For those who need a name, there's a gift basket of medical terms. All I know is that cutting made me feel safe. It was proof. Thoughts and words, captured where I could see them and track them. The truth, stinging, on my skin, in a freakish shorthand. Tell me you're going to the doctor, and I'll want to cut worrisome on my arm. Say you've fallen in love and I buzz the outlines of tragic over my breast. I hadn't necessarily wanted to be cured. But I was out of places to write, slicing myself between my toes— bad, cry — like a junkie looking for one last vein. Vanish did it for me. I'd saved the neck, such a nice prime spot, for one final good cutting. Then I turned myself in. I stayed at the hospital twelve weeks. It's a special place for people who cut, almost all of them women, most under twenty-five. I went when I was thirty. Just six months out. Delicate times.
Curry came to visit once, brought yellow roses. They chiseled off all the thorns before he was allowed into the reception room, deposited the shards in plastic containers—Curry said they looked like prescription bottles—which they locked way until the trash pickup came. We sat in the dayroom, all rounded edges and plush couches, and as we talked about the paper and his wife and the latest news in Chicago, I scanned his body for anything sharp. A belt buckle, a safety pin, a watch fob.
"I'm so sorry, my girl," he said at the end of his visit, and I could tell he meant it because his voice sounded wet.
When he left I was so sick I vomited in the bathroom, and as I was vomiting, I noticed the rubber-covered screws at the back of the toilet. I pried the cap off one and sanded the palm of my hand—I—until orderlies hauled me out, blood spurting from the wound like stigmata.
My roommate killed herself later that week. Not by cutting, which was, of course, the irony. She swallowed a bottle of Windex a janitor left out. She was sixteen, a former cheerleader who cut herself above the thigh so no one would notice. Her parents glared at me when they came to pick up her things.
They always call depression the blues, but I would have been happy to waken to a periwinkle outlook. Depression to me is urine yellow. Washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.
The nurses gave us meds to alleviate our tingling skins. And more meds to soothe our burning brains. We were body searched twice weekly for any sharp objects, and sat in groups together purging ourselves, theoretically, of anger and self-hatred. We learned not to turn on ourselves. We learned to blame. After a month of good behaviour, we earned silky baths and massages. We were taught the goodness of touch.
My only other visitor was my mother, who I hadn't seen in half a decade. She smelled of purple flowers and wore a jangling charm bracelet I coveted as a child. When we were alone, she talked about the foliage and some new town rule that required Christmas lights to be taken down by January 15. When my doctors joined us, she cried and petted and fretted at me. She stroked my hair and wondered why I had done this to myself.
Then, inevitably, came the stories of Marian. She'd already lost one child, you see. It had nearly killed her. Why would the older (though necessarily less beloved) deliberately harm herself? I was so different from her lost girl, who—think of it—would be almost thirty had she lived. Marian embraced life, what she had been spared. Lord, she had soaked up the world—remember, Camille, how she laughed even in the hospital?
I hated to point out to my mother that such was the nature of a bewildered, expiring ten-year-old. Why bother? It's impossible to compete with the dead. I wished I could stop trying.
[this is so very, very out of karlach's depth, but - she listens to every bit.
and a lot of things sort of start to make sense, as she comes out of the void of memory, breathing a bit harsh from the weight of all of it. her tail flicks back and forth in agitation as she looks at camille, expression something just... well, full of worry, honestly.
silence. then:]
Gods. Camille. [...] You're still here. That's a fucking miracle.
[It's nice to know she can still throw someone for a loop. Everyone was so fantastical here, it was easy to feel left out.
Camille's grimacing, head turned and gaze down. Angling away. She'd like to run away.]
...In spite of every bet I placed against myself, here I am.
[Her hands go out, the world's tiniest tada. She laughs, covering her eyes.]
Is this what this week's going to be? Really?
[Maybe she ought to go hide out somewhere. In the cellar maybe, or in their swamp's cave of wonders. Bad enough Karlach got a peek, catching someone else is out of the question.]
[her heart aches, a little. or a lot. she's so empathetic, and camille's whole story just drips with suffering. with the unfairness of someone who should have loved her but didn't.]
... Right, right, this is -- [she stops. she probably should have pretended to be more surprised about being memshared but unfortunately for everybody, bg3 has in-game canon memshare. a beat.]
I'm glad you are. Here. I'm proud of you.
[she is so, so genuine with this, moving a little closer. not touching, but.]
[Funny. There's an urge now to pat Karlach on the shoulder. There there, you shouldn't have had to see that but you did. She wants so badly to be a fixer. She's got an in with most everyone here, she's seen it. Envied it, the ease with which people take to her. The way they mean it, and she's twice as genuine right back.]
I don't...I don't want to make people proud. For me. Of me. [It's a nice gesture though. Camille fidgets. Karlach is closer but her hands are kept to herself, and Camille doesn't reach either. Still doesn't like to once the script is flipped.] I don't want to be a project. Or a burden. I'd rather not be rooted for. I don't like laying myself at anyone's feet to be fixed.
I'd just like to be.
[She's been pulling at a hangnail as she speaks. Camille snaps it off in a decisive twist.]
It's the downside of using your body. Anyone can see, and it's all they see.
You're not a project, you're a person who deserves love just like everybody else. That's what I'm telling you when I'm proud. It's not meant to be a pat on the head, it's meant to be that I care. It's always a crapshoot on whether you'll have enough time to tell the people you care about that sort of shit, so now I do.
[silence, for a moment, and then she does offer out a hand. her right hand - though her left hand is now fully healed, her fingers looking healthy and all in one place.]
I like that brain of yours, Camille. You're funny and smart as a fucking whip-crack. There's more to you than what you think people are seeing.
[She wets her lips, looking at the hand. People can think those things about her before they know. After, it's a distant memory. What sticks is the damage and how no one wants to hold a ticking bomb.
Richard hadn't.
Camille winds her fingers into Karlach's even so. Standing stiff, head still turned. They'd gotten rather chummy, even before last week. Tragedy can do that to you. Grant leverage where it may otherwise be withheld.]
...I don't really do it anymore. If that helps. Been a year since my last serious try.
[The heat of it burns her. The way she rages, and the way her body lights up to match. Camille comes out of it with a heady gasp, nearly pulling her hand loose.
Hot as a bandit's pistol. And still, cold as arctic ice within.]
...You'll die?
[She sounds like a four year old. A petulant question with an obvious answer, all things will die. It's the when that concerns her. The immediacy expected.
Her face folds with a new kind of misery. There's the shame and discontent of self-loathing, and then there's the fear for a friend.]
[there's a long pause after this one, because it really is so much to just... leak out, like this. she'd accepted it in the moment, but hearing it again and again makes her resolve waver.
[Camille regains her breath in pieces. Her fingers clench back around Karlach's hand. She reaches for that traitorous heart, wet-eyed. Pathetic. Useless.]
What about the — can't someone here do something? What about the wishes? For matching as monsters, or...any one of the asshole wizards here. There's so many people here, someone should know something.
[to the first part, but:] Depends on what you mean by giving up. I'm still living, and I'm living about as much as I can possibly grab. I don't know that counts as giving up.
[the way she says this makes her expression twitch, something in her ache. she leans, just a bit, to make it easier for camille to do this, her tail flicking almost anxiously.]
I'm not quitting. [she says, finally, swallowing a little hard.] I just know what my options are.
[she bites her lip, briefly.]
I don't want to leave anybody. I just can't pretend there will be some perfect solution that I can live with.
[a pause, and she gives her a little smile. very carefully, she leans forward and presses a kiss to camille's temple, easy and friendly.]
Thanks. You're right, actually, look at us. First time we met you asked me if I was even real, and now you're telling me to not give up on hope. Something magical, that is.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
WEEK 2: Monday (1/2)
2/2 (TRANSCRIPT) ((SPOILERS, CW: self harm, suicide, dead children, rehab, mental health, gore))
Curry came to visit once, brought yellow roses. They chiseled off all the thorns before he was allowed into the reception room, deposited the shards in plastic containers—Curry said they looked like prescription bottles—which they locked way until the trash pickup came. We sat in the dayroom, all rounded edges and plush couches, and as we talked about the paper and his wife and the latest news in Chicago, I scanned his body for anything sharp. A belt buckle, a safety pin, a watch fob.
"I'm so sorry, my girl," he said at the end of his visit, and I could tell he meant it because his voice sounded wet.
When he left I was so sick I vomited in the bathroom, and as I was vomiting, I noticed the rubber-covered screws at the back of the toilet. I pried the cap off one and sanded the palm of my hand—I—until orderlies hauled me out, blood spurting from the wound like stigmata.
My roommate killed herself later that week. Not by cutting, which was, of course, the irony. She swallowed a bottle of Windex a janitor left out. She was sixteen, a former cheerleader who cut herself above the thigh so no one would notice. Her parents glared at me when they came to pick up her things.
They always call depression the blues, but I would have been happy to waken to a periwinkle outlook. Depression to me is urine yellow. Washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.
The nurses gave us meds to alleviate our tingling skins. And more meds to soothe our burning brains. We were body searched twice weekly for any sharp objects, and sat in groups together purging ourselves, theoretically, of anger and self-hatred. We learned not to turn on ourselves. We learned to blame. After a month of good behaviour, we earned silky baths and massages. We were taught the goodness of touch.
My only other visitor was my mother, who I hadn't seen in half a decade. She smelled of purple flowers and wore a jangling charm bracelet I coveted as a child. When we were alone, she talked about the foliage and some new town rule that required Christmas lights to be taken down by January 15. When my doctors joined us, she cried and petted and fretted at me. She stroked my hair and wondered why I had done this to myself.
Then, inevitably, came the stories of Marian. She'd already lost one child, you see. It had nearly killed her. Why would the older (though necessarily less beloved) deliberately harm herself? I was so different from her lost girl, who—think of it—would be almost thirty had she lived. Marian embraced life, what she had been spared. Lord, she had soaked up the world—remember, Camille, how she laughed even in the hospital?
I hated to point out to my mother that such was the nature of a bewildered, expiring ten-year-old. Why bother? It's impossible to compete with the dead. I wished I could stop trying.
no subject
and a lot of things sort of start to make sense, as she comes out of the void of memory, breathing a bit harsh from the weight of all of it. her tail flicks back and forth in agitation as she looks at camille, expression something just... well, full of worry, honestly.
silence. then:]
Gods. Camille. [...] You're still here. That's a fucking miracle.
no subject
Camille's grimacing, head turned and gaze down. Angling away. She'd like to run away.]
...In spite of every bet I placed against myself, here I am.
[Her hands go out, the world's tiniest tada. She laughs, covering her eyes.]
Is this what this week's going to be? Really?
[Maybe she ought to go hide out somewhere. In the cellar maybe, or in their swamp's cave of wonders. Bad enough Karlach got a peek, catching someone else is out of the question.]
no subject
... Right, right, this is -- [she stops. she probably should have pretended to be more surprised about being memshared but unfortunately for everybody, bg3 has in-game canon memshare. a beat.]
I'm glad you are. Here. I'm proud of you.
[she is so, so genuine with this, moving a little closer. not touching, but.]
no subject
I don't...I don't want to make people proud. For me. Of me. [It's a nice gesture though. Camille fidgets. Karlach is closer but her hands are kept to herself, and Camille doesn't reach either. Still doesn't like to once the script is flipped.] I don't want to be a project. Or a burden. I'd rather not be rooted for. I don't like laying myself at anyone's feet to be fixed.
I'd just like to be.
[She's been pulling at a hangnail as she speaks. Camille snaps it off in a decisive twist.]
It's the downside of using your body. Anyone can see, and it's all they see.
no subject
[she says, firmly.]
You're not a project, you're a person who deserves love just like everybody else. That's what I'm telling you when I'm proud. It's not meant to be a pat on the head, it's meant to be that I care. It's always a crapshoot on whether you'll have enough time to tell the people you care about that sort of shit, so now I do.
[silence, for a moment, and then she does offer out a hand. her right hand - though her left hand is now fully healed, her fingers looking healthy and all in one place.]
I like that brain of yours, Camille. You're funny and smart as a fucking whip-crack. There's more to you than what you think people are seeing.
no subject
Richard hadn't.
Camille winds her fingers into Karlach's even so. Standing stiff, head still turned. They'd gotten rather chummy, even before last week. Tragedy can do that to you. Grant leverage where it may otherwise be withheld.]
...I don't really do it anymore. If that helps. Been a year since my last serious try.
Things are better.
[And then she came here.]
...Thanks.
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I'm glad for that, at least. [...] You're welcome, sweater weather, I mean it.
[and sorry, also, for the memory in turn!]
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Hot as a bandit's pistol. And still, cold as arctic ice within.]
...You'll die?
[She sounds like a four year old. A petulant question with an obvious answer, all things will die. It's the when that concerns her. The immediacy expected.
Her face folds with a new kind of misery. There's the shame and discontent of self-loathing, and then there's the fear for a friend.]
no subject
she rubs at her chest, where that glow is.]
... Yeah. Sooner rather than later.
no subject
[Camille regains her breath in pieces. Her fingers clench back around Karlach's hand. She reaches for that traitorous heart, wet-eyed. Pathetic. Useless.]
What about the — can't someone here do something? What about the wishes? For matching as monsters, or...any one of the asshole wizards here. There's so many people here, someone should know something.
no subject
[her tail curls around her ankle loosely - her tone is just tired. like she can't muster up the strength to be sad about it anymore.]
The wishes could fix it, but I haven't had any luck with matches, and - even if I did, I'm not sure I could tie my life to someone like that.
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[Camille shakes her head.]
You're not giving up, are you?
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[to the first part, but:] Depends on what you mean by giving up. I'm still living, and I'm living about as much as I can possibly grab. I don't know that counts as giving up.
no subject
[Is that even the right word?]
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[she says, firmly.]
... But if the only options are go back to the Hells, sacrifice another person, or die? I will.
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You'll break their hearts. You'll hit the end and you'll know it wasn't enough time.
Don't quit now.
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I'm not quitting. [she says, finally, swallowing a little hard.] I just know what my options are.
[she bites her lip, briefly.]
I don't want to leave anybody. I just can't pretend there will be some perfect solution that I can live with.
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Just don't give up on options. You don't know what you don't know. [Camille smiles. Brittle.] I sure didn't. Look at us standing here now.
no subject
Thanks. You're right, actually, look at us. First time we met you asked me if I was even real, and now you're telling me to not give up on hope. Something magical, that is.