It then devolved into April wallowing in the notion that there was no one ‘for her.’ I remember that specifically. “Why is there no one for ME?”
Also, the thought of being for someone made my skin crawl. As if the fact I was exploring polyamorous feelings entirely negated any blind devotion I’d felt for her.
Or are you “ambevellent” about that as you are understanding the world at large? Write yourself a fake law degree alongside your nonexistent psych degree and sit the fuck down.
It was quite an auspicious arena for Avery’s blunt, pragmatic, interrogation-esque nature to fight April’s absurd, flighty convolution. Avery’s not the sort of person to exactly filter their reaction, either, so I had a very specific prediction about how this would go:
“Wait, did you JUST say you got hired by BLIZZARD but turned it down? AHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!” I could just hear it now.
Do I think Ash is evil? No. But the truth seems to be that that they’re so easily influenced by whoever is their favourite person at the time that you practically have to cryogenically seal them to trust them– Encourage a friend’s suicide? Blame Lapa. Turn on your fiance? Blame Sedona. Go through March’s documents? All my influence, obviously. Going through my journals? All Seven. I mean, all justified– I mean–
“You wrote her into your book,” April had reasoned. “You’re basically using your book to emotionally cheat on me.”
“Y-You. You realise this a dead girl I’m supposedly cheating on you with, yeah? I’m not exactly having weekly trysts in the cemetery.”
April hadn’t liked when I pointed that out.
‘They would never do that to me! They love me! I know them! We’re family! They promised not to!’
Yeah. I’d thought that too.
Sound: “Does this mean we’re all just kind of weird OCs?” You and I both. Come on, you’re half-Japanese and you came around near 2008, you have silver irises, this shouldn’t be That much of a shock. She’d giggled. “At least I don’t have my Scene hair anymore.”
Kaspar actually gave itself the sign of a cross at that.
There was actually a drinking game based around how often he’d mention “psychology degree.” When asked to prove the existence of said degree, it’s harder to find than Donald Trump’s tax returns.
But to understand how much he disgusts me, I must paint you a portrait of what he took from me.
Romeo pulled the ‘You can’t say that to me or I’ll kill myself’ card one too many times. And I… well, I had opinions.