[“I look alive,” he says, sounding less lively than he has this entire question-conversation. He doesn’t want “pity,” as has been keenly established. So Caitlyn keeps her expression to its typical stern, and aims for the less revealing detail:]
You seem to have a clear idea what happened to you. [To cause his death.]
[Really? This lady thinks the secret to Whelk passing on from this never-ending liminal Hell is to sit around and talk about Adam fucking Parrish? He almost thinks to lunge for her throat.
[Doesn't. Says:]
He was my student.
[Straight A's. Always did his homework. Terrified of losing his precious scholarship.]
[It's funny. For a second, he wants to cry. He looks past Caitlyn, and he doesn't look angry, nor particularly tired. He's too awake, too alive with something he'd tried for so long to stuff down. He feels tingling at the tops of his cheekbones, but that's it. He sucks on his bottom lip and tilts his head down, scratches at the back of his head.]
It's a...path. Supernatural energy. [His voice gets quieter as he speaks.] There's a convergence near the town I lived in. The sacrifice would grant control of that convergence.
[He’s so expressive. The answer takes him somewhere, one direction or another, and though he’s not looking at her Caitlyn has to remind herself to show no pity. Who would want to be interrogated post-mortem, really…
[But he gets quieter. Involuntarily her upward stance shifts forward.
What did you want it for? [It’s not that she’s trying to sound softer. Yet, matching his volume has other effects; unintended, and for now not suppressed.]
[Is there anything more undoing, so profoundly demoralizing, as losing someone for nothing. As giving up, willingly, a person one could’ve lived with, for a cause so damningly worthwhile, necessary—for nothing. It’s a blow to the gut, sharp; sharp enough, maybe, to bring miserable quiet to its knees, prone for the trampling.
[And in the end, for whom? Does anyone mourn?
[Whelk is dead. Caitlyn steps forward and hugs him, tight.
[Condolences, words, can burn. If he pulls back at all, the hold may not last; but while it does, it speaks for her, or so she has to hope. You tried, it says, and I understand, and You matter.]
["Unexpected" doesn't come close. Whelk is moved on, feels his body tense with anticipation, like she might smack him; she doesn't. She wraps her arms around him. He's limp, still, standing on stage with a spotlight shining.
[No. They're alone. There's no audience watching, whispering. It's only her.
[What is she doing? After all that, what is she doing?
[He doesn't pull back. He doesn't do anything. His arms hang uselessly at his sides, and he stares ahead, past her shoulder. They're the same height. His head thunks down against hers, heavy. Is that enough?
[He feels like he could sleep. Maybe if they just stayed like this a while...]
[What more is there to do? He doesn’t do anything. He killed his roommate. It didn’t work. He died. He knows it was for nothing.
[Is hugging a dead man for nothing? It matters. His head thunks down, and that’s all the answer he needs to give. She doesn’t pull back, then; moves a hand to the back of that heavy weight. One learns to carry it, after a while. Never truly gets easier.
[But no one’s watching. He doesn’t have to be a ghost to linger. She doesn’t have to know where he’s gone to care.
[Rest. It finds him quickly, the way rest does when you've been without it for so long. His eyes become too heavy to open, pressure against the base of his skull. He doesn't spiral into sleep the same way he would after drinking himself half to death. It's easier than that. It settles over him, then washes away. That's all there is.]
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pantheraliam) wrote2030-03-12 03:03 pm
no subject
[“I look alive,” he says, sounding less lively than he has this entire question-conversation. He doesn’t want “pity,” as has been keenly established. So Caitlyn keeps her expression to its typical stern, and aims for the less revealing detail:]
You seem to have a clear idea what happened to you. [To cause his death.]
no subject
Yeah. I was there for it.
no subject
[Vaguely bemused huff.] Could have been sudden.
But, yes, the circumstances of your death. Why you may be trapped in this game at all.
no subject
[Christ. For as awful as it was, it sounds...extremely lame.]
After a ritual sacrifice.
Not my own...
[It would have been, had things gone his way.]
no subject
[It sounds extremely awful, but she will keep that off her face. Instead:] Whose?
cw: major classism
Some piece of trailer trash with his dad's gun.
no subject
[“Trailer trash.” Doesn’t take a detective to hear that connotation.] And did this… individual, how [if at all] did he know you?
no subject
[Doesn't. Says:]
He was my student.
[Straight A's. Always did his homework. Terrified of losing his precious scholarship.]
do it buddy fuck around and find out
[The interrogation has shifted from some omnipotent roll to person-to-person. Jury’s out on whether that’s preferrable.
[Without a trace of irony:] Did he ask you lots of questions? Not only regarding school. [or: Did he want to get to know you?]
no subject
He barely spoke to me. He was terrified of me.
no subject
[Blue eyes narrow.] And why was that?
cw: child abuse :')
What? [Low, lazy.] You think I beat him after class? No. I'm sure his father did that for me.
Re: cw: child abuse :')
[Her brow furrows deeper. How people can talk so flippantly of gross injustice, it’s—
[Besides the point. Here. Reel back. Student remains suspect but is pushed temporarily out of line.]
The sacrifice— “Not your own.” Do you know the intended cause?
no subject
Yeah. I do.
The ley line. That place.
no subject
[Similar exhaustion as before. Hesitance. Is that closer or further away?]
What’s a ley line?
no subject
It's a...path. Supernatural energy. [His voice gets quieter as he speaks.] There's a convergence near the town I lived in. The sacrifice would grant control of that convergence.
no subject
[He’s so expressive. The answer takes him somewhere, one direction or another, and though he’s not looking at her Caitlyn has to remind herself to show no pity. Who would want to be interrogated post-mortem, really…
[But he gets quieter. Involuntarily her upward stance shifts forward.
What did you want it for? [It’s not that she’s trying to sound softer. Yet, matching his volume has other effects; unintended, and for now not suppressed.]
no subject
[But it's all over now. Money means nothing. Barrington Whelk means nothing. Only one thing has ever mattered.
[Numbers roll. 107: What's the worst thing you've ever done?
[Whelk is quiet. His lips tighten, but it's not annoyance. His nostrils flare, but it isn't anger. He has to clear his throat.
[Once. Twice...]
I tried the sacrifice once before. [How can his voice sound so distant, still whispered directly into his own ears.] I...killed my roommate.
[His "roommate". They'll never meet again, will they?]
It didn't work. [Why didn't it work?]
I needed it to work. It has to work so that he--
[Whelk bites off his own words. He doesn't know how to finish them. He doesn't know what he wants, what he's wanted the last seven years.]
It just has to work. It can't...be in vain, but it is. [He shrugs, miserable, smiling.] It is. It was all for nothing.
no subject
[The number rolls again. It hardly registers.
[Is there anything more undoing, so profoundly demoralizing, as losing someone for nothing. As giving up, willingly, a person one could’ve lived with, for a cause so damningly worthwhile, necessary—for nothing. It’s a blow to the gut, sharp; sharp enough, maybe, to bring miserable quiet to its knees, prone for the trampling.
[And in the end, for whom? Does anyone mourn?
[Whelk is dead. Caitlyn steps forward and hugs him, tight.
[Condolences, words, can burn. If he pulls back at all, the hold may not last; but while it does, it speaks for her, or so she has to hope. You tried, it says, and I understand, and You matter.]
read this a second time and started crying
[No. They're alone. There's no audience watching, whispering. It's only her.
[What is she doing? After all that, what is she doing?
[He doesn't pull back. He doesn't do anything. His arms hang uselessly at his sides, and he stares ahead, past her shoulder. They're the same height. His head thunks down against hers, heavy. Is that enough?
[He feels like he could sleep. Maybe if they just stayed like this a while...]
8,)
[What more is there to do? He doesn’t do anything. He killed his roommate. It didn’t work. He died. He knows it was for nothing.
[Is hugging a dead man for nothing? It matters. His head thunks down, and that’s all the answer he needs to give. She doesn’t pull back, then; moves a hand to the back of that heavy weight. One learns to carry it, after a while. Never truly gets easier.
[But no one’s watching. He doesn’t have to be a ghost to linger. She doesn’t have to know where he’s gone to care.
[For now, he can rest.]
:tailsshock: WRAPPED?????? I'M SO????