Camille was on the ground and Val was on the ground and Camille was looking into her eyes and there was silence except for the 'EEEEEEEEEEEEE' until Val managed to sputter out a single word.
"Oprosti."
She tried to stand up by herself. She couldn't. Her knee wasn't working. Her knee was - she couldn't look at it. She didn't know if the spike was still in it. She didn't know if the helmet was still attached. Once again, in English.
"Sorry."
She grabbed hold of the wall with one hand and pulled herself up, putting all her weight on it and her uninjured leg. She was still holding the gun and she could still feel it firing. It wasn't still firing; she'd burnt through the entire mag. It still felt like it was firing. She needed - she needed ammo. She needed Camille's bag. Camille was on the ground. She'd been hit. Had she? Val didn't know. Didn't want to know. Tried not to think about father. Failed. She needed the ammo though, because she needed to be able to back up her words, and she stumbled towards the fallen girl, briefly placed the gun on the dirt, then slid her hands underneath the bag's straps.
"You will - you will be remembered as a hero, Camille," she stated shakily, before wrenching the bag off of the girl. Picked the gun back up. Picked herself back up. Dragged her leg along the ground. Dragged Camille's bag along the ground. She didn't know where she was going. She just knew it couldn't be here. Past Camille. She couldn't look at her. Didn't know where the 'M' girl was. She had to -
She heard something tear.
Knight of Faith
Day 6, private
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
The helmet had, for what it was worth, not remained embedded inside Val's leg. It had been a through and through. A stab rather than an impalement. Camille had pulled it out - admittedly more in the expectation that she'd have the energy to continue the offensive, an expectation that had quickly been disproven - and allowed it to rest by her hands. A useless accessory now. An artifact of a bygone era. If only she'd turned and run when she saw that pickelhaube for the first time. It might have been their shared history - or, at least, the knowledge of her possessions and temperament - that had prompted Val to attack her.
Hindsight, though. It was useless. It was too late, after all, from Camille to learn lessons from that mistake. And was it even a mistake? Or just another episode of bad luck, of the capricious whims of others coming together in a way that defied all prediction.
Val stood up. She was saying shit. Camille was surprised by her ability to take it all in.
She lifted her head up, meekly off the ground. "And you'll be remembered as a cunt." She laid her head down, originally content for that final insult, as desultory and half-hearted as it was, to be her final epitaph.
Camille remained conscious a bit longer, though.
She saw Val drag a bag past her. Camille's own bag, she realised, with a pang of righteous irritation at the clumsy theft, complemented by a slight emollient sensation from the realisation that Megan at least had survived. Camille frowned. She lifted up the pickelhaube. Held it at just the right angle.
And the contents of her bag fell onto the floor. She punctured a bottle of water.
She spotted the clips. Or magazines. Whatever. And with as much force as she could muster, brought the spike down onto them, shattering them.
With a satisfied sigh, Camille fell back.
Hindsight, though. It was useless. It was too late, after all, from Camille to learn lessons from that mistake. And was it even a mistake? Or just another episode of bad luck, of the capricious whims of others coming together in a way that defied all prediction.
Val stood up. She was saying shit. Camille was surprised by her ability to take it all in.
She lifted her head up, meekly off the ground. "And you'll be remembered as a cunt." She laid her head down, originally content for that final insult, as desultory and half-hearted as it was, to be her final epitaph.
Camille remained conscious a bit longer, though.
She saw Val drag a bag past her. Camille's own bag, she realised, with a pang of righteous irritation at the clumsy theft, complemented by a slight emollient sensation from the realisation that Megan at least had survived. Camille frowned. She lifted up the pickelhaube. Held it at just the right angle.
And the contents of her bag fell onto the floor. She punctured a bottle of water.
She spotted the clips. Or magazines. Whatever. And with as much force as she could muster, brought the spike down onto them, shattering them.
With a satisfied sigh, Camille fell back.
Val could only stare on as Camille rendered everything they'd both gone through useless. Her hands clenched into fists. Her teeth ground together. Her whole body shook.
"You just -" her lips curled in contempt, "you died for nothing."
She'd killed for nothing. Maybe. She could see blood on Camille now. She let go of the bag. Held on to the gun. She wasn't sure why.
"We're all going to die for nothing because of you," she spat, every word laced with venom.
She wished she felt guilty. She just felt... indignant.
She limped away as fast as she could, leaving Camille to bleed out on the ground, and left through the doors on the side of the stables opposite the side she came in on. Nobody stopped her.
((Valerija Bogdanovic continued in &Run))
"You just -" her lips curled in contempt, "you died for nothing."
She'd killed for nothing. Maybe. She could see blood on Camille now. She let go of the bag. Held on to the gun. She wasn't sure why.
"We're all going to die for nothing because of you," she spat, every word laced with venom.
She wished she felt guilty. She just felt... indignant.
She limped away as fast as she could, leaving Camille to bleed out on the ground, and left through the doors on the side of the stables opposite the side she came in on. Nobody stopped her.
((Valerija Bogdanovic continued in &Run))
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Megan, dearest: isn't this what you're on the island for? Or, at least, it's why you're bothering to still be alive and on the island. The sound of gunfire, the cries. You could be a good meat shield (okay, not really a good one), if nothing else. More than anything, the sound of someone calling your name, asking for your help. Yes. Here was a chance for Megan to help. Here was a time that Megan was actually wanted.
Fuck her, then, for jumping and then standing there, frozen, her mind screaming, blank.
It was almost funny. By the time Megan got there everything was done, of course, she was late, her steps light as if afraid to make too much of an impact on the world around her, and she could think now, and there was Camille, and Camille's blood, obviously the blood was Camille's, and Val was gone, and, God, this was, just, a lot. Megan's knees felt weak. Somehow, she'd never fainted before. Please, not today.
"I--"
Megan had left her bag. Of course she had left her bag. No matter, Camille's bag was right there, torn open, so don't dwell on that, please.
She could do that much. Just--look for the first aid kit.
Fuck her, then, for jumping and then standing there, frozen, her mind screaming, blank.
It was almost funny. By the time Megan got there everything was done, of course, she was late, her steps light as if afraid to make too much of an impact on the world around her, and she could think now, and there was Camille, and Camille's blood, obviously the blood was Camille's, and Val was gone, and, God, this was, just, a lot. Megan's knees felt weak. Somehow, she'd never fainted before. Please, not today.
"I--"
Megan had left her bag. Of course she had left her bag. No matter, Camille's bag was right there, torn open, so don't dwell on that, please.
She could do that much. Just--look for the first aid kit.
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General Goose
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Val insulted her as she left. Like her internal justification was in some way discernable to Camille, that whatever bullshit excuse for cold-blooded murder that Val had conjured up was in some way worthy of respect.
Camille had died for nothing. No shit. "At least I didn't die for your benefit. Better dying for nothing."
Val was the psychopath that had attacked her unprovoked with Otto von Bismarck's headwear. It stretched credibility for there to be some sort of just cause, some righteous crusade that Val had to keep a secret because it concerned arcane knowledge or great Machiavellian duplicuty or whatever, that somehow validated Val's actions. Camille struggled to believe that. Maybe Val did believe that. Camille thought she was many things, but probably not a liar.
Just obscenely, ludicrously self-deluded.
Megan finally arrived. Camille felt relieved. She was safe. Val had gone.
She started searching for the med kit. Camille didn't have the heart to tell her it was too late.
"Don't worry. Not all of this blood is mine."
She coughed.
"Just most of it."
Camille had died for nothing. No shit. "At least I didn't die for your benefit. Better dying for nothing."
Val was the psychopath that had attacked her unprovoked with Otto von Bismarck's headwear. It stretched credibility for there to be some sort of just cause, some righteous crusade that Val had to keep a secret because it concerned arcane knowledge or great Machiavellian duplicuty or whatever, that somehow validated Val's actions. Camille struggled to believe that. Maybe Val did believe that. Camille thought she was many things, but probably not a liar.
Just obscenely, ludicrously self-deluded.
Megan finally arrived. Camille felt relieved. She was safe. Val had gone.
She started searching for the med kit. Camille didn't have the heart to tell her it was too late.
"Don't worry. Not all of this blood is mine."
She coughed.
"Just most of it."
Camille's belongings were scattered over the ground, Megan's hands running through them, stirring them, almost, in her frenzy--probably not the most efficient way of searching for things since it made things even messier but it felt faster because it meant she was moving more and moving faster and what the fuck is wrong with you Megan when will you realize that this isn't about your feelings--when Camille's words sunk in. No matter. She wouldn't look yet. She'd already been late how many times now and she wasn't about to waste even a second to look when that wasn't going to even affect what she was going to do because really what does Megan know about first aid that would cause her to change her approach based on how much blood was leaking out of Camille's small, human body?
She found the bag, in the end. Her eyes had probably passed over it several times before she found it. Okay. Nothing Megan can do about that, now. Task at hand. Right. Deep breath.
God, that was a lot of blood.
"Camille. W-where is. Tell me where. Shot you. Wound."
She couldn't fail now. Fail Camille, fail herself. She wasn't really sure which one was more important to her right now. Her life, Camille's life. Same difference, practically speaking.
She found the bag, in the end. Her eyes had probably passed over it several times before she found it. Okay. Nothing Megan can do about that, now. Task at hand. Right. Deep breath.
God, that was a lot of blood.
"Camille. W-where is. Tell me where. Shot you. Wound."
She couldn't fail now. Fail Camille, fail herself. She wasn't really sure which one was more important to her right now. Her life, Camille's life. Same difference, practically speaking.
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General Goose
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- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Camille actually wasn't sure where exactly the bullet had hit her. She'd been thrown onto the floor by it, her torso had lit up with pain and agony, If there was an exit wound, how big the entry wound was, the angle with which the bullet had torn through her body, the organs that it would have shredded...all important questions, yet ones that Camille had not thought to investigate and ones that Camille could not answer off the top of her head.
She looked down at her torso - her hands had instinctively pressed against her midriff, where her blouse had turned a deep shade of crimson and was a sodden mess from all the liquid soaking through - and lifted one hand up.
Right in the stomach, it looked like.
Probably not fatal in normal circumstances, was Camille's instinctive and admittedly utterly unqualified diagnosis. She knew some basics about anatomy and physiology - as much as was needed to write a tense action scene in a short story. So she knew wounds to the stomach were not a guaranteed death sentence. But without medical attention? Without the paraphernalia of blood transfusion and sterilisation, IV fluids and nasogastric tubes, and all of those medical innovations that Camille, as a relatively privileged young woman, could have taken for granted back home? Nope. No chance.
"Don't waste the supplies on me, Megan." Her accent was pretty thick in that moment, she realised. "Use them for yourself." Her hand seemed to slip slightly. Maintaining the pressure on her wound was becoming a more and more difficult task.
"It was nice seeing you again. One last time." She smiled, as much as she could.
She looked down at her torso - her hands had instinctively pressed against her midriff, where her blouse had turned a deep shade of crimson and was a sodden mess from all the liquid soaking through - and lifted one hand up.
Right in the stomach, it looked like.
Probably not fatal in normal circumstances, was Camille's instinctive and admittedly utterly unqualified diagnosis. She knew some basics about anatomy and physiology - as much as was needed to write a tense action scene in a short story. So she knew wounds to the stomach were not a guaranteed death sentence. But without medical attention? Without the paraphernalia of blood transfusion and sterilisation, IV fluids and nasogastric tubes, and all of those medical innovations that Camille, as a relatively privileged young woman, could have taken for granted back home? Nope. No chance.
"Don't waste the supplies on me, Megan." Her accent was pretty thick in that moment, she realised. "Use them for yourself." Her hand seemed to slip slightly. Maintaining the pressure on her wound was becoming a more and more difficult task.
"It was nice seeing you again. One last time." She smiled, as much as she could.
Camille's hands came away from her stomach bloody, which was...that was infection, right there. Megan knew that much.
And, and, well. So what? "You--you can't say that," she said, her breath coming in and out quickly. Calm breaths. Deep breaths. Steady breaths. Megan was hyperventilating anyways, or it felt like she was hyperventilating--too many deep breaths too quickly, even if they hadn't come that quickly. Megan hugged herself, gave herself half a second to tremble, and emptied the contents onto the floor. Megan was making such a mess of Camille's stuff.
At least her hands found the bandages faster than she had found the kit, unspooled them, tore off a large wad, folded it several times, pressed it against Camille's stomach. "And it's...I'm not...it's not I'm in denial," she said, and she wasn't, really, she wasn't sure when exactly she had stopped believing in holding on to hope even when what she was hoping for was impossible, but that wasn't her anymore. She couldn't say for sure if that had ever really been her.
It was something else. "But you're, it's not, I'm not wasting them on you, what else am I going to do with them, waste them on me? Don't say that. Please don't say that."
She was being selfish again. Ignoring Camille's last wishes because of what she wanted. But what she wanted was to be useful, be helpful, just Camille let Megan do something for her, please, and she wasn't sure what was what and what she should do anymore.
Megan wasn't really the wailing type. Wailing was too loud. Wailing said look at me, notice me, it made Megan take up more space than she should--really, she couldn't picture herself doing it. A whimper was more befitting.
"It's...I mean...you don't need to say it. That. Any of that. You're the dying one. You shouldn't--you shouldn't be on your fucking deathbed and thinking about comforting me. Getting me to do what's best for me. I should've--shouldn't have--"
Deep breath.
"I shouldn't have come," and if a part of Megan knew that she was being so very absurd right now, it wasn't hard for her to tell that part that the reason it all seemed absurd was because she was so deeply deluded. "I'm making everything worse. You can say it. I should've given you your last moments so that you can use them for yourself. You deserve more than that. You just, you deserve, better."
The blood was already soaking through the bandages. The act of replacing them--the futility, the patheticness, the fact that they both knew it was pointless and useless and yet here she was, playing this game of being a good person for no reason but to trick herself with a lie she could see right through, yes, she was a good person, yes, she could be useful enough to deserve to live--felt like a physical blow, a weak little cry escaping her throat, but she changed them anyways. Of course.
And, and, well. So what? "You--you can't say that," she said, her breath coming in and out quickly. Calm breaths. Deep breaths. Steady breaths. Megan was hyperventilating anyways, or it felt like she was hyperventilating--too many deep breaths too quickly, even if they hadn't come that quickly. Megan hugged herself, gave herself half a second to tremble, and emptied the contents onto the floor. Megan was making such a mess of Camille's stuff.
At least her hands found the bandages faster than she had found the kit, unspooled them, tore off a large wad, folded it several times, pressed it against Camille's stomach. "And it's...I'm not...it's not I'm in denial," she said, and she wasn't, really, she wasn't sure when exactly she had stopped believing in holding on to hope even when what she was hoping for was impossible, but that wasn't her anymore. She couldn't say for sure if that had ever really been her.
It was something else. "But you're, it's not, I'm not wasting them on you, what else am I going to do with them, waste them on me? Don't say that. Please don't say that."
She was being selfish again. Ignoring Camille's last wishes because of what she wanted. But what she wanted was to be useful, be helpful, just Camille let Megan do something for her, please, and she wasn't sure what was what and what she should do anymore.
Megan wasn't really the wailing type. Wailing was too loud. Wailing said look at me, notice me, it made Megan take up more space than she should--really, she couldn't picture herself doing it. A whimper was more befitting.
"It's...I mean...you don't need to say it. That. Any of that. You're the dying one. You shouldn't--you shouldn't be on your fucking deathbed and thinking about comforting me. Getting me to do what's best for me. I should've--shouldn't have--"
Deep breath.
"I shouldn't have come," and if a part of Megan knew that she was being so very absurd right now, it wasn't hard for her to tell that part that the reason it all seemed absurd was because she was so deeply deluded. "I'm making everything worse. You can say it. I should've given you your last moments so that you can use them for yourself. You deserve more than that. You just, you deserve, better."
The blood was already soaking through the bandages. The act of replacing them--the futility, the patheticness, the fact that they both knew it was pointless and useless and yet here she was, playing this game of being a good person for no reason but to trick herself with a lie she could see right through, yes, she was a good person, yes, she could be useful enough to deserve to live--felt like a physical blow, a weak little cry escaping her throat, but she changed them anyways. Of course.
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Megan was trying. That was beyond doubt. She was clearly no expert in first aid - definitely not of the disposition needed to attend to Camille's wounds with a cool head or the cold utilitarian resources management that the situation called for - but she was trying. That was beyond doubt.
It was worthless, though. It would have no effect. Palliative care, easing her passage, that was what was happening now. Megan was no expert at those things, but she was doing okay with it. Her natural charm and empathy was doing a lot of work there. And okay, comforting Megan gave Camille something productive and worthwhile to do as she died. Like some little act of legacy building.
This was Camille's end. Camille was okay with that.
Well, not really. She just didn't have the time to think about the myriad of ways in which dying sucked. If she'd had an hour's warning, she would have had all the time in the world to fret and panic and rant at the cameras and cry to her parents and her cousins and mourn missed opportunities and philosophise morbidly about the nature of death. As it was, Camille didn't have the time to do any of that.
"I'm happy you're here," Camille spoke, as calmly as she could. "I wouldn't let my final words be a lie." She forced out a smile. It hurt, but not because of any pain in her facial muscles. More because of the energy it required and the need to fight back that instinctive urge to grimace and whimper in response to the pain. "If you weren't here, I wouldn't be smiling. I'd be dying cold and alone and my last thoughts would be about how one friend betrayed me. Instead, my last thoughts are about one friend trying to save me."
As Megan moved to change the bandages again, Camille used her last ounce of energy to hold up her forearm - her hands were too drenched in blood - to put pause to her motions. No point in wasting any more bandages.
"Tell people I died being a badass." She chuckled. A weak chuckle, but whatever. It was a weak joke. She wouldn't let her final words be a lie, but letting them be a friendly request for Megan to lie? Sure. Camille could do that.
"And that my final words were something really witty. I'd like that."
G028: Camille Bellegarde - ELIMINATED
It was worthless, though. It would have no effect. Palliative care, easing her passage, that was what was happening now. Megan was no expert at those things, but she was doing okay with it. Her natural charm and empathy was doing a lot of work there. And okay, comforting Megan gave Camille something productive and worthwhile to do as she died. Like some little act of legacy building.
This was Camille's end. Camille was okay with that.
Well, not really. She just didn't have the time to think about the myriad of ways in which dying sucked. If she'd had an hour's warning, she would have had all the time in the world to fret and panic and rant at the cameras and cry to her parents and her cousins and mourn missed opportunities and philosophise morbidly about the nature of death. As it was, Camille didn't have the time to do any of that.
"I'm happy you're here," Camille spoke, as calmly as she could. "I wouldn't let my final words be a lie." She forced out a smile. It hurt, but not because of any pain in her facial muscles. More because of the energy it required and the need to fight back that instinctive urge to grimace and whimper in response to the pain. "If you weren't here, I wouldn't be smiling. I'd be dying cold and alone and my last thoughts would be about how one friend betrayed me. Instead, my last thoughts are about one friend trying to save me."
As Megan moved to change the bandages again, Camille used her last ounce of energy to hold up her forearm - her hands were too drenched in blood - to put pause to her motions. No point in wasting any more bandages.
"Tell people I died being a badass." She chuckled. A weak chuckle, but whatever. It was a weak joke. She wouldn't let her final words be a lie, but letting them be a friendly request for Megan to lie? Sure. Camille could do that.
"And that my final words were something really witty. I'd like that."
G028: Camille Bellegarde - ELIMINATED
And then Camille died, leaving Megan to hold this pile of flaming dogshit.
"You're not supposed to say that, you idiot. You were supposed to stop saying things for my sake," Megan said to nobody. That was the point. But even Megan's requests to not help her ended up sounding like cries for help, didn't they? At least Camille had some requests for Megan. Something to let her pretend that she actually had been helpful. See how everything is all about the little brat? But that was Megan. Taking even when she had sworn off taking, even when she was trying only to give.
Unless Camille actually had wanted her by her side. Oh, how Megan wished that were true. But Megan's wishes didn't matter. Her feelings, as self-serving as they were, didn't matter.
Time to die? Megan was still feeling a little too shell-shocked to really work through her feelings. She hadn't cried yet. These were ideas that felt distant in their lucidity. She was here. The idea that she should die wasn't one that she was feeling emotionally, even though the case in favor really was better than ever. She didn't want to live, right? And she couldn't help anyone by living. QED.
That was almost funny. How dare you Megan.
There was the matter of Camille's body. A funeral like Roxie's wasn't going to happen. Megan had nothing to dig with, but there was all the time in the world. Her hands, pale against the dirt, would do.
It was hard. That was the point. If Megan couldn't even do this much, then...
Dirt in her nails. Pain in her back from crouching too long. She was maybe a quarter of the way there. She didn't know how long she had been out here. Way longer than was safe. If someone saw her and decided to kill her--well, you know how she feels about that already. Partly why she didn't feel a pressing demand to make up her mind on her immediate future.
If Megan were Camille, she knew she would've preferred to die helping and comforting someone than to die alone. But she couldn't put Camille in her shoes. It was supposed to go the other way. And Megan, well...that was the point. She didn't actually prefer dying alone to dying with someone at her side to comfort her, but she sure as hell wished she did. If Camille felt that way, then she had been lying to Megan. If Camille didn't feel that way, then there was no way to gauge what her feelings had been as she lied there, dying under Megan's hands.
But even if Megan had somehow helped Camille in her dying moments, how could that help outweigh the hurt she had done simply by existing? How many hours had Camille spent around Megan that she could have been using for herself? Where would Camille have been if she hadn't met Megan? Megan had heard that survivor's guilt was irrational, that of course you couldn't have known, it wasn't your fault, but really it kind of was. These things never look reasonable until you're inside them.
There wasn't anything else to go on. Just the same cold, blank feeling that this all made perfect sense.
Megan tested the grave by laying down in it, rolling onto her side, and closing one eye. If she finished right now, there'd be a little mound where the body was, but it would all be covered. Good eno--no. Camille deserves better.
Megan knelt, clasped her hands, closed her eyes. Said some words for Camille's soul, to a god that would surely have allowed Megan to die instead of Camille if he existed. It was done.
((Continued elsewhere))
"You're not supposed to say that, you idiot. You were supposed to stop saying things for my sake," Megan said to nobody. That was the point. But even Megan's requests to not help her ended up sounding like cries for help, didn't they? At least Camille had some requests for Megan. Something to let her pretend that she actually had been helpful. See how everything is all about the little brat? But that was Megan. Taking even when she had sworn off taking, even when she was trying only to give.
Unless Camille actually had wanted her by her side. Oh, how Megan wished that were true. But Megan's wishes didn't matter. Her feelings, as self-serving as they were, didn't matter.
Time to die? Megan was still feeling a little too shell-shocked to really work through her feelings. She hadn't cried yet. These were ideas that felt distant in their lucidity. She was here. The idea that she should die wasn't one that she was feeling emotionally, even though the case in favor really was better than ever. She didn't want to live, right? And she couldn't help anyone by living. QED.
That was almost funny. How dare you Megan.
There was the matter of Camille's body. A funeral like Roxie's wasn't going to happen. Megan had nothing to dig with, but there was all the time in the world. Her hands, pale against the dirt, would do.
It was hard. That was the point. If Megan couldn't even do this much, then...
Dirt in her nails. Pain in her back from crouching too long. She was maybe a quarter of the way there. She didn't know how long she had been out here. Way longer than was safe. If someone saw her and decided to kill her--well, you know how she feels about that already. Partly why she didn't feel a pressing demand to make up her mind on her immediate future.
If Megan were Camille, she knew she would've preferred to die helping and comforting someone than to die alone. But she couldn't put Camille in her shoes. It was supposed to go the other way. And Megan, well...that was the point. She didn't actually prefer dying alone to dying with someone at her side to comfort her, but she sure as hell wished she did. If Camille felt that way, then she had been lying to Megan. If Camille didn't feel that way, then there was no way to gauge what her feelings had been as she lied there, dying under Megan's hands.
But even if Megan had somehow helped Camille in her dying moments, how could that help outweigh the hurt she had done simply by existing? How many hours had Camille spent around Megan that she could have been using for herself? Where would Camille have been if she hadn't met Megan? Megan had heard that survivor's guilt was irrational, that of course you couldn't have known, it wasn't your fault, but really it kind of was. These things never look reasonable until you're inside them.
There wasn't anything else to go on. Just the same cold, blank feeling that this all made perfect sense.
Megan tested the grave by laying down in it, rolling onto her side, and closing one eye. If she finished right now, there'd be a little mound where the body was, but it would all be covered. Good eno--no. Camille deserves better.
Megan knelt, clasped her hands, closed her eyes. Said some words for Camille's soul, to a god that would surely have allowed Megan to die instead of Camille if he existed. It was done.
((Continued elsewhere))