Christine DeChagny (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lethermindwander) wrote2017-11-20 05:29 pm
lethermindwander) wrote2017-11-20 05:29 pm
Entry tags:
So we're bound to linger on
. 💀 WHO: Christine and Hancock
💀 WHERE: A small Hell town fairly close to Little Hades?
💀 WHEN: After "The Rescue"
💀 WARNINGS: NSFW, alcohol, swearing, the usual
💀 SUMMARY: Christine has caught up to her friends on the journey to find Booker. She's falling apart and trying to hide it. Until she can't.
She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. The cool, clean water engulfs her hair completely and her ears are submerged. All she can hear is the thick, dampened sound of the flowing water and it is absolutely deafening. Relaxing. Christine feels like she’s floating away. Away from her anger, her suspicions, her guilt. There is nothing except this cathartic cleansing.
Though the sensation of gentle fingertips trailing along her arms slowly coaxes her back to reality. When those long fingers entwine with her own, she lifts her head and opens her eyes to briefly gaze upon the man to whom those mystical fingers belong. How her heart aches to be near him always.
She blinks and it would seem that a smattering of moments have been lost to her. Christine hardly recalls them, her supine body now sitting upright. Her head tilts to the side as Erik presses his mangled lips against her sensitive neck. She shivers at his touch and one of his hands moves along her inner thigh until it is nestled between her legs and--
So this is what it really means to burn in Hell.
Christine thought she knew torture. Watching her son grow a little more into his true father's shadow every day, that was torture. Seeing that look of undying love in Raoul's eyes everyday and being unable to love him back with the same intensity, that was torture. Having one's body torn apart to the point of the closest thing to death, over and over, that was torture.
But in an instant, Christine realized just how naive she had truly been. How naive she had always been. Only an idiot, only a stupid, simple-minded girl would stubbornly take on a task of that nature as she had. It was pointless. Everyone around her had warned her. Everyone had known better. She should have just listened.
Because there can be no greater pain than this and there's no escaping it.
She will never see her family again. She will never see her father or her mother. She will never see Raoul or Charles. For the rest of eternity, she will be cut off from them for good reason.
She will never see Erik again, except in her dreams. And that is the greatest torture of all.
Because every single time she imagines him, she can never picture him alone. All she can see now is a pair of infernal red eyes gazing up at him with love. All she can hear is that girl’s wretched, airy little laugh and picture Erik’s arms possessively drawing her towards him. How the sound of her voice would infect him with a beastly hunger for her flesh. Oh, how absolutely captivating he must find that little rat of a girl--
Unable to contain her rage any longer, at Erik, at Lacie, at herself, Christine snaps from her lonely perch in this junkyard. She slides down the mangled hood of a totaled semi-truck and is pulling her loaded pistol from its holster before her feet hit the dusty ground. She turns on the ball of her foot and pulls the trigger, a shot ringing through the muggy air and shattering what’s left of that truck’s windshield.
She pulls the trigger again, aiming at a discarded bottle of beer. The first shot misses but her second does not. Still, this does not soothe her ravaged temper, a temper that she never had in her youth, a temper that she loathes that she now has.
A discarded mannequin is her next target. She blows off its head, then each of its arms and she unloads the rest of her cartridge into its chest. It should be noted that for a brief moment, in her rage, she imagines that hunk of plastic to be The Rose of the Requiem. Such cruel irony, that woman’s professional title. Before all of this, Christine had idly wondered if Erik himself had decided on that particular piece of marketing or if one of his various directors had come up with it.
There’s little doubt in her mind that Erik was the one that came up with it, now. She wonders if he has also read to her the story of the Nightingale and the Rose and their forbidden love that was never meant to exist.
Christine was replaced, plain and simple. By a flower that had been born red.
Christine reloads her gun and storms through the heaps of trash. She shoots an old motorcycle helmet, the faded image on a crumbling billboard. There’s little rhyme or reason and she cares very little if all this noise ends up drawing out a ferocious Hellbeast. Perhaps that is what she deserves.
She only blames herself for Erik’s indiscretions. If only she had made her decision in life sooner. If only Christine had learned how to handle herself more quickly in death. If she had been faster and stronger, he never would have had the chance to fall in love with someone else. He never would have lost faith in her. Knowing that she irrevocably loves him beyond all comprehension and knowing that Erik perhaps did not love her in the same way is her eternal punishment for being such a weak and senseless girl. This is her punishment, being forced into this position of constantly imagining Erik with someone else, it’s the only thing that’s fitting after she had undoubtedly forced Erik to imagine her with Raoul…
And now she feels more alone than ever before. Even though Elizabeth and Hancock are somewhere in this town, Christine dares not to burden them with her violent thoughts.
So she just keeps wasting her precious ammunition, hoping that each ringing gunshot will help in some way. Even though she knows full well there will be no mending of her broken heart.
💀 WHERE: A small Hell town fairly close to Little Hades?
💀 WHEN: After "The Rescue"
💀 WARNINGS: NSFW, alcohol, swearing, the usual
💀 SUMMARY: Christine has caught up to her friends on the journey to find Booker. She's falling apart and trying to hide it. Until she can't.
She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. The cool, clean water engulfs her hair completely and her ears are submerged. All she can hear is the thick, dampened sound of the flowing water and it is absolutely deafening. Relaxing. Christine feels like she’s floating away. Away from her anger, her suspicions, her guilt. There is nothing except this cathartic cleansing.
Though the sensation of gentle fingertips trailing along her arms slowly coaxes her back to reality. When those long fingers entwine with her own, she lifts her head and opens her eyes to briefly gaze upon the man to whom those mystical fingers belong. How her heart aches to be near him always.
She blinks and it would seem that a smattering of moments have been lost to her. Christine hardly recalls them, her supine body now sitting upright. Her head tilts to the side as Erik presses his mangled lips against her sensitive neck. She shivers at his touch and one of his hands moves along her inner thigh until it is nestled between her legs and--
So this is what it really means to burn in Hell.
Christine thought she knew torture. Watching her son grow a little more into his true father's shadow every day, that was torture. Seeing that look of undying love in Raoul's eyes everyday and being unable to love him back with the same intensity, that was torture. Having one's body torn apart to the point of the closest thing to death, over and over, that was torture.
But in an instant, Christine realized just how naive she had truly been. How naive she had always been. Only an idiot, only a stupid, simple-minded girl would stubbornly take on a task of that nature as she had. It was pointless. Everyone around her had warned her. Everyone had known better. She should have just listened.
Because there can be no greater pain than this and there's no escaping it.
She will never see her family again. She will never see her father or her mother. She will never see Raoul or Charles. For the rest of eternity, she will be cut off from them for good reason.
She will never see Erik again, except in her dreams. And that is the greatest torture of all.
Because every single time she imagines him, she can never picture him alone. All she can see now is a pair of infernal red eyes gazing up at him with love. All she can hear is that girl’s wretched, airy little laugh and picture Erik’s arms possessively drawing her towards him. How the sound of her voice would infect him with a beastly hunger for her flesh. Oh, how absolutely captivating he must find that little rat of a girl--
Unable to contain her rage any longer, at Erik, at Lacie, at herself, Christine snaps from her lonely perch in this junkyard. She slides down the mangled hood of a totaled semi-truck and is pulling her loaded pistol from its holster before her feet hit the dusty ground. She turns on the ball of her foot and pulls the trigger, a shot ringing through the muggy air and shattering what’s left of that truck’s windshield.
She pulls the trigger again, aiming at a discarded bottle of beer. The first shot misses but her second does not. Still, this does not soothe her ravaged temper, a temper that she never had in her youth, a temper that she loathes that she now has.
A discarded mannequin is her next target. She blows off its head, then each of its arms and she unloads the rest of her cartridge into its chest. It should be noted that for a brief moment, in her rage, she imagines that hunk of plastic to be The Rose of the Requiem. Such cruel irony, that woman’s professional title. Before all of this, Christine had idly wondered if Erik himself had decided on that particular piece of marketing or if one of his various directors had come up with it.
There’s little doubt in her mind that Erik was the one that came up with it, now. She wonders if he has also read to her the story of the Nightingale and the Rose and their forbidden love that was never meant to exist.
Christine was replaced, plain and simple. By a flower that had been born red.
Christine reloads her gun and storms through the heaps of trash. She shoots an old motorcycle helmet, the faded image on a crumbling billboard. There’s little rhyme or reason and she cares very little if all this noise ends up drawing out a ferocious Hellbeast. Perhaps that is what she deserves.
She only blames herself for Erik’s indiscretions. If only she had made her decision in life sooner. If only Christine had learned how to handle herself more quickly in death. If she had been faster and stronger, he never would have had the chance to fall in love with someone else. He never would have lost faith in her. Knowing that she irrevocably loves him beyond all comprehension and knowing that Erik perhaps did not love her in the same way is her eternal punishment for being such a weak and senseless girl. This is her punishment, being forced into this position of constantly imagining Erik with someone else, it’s the only thing that’s fitting after she had undoubtedly forced Erik to imagine her with Raoul…
And now she feels more alone than ever before. Even though Elizabeth and Hancock are somewhere in this town, Christine dares not to burden them with her violent thoughts.
So she just keeps wasting her precious ammunition, hoping that each ringing gunshot will help in some way. Even though she knows full well there will be no mending of her broken heart.