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 ]
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scrapdraught) wrote2024-06-09 08:28 pm
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 ]
no subject
Consider my lips sealed.
How are you getting around though? Daylight doesn't bother you here? No appetite?
no subject
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.