SUMMARY: Angel makes his nightly phonecall.
RATING: PG, angst
PAIRING: semi-B/A
SPOILERS: "The Gift"
DEDICATION: To EvilWillow for *actually* getting this back to me! (You know I love you my Wicked Darling!)
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon owns the characters. I'm just abusing them for a while.
DISTRIBUTION: Organized Insanity (http://www.geocities.com/crazyevildru/index.htm), otherwise ask me
FEEDBACK: PLEASE! It means SOOOO much! PLEASE PLEASE!
-Nightly Rituals-
*************
When the sun goes down and I come home, it starts. I guess it's just ritual. Habit. Something I'm compelled to do, ever since I got home after graduation.
I slip my jeans off my hips and walk over to close the curtains. I strike a match on one of the white candles from my drawer of endless white. Then I stand there and watch the flame a while. It seems to be in battle with the air I breathe, just like me.
I take the brush from my dresser and run it through my hair, as I watch the shadows of my actions play on the wall. My hair cascades down my back as I finish and flip it back. Then, I cross my arms and lift the sweater from my skin.
I look at myself in the mirror… I've gotten thin. Too thin, especially since Riley left. I'm just not eating out as much as I used to, not eating the fatty foods from the Bronze. And I'm working out way too much, or so Giles says.
So much has happened in my life since graduation… so much he doesn't know.
I slide my panties to the floor and kick them into the pile of dirty clothes at the end of the bed. My bra soon follows and I pick a pair of pajamas to pull on.
Then, I collapse into my chair, in front of the candle, and watch as the flame flickers away the story of my life.
Sometimes high. Often low. Often almost out. Sometimes so bright that it illuminates the room and hallway. But always alone and aching for more oxygen than it can possibly handle. Aching for another flame…
Ring
I pick up the phone after one ring. "Hello?" I say, but I know there will no response.
Silence is also part of the ritual.
I glance at the clock as I close the door for the night.
I lock it behind me and I'm glad they've finally left. I love Cordelia and Wesley has his charms… but it's late.
And I don't want to be.
I walk through the lobby to the kitchen and take out a bag of blood to heat. And I'm thankful for microwaves every time I heat up a bag. Blood gets awfully disgusting when boiled.
I carry the mug into the lobby and shut all the lights off on my way up the stairs. One. Three. Six. Nine. I take my steps in threes, up until twenty-seven. Twenty-seven stairs. I turn down the hallway and pull on all the doorhandles on my way, just to be sure.
I get to my room, kick off my shoes and sit on the bed. I slowly sip the blood and watch the hands on my clock move. Ticking away my life, or unlife rather. All the moments in which I'm not supposed to be happy.
At one of midnight, I finish the blood and put the cup next to the phone. I pick the phone up and dial the number.
Ring
"Hello?" She asks expectantly… as if I ever say anything. I just… need to know she's alive. I need to hear her and listen to her breathing, just for a little bit.
I lay back on the bed and imagine where she is as I hold the phone tightly to my ear. I wonder if she looks forward to my nightly call as much as I do. I think she does, because every night, after one ring, she's there, letting me know she's alive.
*************
Twenty-seven.
Seven door handles.
Always the same.
Slip off my shoes.
Sit on the bed.
Countdown to midnight.
432-1983.
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
I lay back on the bed and clutch it to my chest as it rings and rings…
Her silence is now permament.
And silence is our ritual.
THE END
RATING: PG, angst
PAIRING: semi-B/A
SPOILERS: "The Gift"
DEDICATION: To EvilWillow for *actually* getting this back to me! (You know I love you my Wicked Darling!)
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon owns the characters. I'm just abusing them for a while.
DISTRIBUTION: Organized Insanity (http://www.geocities.com/crazyevildru/index.htm), otherwise ask me
FEEDBACK: PLEASE! It means SOOOO much! PLEASE PLEASE!
-Nightly Rituals-
*************
When the sun goes down and I come home, it starts. I guess it's just ritual. Habit. Something I'm compelled to do, ever since I got home after graduation.
I slip my jeans off my hips and walk over to close the curtains. I strike a match on one of the white candles from my drawer of endless white. Then I stand there and watch the flame a while. It seems to be in battle with the air I breathe, just like me.
I take the brush from my dresser and run it through my hair, as I watch the shadows of my actions play on the wall. My hair cascades down my back as I finish and flip it back. Then, I cross my arms and lift the sweater from my skin.
I look at myself in the mirror… I've gotten thin. Too thin, especially since Riley left. I'm just not eating out as much as I used to, not eating the fatty foods from the Bronze. And I'm working out way too much, or so Giles says.
So much has happened in my life since graduation… so much he doesn't know.
I slide my panties to the floor and kick them into the pile of dirty clothes at the end of the bed. My bra soon follows and I pick a pair of pajamas to pull on.
Then, I collapse into my chair, in front of the candle, and watch as the flame flickers away the story of my life.
Sometimes high. Often low. Often almost out. Sometimes so bright that it illuminates the room and hallway. But always alone and aching for more oxygen than it can possibly handle. Aching for another flame…
Ring
I pick up the phone after one ring. "Hello?" I say, but I know there will no response.
Silence is also part of the ritual.
I glance at the clock as I close the door for the night.
I lock it behind me and I'm glad they've finally left. I love Cordelia and Wesley has his charms… but it's late.
And I don't want to be.
I walk through the lobby to the kitchen and take out a bag of blood to heat. And I'm thankful for microwaves every time I heat up a bag. Blood gets awfully disgusting when boiled.
I carry the mug into the lobby and shut all the lights off on my way up the stairs. One. Three. Six. Nine. I take my steps in threes, up until twenty-seven. Twenty-seven stairs. I turn down the hallway and pull on all the doorhandles on my way, just to be sure.
I get to my room, kick off my shoes and sit on the bed. I slowly sip the blood and watch the hands on my clock move. Ticking away my life, or unlife rather. All the moments in which I'm not supposed to be happy.
At one of midnight, I finish the blood and put the cup next to the phone. I pick the phone up and dial the number.
Ring
"Hello?" She asks expectantly… as if I ever say anything. I just… need to know she's alive. I need to hear her and listen to her breathing, just for a little bit.
I lay back on the bed and imagine where she is as I hold the phone tightly to my ear. I wonder if she looks forward to my nightly call as much as I do. I think she does, because every night, after one ring, she's there, letting me know she's alive.
*************
Twenty-seven.
Seven door handles.
Always the same.
Slip off my shoes.
Sit on the bed.
Countdown to midnight.
432-1983.
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
I lay back on the bed and clutch it to my chest as it rings and rings…
Her silence is now permament.
And silence is our ritual.
THE END