bitchy candy. (confects) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2013-01-05 10:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, ! plot: kidnapping, coralie bouchard |
WHO: Coralie Bouchard.
WHAT: Reacting to Marine's death -- or, feelings are complicated (and arguably nonexistent) for Coralie.
WHEN: January 4.
WHERE: The lake at IVI.
WARNINGS: Language, Coralie being horrible and insensitive. I'M REALLY SORRY, EVERYONE!!!! :(
STATUS: Narrative/complete.
Deep down, Coralie knows that she is not normal. Not just in the way that different blood runs through her veins, that her father spat Vol at her, or the way she sees her very skin turning into pink candy, just as fake as she used to be. No, she knows that emotions should not work like this. In moments of introspect she searches for guilt, shame, and sympathy, but Coralie just feels empty. This pleases her, and that’s how she knows there’s something wrong -- she likes it. Cue introspection. Cue a dead girl who walked through dreams. She is sitting out by the lake, long lanky limbs all tucked in under her chin. A phantom cigarette sits in the gap between fingers index and middle. Her fingers subconsciously grasp for any type of vice but none are found. She doesn’t know how to feel. How to feel? Marine van de Velde is dead. Coralie is angry, she hates, has always hated Marine. The Belgian girl invaded her dreams, knew her so innately that it terrified her. But it also exalted her; are you really there if nobody knows you, understands you? Do you stand for anything if nobody knows it at all? Marine understood her, and Marine is dead. Yes, Coralie is angry. She hisses and grinds her teeth, picking up a rock by the lake and throwing it deep into the water. Marine’s eyes, the malicious smirk she had when Coralie really knew she was furious, so furious at her. Her hair, her limbs, her rebellion. Coralie never hated Marine, but oh, she did. Still, there’s something to be said for how Marine was her favourite toy, how she relished her anger, how she felt a thrill when fucking Alex and it was because he was Marine’s. Still, she feels like she’s grasping at straws, learning a new language, completely out of her depth. There’s dirt under her nails and she’s digging into the ground, her teeth are grinding, and briefly, she wonders if this is sadness. If this is that feeling she’s been missing all her life. Her heartrate rockets and no, no, she can’t do this -- she won’t do this. She can’t do this. “You died because you were stupid,” Coralie hears herself say. “You were kidnapped because you were foolish, and you deserve what you got.” Her voice gets louder, more accusing, but she’s still only faintly aware of it. There’s an innate discord and Coralie feels sick. “Fuck you, Marine. You always acted much better than me, perhaps because you could feel, and you actually cared about people. Well done,” she spits. “You left the people you cared about behind, you must know that. You could have tried harder, done more, but you didn’t.” They’re not lies, spurting out of Coralie’s mouth. She truly believes them, but she’s twisted, ill, sick. Not right. None of this is right; Vols shouldn’t die and moreover, Coralie shouldn’t even remotely care about it. “They cared about you, and you left them behind. Now they’re absolutely pathetic. You’re just as bad as me. Congratulations.” The accusation is satisfying as soon as it leaves Coralie’s mouth, and it never occurs to her how pathetic she is. Why twist the truth into an unintelligible mess, blaming a girl who died at the hands of terrorists and had no choice? Why? Because Coralie can’t find it in her to do anything else. Proper emotions are too straightforward -- and as she’s discovered time and time again, not hers. Rest in peace, Marine van de Velde. Fuck you. |