poly_chromatic | 051 x 150 // video // an ides of march hangover

Entry tags:

oc - carla morir

051 x 150 // video // an ides of march hangover

[[ooc; HEYO Trigger Warning for violence and self-destructive tendencies and cray. Though they are mild and fairly in-explicit. Also I am very late, so I am not backdating this. She's just been out fighting drunks since Friday. o7]]

[She's been... missing, since Friday. Since all that talk and thought of traitors. She's fairly predictable, that Carla. Something gets under her skin and she takes to scratching herself bloody. It's not the first time nor the last time she'll show up on the network with pink teeth and bruised eyes.]

He was eighteen when I fucked him over. [No, she has never cared if anyone wants to hear her talk, or if anyone understands her at all. It's all about her, about her release, her confession, her pain. So self-centered.]

He was always an idiot. He would have been locked up eventually, and I didn't want to go with him.

[There had been no such justifications, at the time. Isaac Crew simply hadn't been useful to her anymore.]

So I paid some little high schooler to squeal about him and that was it.

[It hadn't precisely been a lie. Isaac Crew was guilty of statutory.]

And then he got out and shot me in the head.

[She used to cringe, admitting her own death. She's been back and forth across the line of living and dead and in between too many times now. That's why she's crazy. That's why her face is bloody and her teeth are grit and she has her device in white knuckles talking to no one in particular for everyone to see.]

He held his fucking Chinese made handgun to my head and I laughed at him until he kicked me and I kept laughing until he broke my ribs and I kept laughing until he shot me in the head, the fucking idiot.

[She's laughing now, her usual hytserical half-sobbing sound, face lost in the tangles of dark hair. Eventually, she gets a handle on herself, silent with head bowed until she mutters,]

Merry fucking Christmas.

[And she's done.]

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[Her heels click. It's a sure sign that Saya is around. It took her a while to find her, but the smell of Carla isn't something that she forgets easily.

She crosses her arms and tips her head]

Do you want me to hurt you?

[She's not a good mood, nor a cautious one, but that might go without saying at the moment, legs stretched out at the curb. She glances back with a dull expression. She's got hurt under control.]

I want to fuck.

Should I find you a john?

[Because Saya has never been one for tact.]

[The laughter is low, miserable.]

Always so helpful.

It's always a possibility.

As I'm not going to do it.

I didn't think you would.

[Time makes those kinds of things apparent.]

So what are you doing here.

I came to offer to hurt you. I don't know how your memory is, but you may want to have that examined.

[Eyes up, not quite rolled but staring out of the corner of her eyes with her head lolled.]

But what do you get out of it.

Why would I tell you that?

[She sits up straighter, still swaying tiredly as she turns.]

Because I don't see any reason why it's a secret.

Oh, Carla.

That's the difference between you and me.

[Well, that and Saya's a giant man-eating spider.]

[Dryly,]

The only one?

No.

You've been toying with me for over a year. [Which was of Carla's consent, so it's not as though she sounds bitter about it.] I would have bet you'd have gotten bored by now.

Are you trying to be boring?

I'm not-- [Trying to be anything. Which isn't really true and so she stops looking up at Saya and just lets her head hang. Answers sullenly,]

I don't know what I'm trying to be.

You should decide. The melodrama isn't attractive.

But is it boring.

[There's a lack of conviction in tone. Carla's not so sure 'not-boring' is how low she's set the bar. But she is bothered by the idea of being forgotten. The two come close to each other.]

It's getting there.

What are you going to do, once it's boring?

Ignore you.

Hmm.

[It's laughter, low and warm. Still miserable. Barbet had spent a lot of time ignoring her. It had driven her mad, and sorrowful.]

I don't love you that much.

Don't be ridiculous, Carla. You don't love me at all.

[That's when she moves forward, so the toe of her heel is right between Carla's legs. She doesn't kick, but there's pressure there, just the same]

I fill a need. You submit to it because no one else here can fill that need. And when that need is gone, then you'll stop. But you're still damaged enough that you want it.

It's simple. Don't think it isn't.

[She doesn't argue. Although it's been a long time since things were simple, the way Saya sees them. Carla misses the simplicity. Hates the constant sense of longing she develops for certain people. Because she doesn't want to be alone or forgotten, or because they fulfill a need. It's not love, either way. She's still waiting for love.]

I'd be alright, if you ignored me. [She murmurs as her only explanation.] I'd prefer if you didn't.

Then say it.

[She presses the toe of her heel harder for an instant]

You're not a whore. Go find someone to fuck.

[A toy, not a whore, but that's her own self-denigration talking.]

I'm going home.

[The dog needs to be fed. She doesn't bother faking modesty by closing her knees, just drags herself upright, staring up at the sky to estimate the time for a moment.]

Enjoy your evening, Carla.

[It's not that her story isn't disturbing, never mind her face on the video. It is. But he's not quite sure what to make of it.]

Your recovery hasn't been too splendid.

[She hesitates for a moment before shaking her head in disgust, giving a huff of breath.]

You don't think so? I'm a work of art, you know.

[Disgusted with herself, mind.]

And you look terrible.

Why did you do that to him?

I didn't like him very much.

[Her sneer is even uglier. She's in a mood.]

That's no--

[He pauses, frowning. He doesn't have the background to get it immediately.]

You were underage?

[She gives him a look 'weren't we all once?']

I was thirteen.

[Statutory. But Carla was hardly a victim.]

And then I was sixteen when he went to jail.

[She found someone more interesting.]

Thirteen? That's a bit precocious.

[And a bit unsettling. It's the nonchalance, weirdly familiar. A change of subject might be in order.]

Your world has surprisingly decent doctors, then.

Who said anything about a doctor, doctor?

It's hard to take broken ribs and a shot to the head well without them. I don't remember telling you my profession.

You don't remember anything.

[She shrugs. She's not feeling considerate or cautious today.

And she's feeling the need to be mean to herself, to dredge up all the old wounds from before the City and make them raw again.]

I didn't take them well. I died and someone put me back together. An artist, doctor.

So we did know each other before.

[So she lied. Maybe they'd had an affair. But for once, he's starting to discount that possibility, just on her admissions.]

What does that make you? A reanimated corpse?

Did we?

[If it were someone else she'd be more offended to be forgotten, but she never felt possessive over Raphael. Lust of any kind was absent.]

A Reanimate. A zombie. A toy. But I'm living and breathing now. It's my third time.

I don't exactly hand out business cards.

I've never heard of anyone recovering from that state. Much less that amount of times. Don't tell me that's commonplace where you're from.

Of course it is.

[Quite commonplace. Half a world eaten.]

But not like me.

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051 x 150 // video // an ides of march hangover

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...stupid hover menus...

ahahaha I figured

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