laurel lancaster: fun, hot, and kind of a bitch. (suggestively) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2013-07-09 18:11:00 |
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One by one, two by two. A pair, a set. Twins. When Lucy dies, Laurel feels a part of herself die, too. Her sister's hand falls from her grasp, fingers as lifeless and limp as the wavy hair fanned out beneath her. Laurel shakes them, willing them back to life, pulling her sister's head into her lap and Suggesting, Suggesting she wake up, though she knows that her powers have never worked on her twin, and they will certainly not work on her now. Eyes are the window to susceptibility, but Lucy's eyes are no window; they are a mere ghost, a sad dead reflection of Laurel's own. And her hand is already growing cold, though Laurel does not understand how. Lucy is always warm, giving and kind and warm, and her hand is always there to pull Laurel into an embrace and help her rise. Who will help her rise now? Again she screams at those lifeless eyes, but there is no thrum in her veins that suggests her power is working -- and she feels as dead as the sister she holds. Who is she without Lucy? Laurel has always been wild and impetuous, but her sister has been there to hold her back and keep her safe. Lucy is her cocoon, as she is everybody's, because that is Lucy's role. She paints broad strokes on her canvas and dreams of bigger things; she is an artist who sees the beauty and the good in everyone, but above all in Laurel, who has never quite managed to see the good in herself. How could Lucy be the one that goes? It isn't fair, Laurel cries, knuckles white as they clutch at her sister's frail shoulders. It isn't fair. And as a guard reaches for her then, thinking her vulnerable -- because she is, she has never been more so, tears staining dirtied cheeks, blood mixing with Lucy's own, although their blood has always been one and the same -- she breaks. Why does he get to live when Lucy does not? Why does anyone? Laurel knows she's wounded too, but she feels no pain as she pulls at the guard's collar and grabs him close. What she does feel is the thrum in her veins, the wild throb of energy coursing through her blood (hers and Lucy's, but Lucy is gone) as she commands him to shoot himself. He does. And Laurel revels in the act she'd once feared to commit. The fear in his eyes as he brings the gun to his head makes her heart beat faster; the slight tremor of his fingers as the trigger is pulled catches her breath in a way no other Suggestion ever has. She revels in the blood that spatters everywhere, on the ruins of the building around them, mortar and stone, on her hair and cheek, and on Lucy's paisley patterned dress. Now Laurel is past the point of caring for herself, her life or anyone's, IVF or VR or IVI student alike. None of them matter, no one matters, because Lucy is gone and Laurel's life is gone and nothing matters at all, except they all die too. A life for a life, but no life is equal to her sister's, except all life, perhaps. She grabs them one by one, demanding they die, commanding they die, and they do, one by one, dominoes falling at her hand. And the power courses through her blood, it throbs, blackening the edges of her vision until she too falls -- beside her sister, side by side. One by one, two by two, a pair, a set, twins. |