[Valjean hears D-ne's words, but before he can even think about replying, she's gone.
Without her there, time seems to stretch out. Every labored breath lasts a year. He swallows the thickness in his throat and opens his eyes. Despite it all, the room is still cast in the light from a single candlestick. As if from a great distance, he can see the other one. It rolled away as he fell, somehow clear of the blood spilled on the floor, where it's now quietly catching the light. Beyond it, there's the empty doorway.
He swallows again, and slowly hoists himself up onto one elbow.
Standing's impossible, but he can push himself across the floor. One hand presses against his chest, fingers splayed as if he can somehow keep all the blood inside. He hasn't got any real plan, only the vague idea that he might somehow find someone to help. It's probably too late. But he won't just lie here and wait to die.
He passes the candlestick, and reaches the door. The hallway looks impossibly long. They all know each others' habits well enough by now, and he knows he cannot expect anyone to come this way soon. Eliza will likely be the first, whenever she wakes. He regrets the thought of her finding him like this. His heart is pounding too quickly in his head, and his energy's flagging.
In the end, he only makes it a few more paces before he has to rest. Valjean understands, when he lets his head drop forward against his outstretched arm, that he likely won't raise it again. He would have liked to get out with the rest of them. He wanted to say goodbye to Cosette. But if this is how it is to be...
...then may God have mercy on them all.
The hallway grows dark. He could almost swear he hears distant singing. Then, nothing.
[The thought that her battle has only just begun washes over D-ne as she scrubs her hands and face in the laundry room. The straight razor, which has tracked blood all the way here, rests at the bottom of the sink, still stained red. As soon as she's done with her skin, she'll soak it until it's clean. The too-big police top's discarded on a washing machine, along with the damn hand scarf. Both are covered in Valjean's blood.
She's killed a man. Now, she has to get away with it. As she cleans away the blood, she thinks.
There's no one in particular that she could pin this on. The top will throw them off. The fact that strong Jean Valjean was the one to die will throw them off. It's not good enough, and she doesn't have time. There's still the clothes to...
She recalls starkly how many people here don't know how to use the laundry machines.
The clothes won't be a problem.
After far too much time scrubbing, she leaves the blood-splattered costume behind; someone didn't know how to use the washing machine properly and panicked, afraid starting it would draw attention with its noise. That's what happened. They instead went to hide the murder weapon and-
And clean the blood trail! If the hypothetical culprit doesn't want anyone to find the clothes...then the blood trail would be a problem for them. If she can make it look like someone tried to clean it, that'll help, won't it? She can stash the razor in the storage room - if no one finds that, it'll help her so much - and grab something to scrub the floor with.
It will be...well, far from a "perfect crime" but at least she can throw the rest of them into confusion, and that might be all she needs. She won't even have to walk past the dining hall; she won't have to see his body.]
[She won't have to see the murder scene, at least. All of it that's visible from the hallway is the blood trail, smeared across the floor from the doorway to the spot, a few feet away, where Valjean's body rests.
He seems smaller now than he did only minutes ago. He's lying face-down, one arm pinned awkwardly beneath his torso and the other still stretched out as if reaching for the lobby. Naturally, he doesn't move when D-ne enters.]
It is nearing seven in the morning, and D-ne has to cover her mouth to keep the scream in her throat from slipping out.
He's coming for her. He's coming to punish her. Even death can't stop him, she's going to die-
D-ne watches the world blur again and hurries into the storage closet, collapsing to her knees just out of sight and catching her breath.
What did they say about that boy from school? Though he was split in two, his top half was reaching out, trailing blood, trying to find his legs...
She'll stay there like that for some time, one hand at her chest and one around the clean razor that she still has to hide. She'll remind herself why she did this, what's waiting for her, and how turning back is impossible. She'll remind herself she's known these people for a week and a half, and whatever happens to them when she gets out of here (because she just knows it can't be good, it won't be good)- she can't turn back. She'll dry her eyes and remove a box filled with blankets, and wrap the still-wet razor in them and place it back on the shelf. She'll take the cleaning supplies...and start to hear voices.
Ah. Well.
She'll wait until there's a crowd and then slip into it, like she was there the whole time.
At least she won't have to worry about her red eyes; no one will wonder why she's crying, when such a kind man has been brutally killed.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kabunevermind) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ahandorsomething2016-10-18 12:57 pm
no subject
Without her there, time seems to stretch out. Every labored breath lasts a year. He swallows the thickness in his throat and opens his eyes. Despite it all, the room is still cast in the light from a single candlestick. As if from a great distance, he can see the other one. It rolled away as he fell, somehow clear of the blood spilled on the floor, where it's now quietly catching the light. Beyond it, there's the empty doorway.
He swallows again, and slowly hoists himself up onto one elbow.
Standing's impossible, but he can push himself across the floor. One hand presses against his chest, fingers splayed as if he can somehow keep all the blood inside. He hasn't got any real plan, only the vague idea that he might somehow find someone to help. It's probably too late. But he won't just lie here and wait to die.
He passes the candlestick, and reaches the door. The hallway looks impossibly long. They all know each others' habits well enough by now, and he knows he cannot expect anyone to come this way soon. Eliza will likely be the first, whenever she wakes. He regrets the thought of her finding him like this. His heart is pounding too quickly in his head, and his energy's flagging.
In the end, he only makes it a few more paces before he has to rest. Valjean understands, when he lets his head drop forward against his outstretched arm, that he likely won't raise it again. He would have liked to get out with the rest of them. He wanted to say goodbye to Cosette. But if this is how it is to be...
...then may God have mercy on them all.
The hallway grows dark. He could almost swear he hears distant singing. Then, nothing.
Jean Valjean is dead.]
no subject
She's killed a man. Now, she has to get away with it. As she cleans away the blood, she thinks.
There's no one in particular that she could pin this on. The top will throw them off. The fact that strong Jean Valjean was the one to die will throw them off. It's not good enough, and she doesn't have time. There's still the clothes to...
She recalls starkly how many people here don't know how to use the laundry machines.
The clothes won't be a problem.
After far too much time scrubbing, she leaves the blood-splattered costume behind; someone didn't know how to use the washing machine properly and panicked, afraid starting it would draw attention with its noise. That's what happened. They instead went to hide the murder weapon and-
And clean the blood trail! If the hypothetical culprit doesn't want anyone to find the clothes...then the blood trail would be a problem for them. If she can make it look like someone tried to clean it, that'll help, won't it? She can stash the razor in the storage room - if no one finds that, it'll help her so much - and grab something to scrub the floor with.
It will be...well, far from a "perfect crime" but at least she can throw the rest of them into confusion, and that might be all she needs. She won't even have to walk past the dining hall; she won't have to see his body.]
no subject
He seems smaller now than he did only minutes ago. He's lying face-down, one arm pinned awkwardly beneath his torso and the other still stretched out as if reaching for the lobby. Naturally, he doesn't move when D-ne enters.]
no subject
It is nearing seven in the morning, and D-ne has to cover her mouth to keep the scream in her throat from slipping out.
He's coming for her. He's coming to punish her. Even death can't stop him, she's going to die-
D-ne watches the world blur again and hurries into the storage closet, collapsing to her knees just out of sight and catching her breath.
What did they say about that boy from school? Though he was split in two, his top half was reaching out, trailing blood, trying to find his legs...
She'll stay there like that for some time, one hand at her chest and one around the clean razor that she still has to hide. She'll remind herself why she did this, what's waiting for her, and how turning back is impossible. She'll remind herself she's known these people for a week and a half, and whatever happens to them when she gets out of here (because she just knows it can't be good, it won't be good)- she can't turn back. She'll dry her eyes and remove a box filled with blankets, and wrap the still-wet razor in them and place it back on the shelf. She'll take the cleaning supplies...and start to hear voices.
Ah. Well.
She'll wait until there's a crowd and then slip into it, like she was there the whole time.
At least she won't have to worry about her red eyes; no one will wonder why she's crying, when such a kind man has been brutally killed.]