| We are all just prisoners here, of our own device |
[22 Nov 2006|12:58am] |
“Well what the fuck do you want me to do, slit my wrist and pour you a cup?”
Frustration hung thick as the odor of rotting wood in the Venetian.
Or what had been the Venetian six years before. Fire had gutted most of the interior walls, and the noxious rainfall had poured into broken windows and holes in the roof, or seeped into other cracks in the building. Once upon a time, animals and vagrants had gone into hiding here, in the hotel rooms. Piles of dirty clothes and of empty cans and makeshift weapons littered the corners. Furniture was stacked near the doors-- barriers that had been cheap protection, broken through.
So much was obvious, because there were bodies, too.
But those smells were long gone, along with the soft tissue.... and some of the parts.
Starvation. A concept Deanna and Rhiannon were getting a tiny preview of now, a day after seeking shelter in one of the city’s only standing structures. Hunger made two strong-willed women very cranky.
Rhiannon glared at the vampire from her perch on a warped armoire, turned on its side.
Deanna squatted on the floor opposite the slayer, bounced on her knees, a subtle rock forward and back, forward and back. The first hours of hunger were easily ignored, their situation had taken precedent. An apocalyptic world, chased by a toothy Sta-Puft Marshmallow demon and then attacked by Deanna's ancestor kept them focused on the moment, not allowing their circumstance to truly sink in.
The last hours however... they were both tired, cold, hungry. Scratch that. The redhead was famished. And the only food for miles was fifty percent of what kept them both alive.
"I only suggested pricking your finger," she growled. "I swear, a few drops'll do. Then I'll be right as rain -- I'll be okay -- and I can hunt for rat or something that'll fill us up."
( What's on the menu )
( A surprising offer )
( Making the sacrifice )
( Hello God, it's me Rhiannon )
( It would be so easy... )
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| The Sign on the Frontier |
[22 Nov 2006|12:38pm] |
I don’t see this. No.
My mind is playing tricks. It’s showing me terrible things.
My mind is fucking with me.
And I don’t feel that. I don’t.
Your weight in my palms and on my fingers,
Offering proof that I'm not imagining this.
They’re in on it too.
The lie.
God, please tell me it’s a lie.
It isn’t you there, hanging,
Death in the hollows where your eyes ought to be,
In your bones picked clean, in your open mouth screaming,
In the air a certain smell.
You can’t be dead, in this world or any other one.
I would never let you die.
Never let you hang there,
Some goddamn martyr on his neon cross.
But you would come here, wouldn’t you?
Even if everything was lost,
You’d come here and gamble with your life instead of money,
You’d cite some twisted sense of duty.
Like duty mattered anymore. Like anything did.
Why did I stop here?
I could’ve walked right by, gone back to the hotel,
Found Deanna and figured out a way back home,
Never known anything about this, oh
Why did I have to look up?
Why did I move closer? Why did I recognize your favorite shirt,
Your hat lying on the ground, wedged where metal meets the dirt and plunges deep.
Why did I stop and pull it out,
Dust it off,
And know your fingers touched it, too?
Your fingers and probably mine.
Why did I have to know?
Fuck me.
I can’t handle this. I don’t care if you weren’t mine here,
If you were somebody else’s everything.
I don’t care if I never heard your voice, never got to hold your hand or
See the way you loved me in your eyes.
It still hurts the same.
And now my mind won’t stop racing, won’t stop filling in the gaps.
You were alive when they pinned you up there,
Left you there to die.
How long did it take
Before mercy took you from the vultures, the starving, the demons, the cruel sky,
Knowing you were done for?
And how long have you waited for me to find you? You had to know I would.
Was it six months? Longer?
Fuck, I can see right through you. There's a hole where your guts should be.
Please take this out of my eyes, God,
I’ll do anything if you cut this memory away.
But don’t worry. I’m here now.
I won’t leave you hanging, won’t let them take any more.
I won’t be selfish, I swear. I won’t pretend you didn’t feel this.
I know what’s real.
This is what’s real.
Your skin crumbling in my hands like paper,
Your weight draping my shoulder when I cut you down,
Your bones so sharp,
A smell I‘ll never get out of my nose,
A memory of you that’ll never leave.
Wash it away.
Please.
Get me out of here.
I can’t be here anymore.
This place where Whistler’s dead.
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