[ closed ]

[userunfriendly]

Who ❄ Michel, various
What ❄ memshare and assorted overflow
When ❄ ~August
Where ❄ Lumina Cloth carnival
Content Warnings ❄ child abuse and violence, captivity, torture, gore, pet death, transphobia, misogyny, TBA. Specific warnings in headers.


[ Plotting post here! ]

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(1/2) mem 1 for Vogel; cw child abuse, captivity

[userunfriendly]

[ Maybe, for an instant, the distortion of the reflection makes Michel look younger?

And then the memory comes over Vogel all at once: the heavy sound of the lock being turned, the light spilling in as the door opens. The girl who enters, carrying a tray of food, isn't much older than "you" are — perhaps just past the midpoint of her teens. She's shorter, slender, features soft and smiling. And "you" are terrified of her; but louder still than the terror is "your" rage and loathing. Loathing of the girl and her cold, constant smiles, her delighted giggles as she watches you struggle. Loathing of "yourself," for your own fear and helplessness.

"You" shouldn't be like this. "You're" meant to be strong, gallant and steadfast. But "your" hands and legs are tied, the way she left them, and all efforts to jerk free have only left the torn sheets hopelessly knotting and digging in until "you" can only feel that your limbs are still there from periodic pins and needles returning. She closes the door behind her and sets the tray down on the floor; even as she opens her mouth to speak, "you" can already feel the rage reaching a boiling point. Whatever filth is about to spew from her mouth, whether it's words she's used dozens of times before or some innovative new cruelty, "you" would give anything to be able to silence her. ]

2/2

[userunfriendly]

[ Perhaps noticing the distance between them growing, Michel lengthens his stride a tiny bit to catch up to Vogel. ]

It almost seems as if it's larger than it appeared from the outside.

[insinning]

[The fear and rage - not his but his at the same time are almost overwhelming. Sinclair presses a hand to his mouth, gasping a little, shaken despite himself. Winter's words cut through the buzzing in his head and he shakes his head, looking back at Winter uncertainly. What was that? He had seen Winter, but not as he was now - smaller? Younger? And that girl...]

...Mm. I guess because they didn't want it to take up too much space outside...

1/2

[userunfriendly]

They could program things however they want, but they seem to favor realism.

[ A curiosity of his, although not one he's really felt like pursuing. He glances down at Vogel with his brow furrowing a little. He's looking... a little unwell. ]

...Is it the heat? This isn't all that much cooler after all. We should--

2/2 cw: violence, misgendering

[userunfriendly]

[ And when Vogel glances again, the memory resumes in full force.

"Have you been a good girl, Michelle? I brought you your supper. I'll set it right here for you."

The singsong voice is sweet and melodic. It used to make your heart race faster. It does now, for very different reasons. You don't answer her; you could, and sometimes you do, opening your mouth to let all the curses boiling within you spill out. But not right now. You watch her, watching you, flooded with the adrenaline of knowing something worse is coming.

"...What's the matter, Michelle? Your food's right there. It's going to get cold. Go on, eat. But no using your hands. Crawl over and use your mouth.

...Come on, eat. Or would you rather I fed you?"

She will, if you don't act. You don't know what she has planned. But it will not be kind. Your body is still bruised and aching from the past week of this; and weak, so weak, to your eternal loathing. But you finally choke out the words that have lodged so tightly in your throat they were stealing your breath: "I'm going to kill you--"

You mean it. Fiercely, urgently. You've never wanted someone dead before. But you do now, enough to force your frail and pained body to move. You lurch for her and your teeth close around her wrist until the taste of her blood floods your mouth. Revolting. You want to vomit, but you won't let yourself let go. You'll bite down harder, gnaw through to the bone, rip the hand from her wrist...

"Let go!"

The first kick lands in your gut, knocking you free. The second, before you can recover. Then one after another as you try to curl yourself up, unable to shield your chest, your legs, your face, anything at all. Until despite yourself, you can hear your choked voice trying to ask her to stop, pain overcoming loathing in the haze of your desperation. She's called you disgusting. Demanded to know what you are. But as your eyes focus hazily on her face in the moment before you lose consciousness again, you know she must be the demon. ]

1/2

[insinning]

[Each blow in the memory feels real painful, twisting up in something wretched that makes Sinclair want to throw up. Or cry. It's the loathing, and fear all too familiar. The girl in Winter's memories seemed delicate, waifish. It's not at all like the girl in his, but Sinclair knows very well appearances are deceiving and the cruelty that came naturally to humans could take on any artifice, if only to help them inflict more.

He blindly grabs Winter's arm, shaking his head, blinking back tears. He needs to tell him what he saw, but more than that, he wants to--what? Say 'I'm sorry that happened to you'? That seems to pithy, so juvenile. I understand how much you hate her will seem stranger, without knowing what Sinclair has seen. How much hatred he has buried in his heart.

Michelle?. No. Michel. He wasn't fluent in French, but he recognised the lilting on those words. That was Winter's real name]

I--lets go back to one of the guilds. I think this place--there's something wrong here.

2/2 cw: violence, blood, death, gore

[insinning]

[And if Michel's not careful, he'll be drawn right into a different memory, in the glimmer of a mirror that distorts their images into a bloody nightmare.

The mansion is dark. The walls are splattered with blood. Your sister, is laying at the foot of the stairs, broken and twisted. Gasping. In the haze of fear, you realise something. Her fingers are missing.

"Emil...run..."

There's a laugh, shrill and cruel, followed by a whistle as another girl steps down the stairs, stepping on your sister as she swings a hammer around.

"Ah, my Sinclair. You've finally come home. I was waiting for you."

You are frozen to the spot. This is a nightmare. This is reality. Your body shakes, and you take an uneasy step backwards, as other men come down the stairs.

Emil...run...

You've always been a good, obedient son. Brother.

You run.

There's a gun shot. For a moment, it's deafening. Then there's pain emerging through your abdomen and you hear her voice, laughing and angry all at once.

"He's mine to spare--you dare--"

"My apologies, Kromer, I--"

There's a ringing in your ears. You're on the ground. The pain is agonising. And yet-]

[userunfriendly]

[ Michel startles but doesn't draw back, a worried frown tugging at his mouth. Vogel really doesn't look well... ]

Let's go. You can--

[ Whatever suggestion he had been planning on making trails off into silence as his gaze catches on a distorted reflection. Blood, and...

His sister. Not his sister, but the pain of the sight of her wounds lands just the same. He wants to run to her, to shove that girl away from her. What sort of twisted nightmare is this? The helplessness of it, the cruelty of that laughter so like-and-unlike Aimee. He draws in a sharp breath and jerks as if to flee, but his feet remain rooted to the spot. He can't do anything but watch. And feel. ]

CW pet death, torture

[insinning]

[You've made it outside somehow, in the freezing snow, the sound of distant carolling a mockery to the nightmare that lay inside. But the cold numbs the pain, even if you struggle to pick yourself up again. Move. Move. Don't look at your Aitla, don't look back.

Run.

There's a sharp pain that explodes in your head, a heavy boot kicking you over as you fall down the final steps.

"Sinclair. I'm so glad you came." A humming laugh, as a hand drags you up, touches your face with her bloodstained fingertips, covered in bits of flesh. You can't look anymore, and the willingness to move fades. You close your eyes, wait for the end. "What should I do...with the only son of the family that has caused me so much affront, hmmm?"

You shudder with revulsion. Fear. The beginnings of hate. But you sit there. Wait. Wait for the hammer to crush your skull too.

But it doesn't. You open your eyes, raise your face to meet her bloodstained face as she reaches into the pocket of your school shirt and takes a coin. It's one of the coins she gave you at school. You didn't understand the meaning until now.

"Ah, Sinclair. If only you hadn't shown me that basement. From now on, you'll doubt everything. Be anxious of everything. You'll live in terror of me for every day of your life..."

Ah. There it is. Each word strikes a chord in you, a wretched scar that can't be removed.

"I'll come for you, one day, Sinclair."

Everything goes dark, even as she orders people to move you---

"Don't look anymore!"

You hear an anguished shout, a scream of primal fear and a smaller body slamming into your side to knock you away from the mirror.

There's Sinclair, eyes wild with fear and anger, tears down his face as he grabs the front of Winter's clothes]

D-Don't...don't keep watching...please.

mem 2 for oria; cw: dysphoria, emeto, self harm

[userunfriendly]

[ You look down at a package somewhat different from the ones that still arrive every month. You've written to them not to bother, but your brothers have never answered any of your messages to begin with. You don't know if it's a gesture of continued care or the opposite.

Usually it's the same: food, a single book, a letter from your mother. Years ago, once or twice, clothes your eldest brother had outgrown, neatly folded and still smelling of cedar chips and sandalwood. They fit awkwardly on you, close enough in height but always much too loose, a sea of fabric half comforting and half a reminder (that you never follow through on) to try to put on weight or muscle.

This time the package is rectangular and thin. You slide a knife through cardboard and packing tape carefully, keeping your curiosity in check only barely as you tilt the contents out onto the floor of your dim living room. A painting? The brushstrokes are your middle brother's work, although this one is unsigned, either in modesty or -- most likely -- absentmindedness. It's a portrait, not what you remember him usually working on; but then, all you've seen in nearly a decade is whatever works are prominent enough to make it to articles online. Maybe he does portraits all the time. Maybe he's done dozens of this particular woman...

This particular woman. The lady sitting demurely for the portrait stares back at you, her gentle smile a mocking accusation. Your ruby eyes. Your colorless white hair. Your pale skin. But that face isn't yours. You've never looked that meek in your life. Those soft hands folded primly in her lap are nothing like yours, long-fingered and bony but still strong, curled around the handle of the knife. That figure isn't yours, for all that the drapery of the silk dress is captured so expressively in paint that you can practically feel it against your skin, that it sends a shiver of revulsion through you strong enough to cramp your stomach and make you swallow back bile along with your fury.

You reach for the letter that fell out of the box along with it, already knowing what it will say. "My beloved daughter Michelle--"

The letter crumples in your hand, but the knife is still clutched tightly in the other. You don't even need to hesitate for thought. You slash through the woman's face, again and again, ripping through the canvas and nearly chipping the knife blade on the wood behind it. It doesn't stop you. Nothing would stop you right now. If the knife broke in half you would throw it aside and shred the paint with your blunt nails like a frantic, clawing animal, because if you couldn't destroy this you would have to turn these sharp edges on your own skin. ]

[dissimulative]

[ Oria would have been fine to merely watch this play out, but when he sees what's reflected in the mirror, and that portrait, the letter—

He slowly turns towards Michel with wide eyes. Oria is absolutely shell-shocked here.

He didnt think there would be anyone like him. ]

[userunfriendly]

[ Michel had been standing, frozen, at this particular memory. The look on Oria's face finally seems to galvanize him again; a shudder ripples through him and he turns away quickly.

This damned place and its damned invasive, digging, prying mysteries. He already knows from Ganymede that it won't do anything. But he pulls his fist back and slams it squarely into the mirror. ]

Goddammit!

[dissimulative]

Wait! Winter, don't—

[ He gets startled when Michel slams his fist on the mirror and yells. Oria is still trying to shake off the feelings he felt when he watched that memory play out, but it stings so much, so personally. The thoughts and actions as if they were his own has truly disoriented him for a good while. ]

[userunfriendly]

[ Michel, unlike Oria, only tries to feel like a person rarely. His pain sensors aren't on; the haptic feedback buzzes instead, drawing him only slightly out of his spiraling doubts. ]

What? If you have something to say, then say it.

[ Fine advice that he should probably consider applying to himself and calling up his idiot of a brother. Three years, and it still rankles deeply to see that sight again. ]

[dissimulative]

[ Oria has so many questions he wants to ask Michel, and none of them are tactful. He can try, but he also feels somewhat emotionally charged, even if leftovers from Michel's memory, his own swirls into it. He feels anxious. He swore he would never tell this to anyone in fear of becoming a social pariah, especially because his family is well-known. People would use anything for leverage against his family, and that's something that is completely unacceptable. ]

... What do you think of your family now?

[ Instead of the usual boisterous tone of voice that actually makes him seem more childish than he should be, his voice is quiet and gentle. He knows it's a rough topic, but he wants to know. ]

[userunfriendly]

[ It's not the question he expected. Not the tone he expected. Michel's defensiveness falters just a little, some of the chill in his glare thawing to simple confusion instead.

Some habits are deep-ingrained. But perhaps that lingering stare wasn't what he had assumed at first. He hesitates to consider, rather than giving the first biting response that springs to mind. ]

...My mother is delusional and my brother is thoughtless. I don't know if there will ever be a place for me in their lives. But I... still want to know for certain. And even if there isn't—

[ Even if there isn't, he still can't curse them. ]

mem 2 for owen :worry:; cw: dysphoria, self harm

[userunfriendly]

[ You stand alone in the darkness, your chest heaving, your throat still raw. You've barely spoken in years; screaming from the very bottom of your lungs, pushing all of your breath and all of your fury into the explosion of rage, has left its physical mark on you. The handle of the knife is leaving an impression in your palm that may become permanent, at this rate. Your fingers still don't uncurl from it as you look down at the painting laid out on the floor.

Nothing remains of the portrait's face, the canvas there entirely shredded. The red eyes no longer stare at you in accusation. The gentle smile no longer mocks you. The only trace of resemblance left is the long white hair, hers elegantly waved and flowing where yours falls straight down your back in the confines of whatever elastic you grabbed from your floor when you rolled out of bed that afternoon. Georges' brushstrokes masterfully captured the light reflecting from the elegant rubies of the woman's neat, proper earrings. You reach up with one hand to trace the shell of your ear, jerking a cartilage piercing hard enough to hurt, as if to assure yourself it hasn't healed over in your moment of inattentiveness. That this damned portrait (remember who you are. recall your true self.) hasn't effected the physical change on you it was intended for.

It would be easier to make the argument if you cut your hair shorter. We want to remove any ambiguity...

There has never been ambiguity. You have never been that woman. You will never be that woman. And yet you're still the one expected to remake yourself to a standard set by some unknown, unknowable entity, to prove to others what you have always known. Again, and again, and again, to an audience that watches you with skeptical judgment.

Beneath your bubbling hurt and hatred is simply — emptiness. And the knife is still in your hand. ]

What are you looking at?

[ Michel's voice, icy in anger, slashes into the memory like the knife had through canvas. In the present, in the hall of mirrors, he reaches out to try to grab Owen ungently by the arm. ]

[sicklysweet]

[He doesn’t feel much guilt for looking, for seeing something he was never meant to feel. It’s not like it was his choice to intrude on something that makes his stomach twist in an uncomfortable familiarity that isn’t quite familiar, but his gaze slides away from the reflection and the destroyed portrait, landing on Michel.

He’s quiet for a moment, head cocked to the side.]

You.

[He watches Michel for a reaction.

He wonders if he ever took a knife and lashed out at something that wasn’t canvas and wood. Has he hurt someone with all of that anger and emptiness…? Destruction will rarely stay contained neatly, so should Owen consider his own safety?

Despite thinking that, he doesn’t make an effort to pull free from Michel just yet, simply watching.]

[userunfriendly]

[ Michel stares back, his eyes locked on Owen's as he tries to gauge that expression. The layers of meaning implicit and possible in that simple word. His chest is still heaving sharply, not unlike the way it had been in the memory, as he leans in. His voice is calmer and softer by the moment. Steadily colder. ]

Is that what you wanted? Were you entertained?

[sicklysweet]

[Was he entertained? Yes, in a way he knows makes him awful and twisted. It's not every day you get to see what is best left forgotten, tied up and locked away, never to see the light of day until it withers away completely.

But it's not what he wanted. It's not like he wants to know all of Michel's deep, dark secrets. It's not like he cares, it's not like knowing this changes anything. Who people wanted Michel to be means nothing to Owen.]

What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry for looking? That I won't tell a soul?

[A beat.]

Do you want comfort, or do you want me to say the same things as them? What is it, Winter?

[userunfriendly]

[ Does he want comfort? From a stranger? An apology, a promise with no weight, when he already knows full well the worthlessness of those? The outburst of emotion is ebbing away again, but a touch of contempt manages to reach his eyes. He has enough of that for himself and Owen both. ]

What I want? I want nothing from you, or anyone. I won't answer your questions, and I don't need your insincerity. Either say what you're thinking or leave me in peace.

[ His fingers loosen their grip on Owen's arm almost convulsively and he rolls his shoulders as he steps back, looking away again. Naturally now the mirror seems still. If he could shatter this place into dust piece by piece with his own hands, he would. ]

1/2

[sicklysweet]

You think I have questions?

[He snorts, shaking his head. There's nothing to ask.]

There's nothing more I need to know. It is what it is, isn't it?

[Owen brushes himself off, smoothing out his clothing, and he just... keeps watching Michel. He's almost expecting him to lash out again, but he's curious about what Michel sees in their reflections. Is it the same memory Owen saw, or is it something else?]

Though I suppose I must know - are you looking to get any dirt on me?

2/2 cws for hospitalization, needles; implications of starvation, child abuse, abandonment

[sicklysweet]

[The reflection shifts, warps, and the first thing you notice is that it's cold. It’s so cold, a chill that cannot be chased away even with the blankets piled on your lap, threatening to swallow you whole. You’ve felt the chill since you woke up, but it’s distinctly different. It’s from the needle under your skin, connected to a plastic bag filled with clear fluid. You’re not sure what it’s for, but trying to pry the needle out gets people rushing into the cold, bright room. They scold you, so you’ve given it up, even if it bothers you that you can see it, just like you can see the bones underneath your skin, as obvious as if you had no skin at all.

How long have you been here? You don’t know. You don’t know much, right now, holes where your memories should be. You do know that it’s cold, and that you want more of that sweet juice one of the women in minty clothing gave you. You’ve never had anything like that before, that much you remember, but you wish you could get more. You can’t ask for it, though, because you don’t know how to ask.

The words are there, in your mind, but they get stopped in your throat and all you can do is stare and nod. You can gesture more, now, weakness no longer weighing on your bones, but you feel an icy grip around your chest whenever you open your mouth. You can’t complain - complaining is just grounds for punishment. You want to be good, which is why you…

Why you did something that you don’t remember. You’ve been asked so many times, by different people in different clothing, all during your stay here. What’s your name? Where are your parents? Do you know their names? When were you born? How old are you? All questions you’ve been asked many, many times since you woke up in this bright, white room, but none of them you’d be able to answer even if you could get the words out.

They note how you seem to understand them, but truthfully you only understand bits and pieces. You know enough to wonder if you’re in trouble, if they’re mad at you for being unable to answer, for not remembering, but the talks of records, of police, of custody…

It means nothing to you. Should it? Would you get something sweet and stop being so cold if it meant anything?

You hope you get the answers soon. You’re tired, and cold, and (still?) so alone…]

1/2

[userunfriendly]

[ "It is what it is"? It's true. And also, almost laughable. Michel's eyes narrow as he watches the reflection of Owen watching him. He can't read the meaning in that gaze, but being looked at at all right now makes his skin crawl and his shoulders tense further. ]

To what purpose? Would--

2/2

[userunfriendly]

[ He cuts off mid-sentence as the memory rolls over him like a wave. ]

[ It's dizzying. It's sickening. A child's confusion and lack of perspective, the tide of emotions and unfamiliar people all around. He feels himself buffeted about by it, caught up in something beyond his control and -- unfortunately -- not quite beyond his understanding. He knows some of those feelings entirely too well. The cold and endless fatigue that drags down a body more shadow than substance. The haze of emptiness, silence. Isolation.

Michel draws in a sharp, startled breath as the memory releases him again. This time, when he whips his head around to glance at Owen, the edge of anger is gone from his glare. But he can't seem to recall what he was in the middle of saying. ]