Quinn looked at her for a long moment, unblinking.
She shrugged.
Fly Back To School Now, Little Starling
Please PM if you wanna join, day five
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
Good enough.
Juliette leaned forward a little. There was an absurd urge to whisper into Quinn's ear, like it was a middle school sleepover game of telephone. She stifled this, but let her voice drop nonetheless.
"I like girls too," she said.
The skin broke. Had Quinn physically stabbed her in this moment, it couldn't have cut as deep. Juliette's shoulders tensed, and she wanted to laugh or sob or scream.
"I mean, I, I'm..."
Why was this so hard? What was she even trying to say? Where were her words?
In an instant, Juliette was a hundred places at once.
She was standing in the locker room at school, naked. She had gotten distracted talking with Ms. Zhang, and had failed to arrive early, and now she was surrounded by other girls in her class, also naked, and they didn't seem to have any problem with that. That was all well and good. They shouldn't care. Or, the ones who did, they were comfortable with that, and so was everybody else. Everyone knew. It was okay, they got some flak for it, but George Hunter was in some ways an improbable oasis for many of them. Juliette knew the names. If one girl kissed another on school grounds, and anyone said a word about it, she knew. For a few days or weeks after the whispers slipped past her ears, she'd look at them from the corners of her eyes from her desk or lunch table, hating them almost as much as she wished she could be them.
Everyone was naked and they didn't care, and Juliette wished more than anything that she didn't care. She was weird. She was crazy. A freak. She was a liar because she couldn't be honest for the worst reasons she could cook up. She smiled and talked like everything was normal. She pretended. She kept her eyes locked to eyes, tried not to be obvious with how she rushed to slip from daily clothes into swimsuit, framed the quick dance of her feet over tile en route to the water as just more of the usual. Just Juliette, teacher's pet, hurrying to not be a single second late, eager to please and brown-nose for a good grade so that she wouldn't have to do actual work in this blow-off class. Coach Skinner ate effort up, far more than competence. Nothing strange. She was just a mess because she hated the exertion of gym class.
Everyone thought she was so proper, so cold. Stuck up. Impersonal. Phony, but not in the way she really was. She hid behind that. She hid from what she wanted.
Juliette wanted to be a creep. She wanted to subtly leer, to memorize the contours of nipple and hip. She wanted to join the others when they joked, especially physically. She wanted to let a playful slap turn into a gentle caress, to lean in and draw her arm around a waist, to pull a warm body close to her own. Didn't even matter whose.
She was sitting maybe half a dozen feet from Quinn. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck were standing up. The space between them was flat, dirt broken here and there by little grasses and shrubs, fallen pieces of bark and tiny scraps of worn rubber, half a lace with the metal tip rusted brilliant orange. It would take two steps for them to touch.
"I thought," Juliette said, "I thought that, for my future—I, I wanted to go into politics, you know? I thought that it might hurt me. I wanted so many things, but, but I thought because... because I was okay with boys, I thought I could wait, I thought that, I don't know, I thought..."
There was a term, she was sure of it. She couldn't remember what it was. She'd read some of them online, but she hadn't let herself retain the terminology. She could guess. Bisexual homoromantic? Something like that? Thought men were sexy, but women were sexier? Long-term, imagined herself with a woman or else a loveless show marriage? Was already authoring in her fantasies the scandal that would rock her out of office even as she barely began to dream about winning Senior Class President?
She was standing in a circle at Mikki Swift's party, the burning taste of artificial peach and vodka mixing in the back of her throat.
"Never have I ever had a sex dream about one of my classmates," Tanisha Abbey had said. It would have been nothing to lie. It would have been smart to lie. Juliette had not lied. Why hadn't she lied? But everyone else was taking sips too. She wasn't weird. The only weird thing about her was that she was so goddamn scared. Not even ashamed. She wished she was ashamed because that would make it easier to hide. It would make her silence make sense. It would make it so, so much easier to keep the overstuffed luggage in her mind from bursting apart and spilling everything out in such a flurry she could never wrap it up again.
"So fess up," Tanisha said. "Who'd y'all dream about?"
Emmett Bunnell, bless his heart, admitted to having inappropriate thoughts about a boy standing a few feet away from him. The familiar flash was there, more muted like it always was for boys: envy and longing and anger and admiration. Juliette threw him to the wolves.
"I think Twenty Questions comes a little later," she said, smiling and shooting Tanisha a wink. "But nice try."
Marceline, her mind screamed. Marceline. It was Marceline.
Juliette was shaking a little bit, and not from fear of being stabbed by Quinn. She had been speaking quickly and quietly. Her enunciation was perfect, even as she stumbled over her own words. She did not say "uh" or "um," but rather repeated herself or paused as filler. Basic public speaking. Turn a stall into a dramatic moment or a point of emphasis. Sound like you knew what you were talking about. She couldn't look Quinn in the eyes.
"I thought it would maybe mean I couldn't have what I wanted later. More. What I thought I wanted more. I... I was wrong."
She stared past Quinn's ear. She was very glad that Quinn was not pretty.
She was walking to the edge of the boat, sitting down, dangling her feet over. Looking at Kelly, the plan already formed in her mind. Looking at the girl's feet, at the way her hair caught the sunlight, so shiny and black. Juliette could tell it was smooth without touching it. She raised her hand up to Kelly's shoulder, rested it there, gave a little squeeze.
"Nothing mattered. I was never going to be anyone. I was always heading here so I should've just had fun. I should've just been myself. I shouldn't have been scared. I should have said something."
She was standing on the bank of the river, thinking she might throw herself in and drown. She was sitting on a bed in Forrest's giant house, mumbling to Jackson, hoping incorrect rumors wouldn't spread, or maybe that they would. She was floating in the pool, murmuring assent to Marceline's platitudes about true love, forcing her cynicism to rage so the yearning couldn't start. She was in half a dozen rooms on half a dozen nights with half a dozen boys, giving chaste and slightly-more-than-chaste kisses and then cutting things off. Can't mess up my dress, she said. Don't want to go too quickly. It was a fun night, but I think we should just be friends. I just don't have time for a relationship right now, I have to focus on school. I have to figure myself out. I'm moving in the fall.
She'd thought that maybe things would magically come clear in college. She'd thought she could maybe finally fit in and decide, okay, she'd be a democrat. Okay, New York, in New York it didn't matter what you did. Maybe, maybe she'd get a feel for the place and it would be safe. Maybe even it could help her, there, to be out. That had been her fantasy. Have her cake and eat it.
"I never told anyone," she said. There was no emotion at all left in her voice, no pacing, just a flatline of words. "My family wouldn't care but I didn't tell them. I thought they would tell someone. Not on purpose. By mistake, trying to be nice, even, but you can't unsay something. I never told a single person. Except you. Now you know."
Juliette raised her right hand to her head, leaving the razor be at her hip, and squeezed her temples with her thumb and index finger once, twice. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then lowered her hand again, letting it pass in front of her face. When her mouth was revealed once more, the smile had come back, and her voice had regained its cheerful lilt.
"I'm so sorry. You don't need to hear about all the bullshit drama in my life.
"...wanna tell me about your favorite kill?"
Juliette leaned forward a little. There was an absurd urge to whisper into Quinn's ear, like it was a middle school sleepover game of telephone. She stifled this, but let her voice drop nonetheless.
"I like girls too," she said.
The skin broke. Had Quinn physically stabbed her in this moment, it couldn't have cut as deep. Juliette's shoulders tensed, and she wanted to laugh or sob or scream.
"I mean, I, I'm..."
Why was this so hard? What was she even trying to say? Where were her words?
In an instant, Juliette was a hundred places at once.
She was standing in the locker room at school, naked. She had gotten distracted talking with Ms. Zhang, and had failed to arrive early, and now she was surrounded by other girls in her class, also naked, and they didn't seem to have any problem with that. That was all well and good. They shouldn't care. Or, the ones who did, they were comfortable with that, and so was everybody else. Everyone knew. It was okay, they got some flak for it, but George Hunter was in some ways an improbable oasis for many of them. Juliette knew the names. If one girl kissed another on school grounds, and anyone said a word about it, she knew. For a few days or weeks after the whispers slipped past her ears, she'd look at them from the corners of her eyes from her desk or lunch table, hating them almost as much as she wished she could be them.
Everyone was naked and they didn't care, and Juliette wished more than anything that she didn't care. She was weird. She was crazy. A freak. She was a liar because she couldn't be honest for the worst reasons she could cook up. She smiled and talked like everything was normal. She pretended. She kept her eyes locked to eyes, tried not to be obvious with how she rushed to slip from daily clothes into swimsuit, framed the quick dance of her feet over tile en route to the water as just more of the usual. Just Juliette, teacher's pet, hurrying to not be a single second late, eager to please and brown-nose for a good grade so that she wouldn't have to do actual work in this blow-off class. Coach Skinner ate effort up, far more than competence. Nothing strange. She was just a mess because she hated the exertion of gym class.
Everyone thought she was so proper, so cold. Stuck up. Impersonal. Phony, but not in the way she really was. She hid behind that. She hid from what she wanted.
Juliette wanted to be a creep. She wanted to subtly leer, to memorize the contours of nipple and hip. She wanted to join the others when they joked, especially physically. She wanted to let a playful slap turn into a gentle caress, to lean in and draw her arm around a waist, to pull a warm body close to her own. Didn't even matter whose.
She was sitting maybe half a dozen feet from Quinn. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck were standing up. The space between them was flat, dirt broken here and there by little grasses and shrubs, fallen pieces of bark and tiny scraps of worn rubber, half a lace with the metal tip rusted brilliant orange. It would take two steps for them to touch.
"I thought," Juliette said, "I thought that, for my future—I, I wanted to go into politics, you know? I thought that it might hurt me. I wanted so many things, but, but I thought because... because I was okay with boys, I thought I could wait, I thought that, I don't know, I thought..."
There was a term, she was sure of it. She couldn't remember what it was. She'd read some of them online, but she hadn't let herself retain the terminology. She could guess. Bisexual homoromantic? Something like that? Thought men were sexy, but women were sexier? Long-term, imagined herself with a woman or else a loveless show marriage? Was already authoring in her fantasies the scandal that would rock her out of office even as she barely began to dream about winning Senior Class President?
She was standing in a circle at Mikki Swift's party, the burning taste of artificial peach and vodka mixing in the back of her throat.
"Never have I ever had a sex dream about one of my classmates," Tanisha Abbey had said. It would have been nothing to lie. It would have been smart to lie. Juliette had not lied. Why hadn't she lied? But everyone else was taking sips too. She wasn't weird. The only weird thing about her was that she was so goddamn scared. Not even ashamed. She wished she was ashamed because that would make it easier to hide. It would make her silence make sense. It would make it so, so much easier to keep the overstuffed luggage in her mind from bursting apart and spilling everything out in such a flurry she could never wrap it up again.
"So fess up," Tanisha said. "Who'd y'all dream about?"
Emmett Bunnell, bless his heart, admitted to having inappropriate thoughts about a boy standing a few feet away from him. The familiar flash was there, more muted like it always was for boys: envy and longing and anger and admiration. Juliette threw him to the wolves.
"I think Twenty Questions comes a little later," she said, smiling and shooting Tanisha a wink. "But nice try."
Marceline, her mind screamed. Marceline. It was Marceline.
Juliette was shaking a little bit, and not from fear of being stabbed by Quinn. She had been speaking quickly and quietly. Her enunciation was perfect, even as she stumbled over her own words. She did not say "uh" or "um," but rather repeated herself or paused as filler. Basic public speaking. Turn a stall into a dramatic moment or a point of emphasis. Sound like you knew what you were talking about. She couldn't look Quinn in the eyes.
"I thought it would maybe mean I couldn't have what I wanted later. More. What I thought I wanted more. I... I was wrong."
She stared past Quinn's ear. She was very glad that Quinn was not pretty.
She was walking to the edge of the boat, sitting down, dangling her feet over. Looking at Kelly, the plan already formed in her mind. Looking at the girl's feet, at the way her hair caught the sunlight, so shiny and black. Juliette could tell it was smooth without touching it. She raised her hand up to Kelly's shoulder, rested it there, gave a little squeeze.
"Nothing mattered. I was never going to be anyone. I was always heading here so I should've just had fun. I should've just been myself. I shouldn't have been scared. I should have said something."
She was standing on the bank of the river, thinking she might throw herself in and drown. She was sitting on a bed in Forrest's giant house, mumbling to Jackson, hoping incorrect rumors wouldn't spread, or maybe that they would. She was floating in the pool, murmuring assent to Marceline's platitudes about true love, forcing her cynicism to rage so the yearning couldn't start. She was in half a dozen rooms on half a dozen nights with half a dozen boys, giving chaste and slightly-more-than-chaste kisses and then cutting things off. Can't mess up my dress, she said. Don't want to go too quickly. It was a fun night, but I think we should just be friends. I just don't have time for a relationship right now, I have to focus on school. I have to figure myself out. I'm moving in the fall.
She'd thought that maybe things would magically come clear in college. She'd thought she could maybe finally fit in and decide, okay, she'd be a democrat. Okay, New York, in New York it didn't matter what you did. Maybe, maybe she'd get a feel for the place and it would be safe. Maybe even it could help her, there, to be out. That had been her fantasy. Have her cake and eat it.
"I never told anyone," she said. There was no emotion at all left in her voice, no pacing, just a flatline of words. "My family wouldn't care but I didn't tell them. I thought they would tell someone. Not on purpose. By mistake, trying to be nice, even, but you can't unsay something. I never told a single person. Except you. Now you know."
Juliette raised her right hand to her head, leaving the razor be at her hip, and squeezed her temples with her thumb and index finger once, twice. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then lowered her hand again, letting it pass in front of her face. When her mouth was revealed once more, the smile had come back, and her voice had regained its cheerful lilt.
"I'm so sorry. You don't need to hear about all the bullshit drama in my life.
"...wanna tell me about your favorite kill?"
Juliette told her plenty.
Quinn looked at Juliette and let her talk. She had no idea why Juliette had picked this particular time and place and person to get all of this off her chest. Just because she knew that Quinn had been attracted to at least one girl?
If so that was apparently enough to win out over a considerable body count. Perhaps Juliette really felt that she needed to say it. There was a momentary thought that perhaps she was lying, trying to get some sympathy from Quinn by claiming that they had something in common, but she swiftly discarded the notion. Even if Juliette was trying that kind of ploy, it wasn't going to work, and it didn't seem to fit with the situation.
Briefly, Quinn wondered how closeted and desperate you had to be for spilling your guts to a serial killer seem like a viable option.
It was less annoying to think of herself in that way: serial killer. The difference between her and Daria or Richard saying it was that they used it negatively, hurling in her face, acting like she was a wind-up toy, her clockwork cinched up by the terrorists and then set to go and murder. This was a choice.
At length, Quinn shrugged again. Didn't really matter to her. Didn't feel solidarity for someone sharing her sexuality. Didn't feel flattered being let in on the secret. Smoosh the Barbie into another Barbie instead of a Ken, they were still just dolls.
"Now I know," she studied her for a second. "You might have a couple days."
Then that was that. She switched tack, addressing the question.
Her mouth twitched up.
"Stepney. I made a scarecrow.
"Always wanted to make a scarecrow."
Quinn looked at Juliette and let her talk. She had no idea why Juliette had picked this particular time and place and person to get all of this off her chest. Just because she knew that Quinn had been attracted to at least one girl?
If so that was apparently enough to win out over a considerable body count. Perhaps Juliette really felt that she needed to say it. There was a momentary thought that perhaps she was lying, trying to get some sympathy from Quinn by claiming that they had something in common, but she swiftly discarded the notion. Even if Juliette was trying that kind of ploy, it wasn't going to work, and it didn't seem to fit with the situation.
Briefly, Quinn wondered how closeted and desperate you had to be for spilling your guts to a serial killer seem like a viable option.
It was less annoying to think of herself in that way: serial killer. The difference between her and Daria or Richard saying it was that they used it negatively, hurling in her face, acting like she was a wind-up toy, her clockwork cinched up by the terrorists and then set to go and murder. This was a choice.
At length, Quinn shrugged again. Didn't really matter to her. Didn't feel solidarity for someone sharing her sexuality. Didn't feel flattered being let in on the secret. Smoosh the Barbie into another Barbie instead of a Ken, they were still just dolls.
"Now I know," she studied her for a second. "You might have a couple days."
Then that was that. She switched tack, addressing the question.
Her mouth twitched up.
"Stepney. I made a scarecrow.
"Always wanted to make a scarecrow."
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
"It's good to check off those bucket list items," Juliette said. "You're right. We all do need to make the most of our time."
For a moment there, Juliette had lost track of herself. It was in some ways a familiar process. She'd feel the pressure mounting, the need to do something different, something crazy. Back in Chattanooga, though, she kept it together at least long enough to get away from any spectators. She wouldn't scream or slap herself or descend into maniacal fits of sobbing giggles where others could see her. She wouldn't rant and rave where anyone might hear. She'd thought herself more or less unshakable in at least that small piece of resolve, but here it had snuck up on her, and her lapse could have easily cost her so dearly.
But she had recovered. She had found neither sympathy nor validation for the baring of her soul, but how could she have expected either from Quinn? And yet, for that, maybe there had been something to show for it after all.
She still paid close attention to words. Quinn seemed a generally literal sort. "A few days," she'd said. True, there was that "might have," but the inflection, the body language—it all added up to one thing: Juliette was pretty sure that, absent some further provocation or unanticipated swerve, Quinn had decided not to make an attempt on her life, and was signalling as much.
That opened things up somewhat. Juliette had guided their conversation back to the its initial subject, and Quinn's answer proved somewhat illuminating. A scarecrow? Not too many ways to interpret that. She'd killed Stepney and strung up his body in some fashion (or, ghastly as it was to consider, the process had gone in the opposite order). Juliette was pretty sure this had not been alluded to on the announcements, but was also pretty sure that Quinn wasn't lying. Juliette had thoughts on the trickle of information from their captors, opinions on the quality of the delivery, but that was getting way ahead of herself. What mattered here was gleaning what she could, capturing the proper mindset to reach a point where she could make these other thoughts count for something in debriefing.
Unfortunately, it wasn't so easy.
She looked Quinn over again, slowly, trying to be casual about the extent to which she was sizing the other girl up. Quinn was one of the shorter members of the basketball team, no taller than Juliette herself. She was more slender, spindly almost, if you wanted to be uncharitable. Her dark hair was messy, her fashion sense nonexistent. The scar on her face stood out, a brand that had marred her even before all of this. It was altogether not very difficult to imagine the girl as a spider, weaving webs and ensnaring her prey, wrapping them up slowly and sucking their vitals out, savoring the process.
That was the theme she had returned to, again and again: enjoyment. Quinn called killing fun. She was prone to excess not just in her targeting of others, but in how she treated them posthumously. These were not the traits that Juliette needed to learn to emulate. They were the flaws, the things that would get Quinn killed. The key thing that Juliette wanted to extract here was the fundamental how, the explanation behind Quinn's ability to mentally designate her peers as so many objects and obstacles rather than other beings with the corresponding inherent value and rights. She aspired to bland apathy, not sadism.
Maybe she was approaching this wrong. She'd been twisting to ingratiate herself with the girl to an extent, focusing on the positive feelings and aspects of killing, but in doing so she had opened the door for Quinn to tell her the same stories she was no doubt telling herself, reassurances that she had chosen the correct path and had no regrets. This was a psychological necessity no doubt, as she had sealed her fate by the fourth corpse to her name; Juliette was probably one of the last people on the island who would be willing to just sit down and talk with Quinn, who understood that, so long as the killer was not pointed at her, she was in fact a valuable asset in a great many ways. Others would launch into a desperate fight at the merest glance, because they would assume that otherwise they would die. Whatever her desires, Quinn would spend the rest of her life fighting for it.
"So what's tough about it?" Juliette asked. "Killing, I mean. Any, you know, pitfalls to watch out for? Some pro tips?"
For a moment there, Juliette had lost track of herself. It was in some ways a familiar process. She'd feel the pressure mounting, the need to do something different, something crazy. Back in Chattanooga, though, she kept it together at least long enough to get away from any spectators. She wouldn't scream or slap herself or descend into maniacal fits of sobbing giggles where others could see her. She wouldn't rant and rave where anyone might hear. She'd thought herself more or less unshakable in at least that small piece of resolve, but here it had snuck up on her, and her lapse could have easily cost her so dearly.
But she had recovered. She had found neither sympathy nor validation for the baring of her soul, but how could she have expected either from Quinn? And yet, for that, maybe there had been something to show for it after all.
She still paid close attention to words. Quinn seemed a generally literal sort. "A few days," she'd said. True, there was that "might have," but the inflection, the body language—it all added up to one thing: Juliette was pretty sure that, absent some further provocation or unanticipated swerve, Quinn had decided not to make an attempt on her life, and was signalling as much.
That opened things up somewhat. Juliette had guided their conversation back to the its initial subject, and Quinn's answer proved somewhat illuminating. A scarecrow? Not too many ways to interpret that. She'd killed Stepney and strung up his body in some fashion (or, ghastly as it was to consider, the process had gone in the opposite order). Juliette was pretty sure this had not been alluded to on the announcements, but was also pretty sure that Quinn wasn't lying. Juliette had thoughts on the trickle of information from their captors, opinions on the quality of the delivery, but that was getting way ahead of herself. What mattered here was gleaning what she could, capturing the proper mindset to reach a point where she could make these other thoughts count for something in debriefing.
Unfortunately, it wasn't so easy.
She looked Quinn over again, slowly, trying to be casual about the extent to which she was sizing the other girl up. Quinn was one of the shorter members of the basketball team, no taller than Juliette herself. She was more slender, spindly almost, if you wanted to be uncharitable. Her dark hair was messy, her fashion sense nonexistent. The scar on her face stood out, a brand that had marred her even before all of this. It was altogether not very difficult to imagine the girl as a spider, weaving webs and ensnaring her prey, wrapping them up slowly and sucking their vitals out, savoring the process.
That was the theme she had returned to, again and again: enjoyment. Quinn called killing fun. She was prone to excess not just in her targeting of others, but in how she treated them posthumously. These were not the traits that Juliette needed to learn to emulate. They were the flaws, the things that would get Quinn killed. The key thing that Juliette wanted to extract here was the fundamental how, the explanation behind Quinn's ability to mentally designate her peers as so many objects and obstacles rather than other beings with the corresponding inherent value and rights. She aspired to bland apathy, not sadism.
Maybe she was approaching this wrong. She'd been twisting to ingratiate herself with the girl to an extent, focusing on the positive feelings and aspects of killing, but in doing so she had opened the door for Quinn to tell her the same stories she was no doubt telling herself, reassurances that she had chosen the correct path and had no regrets. This was a psychological necessity no doubt, as she had sealed her fate by the fourth corpse to her name; Juliette was probably one of the last people on the island who would be willing to just sit down and talk with Quinn, who understood that, so long as the killer was not pointed at her, she was in fact a valuable asset in a great many ways. Others would launch into a desperate fight at the merest glance, because they would assume that otherwise they would die. Whatever her desires, Quinn would spend the rest of her life fighting for it.
"So what's tough about it?" Juliette asked. "Killing, I mean. Any, you know, pitfalls to watch out for? Some pro tips?"
Quinn's eyes flicked across to Juliette.
She wasn't sure how to answer that question.
She knew that she didn't have to, of course. Juliette couldn't make her answer any more than anyone could tell her to do anything any longer. Not saying anything felt like, oddly, giving ground though. Letting those frustrating thoughts back into her head that if she didn't know then she couldn't justify, meaning that it wasn't really Quinn in control. That, she refused to allow. Even if it was only her that would know, and indeed it was only her own opinion that mattered, she wasn't going to tolerate it prickling away at her like that.
But Quinn was also aware of the differences between her and other people, that she didn't think in the same way--that they didn't think in the same way as her. Quinn's shortfalls would not be Juliette's shortfalls.
"Aiming's hard," she said, a filler. She was still chewing on the problem. Correct, but not worthwhile. She wanted to say something worthwhile. Wriggle under Juliette's skin. Leave her the one questioning.
"For you, mindset.
"You care about people's opinions. So you care at least a bit about them.
"Can you turn that off?"
Quinn didn't think Juliette could, but perhaps she was wrong.
She wasn't sure how to answer that question.
She knew that she didn't have to, of course. Juliette couldn't make her answer any more than anyone could tell her to do anything any longer. Not saying anything felt like, oddly, giving ground though. Letting those frustrating thoughts back into her head that if she didn't know then she couldn't justify, meaning that it wasn't really Quinn in control. That, she refused to allow. Even if it was only her that would know, and indeed it was only her own opinion that mattered, she wasn't going to tolerate it prickling away at her like that.
But Quinn was also aware of the differences between her and other people, that she didn't think in the same way--that they didn't think in the same way as her. Quinn's shortfalls would not be Juliette's shortfalls.
"Aiming's hard," she said, a filler. She was still chewing on the problem. Correct, but not worthwhile. She wanted to say something worthwhile. Wriggle under Juliette's skin. Leave her the one questioning.
"For you, mindset.
"You care about people's opinions. So you care at least a bit about them.
"Can you turn that off?"
Quinn didn't think Juliette could, but perhaps she was wrong.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
Juliette maintained her smile instead of allowing a frown to conquer her features.
Barely.
She tilted her head to the right just a hint, one of those meaningless body language communications that nobody ever fully appreciated. Even she didn't know what she meant by it. She rolled her shoulders, feeling them pop and then loosen, stress and tension she'd been carrying without being conscious of it draining out of her posture to pool instead in the corners of her mind.
There was a real yearning to nod, wink, flick the razor open and then dive at Quinn blade-first. It was stupid, irrational, a thing Juliette would never actually do. She hated that. This was not a new feeling. Some part of her howled for release just about any time others inconvenienced or offended her. She was very, very good at biting it back and remaining civil. Her classmates, it often seemed, lived to try to get a rise out of her. The best vengeance was hiding it if they succeeded.
"I'll have to give it a shot," she said, and laughed.
When people misjudged Juliette, it hurt, of course, but not because of their ignorant words. After the class election, when so many people came up to her and asked her if she was okay, if she was taking the defeat alright, if she needed to vent, she'd been livid, though she had more or less kept it in check. How could they think she was going to melt down over such a little thing? She'd poured her all into the race because those were the standards she set for herself, and because it gave her the best chance of getting what she wanted, and also because it was part of what her ends as well as her means—the practice, the test of her limits, the experience you couldn't get from any amount of brainstorming. Winning would've been nice, but she'd gotten the next best thing. She wasn't Lucas Brady. She wasn't pathetic and she wasn't undignified and the truth was she really hadn't actually cared all that much. But they just kept coming, and what that told her was that people didn't care enough to try to understand her. They made up stories about her that validated and affirmed whatever they wanted to think and then interacted with those fictional Juliettes. She might as well not have been a real person to them, and that casual, callous dismissal was the source of the pain.
It turned out that was way better than when someone hit close to home. Quinn was guessing, Juliette told herself. Just got lucky telling stories. If she'd been there, if she'd seen Kelly tumble over the side of the boat, she would be singing a different tune. She would never suspect the moment of fear that it all might go wrong.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Quinn's advice was legitimately good. Affirmations? This was one. Juliette had escalated step by step, shoved Kelly, condemned Dante by proxy, branded Drew a dead man to his face and reduced him to a bargaining chip. Surely it was not so far from there to where she needed to go. She simply had to adjust her mindset and purge hindrances.
"Thank you," she added, and by now the sincerity was unforced.
There was, of course, the obvious follow-up:
"Any advice for shutting that part down?"
Barely.
She tilted her head to the right just a hint, one of those meaningless body language communications that nobody ever fully appreciated. Even she didn't know what she meant by it. She rolled her shoulders, feeling them pop and then loosen, stress and tension she'd been carrying without being conscious of it draining out of her posture to pool instead in the corners of her mind.
There was a real yearning to nod, wink, flick the razor open and then dive at Quinn blade-first. It was stupid, irrational, a thing Juliette would never actually do. She hated that. This was not a new feeling. Some part of her howled for release just about any time others inconvenienced or offended her. She was very, very good at biting it back and remaining civil. Her classmates, it often seemed, lived to try to get a rise out of her. The best vengeance was hiding it if they succeeded.
"I'll have to give it a shot," she said, and laughed.
When people misjudged Juliette, it hurt, of course, but not because of their ignorant words. After the class election, when so many people came up to her and asked her if she was okay, if she was taking the defeat alright, if she needed to vent, she'd been livid, though she had more or less kept it in check. How could they think she was going to melt down over such a little thing? She'd poured her all into the race because those were the standards she set for herself, and because it gave her the best chance of getting what she wanted, and also because it was part of what her ends as well as her means—the practice, the test of her limits, the experience you couldn't get from any amount of brainstorming. Winning would've been nice, but she'd gotten the next best thing. She wasn't Lucas Brady. She wasn't pathetic and she wasn't undignified and the truth was she really hadn't actually cared all that much. But they just kept coming, and what that told her was that people didn't care enough to try to understand her. They made up stories about her that validated and affirmed whatever they wanted to think and then interacted with those fictional Juliettes. She might as well not have been a real person to them, and that casual, callous dismissal was the source of the pain.
It turned out that was way better than when someone hit close to home. Quinn was guessing, Juliette told herself. Just got lucky telling stories. If she'd been there, if she'd seen Kelly tumble over the side of the boat, she would be singing a different tune. She would never suspect the moment of fear that it all might go wrong.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Quinn's advice was legitimately good. Affirmations? This was one. Juliette had escalated step by step, shoved Kelly, condemned Dante by proxy, branded Drew a dead man to his face and reduced him to a bargaining chip. Surely it was not so far from there to where she needed to go. She simply had to adjust her mindset and purge hindrances.
"Thank you," she added, and by now the sincerity was unforced.
There was, of course, the obvious follow-up:
"Any advice for shutting that part down?"
Quinn raised the double blade and let it catch the light. She looked back over.
"No."
She truthfully didn't.
Quinn wasn't wired like other people. It'd taken her some time to figure that out, growing up. She'd assumed everyone else had themselves in the centre. Herself plus her dad. That's who she'd needed. Her dad letting Colin in was a betrayal, but it had made her think, set her down a route that hadn't come to fruition for a couple years down the line. She hadn't understood at first. Why was there room for someone outside of her? Why did her dad care for some guy with a stupid goatee who spent half his time getting fixated on mechanical gizmos?
That was love?
Apparently so. Eventually, it clicked. Other people had the room to do that. Could move over and allow someone else in. Saw others and felt for them. Quinn didn't. Empathy baffled her. She didn't get anything from feeling bad because of someone else's misfortune. They weren't her, so why did it matter? There wasn't any point in getting fixed on what others might think or might be doing, wasn't any point in worrying for or about them. Dolls, moving to and fro, pointing painted-on faces at her, playing back canned lines. Of course given the chance Quinn was going to break them. They didn't mean anything.
How could Quinn advise Juliette, when it'd been that way her whole life?
"You don't think like me. That's all there is to it."
"No."
She truthfully didn't.
Quinn wasn't wired like other people. It'd taken her some time to figure that out, growing up. She'd assumed everyone else had themselves in the centre. Herself plus her dad. That's who she'd needed. Her dad letting Colin in was a betrayal, but it had made her think, set her down a route that hadn't come to fruition for a couple years down the line. She hadn't understood at first. Why was there room for someone outside of her? Why did her dad care for some guy with a stupid goatee who spent half his time getting fixated on mechanical gizmos?
That was love?
Apparently so. Eventually, it clicked. Other people had the room to do that. Could move over and allow someone else in. Saw others and felt for them. Quinn didn't. Empathy baffled her. She didn't get anything from feeling bad because of someone else's misfortune. They weren't her, so why did it matter? There wasn't any point in getting fixed on what others might think or might be doing, wasn't any point in worrying for or about them. Dolls, moving to and fro, pointing painted-on faces at her, playing back canned lines. Of course given the chance Quinn was going to break them. They didn't mean anything.
How could Quinn advise Juliette, when it'd been that way her whole life?
"You don't think like me. That's all there is to it."
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MurderWeasel
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That was that, then? Quinn believed there was some unbridgeable gulf, some fundamental disconnect between how she viewed the world and how Juliette did?
Well, maybe. To know for sure, Juliette would have to peer into the girl's mind, and while she prided herself on being able to walk a while in somebody else's shoes, there were limits. She would go so far as to say that she understood Quinn significantly better than most of the rest of their class—after all, here they were, having a cordial if mildly distressing conversation about their various goals, philosophies, and personal troubles (especially in the realms of love and murder), while most everyone else who had met Quinn had been shot, stabbed, or—apparently—transformed into a scarecrow. But part of Juliette's ability to get at the core of others was a willingness to listen to them and mean it, to really take in what they were trying to communicate. Quinn was being clear: beyond a certain point, the way was barred.
It could be simple, literal fact. It could be out of some psychological necessity. Juliette imagined that killing repeatedly would be significantly easier if one felt no pain or remorse. Wasn't that the entire trick she was trying to suss out? Maybe Quinn was, in her own way, providing the map after all: the first step to feeling nothing was denying feeling. Or maybe Quinn was trying to play herself up, to be scarier or to dissuade Juliette from following in her footsteps for some unfathomable purpose.
It didn't really matter. There was no good reason to argue with a girl with so many bodies under her belt.
"I suppose that makes sense," Juliette said, and nodded. "I really do appreciate you talking this all through with me."
She felt a tickle along the back of her left hand as she spoke, and for a moment her brow furrowed. She raised her hand—slowly, because whatever the temporary understanding she and Quinn had come to, she expected the girl to leap straight to violence if she even loosely suspected aggression on Juliette's end—and looked at what was causing the sensation.
The source was an ant, black and shiny. Juliette judged it roughly as medium-sized; she was no entomologist, but it was bigger than some of the tiny specimens that had invaded their house one summer when she was twelve and smaller than the fat red ants that lived in hills out in the fields near where she'd gone to middle school. It progress was steady and mindless. She could see its antennae faintly wave, could almost discern its mandibles. Behind it, Quinn was still there, out of focus in the background but still a distinct human shape not too unlike any other from their year.
Juliette turned her head to the side, moving her hand with it so that Quinn wouldn't be in her line of fire, and blew. Her first breath made the ant cease its movement and hunker down, lowering itself against her flesh. She pursed her lips and blew again, harder, the current catching the insect and ripping it free, sending it flying off somewhere in the underbrush.
"Sorry," she said, putting her hand back in its place and letting her attention return fully to Quinn. "There are bugs everywhere here."
Well, maybe. To know for sure, Juliette would have to peer into the girl's mind, and while she prided herself on being able to walk a while in somebody else's shoes, there were limits. She would go so far as to say that she understood Quinn significantly better than most of the rest of their class—after all, here they were, having a cordial if mildly distressing conversation about their various goals, philosophies, and personal troubles (especially in the realms of love and murder), while most everyone else who had met Quinn had been shot, stabbed, or—apparently—transformed into a scarecrow. But part of Juliette's ability to get at the core of others was a willingness to listen to them and mean it, to really take in what they were trying to communicate. Quinn was being clear: beyond a certain point, the way was barred.
It could be simple, literal fact. It could be out of some psychological necessity. Juliette imagined that killing repeatedly would be significantly easier if one felt no pain or remorse. Wasn't that the entire trick she was trying to suss out? Maybe Quinn was, in her own way, providing the map after all: the first step to feeling nothing was denying feeling. Or maybe Quinn was trying to play herself up, to be scarier or to dissuade Juliette from following in her footsteps for some unfathomable purpose.
It didn't really matter. There was no good reason to argue with a girl with so many bodies under her belt.
"I suppose that makes sense," Juliette said, and nodded. "I really do appreciate you talking this all through with me."
She felt a tickle along the back of her left hand as she spoke, and for a moment her brow furrowed. She raised her hand—slowly, because whatever the temporary understanding she and Quinn had come to, she expected the girl to leap straight to violence if she even loosely suspected aggression on Juliette's end—and looked at what was causing the sensation.
The source was an ant, black and shiny. Juliette judged it roughly as medium-sized; she was no entomologist, but it was bigger than some of the tiny specimens that had invaded their house one summer when she was twelve and smaller than the fat red ants that lived in hills out in the fields near where she'd gone to middle school. It progress was steady and mindless. She could see its antennae faintly wave, could almost discern its mandibles. Behind it, Quinn was still there, out of focus in the background but still a distinct human shape not too unlike any other from their year.
Juliette turned her head to the side, moving her hand with it so that Quinn wouldn't be in her line of fire, and blew. Her first breath made the ant cease its movement and hunker down, lowering itself against her flesh. She pursed her lips and blew again, harder, the current catching the insect and ripping it free, sending it flying off somewhere in the underbrush.
"Sorry," she said, putting her hand back in its place and letting her attention return fully to Quinn. "There are bugs everywhere here."
At length, Quinn lowered the blade. She hadn't seriously been thinking about killing Juliette for a while, now, but in that moment she finally made the decision that she wouldn't. This conversation had been interesting at best, and not actively annoying at worst. That was more than most people managed and far more than Quinn had expected from Juliette. Perhaps she was just very good at self-preservation when it came to facing with someone with a body count and a motive. Deserved a little credit either way, but mostly, Quinn was curious now. Would Juliette go on to kill people, after this chat of theirs? Maybe not. Probably not. But if she did, that would be very, very interesting. It'd occupy some attention, be something to stave off boredom.
Or otherwise she'd just go off and die, but that didn't bother Quinn unduly. She wasn't invested in killing Juliette herself, so really, letting her go and down her own thing could only be a gain or at worst neutral. It wasn't as if Juliette could tell someone else crucial knowledge about Quinn. Though—hm. Well. She shouldn't stay in this area for a spell at least, get moving, and if she did loop back around yet again, then at least leave a couple of days' gap between. That should cover her bases.
She didn't even acknowledge the thanks, but did let her eyes follow Juliette's movement and huffing. Until Juliette spoke again, Quinn wasn't sure what she was doing, and then her eyebrows rose. Was that intentional? Quinn had her doubts, though it was oddly apt, given the course of the conversation.
"Yeah."
Quinn let the silence go on for a while, enjoying the gap, idly contemplating if this would be the last time she shared in any kind of companionship, and then she rose.
"I'm going to head out," she announced. "Go find a girl to kiss. Or kill. Maybe both. Either way."
Or otherwise she'd just go off and die, but that didn't bother Quinn unduly. She wasn't invested in killing Juliette herself, so really, letting her go and down her own thing could only be a gain or at worst neutral. It wasn't as if Juliette could tell someone else crucial knowledge about Quinn. Though—hm. Well. She shouldn't stay in this area for a spell at least, get moving, and if she did loop back around yet again, then at least leave a couple of days' gap between. That should cover her bases.
She didn't even acknowledge the thanks, but did let her eyes follow Juliette's movement and huffing. Until Juliette spoke again, Quinn wasn't sure what she was doing, and then her eyebrows rose. Was that intentional? Quinn had her doubts, though it was oddly apt, given the course of the conversation.
"Yeah."
Quinn let the silence go on for a while, enjoying the gap, idly contemplating if this would be the last time she shared in any kind of companionship, and then she rose.
"I'm going to head out," she announced. "Go find a girl to kiss. Or kill. Maybe both. Either way."
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
Juliette had enough self control not to blink or visibly emote when Quinn's weapon slipped to a more neutral position. It wasn't that she was surprised by the development. No, until the motion drew her attention, she had actually forgotten that the knife was aimed at her, and its was the reminder of its presence even as that threat fell away that took her off guard.
But a win was a win.
Quinn announced her intention to part ways, and implicitly released Juliette. Implicitly wished her luck. It was not much of a surprise to find that the feeling was mutual.
Juliette shifted a little more, letting her movements come more easily. Oh, Quinn could change her mind on a dime and bring that knife right back up and take the swing she'd held off on, but that was not a change in status quo. If the girl was toying with Juliette, waiting until the last second to pivot to hostility, extending false hope like a cat allowing a wounded beetle to limp a few inches away before pouncing on it again, then there was nothing to be done about it. Nothing would be lost by treating Quinn's actions as good faith, and doing otherwise could so easily come off as spurning her generosity, potentially offending her and provoking the very turn Juliette hoped to avoid.
"Hey," Juliette said, nodding at the girl before her, wearing a smaller, more authentic smile now, "I'll do my best. You take care of yourself, Quinn."
Would she be saying that if she'd seen whatever had become of Stepney? If one of Quinn's other victims had been someone particularly near and dear to her? She wanted to think that the answer was yes. This had been a positive interaction, a fruitful one. Mutually beneficial, Juliette hoped, though what Quinn might have gotten out of it she could barely begin to guess.
She slowly pulled herself into a more comfortable standing position, feeling the tingling of circulation returning to her legs and feet. The air felt lighter, the breeze stirring the hanging shoes more perceptible. No more ants tickled her with their steps.
"It was good talking."
But a win was a win.
Quinn announced her intention to part ways, and implicitly released Juliette. Implicitly wished her luck. It was not much of a surprise to find that the feeling was mutual.
Juliette shifted a little more, letting her movements come more easily. Oh, Quinn could change her mind on a dime and bring that knife right back up and take the swing she'd held off on, but that was not a change in status quo. If the girl was toying with Juliette, waiting until the last second to pivot to hostility, extending false hope like a cat allowing a wounded beetle to limp a few inches away before pouncing on it again, then there was nothing to be done about it. Nothing would be lost by treating Quinn's actions as good faith, and doing otherwise could so easily come off as spurning her generosity, potentially offending her and provoking the very turn Juliette hoped to avoid.
"Hey," Juliette said, nodding at the girl before her, wearing a smaller, more authentic smile now, "I'll do my best. You take care of yourself, Quinn."
Would she be saying that if she'd seen whatever had become of Stepney? If one of Quinn's other victims had been someone particularly near and dear to her? She wanted to think that the answer was yes. This had been a positive interaction, a fruitful one. Mutually beneficial, Juliette hoped, though what Quinn might have gotten out of it she could barely begin to guess.
She slowly pulled herself into a more comfortable standing position, feeling the tingling of circulation returning to her legs and feet. The air felt lighter, the breeze stirring the hanging shoes more perceptible. No more ants tickled her with their steps.
"It was good talking."
A couple of closing remarks came and went. Her ability to care--or even pretend to care--had finally reached its end and no amount of falsified concern was going to make any difference. Quinn simply didn't feel like this any longer, and a luxury of the situation was not needing to keep up appearances. If Juliette was smart, she'd be wary of anything else Quinn said. She'd already proven not a complete idiot. The rest was just social signalling, and Quinn's semaphore tower had burned down.
Though, perhaps a little acknowledgement was warranted. After all, Juliette had managed to tip not feeling like killing her into active curiosity, and done it without getting annoying.
"You weren't boring." Good enough.
She took a few backwards steps, carefully watching Juliette for any sudden motions, and then faded into the treeline.
((Quinn continued in Flagrant One))
Though, perhaps a little acknowledgement was warranted. After all, Juliette had managed to tip not feeling like killing her into active curiosity, and done it without getting annoying.
"You weren't boring." Good enough.
She took a few backwards steps, carefully watching Juliette for any sudden motions, and then faded into the treeline.
((Quinn continued in Flagrant One))
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
Like that, Quinn was gone. Juliette chose to interpret the girl's parting remark as a compliment. And why shouldn't she? She had, once again, come up against one of biggest threats the island had to offer and emerged unharmed. No, better: she had won.
That was not, of course, to imply that Quinn had lost. Maybe she had, but Juliette figured that most likely was not the case. Rather, they had come together and worked in these moments towards a mutually beneficial state of affairs. It was, that is to say, win-win.
Juliette had picked Quinn's brain. She had a better idea what made the other girl tick, both from what she'd said and done and from what she hadn't. For all Quinn seemed to be the terror of the island, the monster in the shadows, she had done remarkably little to directly threaten Juliette. She'd been willing to talk, and had actually been a decent listener. Possibly this was evidence that others weren't willing to even attempt such tactics, that they immediately launched into combat with Quinn based on assumptions of what she would do rather than her actions. Juliette found that somewhat unlikely, however; such discretion didn't particularly gel with "making scarecrows." More likely, something about her own approach had won her different treatment. Probably it was that she had called out and displayed neither fear nor aggression. By treating Quinn generally as she would've at school, she had shifted the discourse along those lines and been received in kind.
She had tested herself and her own limits. She had gotten advice on the mindset she might have to cultivate, and she had placed herself in a difficult, frightening, uncomfortable situation that would—if her plans came to fruition—become commonplace. Back at George Hunter, speaking cordially to a hardened killer had been such a fantasy as to never have even occurred to Juliette. Should she succeed in joining the ranks of their current captors, however, her entire social world would become nothing but hardened killers. Yes, some would be merely complicit in mass murder rather than directly personally culpable, but that was an academic distinction. Juliette took solace in knowing that she could have a pleasant conversation with somebody who had the blood of a good number of her classmates on their hands. It left her reassured that she wasn't setting out on a fool's errand, that she just might be able to see her aim through.
As to what Quinn had taken from the exchange? Entertainment, apparently. A break in the monotony. Juliette didn't get it at all. She didn't have to. It didn't matter that she'd offered information she thought extremely valuable only to be rejected; Quinn wanted what she wanted and she'd gotten enough of it to leave in peace.
For several long minutes, Juliette stood almost completely still, staring out into the foliage in the direction the killer had taken off. The breeze shifted leaves and branches, as if someone still lurked out there, but Quinn did not double back and no gunfire emerged from cover. Juliette wiggled her toes, feeling the painful pinpricks shooting through her from knees to tips of toes. From the outside, though, nothing was visible; her own shoes barely twitched. She took long, deep breaths. Days after the rain, the air still tasted of rotting vegetation and dampness. The heat remained oppressive.
A girl to kiss or to kill, hm?
Juliette shifted her bags into better position for traveling, and started walking. She had a lot to think about.
She still kept her attention focused on her surroundings, however, until she'd left the shoe tree far behind. She knew better than to grant her trust too fully.
((Juliette Sargent continued in Juliette Also Tries To Take A Bath))
That was not, of course, to imply that Quinn had lost. Maybe she had, but Juliette figured that most likely was not the case. Rather, they had come together and worked in these moments towards a mutually beneficial state of affairs. It was, that is to say, win-win.
Juliette had picked Quinn's brain. She had a better idea what made the other girl tick, both from what she'd said and done and from what she hadn't. For all Quinn seemed to be the terror of the island, the monster in the shadows, she had done remarkably little to directly threaten Juliette. She'd been willing to talk, and had actually been a decent listener. Possibly this was evidence that others weren't willing to even attempt such tactics, that they immediately launched into combat with Quinn based on assumptions of what she would do rather than her actions. Juliette found that somewhat unlikely, however; such discretion didn't particularly gel with "making scarecrows." More likely, something about her own approach had won her different treatment. Probably it was that she had called out and displayed neither fear nor aggression. By treating Quinn generally as she would've at school, she had shifted the discourse along those lines and been received in kind.
She had tested herself and her own limits. She had gotten advice on the mindset she might have to cultivate, and she had placed herself in a difficult, frightening, uncomfortable situation that would—if her plans came to fruition—become commonplace. Back at George Hunter, speaking cordially to a hardened killer had been such a fantasy as to never have even occurred to Juliette. Should she succeed in joining the ranks of their current captors, however, her entire social world would become nothing but hardened killers. Yes, some would be merely complicit in mass murder rather than directly personally culpable, but that was an academic distinction. Juliette took solace in knowing that she could have a pleasant conversation with somebody who had the blood of a good number of her classmates on their hands. It left her reassured that she wasn't setting out on a fool's errand, that she just might be able to see her aim through.
As to what Quinn had taken from the exchange? Entertainment, apparently. A break in the monotony. Juliette didn't get it at all. She didn't have to. It didn't matter that she'd offered information she thought extremely valuable only to be rejected; Quinn wanted what she wanted and she'd gotten enough of it to leave in peace.
For several long minutes, Juliette stood almost completely still, staring out into the foliage in the direction the killer had taken off. The breeze shifted leaves and branches, as if someone still lurked out there, but Quinn did not double back and no gunfire emerged from cover. Juliette wiggled her toes, feeling the painful pinpricks shooting through her from knees to tips of toes. From the outside, though, nothing was visible; her own shoes barely twitched. She took long, deep breaths. Days after the rain, the air still tasted of rotting vegetation and dampness. The heat remained oppressive.
A girl to kiss or to kill, hm?
Juliette shifted her bags into better position for traveling, and started walking. She had a lot to think about.
She still kept her attention focused on her surroundings, however, until she'd left the shoe tree far behind. She knew better than to grant her trust too fully.
((Juliette Sargent continued in Juliette Also Tries To Take A Bath))