réunion de verre [r]

[micheline bonheur]

michelle, my belle, these are words that go together well
michelle, my belle. sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble, très bien ensemble.

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Against her cheek the window pane was cool and refreshing. She could hear the sounds of spring from within, the rush of the awakening season. Life was in bloom, animals were getting back into the lifestyle outside of their caves. Inside of the house, everyone was restless.

Their lack of time outside caused the patients to become more violent and impulsive than they previously had, causing fights over the smallest of things. If, midst breakfast, one gang saw another gang something would happen over the passing of the salt shaker. Or, someone would move beneath the table to cut at people’s toes. That was why she always sat with her feet tucked beneath her, never moving from her seat unless someone demanded that she did. It was best to remain out of the line of focus. Sadly for her, she had been caught up in the silly gang war anyway. From the first day she had been captured into their tyranny. She couldn’t remember a day where she had felt so harassed.

The farther she leaned into the window, the more out-of-body she felt. Something had collected her soul and ripped it from her physical form, dangling it before the rest of her like she was some puppet. Every action she took was brought on by her thoughts, but they lingered farther away from the rest of her than she could’ve imagined. No one was there to notice it, though, to point it out that some ghostly figure mirrored the body that was nearly going slack against the pane of glass.

She didn’t want to go outside, not at all. Spring was the worst time to exit a building and have to face the bright colors of reality. Stepping out into the grass courtyards wasn’t even a thought. Having to absorb everything that went around her would be impossible, her head would spin, limbs would collapse, and she would panic. How does one take in both the manic laughter of escaping patients and the shrill tremble of the baby bird’s cry? Insanity. How could she both walk along the grass and think about where her feet were going while the sun blazed so bright and lit the world in color? In her dreams, everything was simple. Black-and-white, muted. These were the things she wished to become her reality.

"Giselle.” For some reason, it was the only thing that she could find herself saying. It was an accident to let her name slip out, for the moment she did, the lazy dangling feeling out being outside of her body and she crash landed back into the mother ship. Her eyes shut immediately, her fingers coming up to find her face and press down against the skin to prevent anything from falling out. Sometimes, she fancied, her face was melting off. It would be unfortunate if that actually happened, so she always made sure that everything was in its proper place.

Groaning suddenly and pushing the heel of her hand against her forehead, she spoke, "Giselle, stop talking. Your voice is so loud. Shut up.” The coolness of the window seemed to fade as her skin took it in, the laws of thermodynamics working against her. She wished that she could become part of the window, to take in all of its coolness and have it never end. It would wash away this trite headache, this bothersome voice that continued to knock on the door of her thoughts.

"Giselle, just stop talking.”

How did she get here? Why was her cheek pressed against the window like so? The wall of her mind refused to fall for her, to reveal to her the actual thought process that led her up those stairs, to this point in time. Everything just revolved around Giselle and her large mouth, the words that ran out of them even when she knew that Micheline wasn’t listening. It was deafening, painful. There was only one way to make it stop.

"Stop it, Giselle. Stop it.” The pillow was back in her hand, her body was once again perched on top of her younger sisters. Her hands were in front of her face, nearly lost within the white plush of the pillow. The dull pain registered though it didn’t even happen at this moment. Those small, thin legs looking for some sensitive portion to kick to go for the kill. Muffled, choking screams. Still had too much air. Push harder. "Shut up, Giselle. Stop talking. Shut up.”

There wasn’t a single tear.

Outside, she heard the cry of some bird. The distinct sound of flapping wings, feathers scraping the sky from tree tops that wanted to pierce the heavens. Nature was moving about in it’s natural order. Raccoons played hide-and-seek in the bushes outside of the school, her blue eyes piercing through them. Lazy mice widened their small mouths, scrambled along for the pickings of the bloom. Worms moved towards the light that they couldn’t actually see. Fish toyed with the surfaces of the water, their gaping mouths and twitching bodies.

“Where am I?” and her lips closed.

[armand pontellier]

wish that i could cry fall upon my knees find a way to lie
• ABOUT A HOME I'LL NEVER SEE •
i'm only a man looking for a dream it's not easy to be me

[/font][/size]

When Armand had woken up that morning, he immediately went away to one of his out-of-the-way rooms alone with every precaution taken so that no one would follow him. Out of all of the rooms he’d stumbled upon in his time incarcerated here, he loved this one the most. In that room there stood against a large, wall-swallowing bay window, a faded, but spacious easy chair that proved itself to be one of the best places to reflect at his leisure; it was out of the way and refreshing, untouched as it would seem by anyone but himself and perhaps the original occupant. And it was into this he so often sank in the evenings when petty squabbles grated on his nerves, wearied and irritable, and held down by the persistent appearance of a queer and unexplained exhaustion. But now, it wasn’t a moment of reflection or respite, but rather a desire to empty his mind of its troubling thoughts, which had built up in his absence and unnerved him. And so it was at this moment that he sought out his room so that he could see out into the open space that always seemed so very close to Alabaster House, and yet not, and to observe how the tops of trees were once more taking leaf, flowering, reminding him that life had not stopped simply because his particular pocket of it had. Armand hadn’t slept well that night, and he sensed that it had been because of the headache changes in pressure so often brought to him, rather than the usual nightmarish things that roosted in his thoughts during the evening. He didn’t seem too bothered by the storm that he assumed to have passed that evening, as he knew the delicious breath of rain would be in the air if that was so, and this usually did well enough to placate him.

It was with this in mind that Armand slunk about with a greater secrecy today, careful to ensure that his step was light and that he made no outstanding noises when he wandered down the hallways, up the stairs, and through the series of well-rehearsed turns and backtrackings that would lead him to a lonely little door nestled well within a hall that to any inobservant passerby was in a state of sorry disarray and therefore nothing to investigate further. It was as he neared this room that the notes of a distant voice reached him faintly, muffled somewhat by the countless newly born birds that were twittering in the trees. The very concept of having his room occupied by whoever was now distressed and no doubt wreaking havoc in it was something that clearly perturbed him. For a few short moments, he leaned against the door to listen, brow furrowed and that less than charming blend of colloquial French and obscene English imploring whatever god there may have been to make this discovery all just one very believable, insomnia-induced hallucination. He wasn’t going to have his room torn up, not at all.

But Armand wasn’t much of a praying man, anyhow. He pushed off of the door and arose at length, opening the door to whatever importunities he could discern were coming from within. The vacuous stare and the look of irritation that had followed this went from his eyes after several minutes of his staring at this intruder, though the bemusement lingered for a short time more. Armand’s pulse calmed somewhat after putting aside his thoughts, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of his body back to its usual comfort level as he leaned against the threshold, watching the girl who was evidently far too immersed in her own little world to take much notice of him. But he was never especially adverse to family when he was around them—he liked to maintain the idea that he wasn’t terrible to people who didn’t do anything to him personally—and looked tenderly and laughingly into her troubled eyes, somewhat sympathetic to whatever had disturbed her so. That didn’t, however, change the fact that Armand wasn’t particularly pleased to be in the company of anyone so long as he was pretty damn sure this room was untouched before, during, and after he found it and had been fairly confident in his keeping it that way. So family be damned—one of the few things he was actually happy to have in this god forsaken hellhole was the ability to not have to share with the people here.

”You’re in Alabaster House, in the left wing of the third floor, if you’re asking for specifics. Now let me just ask this now and get it over with, why are you here, Micheline? And in my room no less?” Armand didn’t explicitly tell his cousin to vacate his area, though he would hint at it somewhat before letting how amusing this situation actually was get to him. And while he awaited some sort of answer, Armand made some commonplace observation of how he rather liked the swatches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and lumped together on the right side of the bay window. Then as his gaze turned back to this distraught cousin of his, he murmured, half to himself, ”You are here for doing something to Giselle then? Is she dead, Chellie, is that why you’re here?” He could guess as much on his own, but he couldn’t pretend that he cared enough to assume as much without concrete evidence.

And in all honesty, Armand did not want to see his beloved cousin in such a loathsome place as Alabaster. It was, perhaps, thinking of this in particular that he didn’t firmly believe that Micheline was here for something as damning as what he had assumed, though he had begun to come to terms with her being here physically. But it occurred to him that pressing matters would help little now, regardless of why, there was no changing the fact that she was certainly here now and, what no matter what it had been, she would be staying here for a very long time. Just like everyone else. Just like him.

”Hopefully you’ll enjoy it here. You won't be leaving for awhile.”

[/justify]
WORDS ,, 1004.
TAGGED ,, Chellie. x:
MUSIC ,, L’Amoureuse – Carla Bruni.
NOTES ,, I’m slow, shaddup. /was playing unicorn games
CREDIT ,, PANIC! ITS LAUZ @ CAUTION[/size]

[micheline bonheur]

michelle, my belle, these are words that go together well
michelle, my belle. sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble, très bien ensemble.

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Open, closed, open, closed. She imitated the koi that she had spotted underneath the trees of her old backyard. The way that they would reach up and put their mouths on the tips of her fingers, as if they were food, but only gently. When the petals of the neighboring garden would fall down to the surface, they’d float beneath and she’d spot their orange and white splashed bodies in the tattered sunshine. Open, closed. The way that Giselle’s lips moved when she’s speak unnecessarily. How that simple motion would create all that noise, that unbearable noise. That pink tongue would graze her lower lip as she’d speak to keep from drying out, how those white teeth would appear and disappear behind those moving pieces of flesh on her face. Open, closed, open, closed. When she removed the white from her face, that slack jaw kept her lips open for the longest time.

“Close your mouth, Giselle. Close your mouth.”

[/color]

The trees outside rustled with the movement of the wind, the door opened with an equally powerful squeak. Her blue eyes did not turn from the shifting cerulean and white sky to the new occupant. Not a hair on her body moved out of place. It was hard to think that she recognized him coming in, but everything was high in sound today. It was like even the air that was pushed into her lungs as she breathed had its own buzz. When he moved, nearer to her, the sound amplified. If she moved to look at him, she’d only add to it. Why couldn’t everything be quiet?

Again, the shrill bird screech. Again, the movement of her body sucking in air. Again, the realization she was not alone.

Open, closed. Her mouth moved, but she didn’t speak. If she allowed a voice to escape from her lips, it would’ve been to ward off Giselle again. Tell her to shut her pretty little trap and take a long walk off of a short pier. In her mind, that babble never ceased. Over and over again she heard things that she had heard before, making her thought pattern a constant déjà vu of previous sentences. That voice wouldn’t shut off, and it wasn’t even her own. She could’ve handled it if it was her own, could’ve continued on with her day without having to move at the rate of a sloth. But, it was not her own light and airy voice that ran circles in her mind. It was Giselle’s and it was grating.

Then, the other person who had entered the room spoke and immediately her mind spoke the name (not her voice, Giselle’s voice): Armand. A cousin, the son of the man that suggested to her folks that she take a stay down in the Alabaster House. Oh, the hilarity. A ‘stay’. It would be much more than a ‘stay’: it would be a lifetime. Forever and ever, sitting among those who fought for no obvious reason. While she usually paid good attention to the details of her life, at the time that she had been told in whispered voices the reason why the sisters fought she had blanked out and forgotten every word of it. She just knew that her place in this house was as a ‘Holic’. It made no clear sense to her, but it would in time. After all, this would not be a simple touch-and-go kind of thing.

Armand. There was no recognition, still. He spoke about where they stood in the house, which floor and wing. Nothing made sense, still. Giselle’s grating voice didn’t allow her to revision the steps that she had taken. “Shut up, Giselle,”[/color] she whispered again, wishing to be rid of this all. That voice was piercing, bothersome. Even more so than everything else that she was surrounded with. The movement of some woodland creature down below, the loud voice of her cousin ringing about the room as if it were much taller. Why? Why was he here, speaking to her? Asking her things for what cause? The memories she had of her same-age cousin consisted of her stealing his toys and hiding them under her bed, yelling at her parents later that it wasn’t her fault. She’d never do such a thing.

“Oh,”[/color] she finally spoke up, responding in a tone less vague than the one in which she demanded her dead sister to stop speaking. “I’m here because of Giselle. I killed her because she wouldn’t shut up.”[/color] Her brow fell together at such a thought, going back to correct herself. “She still won’t shut that mouth of hers.”[/color] Blonde locks shifted, creating some static noise to her ears as she moved her head to face the cousin that she would be stuck with for the rest of her days in the Alabaster House. "Am I? I didn’t know. Sorry. I’ll go.”[/color] Despite this, she didn’t move. Blue eyes inquired of him an answer to what she had told him, about what she had done. It all sounded like she was terribly insane when she spoke in those dreary fragments.

Swimming among Giselle’s ceaseless monologue she heard screeching, something about Armand, something about his father. Her own voice, infrequent within the status of her mind, bubbled to the surface and screamed bloody murder about something. Everything was so jumble that she couldn’t discern what was meant of it, and then her voice faded off again. Her quiescent voice. It was supposed to be the most prevalent in her mind, wasn’t it? Wasn’t she supposed to be the one narrating her own thoughts? Oh, it agitated her. Why wouldn’t Giselle just stop?

A smile appeared on her lips, her own emotions pulling through the foggy mask that had previously controlled her facial features. Armand was sugar coating the truth, little did he know. “Awhile? Sure. I’ll be gone when he comes to get me though. Ludovic, he’ll come get me. How long have you been here, Armand? Awhile?”[/color] She didn’t actually believe in her made up tales. Her fiancé would play the charade forever, perhaps they’d even get married while she was still locked up. Did he love her? The last time that she had seen him was right before she had gone away, and he had kissed her on the cheek at that time and promised her that one day he’d come get her. That one day would be when her bloated corpse was found in the middle of an unnecessary gang battle, maybe. Or, if fairytales were true, he’d ride in and sweep her off her feet. It was a pretty illusion.

“What did you do, Armand? I can’t remember if someone told me. It seems like a long time ago.”[/color][/size][/font][/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[armand pontellier]

wish that i could cry fall upon my knees find a way to lie
• ABOUT A HOME I'LL NEVER SEE •
i'm only a man looking for a dream it's not easy to be me

[/font][/size]

“You’re speaking to yourself, dear. It’s rude to do that when people are talking to you. Stop it.”

It was just like him to do that. It was always his way. He spoke to himself often. It drove Armand mad, the way he’d sit there with his head thrown back, screaming. Always screaming. He was never quiet, not at first, because whatever he feared came close when he was quiet, hung thick in the air and loomed low, filling their lungs. Because whatever it was didn’t just want him. No, it wanted Armand too. It desired to burn through both of their bodies and leave them decaying together. That’s what he said. He said it so often that it had to be true, because when things were quiet Armand couldn’t breathe. His parents said they could hear him mumbling in his sleep, and that it bothered them. But Armand didn’t care, not at all, it kept that thing at bay. That’s what he said. And Armand believed him—it was true—there was no reason for him to lie. It was true. But he always spoke to himself, even if their eyes were locked together, he spoke to himself. Armand hated it. More than anything he hated that one habit, no, not hated, despised. Armand was right there, did he not see that? Why would he talk to himself? It wasn’t fair. Armand wanted to be spoken to, to have something said to him; attention was what Armand wanted. But that person didn’t like speaking to Armand when it was there, he just talked to himself.

But that person wasn’t here now, was he? No. this was Micheline, She was talking to herself, not him. He wasn’t here. It was okay for Micheline to speak to herself, she would notice him eventually. After all, Armand didn’t need her attention, he didn’t care if she held an entire discussion with herself because she wasn’t that person. No, actually, that was a lie. That habit grated on his nerves regardless. She needed to stop talking to herself and notice that he was here, and talk to him. Armand couldn’t respond if she didn’t say something to him. That thing didn’t usually bother him during the day, not when things were noisy. But it was quiet here, in this room, just barely kept alive and connected to the world by the occasional chirp of birds, was that enough though? It couldn’t be, there had to be a conversation or it would be bold today. ”Stop talking to yourself, it’s rude to talk to yourself, don’t you know that? People can’t talk to you if you talk to yourself. Say something, say anything.” She could hear him right? He wasn’t imagining his words because he wouldn’t talk to himself, because that didn’t count, it didn’t count in that thing’s eyes. But why wasn’t she talking to him? Both of them were here, they were real, they weren’t imagined, Armand didn’t hallucinate, after all. ”Giselle isn’t here. I’m here, speak to me, not her. Giselle’s dead, don’t talk to her.”

Armand wasn’t mad. He never had been. He was fine; calm and collected even. But insanity agitated him, made him fumble to play with his hair or dig his nails into his arm. Anything that brought back memories of that one person made him fidget, that was all. Armand didn’t ever think that person was insane though, that would make him insane as well, because they thought the same way. The only mad person here was Micheline. She was ignoring him. So he fidgeted, twisted the fringes of his pale hair ‘round and ‘round his slim fingers and tugged, hard, whenever he felt bothered by the thing he couldn’t see. Occasionally he laughed under his breath, or drummed his foot on the floor to appease whatever thought in his head that told him it was too quiet. Laughing helped, and Armand actively searched for things to laugh about in the room. Micheline was funny, her suffering was funny—humans liked laughing at the misery of others, didn’t they—she was imagining things that weren’t there. Wasn’t that funny? Armand thought so.

When Micheline did finally say something to acknowledge him, he could only mirror it back to her, the small laughter dying out and returning to the expression of amusement in his eyes. ”…Oh?” Armand breathed for the first time in what felt like ages, his composure shot to hell. Whatever that thing was, that thing from his past, it felt further away, and it let him breathe easily once more. ”…Is that so? I figured as much.” He smiled somewhat but wasn’t exactly sure what made him do so. Micheline seemed troubled and Armand himself puzzled as to why this was when he slid down to sit beside her, perhaps only to appease her distress somewhat. ”Stay, stay, it doesn’t matter now.” Even though Micheline didn’t make any move to leave, Armand waved a hand as though she had, momentarily grabbing at her arm before noticing that she wasn’t getting up and eventually let her go.

Armand smirked at the mention of her fiancé. It was well written on her face that she knew that he would not take her away from Alabaster House and so he didn’t shy away from his desire to laugh at the prospect. This wasn’t prison, there was no bail and no getting off on good behavior—there was just one sentencing and that was life, here, forever. They all knew that by now and those who didn’t would learn soon enough that there was a reason there was only a way into the asylum, and never one out. So yeah, Armand sugarcoated the hell out of it. No big deal.

Armand didn’t like the way Micheline posed the question to him. Of course he’d been here ‘awhile’, what did she want from him? A number? Three years, four years, forever? Armand didn’t know, he couldn’t guess the day or say what time it was to the minute. ”Awhile.” Yes, awhile was a good answer for that one. And the second question made him fidget again, tangling his fingers into his hair. What did he do? She made it sound like he did something terrible, that it was understood that there had to have done something. Armand smiled again, laughing that slow, broken cackle of his at the thought. When Armand did finally abandon himself to that question, little, whispered words escaped his slightly parted lips. “What did I do?” He tossed his head to one side and said it over and over again below his breath. His fancy was running riot with what he could say now. ”I didn’t do anything. They think I’m mad. I’m not mad. A little paranoid maybe, but I’m not mad. I’m sane. Like him. We’re sane.” He looked over to Micheline, his eyes imploring her to agree with him.

”I didn’t do anything…” He only whispered it now, quieter and quieter until he was just mouthing the words. Armand wasn't laughing now.

[/justify]
WORDS ,, 1169.
TAGGED ,, Chellie. x:
MUSIC ,, Chromatic Chimera - Unexpect.
NOTES ,, Armand no likey the quiet. |:
CREDIT ,, PANIC! ITS LAUZ @ CAUTION[/size]

[micheline bonheur]

michelle, my belle, these are words that go together well
michelle, my belle. sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble, très bien ensemble.

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Giselle continued on. Her tone was fluctuating, becoming the most prominent things on her mind and then the least. Sometimes something that moved outside would catch her attention, the scrambling of a squirrel trying to outrun a snake. Armand would speak and she’d tune in, trying to catch all of his words before that senseless voice babbled louder and she lost all train of thought. So persistent and annoying and… she wanted it to shut up. But, being inside of her head it would very much impossible to get her to stop going on and on in that striking little tongue. Words in French randomly invaded those sentences, fragmenting them to the point where nothing collided evenly. If there was ever the possibility to grab a shot gun and place it against the side of her head that would be what she did. Instead she clutched it desperately, trying to find her own words to speak.

“She won’t shut up. Even when she’s dead, she won’t shut up. If I don’t tell her, how is she going to know?”

[/color] Micheline insisted, turning her head and dealing with the noise of her cells colliding. “Every minute of every day, I can hardly hear my own voice over her. I killed her, but she won’t leave me alone.”[/color] Her eyes sought out his, looking for them to pursue her point to the finish. How long was she going to have to stay like this? How long was Giselle going to talk like this? One of her hands moved into her hair again, massaging the side of her head that was pulsing from the inner workings. The static noise of her hair rubbing against itself and her hand caused her headache to only worsen, to an extent, but there was no way that she was simply going to remain like this.

The destruction of her sibling was inevitable, that was for certain. Even Armand spoke in a tone that lacked surprise. Giselle had always been the louder of the two; the most ignorant – but, also, the youngest. She had no time to grow up and figure out that all she was saying was obnoxious or wrong. No one scolded her to the extent where this thought crossed her mind and she realized that she needed to be a better human being. Before anyone could do more than smack her wrist, the extreme happened. Instead of a slap to the mouth, she got feathers to the lungs. Suffocation. Her mouth slack, revealing all of her mouth. No more would she do the trick that every human knew from before birth; open, close unless someone else grabbed those lips and did it for her.

Then, there was a hand on her arm. She didn’t move. “Okay, if you think it’s okay. I’ll stay,”[/color] she murmured, acting as though it had been her intention all along to get up and go. It hadn’t, of course. The blonde was simply too attached to this window at the moment, too crowded within her own thoughts to focus her energies into standing and walking. It would be multitasking in her state of mind. Listening to Giselle, commanding her brain to move that leg and then the other one, thinking about the path ahead of her, the obstacles that she could face. Her mind could hardly remain on Armand, given the things that moved outside of the window, the things that were running along with her mind, and what he was saying. Proper functioning of the brain was so last year, anyway.

Breaking away from the window to look at her cousin, hoping to separate her focus more evenly and be able to remove that side of the world from her mind at the moment, she stared and waited for something to respond to. The only thing that she received was a burst of laughter, though, and nothing thus far registered to her as funny. Her head snapped out to the window, searching for something that would’ve caused her cousin to give this voice. “Why did you laugh?”[/color] her gaze was still situated out the window, looking for the reason. “Were you laughing at me? Why? I don’t get it.”[/color] Her face softened somewhat after a couple of moments, trying to figure out what she had said that would evoke such a reaction.

Giselle’s tone moved up higher in the ranks of her mind, bursting to the top of her mind and causing her to give a small groan (which sounded a thousand times louder to her). For some reason, her words seemed to be different this time around, and she looked down at the ground as she listened to them pass back and forth. Laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing. Il se moque de vous. Listen to me! No! No, it was Micheline who stole it! Stop blaming me, I didn’t do anything! Chel… Micheline, what are you d– The nineteen-year-old stared at her cousin, looking at him for some reassurance that he wasn’t laughing at her, that Giselle was just trying to mess with her head. It was a look of fear, certainly. “Giselle is telling me lies. She says that you’re laughing at me,”[/color] her mouth was dry. “Please don’t laugh at me.”[/color]

The cycle continued, the vicious cycle, and all she could do was sit there and look at her cousin, look at him and wonder what he really thought. Did he hate her? Did he want her to go away? What was he really laughing what? When he spoke, would it be the truth? Had he ever liked her? Was he still thinking about how she had stolen his toys when they were children? Did he ever genuinely smile at her? Was her thinking that they had an honest friendship some kind of joke to him? Why did he laugh? Was he looking at her right now and enjoying every moment of her suffering? Did he want to see her break down right here? A nervous hand curled into her skirt – the noise was smaller this time.

Then he spoke again and she could breathe, though this was on a completely different subject. “Who is we?”[/color] she murmured abruptly, tilting her head to the side as she wondered. “You’re sane, Armand. I believe in you. You’ve been better to me in the past than my actual family, who only stared. I like you, Armand, and you are sane. But who do you include in your ‘we’?”[/color] For someone who was oh-so wrapped up in herself not so many moments ago, it was strange that she was able to make such an honest transition. Or maybe Giselle had finally gone mute, clearing her mind and causing her to neglect her minor paranoia. That hand was still balled up in her skirt, but her eyes had lost the dangerously pleading edge that they had had before. Now she was interested in Armand, interested in this ‘we’. She felt like she knew, but she just couldn’t remember.[/size][/font][/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[armand pontellier]

wish that i could cry fall upon my knees find a way to lie
• ABOUT A HOME I'LL NEVER SEE •
i'm only a man looking for a dream it's not easy to be me

[/font][/size]

Armand didn’t know what to say to help her. And somewhere deeper down than it all, he didn’t want to. She was insane, she deserved to be here. She heard voices and the family’s blood dribbled on her thin fingers, blood that shouldn’t have been there. Micheline was disgusting. And what if she got too close? Let her delusions trickle down into his mind as those before it had? Would he hear her voice too? That wagging tongue would be in his head, he wouldn’t be able to hear his own thoughts if he only heard hers, he wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation, not long enough. Already he could feel his lungs collapsing around the air he was breathing, his hands moving to clutch at his throat, claw it open if he had to. Micheline was talking to herself again. Was she pretending he wasn’t there? Did she know about the thing that desired to steal his breath away, see it even? It didn’t want her; it was obvious that only Giselle could reach her the way that thing did him.

Why was she looking at him like he could do something for her? Armand didn’t care about Giselle, or how she couldn’t hear herself think with Giselle chattering about in there. It wasn’t about her. Why did she keep talking? He wanted her to stop; it was driving him up the wall. She was doing this on purpose, Armand knew that. It was obvious, so, so obvious. She couldn’t even meet his eyes for very long, always looking out the window when she turned away from him. His eyes followed hers whenever they moved, and he mouthed anything that may have come out of her mouth, echoing them if he could. ”What are you looking at…? There’s nothing out there…” That ear-splitting grin was back, and he pressed his cheek into the cool window, facing her with those accusing eyes. ”Unless of course you see it? Do you, Chellie? Is it talking like Giselle talks? Tell me what it says.” His fingers pressed into the window and his nails scraped along it, his smile fluctuating with his apprehensive snickers. ”I know what you’re doing~ I know what you’re doing~ It isn’t nice, not at all, not at all.”

Giselle again. Again and again and again, why wouldn’t Micheline stop? Why would she keep talking about her? Armand didn’t know Giselle, he didn’t have anything to say to about Giselle. She wasn’t important. No, she was dead. She was a dead family member he’d barely known. Armand could maintain a conversation on the voices in his cousin’s head about as well as he’d only hope to fare when speaking about his great grandchildren. And as far as he was concerned, Armand knew that Micheline was aware of that. She was doing it on purpose. Even when they were children, Micheline victimized him; she stole his things, frightened him by catching him off guard, always, always, always. She wasn’t fooling him. Not one bit.

”Dead…S-she’s dead, she’s not here, stop talking to her. Stop talking to yourself…Why are you ignoring me…?” By now his hands had moved from the window to her shoulders, migrating along them as though he was undecided between shaking her back to her senses and wringing her neck in his frustration. Part of it was also fidgeting, part of it was simply the trembling that picked up when he held his breath behind his teeth, hoping to calm how erratic it had become. This wasn’t good, it was in his head now, slithering down his veins, compressing his heart. He could feel it. ”I’m not laughing…I’m not laughing…Does it like laughter now, Chellie? Does it?” Armand certainly was laughing, laughing at Micheline, the thing he couldn’t see or truly feel, how much he could swear was there regardless. He cocked his head to one side, and watched her, his lips upturned in an uneasy smile. ”Will it go away soon? My chest hurts Chellie…tell It to go away, it doesn’t like noise…” Armand moved his hands away from Micheline’s shoulders, clutching at his chest and wringing the fabric of his shirt. They were family, she had to help. She had to.

The question made him pause. Something was churning in his head, but it was not quite anger. It was more like a tetchy discontent with the way things were turning out. One of his hands moved to grab at her neck again before stopping short and raked almost painfully against his scalp. How did she not know? It was obvious—to himself, that is—who he was talking about, so it was all the more unreasonable to explain what did ring clearly through his fear-riddled mind. “We? We is me…and him…Together, both of us, it was always that way…He was my best friend, you remember right? Armand gestured desperately with his hands, trying to make her remember that one person. Did she know his name? What he looked like? Armand did, more than any other memory in his mind, Armand remembered the ones that had him in it. The ones were they were fine more often than not, cheated off each other in class and got detention for being too obvious, about how neither of them liked peanuts and both ended up bedridden from the allergy because everything was always funny until somebody got hurt.

And then he left. He left Armand all alone. No matter how fast Armand was, he was always faster, and when it came down to it: he didn’t need to keep Armand around if it wasn’t convenient. Armand looked up at Micheline. She was getting further away from him, he was slipping onto the floor, away from her and the window. His fingers knotted into his hair and pulled until his forehead was mere inches from the floor and his elbows hard against the surface. ”He left me here…They think I’m mad…It’s going to get me here…” As the words slipped out his hands eased away from his head, his legs sprawled out before him and a lost expression etched far into his features. His chest didn’t hurt now, but his head did. He really was losing his mind, wasn’t he?

”Why!? Why!? Why!?” Armand didn't know if he was yelling at Micheline or himself, or nothing at all. It didn’t matter what he was screaming at now.

[/justify]
WORDS ,, 1054.
TAGGED ,, Chellie...again. 8I
MUSIC ,, Reclusion - Anberlin.
NOTES ,, That was kinda fun to write, even if word liked crashing repeatedly. B|
CREDIT ,, PANIC! ITS LAUZ @ CAUTION[/size]