visetvires | Entries tagged with dark stares in

People have been talking a lot about what inmates are allowed to do - what power inmates should have and how those should be distributed. And maybe that's a conversation that needs to happen. I don't want to be a part of it, because I am and have always been human.

What bothers me is that the wardens, who have the most power over us by sheer virtue of being wardens in this place, also have full access to powers that could crush every single human in here. I'm not going to reference particular times and places when that's happened, because we all remember them. For those of you who are too new to know what I'm talking about, imagine going up against a dragon with a toothpick.

This isn't necessary. It isn't necessary for anyone on this boat to be stronger than anyone else in order to achieve the alleged goal of rehabilition.

And I'll tell you one other thing: all my adult life, I've been fighting outnumbered against creatures ten times stronger and more dangerous than I could ever be. As far as I'm concerned, the way things stand around here now, this is just a continuation of that fight.

[A beat. A breath.]

. . . And Scott, get over here, please. There's something I have to show you.

spam } zero

[There isn't a single part of her that's not black and blue. The first day goes badly, her bruised and broken bones aching, the sense that pain is swallowing her. She makes a few noises that she wouldn't admit to later, a mewling, echoing sound, like a child who has long given up hope that someone will come for her.]

[She knows she is alone.]

[She doesn't expect anyone to come visit her. From a practical perspective, it wouldn't make sense. The beast is too well liked for anyone to sympathize with her. This will be her seven-day trial, or longer; who knows? Maybe they break the rules when you kill the wrong wolf.]

[From an emotional perspective, she has no hope that anyone in the world exists but her. Her actions have wiped everyone else off the map. People are impossible, and faith more so. Not that she feels guilty: far from it. It's simply that she's done her job, and it hasn't worked.]

[The beast is alive.]

spam } scott

[When her seven days are up, she waits in the corner of her cell. Not expecting much, really. Either she'll go or she won't. She could continue to stay in here forever if it were up to her, and she wouldn't be too bothered. It's not as though outside of these bars she has a purpose anymore. It's not as though there's a goddamn reward or even a point to doing what she was taught to do.]

[She wonders whether the Order even exists anymore. Somehow, working solo, she always thought the organization revolved around her. With her death, have they dissolved? Or do they continue on despite her absence, as though she doesn't matter?]

[Because she doesn't matter.]

[Her arm is in a sling. She hums Hey, Jude under her breath, because she remembers it, and it was a bright moment, or at least a moment she remembers as separable from all the other moments in the past hundred and sixty-eight hours.]

spam } later

[Just past midnight, she wanders the hall. There's nothing sharp in her room - which is not new - and nothing to drink - which is. She feels utterly bereft and ridiculously emotional for someone who hasn't felt a thing in the entire past week.]

[Her path takes her past most common rooms, zig-zagging, up to the deck, where she looks out over the rail for a moment until she realizes what she's doing. Then she draws her lips together in a tight line and turns away, off to sit quietly in the rigging until what is nominally dawn. Just before breakfast, she disappears into her room again.]

[This pattern continues for several days, as sleep persists in not coming. On the fourth day, she falls asleep on the deck and sleeps through ten o'clock, when she awakes with a start and a scream, clawing at her neck.]

Do you people always get this fucking philosophical when it gets cold? What is it about the drop in temperature and the birth of Jesus that makes people feel the need to tie up all their mental loose ends? Shit.

Someone let me into the pub.

spam } chapel & enclosure

[She prays. Fervently, her hands clasped so tightly that the dry skin of her knuckles breaks. Her prays are whispered, muttered against the clammy silence of this place, so free of significance, of the marks of the God she knows. If she's being honest, she feels closest to God in other places - in the Enclosure. Near Stephen, who has the quiet of God if not the quiet fury. When she is alone. In the bottom of a bottle. In some woman's mouth.]

[But it's here that she wants to find it. Here below the white walls, before the hard pews, she wants the severity of her God, His desire for her strength, His unrelenting expectation of her duty. She is failing. She whispers please and please and please.]

[When she gets up to leave, she's clearly been crying. Or maybe she's just red-eyed because she's drunk. Maybe it's both. Either way she runs, through the halls and to the Enclosure, slams on the door with a tight-closed fist, as tight as the vice around her heart.]

( cut for gift list! )

spam } open

[The feeling of safety lasts approximately three hours after the fire's put out. Clementine is alone, which is not so unusual, and sober, which is, when she realizes that a clock is ticking. There's a clock on her wall. Honestly she never noticed it before, but now it seems obscenely loud.]

[She pulls it off the wall and takes the batteries out, then hangs it up again, its hands frozen. Stares at it for a few moments. Pulls out a piece of paper and makes a list of what they've learned.]

[It's not enough.]

[This is not a fact that she can accept, not like this, so alone and so sober. So instead of sleeping, she sets about to fixing one of these problems at a time. The second one's easy. Once she's tackled it and kicked the bottle under the bed, she makes her way out to the deck. It's not as late as she thought it was, nine or ten, and there are still plenty of people around. One thing she's got in her favor is she doesn't seem as drunk as she is. She can walk around, look at things, hands clasped behind her back like any other functioning person. People-watch.]

[Only, if anyone notices, this is anathema to her habit. She isn't normally out this late unless she's doing something specific, she doesn't mingle, and ordinarily her gaze is sharp - too sharp. Now she watches everyone as though viewing them through fogged glass, like she can see vague outlines but nothing else.]

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Gᴏᴅ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ.

Hᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛs ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴛʀᴏɴɢ.

Entries tagged with dark stares in

ten † where help is almost despaired of

eight † intercede with God for me ( backdated post-kitsch )

six † i am a shadow dressed up in this skin & bones

cinq † of things almost despaired of ( cw ; fire / arson , alcoholism )

ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴛʀᴏɴɢ.

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