markedformore | (no subject)

Entry tags:

carla jean

(no subject)

After the assault at the party -- deserved, needed, desperate -- Erik had shrugged off any help before making his way through the cold and dark streets. His lip bleeds sluggishly with no need for attention and the bruises on his face will fade. If anything, the cold weather is a balm to the pain and so he takes his time.

That and he's fairly sure he's managed to get lost in the process. The Boarding House is usually down these same streets, but Erik's been wandering aimlessly and the scarf and coat he's wearing do nothing to keep out the chill. As well, it's allowed his thoughts to run rampant and he curls the coat tighter about his thin frame as he walks.

One more turn and he's going to need to ask for help, but for now, he settles for swearing under his breath in German, an angry and quiet litany that he sees no point in stopping.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"And why is that?" he asks, as blunt as he ever gets. He's not the man one goes to when it comes to soothing emotional replies, but he's hardly without a heart -- no matter how much they tried to cut it out of him with his deepest loves.

For just a moment, Carla Jean only looks at him, drawing in a deep breath. Bluntness is something that she's always been able to appreciate, something she likewise tends towards herself; these are just slightly more difficult things to say, though she has no reason to keep them to herself. "Not long 'fore I showed up here, my husband was killed," she tells him, the choice of words deliberate. He didn't just die, after all, nothing accidental or slow and drawn out, someone slipping away in the night, peaceful. "Few days after that, my Mama died, and I'd just got back from her funeral when the man who killed my husband came for me, too. S'why I was in the state I was when you found me that day."

Erik's blood runs cold at the thought of someone harming Carla Jean in such a way, especially given that she seems an innocent sort. She seems the type to never harm someone without cause -- and Erik has grown to like her. "I'm sorry to hear that," he murmurs. "And I would kill the bastard if he showed up."

Erik has very little hesitations in gravitating towards violence -- a fact he is aware is despairing to a great number of people.

If she ought to be disarmed by how quickly the threat comes, it doesn't occur to Carla Jean to be so, instead just nodding, a barely noticeable movement. When she knows full well that this place doesn't offer her any other protection, she actually appreciates it. At least there's someone on her side. "He was here, once," she says, tone growing momentarily distant. "I found that out a little while ago. He's dead now, but I don't think that means anything around here. People show up who've gone all the time."

"It seems that death comes swiftly and often changes the way we look at the world," Erik murmurs, half in his own world. It takes a moment to shake himself away from it, long enough that he wonders if she's begun to think warily of him. "Do you want him back?"

"I do," Carla Jean answers after only a moment, nodding once. She's a sensible girl; deep down, she knows she'll have to get over him eventually, that the chances of both of them showing up here a second time are slim to none. That doesn't stop her from wanting him here, though. Even if she couldn't be with him, she would want that, just to know that he was safe somewhere. Looking at Erik carefully, she draws in a breath before she asks, "Did somethin' happen to you?"

"Everything has happened to me," Erik replies calmly, keeping his gloves tightly on his hands. After all, they keep him warm and more than that, they protect his secrets. Even in the warmth of the island, Erik shies away from short sleeves because they reveal far too much. "The world was not kind to me, right from the start."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Carla Jean says, simple, without any over the top emotion, but genuine even so. There's little that can be done about something like that, she imagines, and if just a few weeks of that being the case was enough to leave her feeling like she was at her wit's end, she can't really imagine fighting a losing battle like that from the start. "It ain't fair."

"Life isn't. I learned that when I was very young and discovered that people hated me simply because of...well, the life I was born to," he says with a sad smile. It hadn't changed as he got older. No, in fact, it'd grown worse. It couldn't be so simple to be hated and feared once -- no, Erik lives in a special kind of hell where he goes through the same torture again and again.

"No one should do that," Carla Jean says, shaking her head. She isn't naïve, knows full well that it happens all the time, throughout history and on smaller scales, but that doesn't make it right, and she isn't that sort of closed-minded. "I guess sorry wouldn't do any good, but no one should have to go through it, either."

He makes his way into the strange little flat that has become his home. He feels like a stranger here, as though he's going to be evicted at any moment simply because he's not accustomed to living in such a wealthy arrangement. It all comes back to this; people will know him for the imposter he is. He's never had (and perhaps never deserved) a normal life. "I'd like to show you something," he says, turning his attention to the sitting room.

It's private there. Now that Erik is considering showing a second person the ink on his skin that speaks of the darkest days in his personal history, he wants it to be done where there will be no witnesses.

Carla Jean hasn't got the first idea what he might be meaning to show her, but she also doesn't have any cause not to trust him, and that's reason enough to follow along. It seems like the sort of thing that might be important, anyway, if only because of the conversation leading up to it, and if there's anything she can do to help, though it isn't as if whatever he went through before can be undone, she'll do it. "Alright," she says, nodding as she heads in the indicated direction, watching him curiously all the while. "What is it?"

Erik walks leadenly and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt as he goes, bowing his head down and staring at the marks that make up his history. "I had the ill luck of being born at the wrong time with the wrong blood and the wrong talents," he says, hushed. "I was feared and hated from the very start."

Carla Jean draws in a breath through her teeth, glancing from the numbers on his arm back up to Erik again, eyes wide with something like comprehension. It's long before her own time, but she always paid attention in school, and she knows what this means, gets now what he meant by what he said before. "I'll never understand how people could've done that," she says, quiet in turn, resting a hand over his because it seems like the thing to do. "They can be awful everywhere, but..."

"I'm afraid that it means that people are cruel and horrible. They follow orders," he says bitingly, so angry at the very people who put him and his kind into camps -- who would do it again because of fear and hate. He turns his palm upwards in order to squeeze her hand tightly in thanks for friendship she gives to him.

Keeping her fingers curled around his, Carla Jean shakes her head, not a disagreement but a general sentiment towards the whole mess. It is that, too, and he's not wrong. She'll look for good where she can find it, but here, there is none, and people always have and always will be horrible. "Even the ones that should never've been given in the first place," she says darkly. "It's bullshit, doin' that to a person."

He raises a brow, amused by her profanity and the sheer inelegance of it, but he can't argue her point. "You won't find an argument in me," he assures, slipping his hand away when he feels as though he's under too much scrutiny. He pulls the sleeve down once more, bowing his head as he tries to move past this.

With all that said, Carla Jean doesn't feel a need to harp on the subject any more than is necessary. He'll say whatever he feels he has to — she hopes she's made clear that he can do that, with her — and apart from that, it isn't her place to pry, the subject one that she can only imagine is unpleasant to dwell on. Instead, she nods once to herself. "C'mon," she says, "let me take a look at you, see just how bad it is."

"I appreciate the kindness," he says, aware that such a thing should be expected, but Erik has grown to understand that he cannot trust in the good of people. After all, when they have been inherently troubling to him, it's difficult to look for even shreds of decency.

"S'the least I can do," Carla Jean says, not wanting to make more of it than she needs to. Even if he hadn't been so kind to her upon her arrival, she's not sure she'd have done differently now. It may not seem like anything too bad, but there's no harm in taking a closer look, being sure. "How're you feelin'?"

"As though I've been assaulted." He does not add the 'deservedly'. After all, he's sure that he's committed a great many vengeful acts and those that require punishment. The visit home had given him many a cause for wishes of self-flagellation, but now he feels he must move past it. "I'm fine," he reassures. "Really."

"No, really?" Carla Jean asks dryly in response to the first, though she can't help a slight smile at that all the same. Stubborn as she is, there isn't really anything she can do but take his word for it; she knows from experience with her husband that pushing something like this won't help. "Well, if you're sure, you're sure."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only