deep_red_bells: ([Emote] Vulnerable)
There is no exact moment to point at and say “This is the moment I fell in love with her. This is the moment the world shifted and she became the center of it all.” It happened in small stages, bit by bit, when the blue plus sign materialized on the pregnancy test and stared up at her from the bathroom counter, the first time she heard the heartbeat racing over the Doppler, the first time she felt something crawling under her skin and lost her breath from the shock of it. It continues to happen even now, when she looks in the mirror and sees the changes her body’s going through, when she’s in bed at night just starting to drift, and the tiny wings beat inside the little bump of her stomach, stronger every day. When the realization of “That’s my baby, my baby‘s in there, my baby‘s moving” hits home. The awe never seems to fade, and neither, at the heart of it, does the terror. Both just become a little easier to conceal, to keep inside rather than push outward.

She doesn’t have the advantage of looking at the world through rose colored glasses anymore, and the icing that conceals the razorblades has long since melted away for her. She’s bringing this new life, this brand new squirming creature growing in her, into her world. Her dark, hard, sharp, red and black world.

Death is your gift.

She’s bringing life into a world of death, and doesn‘t know if she‘s strong enough to protect it.

And no one is, are they? That’s what’s so terrifying. No matter how hard she tries, no matter that she’s willing to shed every drop of blood and fight til her last breath--she can’t protect her from each and every single one of those razorblades.

It was so different before. Before she could look at the danger and the darkness and think “bring it on.” She had nothing to lose except her life, and she wasn‘t afraid to die. Now there’s too much to live for, too much depending on her, too much to protect.

She’d never been afraid of the dark. Until the world shifted, and her daughter became the center of it.
deep_red_bells: ([Emote] Uh-oh oops? I'm in trouble aren')
Truth: Discuss how you experimented with your sexuality as a teenager.


...Heh. I, um, didn't. For a lot of reasons.

1) I'm Catholic. My grandmother was REALLY devout.

2) My mother got pregnant with me when she was seventeen. So it was beaten into my head that sex was like the absolute worst sin you could commit.

3) I didn't get it. I didn't get why a girl would want that reputation and I certainly didn't look around and see a guy that was worth it, and, um, teenage girls are fucking psychotic. So there was no real attraction.

4) I was...shyish, in high school. Or maybe not shy so much as withdrawn. A big part of that was because my grandmother was sick, and a part of it was just me, and how I grew up.

As a matter of fact, I didn't have sex until, oh, about six, seven months after Abuela died, and I was almost nineteen, so I guess, technically, i was still a teenager. There was no real experimenting. It was sex. Very vanilla sex. With a boy.

So. Yeah. I didn't.

deep_red_bells: ([Emote] Serene)

[ooc: inspried by this conversation. [livejournal.com profile] elementof_risk used with permission and a whole lotta love]

“…What are you doing?”

Baileigh quickly slid a piece of construction paper over the infamous mouse ears picture, but she could tell by the look on his face that he’d already seen it. She bit her lower lip and gave him the best sweet, wide-eyed innocent look that she could produce; it was a shame he never fell for those. Damn. “Scrapbooking?”

“Give me the picture.”

She squealed and snatched up the incriminating evidence before he could and hugged it protectively to her chest, turning away and shaking her head. “Uh-uh, no!! Mine!”

“Baileigh, as much as I may love you, you are not putting that in a photo album--”


“Scrapbook!”

“--glorified and ridiculously overdone photo album--”

Her mouth fell open. “They are not!”

Julian sighed and made the face that she’d come to think of as his ‘gathering patience’ face. “We agreed that if you weren’t going to burn it, it wouldn’t be shown to anyone.”

“It won’t be!” She pouted again, quivered her lower lip. “This is just for me! I swear, I’m gonna be the only person to look at it. Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye and you know I don‘t kid around when it comes to sharp objects close to the cornea.”

He didn‘t appear convinced. “No one makes those things just for themselves, love.”

“I do!” She put on her best pout and gathered the album up in her arms as well, lest he decide to take it and hold it as ransom. “This is totally and completely, one hundred percent, just for me. In fact, you know what, you can't even look at it. You don't have the clearance. That's how exclusive these pictures are. And I promise if we‘re ever raided by the CIA this picture the first thing that goes into the shredder, but you should also know that your continued happiness? May very well depend on this scrapbooks continued existence.”

She kept her poker face as he studied her--it wasn’t hard to make it seem like she meant it, since, well, she kind of meant it--and when he finally sighed, she knew that she’d most definitely won. “Don’t leave it lying about. You never know what the puppy might decide to chew on.”

“Duly noted.” She beamed at him and settled back down on the couch comfortably. “Hand me those glitter pens, would you please?”

deep_red_bells: ([Slayer] Be a good soldier)

It isn't as though I've never taken breaks. I have. Just to see how long I could go without feeling that itch, that need to go out and hunt. This is just the first time I've ever actually tried to quit.

I used to think of it as a compulsion. That the Powers...or I guess, the Shadow Men...they made us this way. Hank says it's like an addiction. It's not so much fighting a compulsion as kicking a drug habit. Having never had one, I couldn't really say for certain, but I'm betting she's at least half right.

Okay, not betting, that's a lie. I'm hoping like hell she's right. Because that means I have half a chance of beating it back instead of having to fight with it my whole life.

You know what the funny thing is? You would think it would be worse at night. You know, the moment the sun goes down is when you would think it would kick in. Honestly? It doesn't get bad until around three, four in the morning. I don't know why. Julian's usually asleep, and I'm not, not because I don't want to be but because sometimes I just can't sleep. I don't need it. But the house is quiet, and I've run out of things to do and think about and reading doesn't help and there's only so many things you can find to do with your hands.

It's only for a couple of hours. Then the daylight comes and the itch goes away.

I'm not worried. Well, I'm not...terribly worried. Withdrawals aren't supposed to be easy, right? And I've been a Slayer for a while.

I just have to remember that I'm more.


deep_red_bells: ([Slayer] Weapon)

The strangest thoughts race through the mind after one narrowly avoids having their face ripped apart. Lightning fast, one after the other as the bricks beside her screech and crumble, the scythe-like claw carving through the space where her head was a fraction of a second ago. Shit. That was close. Shit. If I die I won't get to watch those episodes of Dexter I have downloaded. Shit. That thing is fast. Shit. If I'd been just the tiniest bit slower. Shit. Shit.

She ducks. The air above her head whistles, and there's a sharp *ping* as the claw connects with her sword. She would kick out at it but she's already discovered it has bones like rubber and doesn't seem to feel pain. It's fast. She blocks again, and again, and again. It's coming at her too fast and too persistently to counter. Feinting is risky--it's vicious, it may not fall for it, but throwing it off balance is the only real way she can see of getting a clear shot. She stumbles back and cries out, as though she's been hurt.

It works. It rears back, going for the hard, satisfying kill. She rolls to the side at the last possible moment to avoid it, and uses those brief seconds to tighten her grip on her weapon and stab at its side.

It doesn’t scream, doesn’t seem to be capable of making any noise that she can hear, but the mouth…she assumes that’s the mouth…opens wide, like it’s howling in agony. She yanks the blade from the rubbery skin, intent on lopping off it’s head…she assumes that’s its head…and being done with it. Popcorn and ice cream and the life and times of a very likable serial killer wait for her at home and she's had quite enough of this crap for one night.

But damned if the thing doesn’t vault into the air, those claws skittering over the bricks with the most horrible screeching sound she’s ever heard, what in God’s name are those things made of? She’s so stunned by it’s sudden recover that she wastes precious seconds before realizing that the fucker is getting away.

“Fuck!” Too late, she tries to climb up the fire escape after it, knowing she can’t keep up with it, it’s too fast, it’ll jump from rooftop to rooftop with as much effort as a kid playing hopscotch and she’s athletic to an insane extreme but she doesn’t think she can do that, but maybe it’s hurt badly enough, maybe she can catch it, she has to try--

And yet she knows as she hauls herself up on to the rooftop, before she ever scans the buildings looking for some sign of it, that it’s gone.

Fuck!” she snaps again, throws the sword down, only now noticing the thin, ichorous orange blood that coats it. She blinks down at the smears, follows a line of drops and smudges to the edge of the roof, then solidly smacks her forehead with the heel of her hand. She’s too stupid to live. She doesn’t have to keep up with it. It’s left a convenient little breadcrumb trail for her to follow.

She snatches her sword back up, firmly zips up her coat, and follows the trail across the frigid rooftop.

The hunt is on.
deep_red_bells: ([Expressive] Emo pouting)

I despise snow.

And what the fuck kind of rain FREEZES on the way down?!!

God forgot this place. Really. He did.



deep_red_bells: ([Emote] Hopeful)

[ooc: based on RP with [personal profile] elementof_risk  and [personal profile] changehistory , quotes from RP, naughty muses are naughty. Mun facepalms like a lot.]


He didn't laugh. )

word count: 825

deep_red_bells: ([Text] It's a simple truth)
A happy ending.

I don't think it's too much to ask for.
deep_red_bells: ([Text] Break me)
The dress I wore to my grandmother's funeral.

Funeral dresses are never pretty. They aren't supposed to be. And for all the preparing you do for someone's death, when you're waiting for it, when hope's gone and you're walking around the hospital or sitting at the bedside in that fog just, waiting for it, expecting it, you never think to yourself 'Oh, crap, what am I gonna wear to the funeral?'

I just remember opening my closet and staring at all the clothes and thinking, 'I can't wear any of these.' I didn't have a huge wardrobe or anything, and everything I had was just--there were too many good memories attached. They were dresses and things that she'd bought for me or that we'd shopped for together, and I just...couldn't stand the thought of standing at her graveside wearing anything in there.

I think it was Aunt Ginny--not really my aunt, just one of the ladies in my grandmother's circle of friends--that drove me to the mall to get a dress. I let her pick it out. Mind you, she was in her 60's, so you can imagine what she picked out. It was black, obviously, and it had puffy sleeves and kind of made me look fat.

I just...didn't care. Which I'm sure no one could blame me for, but even though it was weeks before I really broke down and started to grieve, standing in that dressing room, looking at myself in that ugly dress? I came close.

She bought me a hat, too. One of those wide-brimmed hats with a black veil.

Kind of makes me grateful that people don't really take pictures at funerals.


word count: 278
deep_red_bells: ([Appearance] Beaten)

Well first of all, who really wants to die? No one. Okay, some people, but what do we do with them? Yeah, lock them up in psychiatric hospitals and pump them full of drugs because they're crazy. We'd be all hunky-dory with living forever, most of us. Death scares us, which is understandable, but....

But. Yes, fine, death is inevitable and I guess there are some ways I'd prefer over others.

I'd really like to die old. In my sleep. You know, sudden stroke or heart attack and you just...slip away. You know that scene at the end of The Notebook? Where Noah and Allie just, slip away together? There's some sap (AKA: estrogen) soaked part of my brain that says, hey...that's the perfect way to go.

It's not gonna happen. So in place of that? Whatever takes me down? Better be badass, and I better go down fighting like hell. I certainly don't want to be taken by surprise one night on patrol and get downed by some grave-fresh vamp that got lucky.

God...I'd be pissed if that's how it went down.

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Baileigh Solis

December 2010

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