“I see.” Three whole days, so easily summarized in a few sentences. Roxanne noticed the meaningful gap in Forrest’s story - three whole people, no longer with her. She was naturally curious, but she didn’t prod - the girl had the right to try and spin her own narrative, and it wasn’t like Roxanne really knew or cared about any of the people she’d mentioned.
“You’ve been busier than me. I’ve just done a lot of walking, and finding people, and then leaving them. Sometimes they left me first. I think I’ve finally found someone I can stay with, though.” Lines in the sand. What purpose did they serve? Did it just feel nice to firmly pledge her allegiance to someone? Perhaps.
Now that she’d said it out loud, it really didn’t sound like Roxanne had done much at all, did it? That bothered her more than she should have - like she was wasting her life somehow by not having gotten involved in any climactic, fatal confrontations yet. She was living for herself, not the cameras - but it felt like time was slipping away from her, regardless.
There were so, so many things that she’d wanted to do but had been too afraid to, back in the real world, but now that fear had been forcibly banished from her heart, she found herself at a complete loss for what she wanted. She’d already gone on a sightseeing tour of the island’s few landmarks, already seen the world from the top of the temple. What other tangible pursuits were even left for her? Disappearing into the woods and pretending she was just on a camping trip? No. Everything left that was worth experiencing would come from the company of other people.
Hope, despair, whatever; anything was better than the boredom of being left alone. There was still some residual exhilaration from the ecstasy she had felt upon first awakening, but the realities of the situation were wearing her down.
She and Forrest continued to talk, accompanied by the sounds of the storm outside, by Marcy’s quiet breathing as she slept. It was a fine enough way to pass the time, but they didn’t really connect in any meaningful way. Maybe their personalities just didn’t mesh well, even outside of the constraints of their old lives.
When Roxanne fell asleep, she did so huddled in a corner, clutching her gun.
Another day. No one had killed Roxanne in her sleep. She hadn’t exactly been expecting that to happen, but still. It was nice to wake up when so many would never wake again.
She vaguely heard Marcy stirring, was vaguely aware of Forrest still being there, but before she could murmur a tired ‘good morning’ she was consumed by the announcements.
They’d taken the cheapest shot imaginable, reduced Alexander to his blindness even in death. God, he would’ve hated that. She could picture him, now - he’d have tried not to let his fury show, but there’d be a certain tightness in the corners of his mouth, his voice more terse than usual.
Her mental image of him was all that was left, now, because he was rotting somewhere, face still and cold, eyes wide open but hidden by his sunglasses. She should be feeling this more strongly. She should’ve been breaking down again. Beryl had broken her, and Beryl had been her dear friend, but she had loved Alexander, so why was she feeling this tragedy so less intensely? Was she already numb? Or had she just not truly processed it yet? Would she live the rest of her life half-expecting to hear ‘Ah, Roxanne, reports of my death were greatly exaggerated’ from behind?
A small part of her had always resented the fact that he had been the one she’d fallen for - even with all her rebelliousness in joining the band, in lying about taking on extra shifts so she’d have time to rehearse, she’d still picked a boy her parents would have unambiguously approved of. Rich, well-spoken, ambitious. Stoic, practically ascetic compared to her image of most of the students. Even as Roxanne, she couldn’t escape how much her upbringing had shaped her. She just had to have enough faith in herself to know that she had chosen him herself, isolated from society’s expectations of her.
Not that it mattered, not that it had ever amounted to anything. She hadn’t even gathered up the courage to ask him to prom. She had no reason to believe she had been at all special to him, apart from being part of the band, which was admittedly still a big deal, but -
Alexander was dead and she was still being an idiot about her feelings for him.
The thought jarred Roxanne back out of her head, at least enough to notice that Marcy wasn’t looking too good.
“...It’s just us now, huh?”
there are bullets in your paintings, if you want them
Day 3, some time after announcements - Open
What do you do, oh you know everything. Follow the social customs until you can't stand to pretend anymore then keep following in the vain hope that maybe your adherence to outdated norms somehow brings you good fortune in the days ahead. Raincheck fellas nothing was going to change, nothing ever did. It wasn't like things were that different from their daily lives anyway, swap one schedule of slow suffering for another, every so often you'd get a moment that would perk you up, make you believe 'Hey maybe this will end up alright?' a cozy thought beamed through to brain to keep the truth from seeping in. Because once it did you realised everything was repetition. Swap the tasks and locales around and you may as well have been at home except instead of eating each other socially you were eating other for real, consuming life to keep yours going, as if the extra seconds made a difference to the stars.
Club down any fear or anxiety, they had no place here. What use was social self-preservation as things were, who the fuck did it make a difference to? Pleasantries for the dead and dying, thin words flaking from the mouths of those who spoke them. The morning alarm went off and informed them all of what they already knew. People died, no one was special and humanity was evil. Big whoop. Cruelty was only cruel when there was no purpose and only if it shocked. She wasn't shocked, why should she be? She knew what was going to happen, you weren't a gangster, fighter or monster. None of those things existed. Monsters were fucking fake. Who was there to fear? One thing came for all of them and she wasn't talking about the tentacle bro himself Cthulhu but hey if he turned she'd have probably spat in his face too, what was he gonna do? Kill her? She was already dead therefore she couldn't die.
More names, hooray. Names she knew, names she didn't, names she had learned. None of them she cared about. Her shelter had been fine. Company middling. Revelations lacking. The alarm ended and Anna spoke and that was great and all, she was cool, in control or hiding it, gotta keep the facade alive. If there even was one. It wasn't like it was her business and it wasn't like she cared. In the end, it was time to go. She had rested. That was enough. Time to leave.
((Forrest Quin continued in i see u))
Club down any fear or anxiety, they had no place here. What use was social self-preservation as things were, who the fuck did it make a difference to? Pleasantries for the dead and dying, thin words flaking from the mouths of those who spoke them. The morning alarm went off and informed them all of what they already knew. People died, no one was special and humanity was evil. Big whoop. Cruelty was only cruel when there was no purpose and only if it shocked. She wasn't shocked, why should she be? She knew what was going to happen, you weren't a gangster, fighter or monster. None of those things existed. Monsters were fucking fake. Who was there to fear? One thing came for all of them and she wasn't talking about the tentacle bro himself Cthulhu but hey if he turned she'd have probably spat in his face too, what was he gonna do? Kill her? She was already dead therefore she couldn't die.
More names, hooray. Names she knew, names she didn't, names she had learned. None of them she cared about. Her shelter had been fine. Company middling. Revelations lacking. The alarm ended and Anna spoke and that was great and all, she was cool, in control or hiding it, gotta keep the facade alive. If there even was one. It wasn't like it was her business and it wasn't like she cared. In the end, it was time to go. She had rested. That was enough. Time to leave.
((Forrest Quin continued in i see u))
-
VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
The pencil held in the Bereaved's hand split down the middle, her knuckles turning white. They were clenched hard, straining under the force of her rage. Hearing Dolly's name spoken by the macabre facilitator of this waking nightmare had stung, but it wasn't comparable to the unfathomable outrage that was now overtaking her mind. Finally putting a name, and therefore a face, to her beloved's previously anonymous murderer had, in one fell swoop, reignited both her desire for vengeance and also her relentless self-loathing.
She let go of her bloodstained list and the now broken pencil, letting them both fall to the floor. She stared at them on the ground, her eyes wide, her teeth gritted. Blaise was the one who killed Dolly. Out of everyone, out of all the killers, it was them. Besides her rage, more than anything she was simply shocked. She had not exactly known Blaise beyond them seemingly hating her fashion sense, but she knew that Dolly and Blaise had spent plenty of time together in the fashion club. Dolly had told her about them before, and perhaps they had not been extremely close, not like Dolly and Artem were, it was obvious that Blaise had been one of Dolly's friends.
And they murdered her.
It had not been an accident, either, there was no way it could have been. The Bereaved had not found a scene of a mistaken slaying, there was no single panicked shot that just so happened to result in death. Blaise had shot her twice, once in the chest and once in the head. Blaise murdered a friend, on purpose.
Then, to make it even worse, Blaise had the audacity to go on to murder Alex too, on the same day.
Alex was the singer in the Bereaved's band, he was one of the closest friends of both herself and Roxanne. While the two of them had clashed fairly often over the direction of the band's music, she had still treasured him just as much as she treasured every other member. Now, just like Beryl, he was gone.
Also like Beryl, there was no way his death could be justified. Alex was blind, there was no conceivable way he could have been a serious threat to anyone. Even if he had possessed murderous intent, even if this place had gotten to his head and corrupted him, he would have still not been enough of a concern to warrant a violent response. Blaise had no doubt murdered him too, in cold blood.
The darkness that had enveloped her shortly after Dolly's demise was back. Circling her again, nipping at her haunches again, threatening to drown her all over again. Sounds once more muted, colors once more drained. The maddening dark one more closed off the outside world to her, leaving her this time with only her fury and hatred.
Whoever Blaise was before, that person was gone now, that much was obvious. This place had possessed them, replaced them with nothing more than a monster disguising itself as them, wearing their skin as a suit. They were nothing more than a rabid dog now, rampaging around the island wildly. Acting like a mindless Goliath, and taking open auditions for the part of David.
Oh, how the Bereaved wanted to fill that part. Flay the flesh from their body, tear out their throat, cut out their eyes, rip out their intestines. Inflict every misery upon them until finally, the Bereaved allowed them to die. It wouldn't be enough to make up for what they had done, for sure, but perhaps they would still catch a glimpse of the agony that the Bereaved had endured because of them.
She glared at her hands, watching her fingers relax and curl, wanting for Blaise's throat, to bind and strangle. Over and over again, she played out her homicidal fantasies in her head, and it quickly became all she could think about. Suddenly however, Roxanne spoke, her words cutting through the frothing dark that surrounded the Bereaved, returning her to reality, if only briefly.
"Y-Yeah, just us," she weakly rasped in reply, not turning to look at her friend.
Her body trembled, her mind fumed. The awful screeching of the morning announcements finally terminated, bringing her some slight amount of relief, but it still wasn't enough to hold back the frenzy of emotion she was experiencing. Forrest left the area not long after the announcement's end, but the Bereaved was so caught up in her own head that she almost failed to notice the other girl's departure.
Her train of thought now derailed, she inhaled deeply and reminded herself once again that vengeance would not bring the dead back to life. Pursuing it wouldn't satisfy her, it would only turn her into a shell of her former self. Drain her of her life, and leave her as nothing but a frightful, bitter husk.
That still did not mean that Blaise deserved to live, however. The Bereaved's rage fermented, focused, and began to turn inward. Blaise had been a known killer at the time of Dolly's death, the island had already corrupted them long before that point. Had the Bereaved not strayed from Dolly's side, she would have been able to put Blaise down, and stop them in their tracks. Had she been present, Dolly would still be alive, and now Alex too would still be alive.
The Bereaved gripped the sides of her head, locks of hair curling between her fingers. She yanked on them forcefully, needling her scalp with much deserved pain. Her failure to protect Dolly had caused not one, but two deaths. By not being at the scene, by allowing Blaise to get away with it all, she had in a way been the one that truly killed them. Both of their souls now hung over her head, haunting her, and it was all her fault.
Her fault.
Certainly Blaise wasn't done, either. How many more innocent people would she indirectly murder, by having let them live? Just how many more specters would come to haunt her until the end of her days? The guilt would crush the life out of her, assuming nothing else took her life before that point. Maybe it'd be a mercy, maybe that's all she really wanted-
She stopped herself. Her breathing was hard, and fast. All of this was utter madness. She needed to escape these thoughts, run away from them, hide from the guilt that threatened to tear her apart. She didn't know where she would run to, but she didn't really care. This place was tainted now, by the darkness, by the madness, and she could not remain here for a moment longer.
"I don't... I don't want to be here anymore," she announced, relaxing her grip on her hair and finally turning her gaze towards Roxanne. "I want to go, now. I don't know where just... anywhere but here."
She did not wait to hear Roxanne's response. Instead, she immediately began gathering her belongings, hoisting her bag over her head and stuffing her list and the broken halves of the pencil into her pocket.
((Then, wordlessly, she stood up, and marched out the door.))
She let go of her bloodstained list and the now broken pencil, letting them both fall to the floor. She stared at them on the ground, her eyes wide, her teeth gritted. Blaise was the one who killed Dolly. Out of everyone, out of all the killers, it was them. Besides her rage, more than anything she was simply shocked. She had not exactly known Blaise beyond them seemingly hating her fashion sense, but she knew that Dolly and Blaise had spent plenty of time together in the fashion club. Dolly had told her about them before, and perhaps they had not been extremely close, not like Dolly and Artem were, it was obvious that Blaise had been one of Dolly's friends.
And they murdered her.
It had not been an accident, either, there was no way it could have been. The Bereaved had not found a scene of a mistaken slaying, there was no single panicked shot that just so happened to result in death. Blaise had shot her twice, once in the chest and once in the head. Blaise murdered a friend, on purpose.
Then, to make it even worse, Blaise had the audacity to go on to murder Alex too, on the same day.
Alex was the singer in the Bereaved's band, he was one of the closest friends of both herself and Roxanne. While the two of them had clashed fairly often over the direction of the band's music, she had still treasured him just as much as she treasured every other member. Now, just like Beryl, he was gone.
Also like Beryl, there was no way his death could be justified. Alex was blind, there was no conceivable way he could have been a serious threat to anyone. Even if he had possessed murderous intent, even if this place had gotten to his head and corrupted him, he would have still not been enough of a concern to warrant a violent response. Blaise had no doubt murdered him too, in cold blood.
The darkness that had enveloped her shortly after Dolly's demise was back. Circling her again, nipping at her haunches again, threatening to drown her all over again. Sounds once more muted, colors once more drained. The maddening dark one more closed off the outside world to her, leaving her this time with only her fury and hatred.
Whoever Blaise was before, that person was gone now, that much was obvious. This place had possessed them, replaced them with nothing more than a monster disguising itself as them, wearing their skin as a suit. They were nothing more than a rabid dog now, rampaging around the island wildly. Acting like a mindless Goliath, and taking open auditions for the part of David.
Oh, how the Bereaved wanted to fill that part. Flay the flesh from their body, tear out their throat, cut out their eyes, rip out their intestines. Inflict every misery upon them until finally, the Bereaved allowed them to die. It wouldn't be enough to make up for what they had done, for sure, but perhaps they would still catch a glimpse of the agony that the Bereaved had endured because of them.
She glared at her hands, watching her fingers relax and curl, wanting for Blaise's throat, to bind and strangle. Over and over again, she played out her homicidal fantasies in her head, and it quickly became all she could think about. Suddenly however, Roxanne spoke, her words cutting through the frothing dark that surrounded the Bereaved, returning her to reality, if only briefly.
"Y-Yeah, just us," she weakly rasped in reply, not turning to look at her friend.
Her body trembled, her mind fumed. The awful screeching of the morning announcements finally terminated, bringing her some slight amount of relief, but it still wasn't enough to hold back the frenzy of emotion she was experiencing. Forrest left the area not long after the announcement's end, but the Bereaved was so caught up in her own head that she almost failed to notice the other girl's departure.
Her train of thought now derailed, she inhaled deeply and reminded herself once again that vengeance would not bring the dead back to life. Pursuing it wouldn't satisfy her, it would only turn her into a shell of her former self. Drain her of her life, and leave her as nothing but a frightful, bitter husk.
That still did not mean that Blaise deserved to live, however. The Bereaved's rage fermented, focused, and began to turn inward. Blaise had been a known killer at the time of Dolly's death, the island had already corrupted them long before that point. Had the Bereaved not strayed from Dolly's side, she would have been able to put Blaise down, and stop them in their tracks. Had she been present, Dolly would still be alive, and now Alex too would still be alive.
The Bereaved gripped the sides of her head, locks of hair curling between her fingers. She yanked on them forcefully, needling her scalp with much deserved pain. Her failure to protect Dolly had caused not one, but two deaths. By not being at the scene, by allowing Blaise to get away with it all, she had in a way been the one that truly killed them. Both of their souls now hung over her head, haunting her, and it was all her fault.
Her fault.
Certainly Blaise wasn't done, either. How many more innocent people would she indirectly murder, by having let them live? Just how many more specters would come to haunt her until the end of her days? The guilt would crush the life out of her, assuming nothing else took her life before that point. Maybe it'd be a mercy, maybe that's all she really wanted-
She stopped herself. Her breathing was hard, and fast. All of this was utter madness. She needed to escape these thoughts, run away from them, hide from the guilt that threatened to tear her apart. She didn't know where she would run to, but she didn't really care. This place was tainted now, by the darkness, by the madness, and she could not remain here for a moment longer.
"I don't... I don't want to be here anymore," she announced, relaxing her grip on her hair and finally turning her gaze towards Roxanne. "I want to go, now. I don't know where just... anywhere but here."
She did not wait to hear Roxanne's response. Instead, she immediately began gathering her belongings, hoisting her bag over her head and stuffing her list and the broken halves of the pencil into her pocket.
((Then, wordlessly, she stood up, and marched out the door.))
Forrest left without a word. Roxanne’s ‘us’ grew infinitely lonelier, though she supposed she honestly hadn’t been including the girl in her pensive statement. Nothing against her, she wished her the best anyone could reasonably hope for, which was still crueler than the worst of them deserved.
Whatever Forrest’s story was, it would live and die with her, Roxanne’s presence in it being a minor intersection of points, a brief cameo at best. So be it. Now she was free to focus her attention on the one that actually mattered to her - the one that mattered. The one relic from her old life she would continue clinging to, for just a bit longer - the others had all been discarded before she’d even been granted the chance to throw those connections away herself.
Powerful sentiment, but she doubted she would have had the strength to even consider it if she had seen Alexander - alive, wry. Everything was a shackle, in some way. Even freedom.
Marcy was, very obviously, not doing well. Was the strength she had shown the previous day simply a facade, washed away by the first reminder of her grief? Or was it her current despair that was truly transient? Too early to tell. Too uncharitable to even think, if she was being honest with herself. She was the only one in the room reacting ‘appropriately’ to the revelation of their beloved’s killer.
Beloved. How presumptuous, to equate Roxanne’s one-sided crush with the genuine love Marcy and Dolores had felt for each other. She had to remember that she was mourning a friend and the dream of a glitter-heart-bordered future, nothing more.
Anyways. The name had barely registered at first. Blaise. Someone to admire from a distance, not someone to know. She had always respected - even envied how easy it was for them to assume a personae and then drop it in the blink of an eye, the wild range of new images they never seemed to run out of. Roxanne’s issues with identity weren’t the same, of course - she’d always been perfectly fine with her gender - but. There was still a longing for that sort of freedom - who could she have been if she had been completely, hopelessly self-absorbed? No regard for anyone else’s opinion, no societal pressure?
Not a murderer, ideally. ‘Murderer’. Roxanne mulled over the word in her mind. It didn’t feel real. Alexander was dead because of Blaise, and for what reason had they decided he deserved such violence? In the real world, at his worst, he let slip some slight acerbic wit when the band didn’t mesh with his creative vision. He hadn’t been stupid enough to needlessly antogonize others, and he hadn’t been enough of a bastard to want to harm anyone else; even if he could have.
Alexander was dead because of Blaise, for no justifiable reason, and… Roxanne felt nothing much. No, that was a lie - she was already mourning him, in a strangely subdued fashion, creeping up slowly, steadily, and perhaps it would overwhelm her, the next time she tried to sleep. But. That’s where it ended - ‘Alexander was dead.’ Only the effect lingered in her mind, the cause almost incidental - being furious at Blaise would be as futile as pounding her fists into the wooden floorboards below, as firing her shotgun at the raging tide.
People died on the island. That’s just what happened. Roxanne wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life praying to find and shoot someone. There had to be something better to live for. Maybe if they saw Blaise - talked to them, questioned them about why, why, why, maybe then the air would split with a song of buckshot and blood, but, but. She had better things to do. Like not spending too much time cooped up in the same boring death-smelling place. Like following Marcy.
((Away she went.))
Whatever Forrest’s story was, it would live and die with her, Roxanne’s presence in it being a minor intersection of points, a brief cameo at best. So be it. Now she was free to focus her attention on the one that actually mattered to her - the one that mattered. The one relic from her old life she would continue clinging to, for just a bit longer - the others had all been discarded before she’d even been granted the chance to throw those connections away herself.
Powerful sentiment, but she doubted she would have had the strength to even consider it if she had seen Alexander - alive, wry. Everything was a shackle, in some way. Even freedom.
Marcy was, very obviously, not doing well. Was the strength she had shown the previous day simply a facade, washed away by the first reminder of her grief? Or was it her current despair that was truly transient? Too early to tell. Too uncharitable to even think, if she was being honest with herself. She was the only one in the room reacting ‘appropriately’ to the revelation of their beloved’s killer.
Beloved. How presumptuous, to equate Roxanne’s one-sided crush with the genuine love Marcy and Dolores had felt for each other. She had to remember that she was mourning a friend and the dream of a glitter-heart-bordered future, nothing more.
Anyways. The name had barely registered at first. Blaise. Someone to admire from a distance, not someone to know. She had always respected - even envied how easy it was for them to assume a personae and then drop it in the blink of an eye, the wild range of new images they never seemed to run out of. Roxanne’s issues with identity weren’t the same, of course - she’d always been perfectly fine with her gender - but. There was still a longing for that sort of freedom - who could she have been if she had been completely, hopelessly self-absorbed? No regard for anyone else’s opinion, no societal pressure?
Not a murderer, ideally. ‘Murderer’. Roxanne mulled over the word in her mind. It didn’t feel real. Alexander was dead because of Blaise, and for what reason had they decided he deserved such violence? In the real world, at his worst, he let slip some slight acerbic wit when the band didn’t mesh with his creative vision. He hadn’t been stupid enough to needlessly antogonize others, and he hadn’t been enough of a bastard to want to harm anyone else; even if he could have.
Alexander was dead because of Blaise, for no justifiable reason, and… Roxanne felt nothing much. No, that was a lie - she was already mourning him, in a strangely subdued fashion, creeping up slowly, steadily, and perhaps it would overwhelm her, the next time she tried to sleep. But. That’s where it ended - ‘Alexander was dead.’ Only the effect lingered in her mind, the cause almost incidental - being furious at Blaise would be as futile as pounding her fists into the wooden floorboards below, as firing her shotgun at the raging tide.
People died on the island. That’s just what happened. Roxanne wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life praying to find and shoot someone. There had to be something better to live for. Maybe if they saw Blaise - talked to them, questioned them about why, why, why, maybe then the air would split with a song of buckshot and blood, but, but. She had better things to do. Like not spending too much time cooped up in the same boring death-smelling place. Like following Marcy.
((Away she went.))