beingdifferent | Seventeenth little lie ♰ I got no one left to mourn for me

Entry tags:

Seventeenth little lie ♰ I got no one left to mourn for me

[Open spam]
[These last few weeks have been grey and listless for Esther, and today is no different. Still debilitatingly self-conscious, she saves her showers for the strangest possible hours, waking at three A.M. to bathe; she keeps her head down during the dinner shift and follows orders directly; she haunts the art room, both painting pieces (these are skilled, furious, sexual, distinctly adult, with nothing childish at all about them) and playing the piano (she has been perfecting her Rachmaninoff obsessively); and wandering through the gardens or hanging around the door to the CES hoping for access.

She hopes for solitude, but many hopes don't pan out.]

[Private to Lydia]
[After the pairing is announced Esther briefly reviews Lydia's posts to the network and steels herself, slipping back into, if not a childlike role, at least a gentle one. There isn't a real point to denying her age with Lydia, though she still presents herself with an infantile appearance; she knows or she doesn't know, and Esther is not worried about either option. When she contacts her new temporary warden, she's sure to be demure and agreeable, making a neutral observation.]

Your name is Lydia? That's very pretty. I'm Esther; pleased to meet you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[The benefit of the art room is that it draws Esther into herself; she doesn't have to pretend as much, when creating something. Setting up an easel is much simpler and just as comforting as setting up a lie. She doesn't even have to hide her subject matter anymore; the days of painting lions and houses and flowers are over, and she can freely put her fantasies on the paper.

This piece is a nude woman, viewed from behind. Her peach-colored flesh is stark in a black background, and Esther has begun to knit the two colors together. She adds burns to the woman's legs and hips, adding highlights to the injuries as she lays down flames engulfing the model. Esther isn't sure who the woman is, but despite the ease with which she holds herself, she's burning.

She is so invested in painting that she doesn't even hear Needy come up behind her. Her first hint that anyone is there is her greeting, and Esther stiffens almost imperceptibly before turning wide, innocent eyes to her.]

Hello. Did you want to use the easel?

[The flames, the sight of burned and charred flesh is part of what drew Needy in and made it hard to look away. It tugs at an older memory, one really not so distant but made harder to reach by all the rawer trauma that sits on top of it. The night Melody Lane burned down...all those people, screaming...the smell...

The night Low Shoulder rolled into town. The night that it all began.]

Uh, no. [She swallows before she speaks, her throat tight.] I was working with the clay, myself. I'm taking a break.

[There's still pale brown wet smudge all over her hands. Working a pot seemed too boring, but she wasn't sure what she was shaping, what she was trying to make. She got angry and frustrated when it started to resemble a tree. She kind of hates trees now. Don't ask.]

I just wanted to see what you were painting. I'm sorry for interrupting you.

[Fire has always been a particularly helpful element to murder, in Esther's opinion. In and of itself it isn't the most efficient way to bring about a death, at least not without significant damage beforehand, but its usefulness in obscuring evidence can't be denied.]

Oh. What were you working on? [Her English is virtually perfect, although her accent is Eastern European - Russian, probably, for those used to discerning such things.]

It's perfectly all right. [Esther dips her brush into a can of water and swirls it before wiping off the excess paint on an old rag. She takes a long glance at Needy as she does, ] What do you think?

[It seemed pretty 'efficient' the night at Melody Lane, that Needy recalls it. But then again that place was kind of deathtrap to start with. Bad wiring and spilled booze everywhere, and who knew when the last time anyone had cleaned?

Looking back on it she can't help but wonder. Did the band do it on purpose, somehow? Did they set the fire the old-fashioned way...or even with black magic?]

I'm not really sure. [She glances down, briefly, rubbing at the clay still stuck to her. Picking at her fingernails.] Think that was why I stopped. I didn't like the way it was turning out.

[At Esther's prompting though she lifts her head again for a good, long look at the canvas. She nods, perhaps a bit shaken but completely serious.] It's good. Way better than I could do. Especially with people; they're really hard to draw. [It's the symmetry, the anatomy. There's too much that can come out off.] You must be like, an art prodigy or something.

[If it had been, it wouldn't have been too surprising. An electrical fire in a dirty place is, in Esther's experience, easy to manufacture and creates an element of panic that keeps people from seeing the evidence. Just like in Needy's case.

Glancing over at Needy's abandoned project, Esther shrugs and holds out the rag, the paint-smeared edge folded under so she can wipe her hands.] Maybe you should try a different medium.

Oh, no, I've just been practicing for a long time. But thank you.

[Needy glances at the rag for a second before taking it, because sure, why not. Dry clay is harder to get off anyway. And it itches.]

Probably. I just...the place I was at before this, all they ever let me fool around with was yarn and popsicle sticks. Talk about over-protective. Not to mention boring as shit. [She glances up, briefly, when she realizes she just swore in front of what she still thinks is a kid. Oops. But she doesn't care enough to apologize.]

I can tell. [She comes a little closer, almost as Esther's side she can really look at the painting closer.] If you're this good now, I can only imagine how skilled you'll be by the time you're older.

[This sounds unwelcome and familiar, and Esther looks up at the girl sharply. The language bothers her far less than it should; in fact, she seems not to notice it at all. A strange thing for what appears to be a very well-bred old world child.] An institution, was it?

[The corner of her lip quirks upward and she glances back at her work in progress.] That depends on how much older I get.

[Needy notices the oddness, oh so very briefly, but then she's too distracted by Esther's line of questioning.] Yeah. For the criminally, mentally deranged. [The resentment in her voice is palpable.]

Why do you say it like that? [She turns her head sharply toward Esther, looking away from the painting entirely.]

Oh. One of those places. [She says nothing more than that but her disdainful tone tells quite a bit. Still, her eyes are clear when she looks into Needy's.] Many reasons. Home isn't a good place for me. Is it for you?

[That disdainful tone possibly reads of Esther having her own familiarity with it...which would explain a lot of things, actually.]

Not anymore. [Is her flat, frank answer to Esther's question.]

Then it seems that we have something in common. [This doesn't invite discussion, exactly, but it doesn't preclude it either.]

Maybe more than a few somethings. [Besides the obvious: them both being here.]

I think you live on my floor. [Actually, in the room right next to hers. But it sounds slightly less creepy if she pretends she isn't completely sure.]

[Esther chuckles coldly - not at Needy, but at the truth in her observation.]

Do I? [She's kept note of who comes and goes on her floor, and which doors change, but she hadn't confirmed Needy's residence.] Level three?

Yeah. I'm in unlucky number thirteen. [She's seen Esther coming and going, just enough to notice, really, not enough to count as creepy. Her opinion anyway. It's more like a survival skill.]

Then I'm directly next to you. [Her lips quirk.] Funny how that happens.

[She makes a similar look herself.] Yeah. Funny. So, um...how long have you been on the ship?

Since last autumn. [She's coming up on a year soon. Somehow, she doubts it will be the last she spends here.] You're new.

Yeah, I only arrived like, I don't know, three or four weeks ago? Already some of it feels like old news.

[She looks around at the art room, and considers some of the other things to the barge that right now she doesn't see.]

And some of it, anything but.

It's been a difficult time. [On Needy no doubt, and on the ship as a whole.]

What do you mean?

Is it always like this?

[She bites her lip, thinking, before she looks back at Esther.] I was used to the idea of weird stuff happening before I got here, but enough of it's so regular here that it's almost too unreal. New people showing up out of nowhere. No one being able to really die. The fact that we're on a magic ship piloted by a man that nobody ever sees, in space. Things like that.

Like what? Quiet? No.

[No one has ever stated it quite this plainly to Esther, and she nods in agreement.] It's unfair, isn't it.

That wasn't quite what I meant, but...good to know. [And sort of giving everything and everyone the sideeye now, thanks.]

'Unfair' almost seems like too simple a word.

It's always unusual, and often stressful. [A slight pause, and she offers information she suspects Needy already has considered.] I've found it's best to keep your head down and go with what happens, if you're interested in advice.

It's not descriptive enough.

I've kind of gathered that. I was sort of doing it anyway, just...'cause. It's how things kind of were in the last place I was locked up too. Maybe it's just a habit by now, I dunno. But yeah; I've gathered it's not the smartest idea in the world to stand out. Everyone here seems like they're ready to turn on you, the first excuse to do it to you they get. [That's not really fair, and it's not entirely true either. More than a few people have been pretty nice to her so far. But she's scared and wary to believe that what she sees is true. Thinking she'll just get fooled again.]

Yeah. Exactly. [At least that gets a faint smile out of her.] It doesn't do enough of it justice.

Not here, no. Standing out will get you in trouble, or at least get you noticed. [Which is exactly the same thing, unless you stand out in sympathetic ways.] There are a few people who would take someone so brash seriously, but only a few.

Excruciating. Is that a better word?

[spam - art room] [cw: fire]

[spam - art room] [cw: fire, burns]

[spam - art room] [cw: fire, burns]

[spam - art room] [cw: fire, burns]

[spam - art room] [cw: fire, burns]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]

[spam - art room]