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] Vulnerable)
I can't stay on your life support, there's a shortage in the switch,
I can't stay on your morphine, cause its making me itch
I've tried to call the nurse again, but she’s being a little bitch,
I think I'll get outta here
Where I can run just as fast as I can
To the middle of nowhere
To the middle of my frustrated fears
And I swear you're just like a pill
Instead of making me better
You keep making me ill


==================================

All she had to do was walk two blocks.

It was three A.M. and the leeches were still crawling. Hunting. There would be plenty of them still hungry, still searching for a victim, a meal, a kill. Or slinking back to their sunless underground caverns, sated and high from the feeding, from the slaughter.

She could find them. She could feel them out there, feel the itch crawling under her skin, the compulsion to hunt them and to kill them. Even more intense than usual, as though the stretch of time between her last hunt and now had sharpened her senses rather than dull them. She could almost smell the dust and the rot of the undead drifting on the wind...surely that was in her mind, as was the dull, muted foot fall on damp earth in the distance that kept time with the pounding of her heart.

Just two blocks. She could see them in her mind's eye, snarling in laughter as they wound their way through the cemetery. Maybe the wind blowing through her hair as she stood in the middle of the street and stared towards the west would catch her scent and carry it to them. Slayer. There were few scents more intoxicating and mouth-watering than that--and not just a Slayer, a Slayer carrying the purest and most innocent blood, a child, a baby. It would be irresistible. And she could obliterate so much of this in one smooth flurry of movement. Her fears would shatter with a few well placed kicks. The stress would melt away with every swipe of clawed fingers that she dodged. Her anger would vanish in a burst of ash and air, a wooden stake buried in a black and useless heart.

Except that the wind was blowing to the east, and carrying her scent away, and she had to protect that child.

It wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth the risk. It wasn't worth the cost.

It was three A.M. She turned on her heel and crossed the rest of the street, and unlocked her front door.

And went home.
deep_red_bells: ([Emote] Sad)
She waited on the front steps.

It was a damn near childish thing to do, but she didn't feel like putting up with questions and explanations and pretending to be civil when she just wanted to break things. And slamming the door behind her was satisfying. She couldn't have done that if she'd waited downstairs for Claire to knock on the door.

So she stalked downstairs and slammed the front door and waited outside on the steps. Aware that it was childish. Just not giving a damn.

...

Apr. 1st, 2009 04:19 pm
deep_red_bells: ([Emote] Angry)
The Part of You That No One Sees is Paranoid
You are balanced, peaceful, and sincere.
You're the type of person who goes along to get along.
And you're definitely afraid of rocking the boat.

Underneath it all, you fear your world falling apart.
You'll put up with a situation that you don't like in fear of changing it.
Disruptive and forceful people intimidate you - and sometimes exploit you.


No. FUCK YOU, meme. I am NOT afraid of rocking the boat. I AM ALL FOR BOAT ROCKING. It's OTHER PEOPLE who won't engage in boat rocking. Fuck. You. Stupid meme.
deep_red_bells: ([Text] Little girl lost)
I need some sleep.
I can’t go on like this.
I try counting sheep,
But there’s one I always miss.
Everyone says I’m getting down too low
Everyone says: "You just gotta let it go"
"You just gotta let it go"
I just gotta let it go



It's always worse on bad days.

It's not an itch, not anymore. The itch you could deal with. There's more than one way to scratch a itch, and it might come back, and it can be so very annoying, but it can be managed.

The itch became a twitching, and then a tremor. As though electricity is pumping through your limbs. You can't be still. You certainly can't sleep. You pace, you wander. You try, desperately, to occupy your hands, because trying to take your mind off of it just isn't enough.

Being where you are helps, the slightest bit, but it does help. A freezing temperature is easier to resist than the warmer nights of Nevada, and of home. The temptation lessens and eases to the point where you're no longer climbing the walls.

Except on a bad day. It's always so much worse on the bad days. The house seems to shrink, and there's no way to get away from it. Too much inside, too much that you're so used to channeling into the hunt and the kill. You can't burn it off. You haven't learned another way how.
You realize what the hell of it is, when you curl up in front of the weapons cabinet and occupy your hands by toying with a sharp tipped, smooth handled wooden stake. If you'd waited just a few weeks, you would've had a reason. A good reason. An unborn baby to protect. It could've been a reason, instead of the only thing left keeping you behind the front door and out of the fray waiting on the other side. Instead of something you would resent if you weren’t so terrified of losing it. It would've been easier, because you might've still felt helpless and useless...

...but you certainly wouldn't feel like such a coward.

You need to let it go.

You just can't yet.
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.


[WM] 74.1.G

Feb. 4th, 2009 12:09 pm
deep_red_bells: ([Slayer] Be a good soldier)

"I don't want to live my life as others have done, where it just becomes an endless fear of dying."



She’d taken pretty good care of her weapons, all things considered. They’d served her well, and they deserve to be put away with some measure of respect, she supposed.

She took the day off to take care of it, not that there was much that demanded her attention. A guest list to finalize that could wait until tomorrow. Invitations to be sent out after that. They could wait one more day. She meandered around the house, opened drawers and cabinets, picking up every dagger and stake she had, for whatever reason at the time, stashed there. She cleaned and sharpened and oiled the blades, reminded herself that it would need to be done on occasion to keep them from falling into disrepair. Sanded away any splintered places on the stakes, carved the end a little sharper if it was necessary, tested the weight on each one before she put it away. She picked up the swords and axes she kept in the coat closet by the front door, took her time caring for the blades, just as she had done with the knives. She found her crossbow and repaired the spring, tinkered with it until the glitch in the firing mechanism was smoothed out. She was going to miss that stupid thing. Crossbows weren’t the most practical of weapons, but she'd always had fun with them.

She arranged them just so in the cabinet that she’d insisted on purchasing for just this purpose, but scarcely used, partly because she was and always had been on the scatterbrained side, and partly because it had honestly been easier to keep them like that, scattered around the house. Something had always been within easy reach, when she needed it.

She wasn’t going to need them anymore. She told herself, repeatedly, that she was not putting them away like this as a ‘just in case.’ If she left the door open even a crack, she feared it would blow open again and pull her back out into the dark. She wasn’t doing that. She was putting the metaphorical chairs up on the tables, mopping the floors, flipping off the lights and locking the door to the life of a Slayer behind her.

She didn’t want to be like the others. She didn’t want to fight and fight and fight until she died, or become so exhausted that she was all but begging the next monster to kill her. She was putting an end to that cycle, right now.

But it was always going to be a part of her. A part of her life that had been important, and special, and big. It shouldn’t be forgotten. It should be respected, remembered. That once upon a time, she'd been a hero.

She shut the cabinet, and went to the bathroom, and washed the oil and the last traces of that life off of her hands, and prayed that when the night came and rattled at that door, she would be strong enough to resist the call.

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Baileigh Solis

December 2010

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