to be or not to be

His eyes squint momentarily, opening his mouth to utter how if divine justice existed actually existed, then her brother would likely be dead. But then he thinks it TOO cruel to say aloud and instead softly shakes his head. “What of Lysander then? Divine justice is hardly known for being fair or proportionate.” Breakfast was also probably a little too early for philosophical debate. But he’s never really understood the importance of timing. Six months prior, he would have found comfort in her presence at breakfast, but now it feels as foreign as the bruises on his knuckles. “No. I am rather comfortable. I think I shall stay here. ” Then, as if to highlight it, he clears his throat, opening the newspaper to a full spread and flicking to the polo fixtures. 

No it isn’t. She’s beginning to think there’s no such thing as justice at all, only cycles of violence until eventually; someone triumphs. Maybe it’s a bullshit concept the ruling class sold them on to placate the masses, so they could pretend there was such a thing as equality. “Well in that way, divine justice is just like the British judicial system. But you knew that, didn’t you? When you sold out Lysander? Your best friend?” The implication behind her words is clear. You knew what they would do to him. You knew how they would paint him. “Did you even care?” She’s wanted to ask Kit that for a while, to make him face her and finally confront the truth for the first time. 

– LARISSA IS NOT HER FRIEND, not any more. she has to remind herself of that as larissa turns on her, screaming, saying things that georgina wishes to ignore. she believes vehemently in the lysander theory – because believing anything else means acknowledging that there might be someone still out there. “don’t talk about her like that,” georgina hisses, “besides, even if she was, it wouldn’t matter. because your brother killed her before she could live long enough to be anything else. that’s NOT justice.” larissa’s words cut like knives, they sound almost inhumane coming from someone that georgina once upon a time, would’ve gone to for comfort. someone georgina would’ve knocked on the door of late at night and sit on the edge of their bed, just to talk. just to be near her. now, that girl spits obscenities at her in the dining hall. “glad to know how you really feel.” 

Don’t talk about her like that. Larissa’s long-supported the theory that Octavia was like marmite. You were either a worshipper at her shrine or someone who spat on her grave. Although she had never stopped long to consider where Georgina fell on the spectrum, she was beginning to believe she fell into the former category. Matching her venom, she raises her voice, caring nothing for the people who have turned to eavesdrop on their conversation. “Welcome to the real world! There’s no such thing as justice.” Not for people who look like Lysander. Not even for Octavia - who didn’t deserve to die or be unable to rest in peace. “He didn’t kill her. You’re on the wrong fucking side of history. And I can’t wait for you to realise that.” It’s hard to believe they were ever friends. Even harder to think that they have to continue going home to each other. Some of the anger fades now, replaced by a dull sadness. “Yeah well, you didn’t really give me a choice.” The pair of them being like this hurts. “You didn’t even stop to consider that he might be innocent. None of you did. Not for one second.”

– “WELL, AT LEAST YOUR DELUSIONS AREN’T,” GEORGINA REPLIES FLIPPANTLY. in any other situation, she might’ve tried to empathize with larissa – after all, she was losing a brother, in a way. if it had been anyone else, if it hadn’t been octavia…but it HAD been octavia, and georgina had spent the months following her death with the preston family, helping with funeral arrangements, watching the way the happy family she’d known her entire life had so easily splintered. the closure is important for them. “it’s psychology,” georgina replies, “statistics usually don’t lie. neither does motive. you’re welcome to your opinions, but it’s incredibly insensitive to flout them in her family’s presence.” she knows the way larissa’s words affect wolfie, they affect everyone. and georgina wants more than ANYTHING for this to be over, to have her normal back – and it just keeps going on longer. “there shouldn’t have to be sides. you’re the one creating them.”

It’s psychology. Statistics don’t usually lie. With those six words, there’s a part of Larissa that feels like proving her right, giving into violent instincts and throttling her where she stands. But who does that benefit? Not her. Not Lysander. All it vindicates are those who expect people who come from trash to act that way. So it isn’t wisdom that restrains her, but pride. “Well, in that case” She sneers - making no attempt to hide her contempt - “I guess Octavia was a crooked bitch, rotten to the core. Like father like daughter, right?” Smearing the dead is a new low. Part of her wonders whether she’ll pay for it tonight, if Octavia’s ghostly apparition will reprimand her behaviour. There shouldn’t have to be sides. If the only way to earn acceptance in the eyes of the society is to abandon her brother, then she’d rather go it alone. It’s what she did for most of her life - she can endure a few years more.“Go fuck yourself Georgina.”

– “RIGHT, BECAUSE WOLFIE’S THE ONLY ONE WHO BELIEVES THE TRUTH,” there’s scorn in her voice, as if larissa isn’t even deserving of saying his name. it was funny, to sit across from someone in the dining hall who used to be among your closest friends and yet, feel like a stranger. months ago, they would’ve been laughing together over the infestation, chatting about homework before walking back together. now, georgina has to restrain herself from lunging at her across the table. she bristles at the unwelcome nickname. “it’s not an opinion. listen, lar, i get it, he was your brother – but going around touting your faith in a murderer has never been in season. YOU may want to try developing some compassion for others now and again.” 

Bristling at the insinuation in Georgina’s words - the correct one, as it happened - Larissa scowled, eyes narrowing in a toxic combination of frustration and rage. The number of people who believed in the miscarriage of justice was a dwindling list. She suspected the upcoming trial would only bolster the opposition’s ranks. “What can I say? Stupidity is contagious.” Humans always believed the easiest explanation. It prevented them from having to put any effort into evolution. Unable to stomach the pity in Georgina’s tone, the way she positioned herself as someone who understood, Larissa’s grip on her cutlery tightened. “That’s bloody ironic. If society had a little more compassion, then the prosecution wouldn’t be using my father’s shittiness as evidence to convict Lysander.”  Jamming her knife into the butter - as opposed to a person - she leaned forward, closing the gap between them. “He didn’t kill Octavia.”  Tempted to add, I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, she stopped herself at the last moment. Breakfast was a little too soon to begin telling ghost stories. “Just wait and see. You’re on the wrong side of this.”

She didn’t sleep a wink the night before; were the walls any thinner in their shared apartment than they already were, Larissa would have known that without needing to see the meticulously concealed eye-shadows, and the thrice-reapplied lipstick upon Iskra’s pursed mouth. She stared blankly down into her measly, untouched breakfast – an apple, a dry slice of bread – and remembered just how hard it had been to keep even water down all night long. Not because of the alcohol, not because of what she and Valentine had imbibed in before her disastrous coronation, but because of Theresa.

Someone must have done something really bad. 

Iskra blinked as if awakening from a stupor at Larissa’s prompting. She cleared her throat, blankly straightening her spine and reaching for the paper. “Do try harder not to sound so satisfied about it,” Iskra prodded, though she couldn’t help but see the strange, coincidental writing on the wall, “If it were me, I would have dropped dead on the spot. Whoever’s responsible has to be some kind of freak. Who just has that many bugs? Glad it wasn’t me.” For once, she was glad – that it hadn’t been her, and that she didn’t see it. 

Hey Larissa, I know that Valentine’s bug-bath is cool and all, but do you want to hear about the seance I did with Theresa last night? No chance in hell.

Had Larissa looked closer and begun to peel back the layers that made up Iskra, she would have been pleasantly surprised by what she found. As it was, she only peered at her surface, hard marble and speckled goal. She only saw what Iskra wanted her to see. The most tolerable roommate. Octavia’s former best friend - tainted by association. That was where her perception began and ended. Snorting in disagreement at her words, Larissa torn up a bread roll; moving the pieces on her plate impatiently.

“Why should I?” Her instinct was always to resist the advice or orders of others, regardless of whether it was meant well or not. “It’s just a physical manifestation of all the rot in this place. People have it coming to them.” Quite frankly, bugs at a dance was probably the worst thing that had ever happened to many collected around the table. They deserved a slice of what the rest of the world endured on a daily basis. “Entomologists.” She shrugged. “Someone who wants everyone to see these people for who they really are.”

“Ah yes because we live in the old testament now…” he remarks, doing everything in his power to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “You will have to excuse me for forgetting that minor detail.” He moves to butter his toast, gaze flicking between his plate and the newspaper tossed in front of him, putting the knife down to reel it in with his bruised index finger, to graze over the details. “It’s fairly common in older buildings.” He comments off-handedly in agreement with the article. “The woodwork attracts flies… woodworm… furniture beetles, to name just a few. It’s a shame. I’m sure a lot more will fall into disrepair now that a murderer has led to cut funding.”

“If only we did. Divine justice is a real fucking bitch.” Second only to me, she might have added - had instinct not warned her from doing so at the last minute. Maybe breakfast was a touch too early for the dramatic flair. Had Larissa been more inclined towards sorrow than rage, she would have allowed herself a moment to grieve Kit. Lysander hadn’t been the only one she’d lost. In stabbing the knife in her brother’s back, Kit’s friendship had disappeared as well. Stubborn soul that she was, she refused to let herself mourn him. Good riddance. Rolling her eyes at his spiel, she eyed the butter, wondering whether to pull it from his reach. “Feel free to take your crusty golden ass elsewhere, anytime.”

– LARISSA AND GEORGINA USED TO BE MUCH CLOSER. roommates, they were good FRIENDS, but georgina cannot condone the way larissa stands up for her brother – a murderer. and, as always, she will side with wolfie above anyone else. so, her expression darkens at larissa’s haughty tone of voice, eyes flickering over toward the front page of the school paper, lips forming a thin line on her face. “yeah, someone did,” she remarks. “good thing he’s gone now. probably for life.” 

Those with a calmer temperament would have known not to rise to the taunt, to let Georgina’s worlds roll off their back, grit their teeth and continue their day. As it was, Larissa was wondering whether to give Georgina a black eye to match the one she had always dreamt of gifting her boyfriend. Probably not. She was just another sheep, bleating as she fell into line with everyone else. If anything, Larissa should have pitied her. Maybe she’d just clean the bathroom with her toothbrush or something. “Oh hi Wolfie! Didn’t see ya there.” Rolling her eyes, tone sharper than was wiser, she refused to let the point go. “You know George, uncritically adopting your boyfriend’s opinions is not a cute look. You may want to try developing independent thoughts now and again.”

Folding up her copy of The Chronicle with a deft smile, Larissa chuckled to herself; although her amusement was without any real humour. These days, she had to take scraps where she could find them - and if the next generation of journalists were focusing on winter formal shitshows instead of spreading slander about her family history, she’d take the break. Leaning back in her seat and tossing the newspaper across the table, she inclined her head towards it. “So,” Larissa began, unable and unwilling to prevent a sliver of bitter triumphalism from entering her tone. “Flies. That shit is practically Biblical. I guess someone must have done something really bad.”

hi all!!! I’m Emily and I am absolutely thrilled to be here writing with you! I seriously cannot wait to begin plotting and writing and all of the angst we’re going to kill each other with! but for now, i’ll quit my rambling and start introducing the mess that is my child.

without further ado: larissa griffith aka hamlet