meme / @lingeringscars.
laurel’s surprised to find a wound nearly a decade old on the receiving end of something resembling consolation, or at least peace — even more so on account of how it throbs at first, not like he’s torn something that’s begun to heal back open but instead brought attention to the biting nature of it. it’s not that she’s forgotten so much as she’s grown so used to living with it that it doesn’t occur to her that it’s not actually a part of her biological makeup. nonetheless, sara’s name immediately smarts, and just as quickly what he’s said eases not just the stinging it’s responsible for but a residual burning that’s familiar enough to be a second skin.
a heartbreakingly soft smile tugs at her lips, and though her eyes have filled with tears, there’s an undeniable sincerity to it. she’s not reliving losing sara — she’s getting a little piece of her back. it’s small, but laurel cradles it as if it’s the most precious thing to her in the world, and every part of her that makes contact with it warms just slightly, almost like she’s remembering sara’s laugh. the years have taken that away from her, sanded her memory down regardless of how desperately she clung to it, but she can hear it very faintly now.
it’s her favorite sound in the world still, but the memory of it is no longer as important as christian’s voice. not as important as what’s weighing on him so heavily that he’s close to falling right through the floor and as far as what’s underneath will allow without breaking him to pieces and her fear that he’d rather sink than risk dragging her down with him. she knows, of course she knows — it’s why she shut herself off to every thing and every one around her as she grew more and more dependent on the drinking and found the sunlight burning skin it used to kiss. it scares her how much she knows, how familiar all of this seems. how she’s seen all of this before, over and over again with her father, and lived it herself.
it scares her as her fingers curl around the neck of the bottle he’d been nursing and she sees sara’s face and thinks, for just a second, about taking a sip. actually sees herself doing it, too — bringing it up to her mouth and chasing the memory of her sister with the bitter taste of christian’s alcohol. it’s not like a fantasy, though, not a projection of her innermost desires — more like that uncomfortable sensation that overcomes you when you stand on a ledge and realize you could jump off of it. it’s not that you want to, not that you have any desire to hit the pavement or climb over the railing — more just your body telling you to back up. she can’t lose christian to this, too. she can’t lose him the way she lost herself, the way she’s always losing her father, just enough of an interlude in between to re-break her heart a thousand times and then a thousand more.
and she can’t lose herself again, either.
without hesitation, laurel sits the bottle aside and places the glass of water she’d been holding in front of him, focusing on his face rather than sara’s — on his voice rather than any memory of her she can dredge up just to ease the ache. i know he blames me. a muted shake of her head follows that, though not because she’s denying what christian’s said, at least not exactly. “ my father... he blames the world, christian. you’re just living it it, ” laurel says gently. “ he blames ollie for living so close and encouraging her to take the assignment, for...” for making her fall for him, as if she’d had no choice in the matter. “ and he blames me for bringing him into our lives in the first place. he blames the guardians, he blames the moroi... he blames himself. ” the truth of it is this: she and oliver are a thousand times more responsible than christian could ever be. “ you’re just an easy target. he doesn’t know you. ” he doesn’t love you. he can find it within himself to blame her if he’s desperate enough, he can even find it in himself to blame the system he believes in just as desperately, but it hurts him. blaming the ozeras is easy. “ there is no excuse for how he’s treated you. ” this, on the other hand, is fierce. she wants to apologize — is all too accustomed to apologizing for her father — but she knows he wouldn’t let her.
“ sara wouldn’t blame you, ” she says next, voice softening again. “ you know, when we talked, she always sounded happy. she liked it there. she liked you. ” that might have had more to do with oliver, but it comforts her regardless. she wishes she could remember if she ever mentioned christian in any kind of depth or anything specific about it, but their conversations always had to be brief, and there’s no guarantee she’d remember anyway — she hates that, not remembering. all the things she hasn’t been able to stop herself from forgetting. she tries to focus on what she can, the moisture in her eyes stubbornly persisting as she does. a tear falls. she wipes it away.
“ you haven’t hurt me. ” it’s true — christian hasn’t hurt her. at least not in the sense that he’s inflicted any kind of hurt upon her; watching him hurt these past months has been a different story. but... he could. if he keeps drinking like this, he could. and it will hurt more than how muffled sara’s laugh is when she tries to remember it, than the memory of sara hurts her still. “ don’t start now. ” she takes his hand, squeezing it. “ you’re too important to me. losing you... i don’t ever want to know what that feels like. i don’t ever want to go through that. ” she can’t. she can’t watch her father and christian destroy themselves, can’t lose either of them — but sometimes it feels like her father died right alongside sara or left with her mother, and all she has is the hope that christian is not so far gone.