Who: Caradoc and Emmeline What: She's being dismissive, according to him Where: The pub When: Eh we'll say yesterday. Sunday. Rating: TBA - Emmeline's language at least
Emmeline had meant what she said in the journals. She had been struggling with crushing depression since being brought to the island over two years ago, and it hadn't improved in the slightest. Really, the tumultuous existence and the continuous uncertainty that lingered over the entire place on a consistent basis only fueled her issues, making them worse instead of pressing her to deal with them. Where others met their issues head on, managing to find creative solutions to their baggage, Emmeline felt as though she was continuously being crushed by them. When she felt she had finally made one step forward, she was tossed ten steps back. So she simply gave up. Drowning her feelings in drugs and alcohol seemed like the best course of action, because if she wasn't numb, at least she was medicated in a way that allowed her to be fake happy. Fake relaxed. Fake alive.
It was easy enough, most of the time. Until people started hounding her about it all. Asking her if she was okay. Telling her she was worrying them, and that only managed to break the carefully crafted reality she had managed to achieve in her intoxicated stupor.
So when Caradoc had called her out on her shit, she only withdrew further. But it seemed like she wasn't getting off that easy... no. He was coming here, to talk or ... something. She managed to down two more shots by the time he walked in the door, and she pulled her knees to her chest as she sat in her booth, tucked away in the corner. Maybe if she made herself as small as possible... he'd miss her. I mean, she was pretty tiny to begin with, right?