Laura is so beautiful.
She is like a ray of sunshine through a dusty basement window, that nobody has cleaned in years.
She is like a high that doesn't have a comedown.
She is so pure, and untainted.
Mother wants her.
Carmilla is not so beautiful.
She is like spot where you sit, excepting some warmth but all you find is cold.
She is like the feeling of wanting to be high, the craving that leaves someone desperate and unsatisfied.
She is impure and so tainted.
Mother is using her.
Carmilla can't help but to want to give Laura the world. She deserves so much
unlike herself.
Carmilla
is
not
good.
Carmilla remembers the rejection,
the pain.
She remembers all the lies.
Mother wants Laura.
(Carmilla wants Laura)
Laura is sitting in her chair doing her webcast. Carmilla is pretending to read.
pretending.
Laura pushes her hair, exposing her neck.
Exposed.
Exposed.
Laura is exposed.
Carmilla glances at Laura.
She is so pure.
Carmilla thinks about how she is impure.
Mother is watching Laura.
Carmilla is guarding Laura.
Carmilla is watching and she knows she doesn't have much more time.
Mother told her, she is coming for Laura.
Carmilla hasn't told Laura.
Laura has just finished the webcast.
Her neck is still exposed.
(just like the rest of her)
"Laura, do you want to go to a party with me tonight?"
"I have a lot to do before bed."
"Laura, come to the party, please."
"I really don't want to, last time Betty disappeared. Besides party's aren't my scene."
"I'm not asking, this is serious, we can't stay here."
"Carmilla this is really sudden."
"Laura. Mother wants you. We can't stay."
"I just can't leave."
Laura is overwhelmed.
Carmilla feels pain. She wants to protect her.
She needs to protect her.
Laura is now crying.
Carmilla doesn't remember moving across the room to hold her. She strokes her hair.
Laura is so beautiful in Carmilla's eyes.
Carmilla can't see the beauty in herself behind years of Mother's lies.
Carmilla stops holding Laura to pack two bags; one for each.
Carmilla gives Laura a piggyback ride when they leave.
