Baileigh Solis

I've tried. I've tried to be optimistic and hopeful and even let Annie makes jokes about it and I've failed miserably on all fronts.

Tonight is the first night of the full moon and her whole life could just...end. I keep trying to tell myself it doesn't have to be that big of a deal, because it's only three nights out of the month, but it's three nights that she'd have to be locked up, chained down, and alone.

I wouldn't deal well with it.

Everyone keeps telling me not to feel guilty. Put yourself in my place, then tell me you wouldn't feel guilty as hell.

I want the world to be fair. Just once.

I don't think that's too much to ask.

Annie's still out.


...Fuck.

Her skin had been warm, still. Soft and pliable beneath the press of fingertips against her wrist, pointlessly and almost laughably searching for a pulse. The blood had been fresh, the shining, bright red that they simply can't quite recreate on any crime drama no matter how hard they try. Her whole body, a mess of ragged flesh, ripped at and torn apart. It wasn't a sight she'd be able to forget anytime soon. Things that should never, ever be visible or outside the skin were in plain, gory view, or spattered against the walls.

And they were too late to save her. By minutes.

Minutes. If they'd just run a little faster. If Karina hadn't stumbled. If Baileigh hadn't turned to make sure she was okay. If they'd left the house a little earlier for patrol. If they'd done any number of things to collect a few handfuls of precious seconds together, they could've caught up to the werewolf sooner. They could've saved her.

We can't save everyone. People die. It happens, we're still way ahead as far the numbers go. Right?

She presses her forehead against the cold tile of the shower and shivers. The spray went freezing at least ten minutes ago--it happens pretty quickly in the house, you can't usually hope for more than a few minutes of hot water. She's clean, blood and dirt washed away, but she's slow to notice the chill. Like it's settled somewhere deep down and she can't tell the difference anymore.

She knows, she knows she shouldn't let it get to her. So many people die every day. They really can't save everyone, they're not meant to.

It's just that the numbers don't really matter when you're staring down at the body, wondering who she was, who she belonged to, who was going to miss her and what she would've become...if only they'd been a little bit faster.

She can try to comfort herself, she can stand under the water all night, but the guilt--or whatever this ice block that's settled in her stomach is--won't be washed away so easily.

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