sixthiterationlogs | my loneliness is killing me

Entry tags:

my loneliness is killing me

WHO: Lucy Stillman
WHERE: House 52
WHEN: Days after the One Man Show
OPEN TO: Ezio Auditore
WARNINGS: Mention/possible talk of suicidal thoughts, death of others, will update

Between the moments where her moods slipped between slivers of determination and happiness, there were oftentimes where whatever happiness she'd felt with Desmond was stripped away by the underlying grief of the reality that awaited her back home. The anguish twisted in her gut whenever her mind wandered back to the constant reminder and replay of her own death, whether in her dreams or at the forefront of her memory, it was always there. Lucy couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop herself from seeing it against the insides of her eyelids whenever she closed her eyes.

From time to time, since that incident at the shrine, Lucy found herself wandering the house. She was like a ghost, drifting from room to room. None of this felt real, and yet it was. It was her life, now. This was a place to call her own. Ashley had told her once: 'It's going to be okay though. Cling to what happiness you can find here.' Days later, once they'd all returned to the village and she'd retreated to the house she shared with Ezio, Lucy waged an internal war within herself—what happiness?

She would never be happy knowing she was dead, knowing that the one who'd killed her was so sure of himself in the fact that he loved her. How could she get him to fall out of love with her? How could she push him away to the point that they moved on, pretended the other didn't exist?

Lucy listened to the water drip from the faucet, laying back against the tilted back of the large tub, the water comfortably warm, not too hot. She was listlessly staring at the wall in front of her. It had to have been twenty minutes since she'd disappeared into the bathroom, completely ignoring the other presence occupying the house with her. Why was she still here, still "alive"? It was frustrating and painful, the weight crushing her shoulders, her chest, that weight of having to continue on with functioning, breathing, feeling. How easy life would be if she could cease to exist, not be burdened with doing all three of those things.

Slowly, very slowly, she let her body slide down further and further into the water, letting it creep up to her chin. She should've killed him, a passing thought that came and went for the hundredth time that day. She should've killed Desmond the same way she'd killed Clay, broken him through the Animus. She should've done it that day she'd held the knife to his throat, the full effect of what he'd done and allowed to happen near breaking her. She could've walked away, could've found a spot where no one would find her; maybe then she'd have stayed dead.

Cease your struggle.

Her eyes closed as she slipped underneath the surface, felt the pressure of the water against her ears. The world around her became muffled. They remained shut as her head was against the bottom of the tub, only her knees bent and not submerged. She wouldn't fight it, not like Desmond had. Wouldn't it better that way?

Wasn't this what Juno wanted? To see her dead? To have her removed and out of the way?

Lucy was okay with that, at this point.

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There had been so many questions floating through his mind after the scene involving Lucy and Desmond had played within that shrine. There were so many things that didn't make any sense. Why would Desmond betray his fellow assassin like that?

He could have simply asked Desmond, but there had been other things on his mind - the scenes of his own family's murder still playing over and over and over, an endless cycle that he thought he may never escape. In the end, there had even been time before they had all been separated for days, and by the time he managed to return, he was far too tired to even be capable of rational thought.

Since then he had been trying to go on, to act like everything was fine. Like he was fine. But those questions were still there. He would still sometimes look over at her and the truth of her fate would come rushing back into his mind.

What did she have to back to? Nothing. It was almost cruel, for her to be here, knowing that as she did.

And so he didn't bring it up, didn't ask her. Had thought about asking Desmond but had thought better of it. If she wished for him to know, then she would tell him.

But he had kept an eye on her, in those moment's where she would wander about the house as though she were lost, as if she had no idea what she was or how she had gotten there. Would keep an eye on the time clock each time she disappeared into the bathroom, both wanting to give her her time and space and to keep her safe.

It had been an hour, and still, she hadn't emerged. Still, there was no further sound, no water flowing to reheat her bath. Nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat and the ticking of the seconds on his device.

An hour and fifteen minutes passed before he went to the door before he knocked on it softly and called her name. Before there was no response and he wondered if maybe it was possible that she had already gotten out and he had missed it.

But she wasn't in her room. She wasn't in his room. Her coat and boots were still there.

Knocking again brought nothing. Twisting the knob found the door unlocked and he stuck his head instead, just enough to check on her, to make sure that she was still alright.

Only to find her fully submerged, floating just below the surface, body limp.

Calling her name as he moved forward brought no response, no sounds of water splashing as she lifted herself rapidly in response, in embarrassment.

Instead, there was only the sound of him practically diving into the water, wrapping his arms around her body and picking her up, dragging her up and over the side of the tub, resting back on his bent legs as he held her to his chest.

"Lucy." Patting her cheek as he spoke, before placing his head to heart throat to listen for a heartbeat. "Come on, Lucy. Wake up."

Her reaction to having her space invaded had been slow, slow indeed. She'd barely heard or recognized the knocking, the call of her name, the way the floor creaked. Everything continued to be muffled, all sounds drowned out, sounding like faded thuds. Lucy had no chance to struggle as she felt arms wrap around her, being dragged out of the water and tub and over the side. The porcelain was cold as ever against her naked skin, and being pulled to the floor made it even worse. She was no longer being enveloped by cooling water but was now being spoken to and patted, held.

“I’m fine—” she gasped, sputtering as she was trying to shift and push her hair out of her face. “I’m fine,” she repeated, more insistently, a touch annoyed. “Do you always barge in on women bathing?” Don’t answer that, she already knew the answer.

Ignore the fact that she was completely naked and wet, water from the bath pooling underneath her and soaking into his clothes, this was the first time he would get to see the pink scar standing out against the backdrop of pale skin on her stomach. Lucy however couldn’t ignore that she was all on display, quickly pulling her arm over her breasts, embarrassed then, trying to slide away from his lap.

"No. I don't." There's a certain hint of annoyance to his voice as he answers in return, sparing her a momentarily glance and nothing more. He doesn't looks at what she's trying to cover, because despite the fact that he's seen it all more than once, he hasn't seen hers, do did she give him permission to.

Reaching upwards, he grabs the towel that was hanging near by, draping it over her, covering what was on display to give her some hint of modesty.

"What were you trying to do?"

Lucy's relieved when he's quick to snatch a towel for her. She hurriedly pulls it over and around herself, dripping hair tucked behind her ear. "I was..." What kind of a question is that? "I was just laying under the water. That's all."

Maybe she came off a little defensive, a smidge. How was she supposed to explain that?

"Did you think I was purposefully trying to drown myself?"

"Then why did you not answer when I called for you?"

What kind of question is that? What else was he supposed to think at the moment, honestly? That she was just laying under the surface of the water, taking a pleasant little snooze?

“I wanted to be alone.” Need to be, a thought always on her mind.

Beginning to pull away she moved to stand, the towel properly wrapped around her torso, tucked beneath her arm, leaning against the edge of the tub. Her arms folded over her chest.

"You could not have said that?" You know, for someone who apparently wasn't doing what it looked like, you sure are getting defensive, Lucy.

He shifts back, doing little more than watching her movements. Although his body is forming a pretty clear barrier between her and the door.

“While I was underwater?” Dryly. “And you thought I was trying to drown myself.”

She looked straight at him, eyes shifting only slightly to above his shoulder to look then at the door he was so obviously putting himself in front of. It was still odd to her that she was face to face with one of Desmond’s ancestors.

“I need to get dressed, Ezio.”

Lucy, if he wanted you dead, he would be a little more direct about it then trying to inadvertently drown you. Give him some credit.

"Lucy." He says her name in return, voice slighter softer now. Calm, steady. "Please. If there is truly nothing wrong then I will go and forget that this happened.

But if there is something that I can do for you, then I wish to do it."

“For the moment, you can leave me alone so I can get dressed. I’m still not properly dried off.” Soaked hair dripping down her back into the towel isn’t the nicest feeling. “We can talk when I’m out.”

He watches her for the moment, contemplating his next actions.

Before pushing himself upwards, wet clothes sticking to his skin and chilling rapidly.

"Alright. I will go change and wait for you.

“I won’t be long,” she promises, turning to drain the tub. He can leave first, she still has to dry off and get her hair in a towel before she can go to change and join him in the living room by the fireplace.

Part of him honestly doesn't know if he should leave her, especially considering exactly what he had walked into.

The rest of him knows that he can't possibly watch over her constantly, despite how much he thinks he possibly should.

So he does little more than nod before turning to leave, intent on stopping my his own room for a clean, dry shirt before settling into the living room near the roaring fire.

Once he’s out of the room, Lucy lets out a hard breath. She slumps on the edge of the tub and covers her face with her hands, rubbing her brow and digging her fingers into her eyes. She needs a moment to collect herself, her thoughts, asking herself what in the hell she was thinking she was doing in the tub and under the water. Half listening to the water draining behind her she moves away and dries off properly, gets her hair wrapped in a towel, before going to the mirror above the sink.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks her reflection, glaring at herself. After a moment Lucy leans in and turns her face to look at the angry swell on her cheekbone close to her eye, the cut from the branch she’d gotten while running from Desmond and the shrine. It takes a few ginger touches and she sighs heavily, ignoring the ache.

It doesn’t take long for her to leave the bathroom and move off into her room, door closing as she gets dressed. When she moves into the living room, hair towel dried and pushed behind her ears, hanging at her shoulders. Lucy doesn’t say anything as she’s moving to one of the chairs and curling up, legs drawn up.

Truthfully, there is so very much that could be said within this moment. Part of him wants to ask her why, wants to know what could be so terrible that she would feel as if that was the only way out of it.

The rest of him understands that sort of despair, knows how it eats at you until it's a dark, gaping pit full of nails and shards of glass and you can hardly bear to life knowing it's a part of you.

So he doesn't ask, instead he waits for her to finish, waits until she's ready, dressed in fresh, dry clothes with the fire roaring steadily. He does little more than look at her as she enters, does little more than watch as she settles.

"I am sorry. It was wrong for me to assume the worst."

“I don’t blame you,” she answers, still staring at the fireplace. “You saw something at that shrine that no one was supposed to see. I’m coming to realize that, in this place, we shouldn’t expect much good to come of it. It’s working against us.”

"Perhaps. But that does not mean we should give into it." It's said gently, softly - he's not judging, honestly, but trying to give a reminder that they have to be stronger than whatever forces had brought them here.

"Do you think it even matters?" Finally she looks to him, slowly looking away from the burning logs. "I mean, if you're already dead back home. Sorry." Lucy shakes her head. "There's just so much that comes back, after seeing it again."

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