poly_chromatic | 062 x 260 // voice;

Entry tags:

oc - carla morir

062 x 260 // voice;

[Her voice is deep, melodious. She doesn't sing, but she does chant the little spell with a lilting air.]

Ladybird Ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire, your children shall burn. Ladybird Ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire, your children shall burn. Ladybird Ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire, your children shall burn.

[And her tone changes with a snap, shouting:] Come look at me, you fucking bitch.

[Breath.]

I bet you're happy.

[Then quietly,] He was supposed to be the one to suffer.

[[ooc; Losing her shit after being cured of the plague, like I promised. Anyone who wants to just jump straight to action is welcome to. The folks she'd go to know who they are. For the rest, the doors are unlocked at the flat. Action threads come with a tw: self-harm.

This is also forward dated a few days, because I really don't tend to tag on weekends.]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Pai hadn't expected to become so interested in the network. She's never interacted with that many people, and still doesn't really like the idea of large crowds (unless it's her job to kill them. She's fine with that).

But the people on the network are kind of interesting, and it's not exhausting to be around them when they're just on the screen. If this were happening on the street, Pai would just walk on without care. But, over the network, she decides to ask --]

Who?

My caretaker.

[Although she couldn't have said it any more snidely.]

What happened?

He infected me. He made me live as corpse and I wanted to make him suffer for it until he loved me.

[It isn't a particularly rational statement. Carla isn't a particularly rational woman. Being resurrected from the dead and kept in isolation with the man responsible, while her undead flesh slowly rotted around her, had not been good for her mental health. She is hurt and vengeful and confused, and in the back of her twisted little mind she blames herself for all of it. She should have been stronger. Better. She should have ripped his throat out rather than adoring him.]

That doesn't make sense. [Is that one of those silly human emotional things? If so, she's glad she's a Contractor.]

I loved him.

[Not the entire time. It was only after he dragged her out of her grave and kept her as his pet that the Stockholm Syndrome set in, and he should have at least had the decency to love her back.]

That was stupid. [He doesn't sound very worthy of love.]

Of course it was.

[Because he wasn't.]

So why are you still upset?

voice;

dignity_misery - 2013-08-06 14:09 (UTC) - Expand

Who was supposed to be the one to suffer?

[Oh, it's him. Her beautiful face appears on the screen. She doesn't look angry, perhaps there's anger churning somewhere in her mind--(For Barbet, for the Ladybird, for herself)--but what shows on her face is misery, her eyes are dull with it and there's blood smeared up from her neck on to her face.]

Barbet. He said I was too pretty to die. And that I was too perfect to be pretty.

[It's not the most linear answer, but her thoughts are toxic and swirling.]

That's quite the curse, don't you think?

Are you bleeding?

[He doesn't care. He's just curious.]

I didn't care if he thought I was pretty.

[She hadn't. She knew she was beautiful. Her entire family was, strong features framed in black; wicked smiles. Although the form their wickedness had taken had varied between them, some more benign than others. All self-obsessed.]

[As for her blood...]

You won't tell if I am.

[A question, though not phrased as one.]

Did you care what he thought at all?

I won't. Blood is blood. Sometimes it's needful.

[It was apparently needful to draw her back into herself or to draw her voice back.]

No. I just wanted him to think of me.

[Hate, disgust, lust. She didn't really care, and a majority of the time she still doesn't. Although now she's been infected with something worse than Reanimation: she wants someone to love her.]

[She tilts her head back, some of her read throat exposed. The marks go all the way down her chest, other tragedies spread further than that.]

I need it.

[To draw herself back from the tar she drowns in, the ugly depths of her thoughts and her loss.]

And did he? And was it enough?

[He smiles a little--faintly, gently, almost benign.]

So it is needful.

[He had. And that had satisfied her, insomuch as she could be satisfied. Then he had stolen her back from death and his attention hadn't been enough anymore. She wanted his love.]

It's never enough.

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