautiful ivory tiles. Made of human teeth. Fifty-six tiny teeth, cleaned and bleached and shining from the floor.
3/3 (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 twenty nine, 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.
no subject
well the knife thing earns him a bit of a whole body shudder - like a little ripple because, well. he knows how painful having something carved into your skin is, he's just never done it willingly.
but there's a lot going on there. nothing that he visibly reactions to, not in the way camille had upon seeing his memory. he doesn't feel nauseous, nor the need to collapse. but he does lean his weight back a little, tilting his head. ]
I know it doesn't take a lot for someone to snap, but that seemed rather-- [ intense? pointed? ]
Personal.
no subject
Astarion might come out of it with little more than private judgments, new considerations. Camille comes out stiff as a statue. Her jaw has clenched shut, her eyes are stuck on some distant point. Her arms have taken permanent post around her middle, as if she might obscure the jagged scars he's already seen. Her cheeks flush and her eyes are prickling. There is silence.
And then, low and utterly begrudging:]
Yeah? [A bitter inhale, and then more.] Family tends to be personal.
no subject
I think my idea of family is somewhat warped. [ the man who turned you and the few unfortunate other favourites he also turned don't really count. ]
Is this what you were doing last week?
no subject
[She could just go for the door. What's stopping her? This isn't a conversation that needs finishing. He doesn't need to see anything else, know any more. He's already got the grisly gist.
Except she doesn't want a repeat of Aqua. He wouldn't gun for her like she did, but he might alert someone who would. Panic and supervision are the last things she needs. She's not relapsing. She just made a stupid mistake.
Camille meets his eye evenly. Speaks low.]
It's over. I don't want to go back to it.
[If she were being serious she'd have grabbed a fucking knife.]
no subject
[ he doesn't just mean right here, and now. ]
no subject
Fine by me. I don't like having babysitters. Not even ones as charming as yourself.
no subject
[ a silent, petty lil jerks coming to an agreement ]
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Consider my lips sealed.
How are you getting around though? Daylight doesn't bother you here? No appetite?
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As for food, the regular fare has been sitting just fine with me. Even if it wasn't, I've already had offers if I'd needed to stick to my usual diet.
no subject
[I miss the Ratpplebees....]
no subject
Yes, a little ironic that the shift of things happens right when the food options are fucking dire.