A/N: This is my first Pretender fanfic. It's JDMP, kind of. Um...yeah. Review, I suppose. Pretender doesn't belong to me.
She sits at home, legs neatly tucked beneath her. She's always been strategic. She's always needed a plan. The cigarette illuminates the dark of her living room at midnight. She sould be sleeping, like normal people. She never claimed she was normal. She never claimed she was anything. Somehow, she has metamorphosed. She's Daddy's little angel. The Angel of Death.
She hunted them down, stalked them with nothing more than two men and a semi-automatic. She knows she has to have suffered some mental or psychological effects. But she doesn't want to be fixed. She likes being broken. Fractured, like her mother's body. She's put bullets in so many skulls, she's surprised she can still feel sympathy or empathy for her mother. She's lost the ability to distinguish. If she's broken, she can't feel pain. She can't feel emotion. But most of all, she can't feel guilt. And she knows that she would have to be absolved if she had it. The pills and cigarettes take care of that.
He was different. Then again, of course he was different. There were emotions attached to him, and she had to pretend they weren't there. She had to pretend they were strangers. She had to catch him or put a bullet in his skull. Either way, he'd die. She knew. He had given her a kiss when they were younger, and she had stolen a part of his soul. If she placed him back in the Centre, his soul would fade, wilt and die like leaves in the late fall. But there would be a beautiful burning. He would be beautiful, and then wither away.
As much as she wants to preserve this thing between them, this relationship, the camaraderie, if you could call it that, she can't fight off her own weakness. It's the one thing that's always annoyed her, her father…Raines, even. But Raines has always hated her. But not as much as she's hated herself. She pours herself a drink. The pills manage to spill out of the bottle. Has she always needed a crutch like this? She downs them with the alcohol. She can feel him, his presence lingers in the shadows.
"You shouldn't do that." His voice is gruff against the still air, and she feels a shiver dance down her spine. She wants to yell at him, to turn and scream at him. He's never cared for her well-being just as she's never cared for his. Somewhere, she knows she's lying to herself. "It's dangerous."
She laughs, a cold laugh rising from the hollow of her pale throat. "I've done many a dangerous thing, Wonder Boy." She pauses and finishes off the alcohol. She pours herself another glass. He snatches it from her, and she feels resentment. He downs it as simply as she had downed hers. And suddenly, his lips are on hers, pushing, demanding, and she can feel the scrape of his stubble against her skin. She's wondering if she's imagining him. He pushes again, and she yields, willing. She hates herself for her weakness.
And every time they do this, she can feel another part of her soul breaking off and dying. It's like a cancer. And it's killing her slowly. He's killing her slowly. She smokes, drinks, and pops those delicious pills and every time, he's there, and he pretends that he cares. He chastises her, steals her drink, and they lose themselves in each other. But that's it. That's all. There's no rapture in it. There's no beauty in it. It's need. Plain, inescapable need. And she knows that some day, she'll escape. But only in death comes escape.