Throw Me In The Landfill; Clover

Throw Me In The Landfill; Clover Aug 7, 2012 0:16:35 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Aug 7, 2012 0:16:35 GMT -5

U R S U L A

[/size] L I B E R T I N E[/FONT][/SIZE][/CENTER][/COLOR]

throw me in the landfill
don't think about the consequences
throw me in the dirt pit
don't think about the choices that you make
throw me in the water
don't think about the splash I will create
leave me at the altar
knowing all the things you just escaped

[/color]

I don't make deals, anymore.

Sometime after Penelope killed her first victim, a girl in my class accidentally killed the teacher's pet fish. During it's short life, the fish swam in infinite circles in the clear vase, that was set upon the wooden surface of Ms. Marin's desk, it's bulging eyes twitching between the folds of orange and white scales. Always searching, always exploring, always discovering - and then always forgetting what had been three seconds ago and recycling the entire process all over again. ~~If a creature as obscure as that kind could forget, why the hell can't I?~~

[/s][/color] So, one morning before class had even started, the girl knocked over the vase and I closed my eyes as the glass met the clean tiled floors - each shatter and crack audible to the shell of my ears. And when I opened my clenched eyes, the girl stared straight at me, eyes aghast and mouth hanging open - the only sound in the now quiet classroom being, "Ursula, let's make a deal!"

I left the room without a reply.

Penelope's final and sacred ~~plea~~ ~~beg~~ words to me did not fit right in that girl's mouth, did not sound right. It wasn't right. And I drowned in guilt (like how your sister drowned in artificial seas?), and I fought with the ashamed monsters living inside me (like how your sister fought with the monsters trying to kill her?), and I cried as floods of blame washed over me (like how your sister cried when her big sister could not comply to her one last wish?) No, I could no longer make deals. Not ever since she -

At night, I try to muffle the sounds of Penelope's cries with the weight of my pillow pressed down against my ear, but, if anything, the sounds magnify and soon my own screams echo after hers. It's the image of her pale body (void of warmth and blood when those elements used to pierce through her soul like the edge of Stark Harper's blade as it connected to one side of her skull to the other) restrained to the four splintered and gray walls of her coffin, and those blue eyes of hers that held the entire ocean (that ocean that she was so desperately scared of drowning in) would never flutter open with a dreamy haze again. With these fleeting thoughts, Pen's still corpse tattoos itself back into the bleeding organs of my skinless skeleton. And down, down, down she would go, buried in the same graveyard of those who passed well before their time, like she was nothing else other than a girl who was far too slow to save her own life.

Penelope Libertine was more than a tribute, fucking hell, she was more than a martyr. She is was my sister.

But, maybe, that's all there ever really is to it. The things that define her, now, or no longer the words she said or the life she lived but the tense of which they all passed. And she was. She was more. Is that all she ever will be?

The spectrum of pastel colors clings to the glass frame of my window - the morning horizon ascending over the peaking ocean as a starless night dissolves at it's light. I do not hear Penelope's blood curdling pleas, I do not see her carcass of a body, I do not feel her waves of turmoil as they descend down to me. No, this morning, all I know is that Penelope Libertine is alive - alive still - and she waits for me on the threshold that borders our universe and hers, and she will wait a lifetime for her sister to join her. And that thin line that separates morning sky from evaporated seas is where she waits. (There, Penelope, is where I will find you.) A choir of voices seep through the gentle crack in my window pane I think I might even hear Fitz Ripley in that band of foreign whispers[/i][/s] but the voice that shines brighter among all the other voices is that of Penelope's. And as her voices grows louder, it's to my own horror do I finally realize what she is saying.

"Save me, save me, save me."

I let out another scream. [/blockquote][/color][/justify][/blockquote]

push me out to sea
on the little boat you made
out of the evergreen
that you helped your father cut away
leave me on the tracks
to wait until the morning train arrives
don't you dare look back
walk away, catch up with the sunrise

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NORMAL // ABAF99
EMPHASIS // 687859
CHARACTER SPEECH // 628F58
OTHER SPEECH // 847862
SOUNDTRACK // Landfill by Daughter

ooc - it's either Ursula's crazy or I just suck at writing. probably both.
~~so basically ursula is in her bed and it's morning but she's too depressed to get up and she thinks she hears pen's voice and starts screaming how fun~~

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