Rebirth and Remorse Open Finished

Interacting With: @Thomas Lestrange & @Ivy Bellamy

Persephone was many, many different things. According to some, those who viewed the necessary actions as that of a disguised and youthful villain: a decayed brand of failed assassin. Others would prefer to call the puzzle misunderstood, an anti-hero within a world that's morals rightfully contravene her own, misplaced in the wrong reality, misty and full of dreamers. Lost. Describing herself was complex, viewing all the sides of an unsolvable rubix cube, adorned in millions of differentiating shades, contradicting and bringing torment upon those who spent wasted lives attempting to solve it. Anti-villain, perhaps. But it didn’t look that way, not from the perspective of those green eyes, a gaze that saw the world in two colors, the grey in between, nothing that invoked useless vibrancy. And now, she couldn’t see at all, vision obstructed entirely by the uninvited sting of tears that never ceased, a torture session originating from within.

One thing she wasn’t, though, was weak.

Soon after an empathetic yet dismissible girl arrived on the scene, collecting evidence and tending to the wounded like taught to, the second investigator, Thomas, materializing only moments later to both girls’ apparent dismay. Neither of their presences had been comforting thus far, the girl’s closer to maintaining Persy’s seemingly perpetual state, while Thomas clearly aimed to worsen a vastly negative situation. Many of his stereotypical insults bounced away, the blonde rubber and immune to an illness she was long exposed to, but the implication behind them did not ignite this same result. In a moment of instability, his insinuations of fragility poured gasoline on the fire, around it, toying with forces he didn’t understand. That no one truly did. How could she expect them to?

The first person to rush to her defense, repair what was left of a shattered mirror, only reflecting a sickening distorted image, had now abandoned the task in favor of bickering with the boy. For this, Persy couldn’t bring herself to blame the girl, to comfort those who would be forever consumed in remorse was daunting, impossible. If anything at all, the crybaby was relatively thankful to be ignored, vexed in a new way, perhaps, but thankful nonetheless. Having someone with her, offering a shoulder unfamiliar and apprehensive, was a sure path to codependency, a minor back-road in the city of death, population whoever was foolish enough to become lost within its labyrinth. Something similar to such had occurred between the early adaption of Prince Charming and his ever-young Cinderella, as those likely deceased would never age, but instead decay. Not growing old, but changing. Being reborn. It was an infinite cycle of rebirth and remorse.

“You work on pronunciation and let the big kids talk, kay?”

Pale fingers moving serenely through water, wishing to never resemble it symbolically, that was a distant memory now, a vague recollection consisting of the slight further chill on that hand than the other. Fragments of the disturbed sense of morals, the code that was to be followed, the ritual to be maintained in order to circumvent that raving havoc, it had all been mislaid in a sea of understanding, levels incessantly rising. The cork on the bottle, pressure underneath it ready to detonate like a volcano, shifted in its position. A certain look was sewn onto the girl’s face, perhaps overlooked through the redness of her eyes and inaudible sobs, but it was a wordless alarm. “My pron-” God dammit! “-pronunciation is fine, th-thank you. D-Do you want me to j-just dumb down the w-words for you?”

His next argument, something blurry and along the lines of disagreeing with her previous definition of pain, a programmed sensation from the inner system resulting in nothing more than an adrenaline rush, was neglected for the benefit of both of them. Persy’s head was too clouded by a thickening fog, mist in her eyes and strain in her chest to hold a coherent discussion, nor did she think it was the type of conversation that appealed to Thomas. He seemed to thrive on the pain of others, reaction-inducing pain based on his willingness to persist his point; though, perhaps that was the simple adherence of a proper Slytherin.

The girl’s following inquiry regarding his attitude provoked a laugh, even in a girl who continued crying as though the letter upon the unforgiving floor would spring back to life, haunting her with the ghost that never left. Death was inevitable, and if anything, death made more sense than life. It was consistent, like the planets revolving around the sun, their moons around them, the rise and fall of living lungs wouldn’t stop for just anything. Every moment, someone new died. What if it had been Persephone? No one would mourn for the murderess, celebrating their newfound safety and stomping on the grave that would never be dug. Left in the road, an animal, more imaginably. What if it had been her father? Nothing would truly change. The future would be altered, but the past would still torment its victim eternally. However, the question was directed at Thomas, who tossed it away.

He was so close. It was nauseating, disappointing how close the Slytherin boy was to making his escape, avoiding the wrath that built up within, a shaken carbonated drink, ready to explode once exposed to a little bit of freedom, an almost insignificant amount of air. The blonde wasn’t positive, not entirely at least, what quality drew her to him other than his misplaced insinuations, accusations meant to provoke her and sadly, succeeding after many forsaken attempts. As he turned to leave, abandon the crybaby with the girl that would likely pursue (though this possibility would’ve sounded advantageous later, perhaps), the trembling Persephone stood from the steps, legs feeling incapable of supporting her and all of the burdens that fused seamlessly.

At the speed of bottled lightning, trapped in a corner and working in the blink of an eye, Persephone grabbed Thomas’ collar, yanking him back toward her with all the strength possessed in such a small body. With their height difference, the blonde couldn’t combat the imbalance that disrupted her footing, quickly regaining lost composure and dragging him back down the staircase before the other girl could intervene.

Stepping back onto the first landing, the scene of the crime, she stepped on the fallen letter, small rips erupting around the already ragged edges. Regardless, nothing would kill it, what it held, like the invincible cockroach that composed it from the remnants of a humanoid soul. It was remarkably exhilarating, hauling him difficulty by his collar over the remains of a shatter past, the girl in indisputable ruins, fighting for what wasn’t worth dying for. Nearly a month had passed since the last time she was able to watch fear take over someone's eyes, give them what had been given to her.

What they deserved.

“...b-be left behind.” Persephone mumbled quietly, mimicking him as they reached one of the empty apertures, wind entangling in her hair and blowing away the tears that fell, taking the pain away with them and letting it be reborn as spite. Pain was just pain, this was true, but people could manipulate it into fuel for their lives, anything to keep them kicking long enough to do what needed to be done. Life didn’t wait for you while wallowing in remorse, it had to be reborn, Thomas was right about that. But she was right about this.

Or at least, it felt that way until she tossed him.

It was freeing and blissful, letting go of the weight that was so heavy, but it only took a mere fraction of a second before her grasp found his, leaning her weight to avoid falling with him as opposed to holding him there, suspended. For a moment, Persephone just stared at him, gaze piercing and watching for that reaction he evoked in her, the hunger for revenge that was never satisfied. Kicking a dead horse was one thing; they felt no pain, you could do whatever you wished, and the imaginary karma would not stalk you. Kicking an unstable horse, however, had its retaliations, such as this. Dangling over a lengthy drop, only lifeline being the girl you spent decade-long minutes taunting.

Oh, the irony.

“Having fun? Feeling alive?” Her voice was too joyous for this scenario, the stutter gone with the wind. “People are never more truthful than when they think they’re in danger, that’s a simple fact.” Persephone mock dropped him, loosening fingers then tightening them again, the glassy sky above staying with her as long as she would survive. As long as he would survive. The girl wasn’t a killer, not in the slightest, just precarious in stability.

“Are you afraid? You shouldn't be.” In a change of tone, a note of concern was disguised in that condescending voice, adorned with a gentle smile. Reluctantly and with great effort, she pulled him back up to the landing without awaiting an answer, not speaking any further. Heaving him onto the ground before her, she promptly moved away from the hole in case the need for vengeance struck him. Another time, maybe.

Reducio

I was given consent to toss Thomas over the ledge as long as he didn't die, obviously. He is alive, therefore I have kept my promise. 

Ivy blocked out the rest of Thomas' words, her fingers twitching as if wanting to cover her ears - a childish gesture, and not a very useful one at that. He moved on to further torment the other girl, his tone mocking, and her replies resentful. Ivy did not speak, her mouth set firmly, but perhaps she would not have had time to. In a flash, Persephone took Thomas by the collar and dragged him to a window. It happened to fast for Ivy to say anything, and by the time she ran over, Persephone had tossed him out of the goddamn window. "Are you mental?" Ivy shrieked, clapping a hand to her mouth in horror. She wanted to move forwards, but her legs were rooted to the spot with fear. For a moment she thought he was dead. She held no affection towards Thomas, but she didn't want him dead.

But he wasn't dead, apparently. Persephone seemed to be holding onto him, teasing him, the threat of dropping him still evident in her words. Her stutter was gone, her voice confident once more, and Ivy briefly wondered if all of it had been an act - the tears, the letter, the pitiful stutter that had accompanied her words. Had the Slytherin girl been waiting for someone to toss? If Thomas had not come along and irked her, would it have been Ivy gripping onto her hand as she dangled dangerously from the aperture? "Why don't you just let him go?" Ivy kept her tone calm, but there was note of panic behind it. Then she realised what she had just said, and frantically amended, "N-not like that!" As she tried to come up with a way to fix this situation, any hope that there was any good in Persephone Barret beyond her peers' demonizing description disappeared.

Luckily, the Slytherin girl seemed to have a change of heart, for a sweet smile spread across her face and she pulled Thomas up. Ivy let out a shaky sigh of relief as Persephone moved away. "Have you gone mad?" She directed the question in Persephone's direction, although she kept a wide berth. Ivy didn't want to be the next Thomas, did she? "You're a maniac." Her voice was shaking. Ivy could not say that she didn't understand Persephone's anger. Thomas had tormented her with cruel words for no reason, but she didn't have to throw him out of the window. There were other ways of getting revenge. For example, you could torment someone by slowly taking away everything they loved until they were so miserable that you didn't need to draw a knife - they would do it themselves. That was Ivy's style - not hot-headed and impulsive, but carefully planned out moves, calculated to strike when it would hurt the most. She may have been sorted into Gryffindor, but growing up in a house of snakes had left its mark on her.

Ivy tore her gaze from Persephone and looked sideways at Thomas, contemplating what to say. A question like 'Are you alright?' was stupid - he had just been thrown out of a window, he wouldn't be 'alright.' "You ought to go," until she throw you out of the window again. She tried to read his expression. Perhaps her words would only provoke the two Slytherins further, but the two of them were really hopeless. Thomas was an idiot, and Persephone... Persphone was just insane.

Thomas has left the thread

Interacting With: @Thomas Lestrange & @Ivy Bellamy

It wasn’t long before the adrenaline washed away in a tide of shadow, overcome by a fresh, lethal sense of melancholy, back pressed firmly against the wall in defense. In a world that was formed by the molecules of idealism, a whirlwind of whimsy and suffering that would always decay, the high wouldn’t pass, and the hangover wouldn’t linger for days. Once again, Persephone could feel the pressure of the air flying up, hair in knots, stomach rising to her pounding chest, sinking and twirling down the rabbit hole. She’d broken the inertia, found a limb to grasp, something that returned the power to fragile, unstable hands. Whether that crutch, that minuscule chance of life, was present in the dazed boy, whether he was the source or the unfortunate soul to ache in return to the findings, that could not be said for sure. All Persy could offer him was a gentle smile, though this was likely far from reassuring, that subtle curve of her lips and tilt of her head closer to resembling hunger for more. A challenge.

Thomas would not award her that challenge, lips pressed hard together, his gaze thoroughly unreadable. Instead of wasting time trying to solve him, figure out what flowed behind blue eyes, Persephone turned to eye the girl who had spoken, stood up for her beliefs and position. Many of the first respondent's exact words had fallen from the ledge, the blonde’s ears only sensitive to the call of the wind and the dimness of intertwined breathing before. Looking into her eyes now, observing like a scientist as the panic would merge with ferocity, Persy’s smile did not falter at all. Even the daggers in her chest, piercing stone with a sharpness previously undiscovered, could not cut a new grin through dense flesh, nor abolish the one that loomed. Maniac, the brunette had said, quivering voice in an odd reflection of the one Persephone had previously worn. Did the girl require comfort? That would not be born here, the silent boy in her peripheral vision had assured them both of that upon entry.

Compassion was overrated nonetheless—the moments of bliss before had exceed the capabilities of any tangling vines of words they could’ve composed. Then, their music would’ve faded like an outro, sinking Persephone further in the land of twisted wonder. This way, she’d found at least some neon light of a crutch.

Before pulling the knife of letters from her chest, one that she’d almost just become aware of, green eyes would study the boy a final time, quizzically. His silence since hitting the support of the ground again, it hadn’t been something predictable, written in the pages of a book. It was a shift from the behavior before, though the route of change remained a mystery. If he’d been cleansed by fear or some other emotion that was as legible as that of an extraterrestrial, the art of suppression had graced him, but concealed it from her vision. The decision whether she was happy he’d learned, or saddened by the timing, could not be made now.

Blood would pour. “A maniac? Don’t you think that’s a little excessive? Oh whatever, who am I to question the degree of psychology you seem to have? When you write me up a formal diagnosis, be sure to include your name so I can schedule our personal follow-up.” Even if not a muscle behind that pale skin dared to shift under the weight of her sins, the smile was different now. It hadn’t moved to the reassurance it desperately tried to imitate, nor did it anymore resemble starvation; rather, plain and simple threats all impressed on her lips, even when the irrational part of her mind fell victim to its cage at long last.

The maiden of the tragic relationship would glance at the silent, mysterious type, perhaps in pity, repairing a shattered tower of ego with an encouragement of departure. If this were provoked by an underlying respect or peculiar feeling on her behalf, Persephone couldn’t identify that either. Her game, position as they overseer of the chess board, it had all been disturbed when the drunkenness was replaced by an unrelenting headache. Feeling the spiral down below lengthen, remind her of the journey she was on to rock bottom, life had already begun to flash before her eyes. Everything seemed so planned and methodical, elaborate and constructed by careful fingers, but that had been thrown away in favor of playing the game as a sheep. Strings, a hook to each arm, leg, neck, holding the mortal body upright. It was only a vessel, but one inescapable.

Let him leave. Perhaps, hate would finally feel like an appropriate word. It didn’t, though.

The quiet fell to the floor in a quick demise, his voice suddenly amplified regardless of its true volume. Thomas spoke plainly, simply, his personality stolen for a moment. Yet, something stayed there that left Persy biting her lip in apprehension, questioning to grant him that which he requested. It didn’t make a difference, the blonde would finally suppose, confronting him with more bite than she possessed now. “Persephone Barret.” Accentuating it in a way it felt only her strangely created accent was capable, it still tasted sour tumbling away. Purely the way he used it in a hollow threat brought upon more dislike, but not for him. No one would know that.

Though the name had been said before, Persephone finally registered the title of her new psychologist, fixing her stare elsewhere as the boy finally departed. “Well, Ivy. This has been lovely, wouldn’t you agree? I sincerely am hoping we meet again someday and can discuss a few things I think it’s time to drop for now. For both your sake, and mine.” A resonating giggle would escape her lips, like a sign of innocence from someone behind steel bars. “Surely, this won’t be the last of us.”

With this apparent final word on the matter, the Slytherin would return to the stairs leading to the second landing, hesitating for a moment of the letter. The ritual had already been forsaken, pandemonium had already played through in a blurry sight, no further damage could erupt from deviating a last time. At least, for now, this was what Persy would tell herself, lifting the torn parchment from the floor in hands that almost began to tremble again, as if it would spring to life. Carrying it to the top of the staircase and sitting down, she turned the page over and scribbled on the back.

The letter she writes in return reads as follows.

Reducio

Dad,

I appreciate you sounding caring, father. That’s smart, and I will definitely be using that skill to my advantage in writing this note. No need to give transparency to doors that would best remain closed, hmm? I’m sure you would agree. You are, after all, the reason I am the person I am today. Cannot thank you enough for that.

Maybe my perception of the events was slightly twisted or biased. I won’t be making the mistake of allowing emotions to cloud these things again. In fact, next time (because there will no doubt be one), I am sure I will be able to respond with much more maturity and clarity.

I am writing this on the back of yours so that you don’t have to kill something, like another tree. And so you can turn it over and have a permanent reminder of this event, because I know you won’t throw this away.

Looking forward to seeing you, as always.

Persephone.

Persephone has left the thread, though a response from the remaining party is fine to close up that interaction.