Author's note: I hope those of you who actually celebrate Christmas, had a wonderful holiday. I know I did! Here's my little Christmas gift to you, some Fiona snark. One-shot. Enjoy!
~oOoOoOo~
Time. Time was pulsating, thrumming like the blood that surged through Fiona's arteries-diseased blood; blood that was besmirched, blood that was beginning to lose its polish-blood that was seeping from Fiona's mouth as she bent down over the toilet and vomited the contents of her stomach, mostly bile, as she hadn't had an appetite for several days. It was just Fiona's god damn luck, too-to be violently ill as she was on Christmas day, away from the festivities and presents, as if she actually believed in Jesus or any of that other Christian shit. There was no God, but there were witches and warlocks-men and women who could manipulate the elements, amongst other things, to function in their favor, and turn out with a positive outcome-and these people were just about as saintlike, for lack of a better word, as it was going to get. People that believed in Jesus or any of that other religious bullshit deserved to be nailed to a cross themselves and set aflame. There was no higher power, there was no heaven-but there was a hell. There was evil. Fiona had seen this face of evil, had looked right into the onyx, unfathomable irises of evil-Marie Laveau. It was laughable, Fiona thought, so whimsical how Marie regarded her power, as if it were any real power at all. She relied on the so-called Gods above, offering sacrifices, offering herself and her other voodoo assholes up as little bitches, people that could be manipulated; people that could be intimidated.
Try as she might, Marie Laveau was frightened of Fiona. The Supreme. The one woman who wouldn't hesitate to find the loophole to the voodoo Queen's death-or the ultimate cosmic joke-the secret to the immortality potion that had kept Delphine LaLaurie and Marie Laveau in their prime all these years, not some moldering corpses. That way, Fiona could claim the title of the Supreme for eternity, and be the thorn that was endlessly being jabbed into Marie's side; a perpetual pain in the ass. A smirk embellished Fiona's orbicular facet, her naked flesh home to several beads of sweat that claimed the immaculate region, wrinkles aside, even without being adorned in some sort of beauty product. Fiona was, in fact, the equivalent of Aphrodite, if not more exquisite and elegant than the goddess of love, beauty and sexual rapture herself. She may have been exhausted, and her face certainly showcased the expenditure, but Fiona only needed to endure a bit more of the suffering, of the agony that seemed as if it were endless-a torture that threatened to be Fiona's brutal demise. Fiona didn't want treatment for her cancer, Satan's diet pills. She didn't want to go out, shriveled and bald. She wanted to die as she'd lived her life, graceful and in style.
Chemo? Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I'm not going out bald and shriveled and... begging for morphine. No. I've lived a disreputable life, but I've done it in style, and I'll die likewise. I don't belong on these walls. I took my inheritance too soon. Squandered it. All that... power, all those gifts. I just took it and poured it back into myself and dressed it up in Chanel. I was a shitty Supreme. But now, my mentor, Anna-Lee Leighton - Now there was a Supreme. She was majestic and powerful. She taught me everything I know. You know how I thanked her? By cutting her throat. Right where I'm standing.
Fiona recalled the conversation she'd had with the blossoming Madison Montgomery, a girl whom Fiona, along with several other witches and warlocks of not only the council, but the coven, as well, had suspected to be the rising Supreme. The girl was ridiculous, and may have been a celebrity in the eye of the public, but to Fiona, Madison was nothing more than a cheap knockoff; a wannabee-a befuddled teenager that had lost her way in the mess of the drugs and alcohol that Madison consumed on a daily basis. The girl was a mess, not a beautiful mess, either-a loathsome mess, a mess that Fiona should have been praised for cleaning up. The moment that she'd put the girl down, euthanized her as if she were an ill dog, Fiona had been doing the coven a kind favor-ridding them of a girl who was thirsty for power, a girl who was only out to clear her name, repair a reputation that had already been flushed down the toilet-like the shit that it was-and to make others suffer. The girl was a real trip, an annoyance. If Fiona hadn't been so weakened by the cancer that surged through her body, corrupting the very cells that Fiona had been created by.
Menigeal carcinomatosis. That's what the doctor called it. Tiny seedlings that the cancer planted in the lining of my spines. The little bastards are Satan's diet pills. I used to think I understood pain. A pain, a cut, a broken bone. Heartbreak. But this is if I've been dipped in the river Styx and all the suffering of all the souls that ever were or will be have soaked my body. My body doesn't belong to me-not that I'd want it in this state. I'm starting to look less Samantha and more Endora every day. And what could be more painful than having to tell your child that you're going to die?
When Fiona had confronted Cordelia about her cancer, her daughter scoffed, brushing the elder woman off with words that made Fiona's heart ache. "Do me a favor. Die before Thanksgiving, so none of us have to suffer through that mess of raisins and Styrofoam you call stuffing."
Fiona may not have been the mother that her daughter needed her to be, instead being raised by that firecrotch named Myrtle, but she intended to protect her daughter now-even if it drained the life force from her body-even if Fiona died trying. Cordelia was worth it, but both women, both headstrong women, certainly mother and daughter, were shit out of luck if Fiona didn't get her health back up to par in the next few days.
This is what Marie Laveau wanted.
This is what the voodoo Queen was expecting.
Marie wanted to see Fiona fall to her knees, to beg for forgiveness-to choke and asphyxiate on her own blood-blood that was turning against Fiona; her own blood. Blood that was betraying its vessel.
Marie wanted Fiona's head on a platter. She wanted to make Fiona's life a living hell.
Little did Marie realize, Fiona wasn't born yesterday. She had several tricks up her sleeve, and intended to utilize these tricks. It was laughable, but not as laughable as Marie's face would be when she discovered a real monster to be lurking outside her window in the dead of night. Fiona had been brewing quite a bit of shit in her pot, things that would snap Marie's will in half-but she couldn't do shit looking the way Fiona was. She needed help. It killed her to do so, to ask for help. Asking for help pained Fiona moreso than the cancer did, but she needed it. She needed her sister witches, though the emphasis on being related to those little shitheads downstairs irritated Fiona to no end. She didn't expect to get any help, but then again, she wasn't asking.
Fiona would be helped. And when all was said and done, the individuals that rose to the occasion would be rewarded. The other selfish pricks that would turn their backs? Would be punished. A price would need to be paid. The price consisting of their lives. It had been a while since Fiona had sucked the very life force from a man's body, left him a writhing corpse, a shell of nothing, once housing a beautiful and lively soul. She was hungry, needing to sate an appetite-and appetite that roared so loudly, Fiona could barely breathe. The life of a murderer wasn't an easy one, but it sure as hell was entertaining.
But first, food. Fiona needed food, which required her to leave her bedroom. God damn it.