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Chib
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Oh my god you guys The Riz killed Cara what do!?
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Enthusiasm explosion. The whole not having the first idea who Jay or Janet were, besides Jay's name, kind of put a damper on it for Ema. As did the whole disconnection thing, to be painfully honest. Human contact wasn't really at the top of Ema's agenda; given the choice, she would've gone to her room, lay down, maybe put some music, maybe try to make a dent in that pile of unread books, maybe just try to shut the world out for a while. Ease herself back into the whole "humans are social creatures" thing.

Yeah, that'd be nice...

But access to her room was kind of limited by miles of ocean, and a collar that'd explode if she tried to cross it. Because Ema was still on an unidentified island, she still had a gun in her inside pocket, she still needed to outlast about 100 more people to be allowed to go home. And rather cyclically, that was why she felt so numb, so distanced from what had happened, from what was still happening. A self-perpetuating cycle. Being surrounded by death and madness drove her to feel almost nothing, and feeling almost nothing allowed her to kill, allowed her sanity to slip slowly away.

What I wouldn't give for a soft bed and a good book right about now...

At least the introversion Ema would've sought out was still available. Just set off on a trail of thought and get lost on enough tangents, and there it is. Any semblance of focus on the situation at hand was lost - Hayley was there and they were friendly, it's fine - and instead, Ema lamented how long it had been since she obliged her - admittedly few - hobbies. How she'd never get a chance to improve her poor K:D ratio or beat Mile High Club on Veteran, how she'd never manage to finish Through the Fire and Flames, how her dreams of flying would remain dreams, how she'd never make it as far as College.

As her thoughts took more and more turns for the dejected, it showed quite clearly, physically. She slumped visibly, eventually electing to sit down and rest her head in her palms. In all the rush and adrenaline of the prior days, Ema hadn't had the chance to think about anything but the present, and finally looking to the future that was bleak in all reasonable probability, it hit her more than a little bit hard. And yet still, she couldn't muster emotion to feel anything for Madelyn, or the girl she'd killed, or those Hayley had gunned down before her eyes, or the other two hundred odd students she knew to be dead by now. Maybe it was subconsciously enforced pragmatism, or maybe there was something deeply wrong with Ema, but thinking about how she would never speak to Maddy again, play with her, hear her laugh, see her smile... it didn't mean anything. It all came across as matter-of-fact, not something to concern herself with beyond the truth of it. The same went for the consequences that came with having killed a person in cold blood. Ema recognised that they existed, but the anguish, the regret, the remorse, they were all frighteningly absent.

It hit her then, that evidently all she cared about presently was herself. The realisation, the self-accusation, it stung. She wanted to deny it. But she couldn't, not in good faith, nor in honesty. There'd be time enough to care about other people when she was back in Minnesota, or better yet, back in Ireland. If surviving to do that meant not giving a damn what happened to anyone else on the island... Ema wasn't truly okay with it, but it was a good enough excuse to stem the guilt, to help her believe she was only a selfish coward thanks to the circumstances, not by nature. Because believing in lies was important.

"Ema, darling,"

What? Oh. Right. Other people still existed. The world did not revolve around Ema or her personal drama. She needed to remember that.

"do you mind exceptionally if Jay and I go forth and conversate and give ourselves lots and lots of lung cancer? Like...er, you and Janet. Make besties and such. Yeah?"

Oh, so the girl's called Janet.


Ema rose to her feet, shakily, but not noticeably so. She approached the others, shaking her head slowly, impassively. She didn't mind, but neither did she currently trust her voice to say so with. She pushed the untidy mass of ginger aside from her face, and tried to muster some words, something to say to Janet, to "make besties". How can she keep acting so chirpy? But there was nothing, nothing that wasn't awful, at least. So she settled for something simple. "Uh, hey."

And even that came out awful. Not in her old slightly-choked throat-clear-causing style, worse, in a new kind-of-flat-and-emotionless idiom, trading out cute-in-a-piteous-way for creepy-in-a-creepy-way.

At least I'm not shooting her, that's something.
Every time you fall asleep you die. Someone else wakes up in your body, thinking they're you.
You are alone and trapped in your own mind, the world around you is your lie.
Soon you will be nothing, you will never again hear sounds, never again see colours, never again be anyone.


Riley Moon appreciates that Action Needs an Audience, but it's hard not to watch. Hair Status: Bubblegum Pink
Parallel with: The Heavy Weapons Guy

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Everyday is like Sunday · Southern Cliffs