Surviving
By Woman of Letters
A/N Tag to Season 3 Episode 16: No Rest for the Wicked. Several chapters of this story contain dialogue from that episode. Warning: Triggers for depression; suicidal tendencies in this story.
Chapter 2: Birthdays
Every year, on that day, she thinks about killing herself.
Lilith ruined her birthday. Forever.
One of her classmates has a birthday on September 11th. Since 2001, he hasn't been able to celebrate. How can he celebrate knowing so many people died on that day?
She laughs inside, a bitter, deranged laugh. What would he say if she asked, "How can I celebrate, knowing that at my birthday party, I killed my brother and grandparents?"
Of course, it wasn't her birthday. But for four days, Lilith made it her birthday. She had them bake a cake. She sat them at the table. And bit by bit, she made them all afraid, changing the feeling of birthday from happiness and togetherness to pain and grief. And death. So much death.
Lilith planned it that way. She loves twisting up children. They were only together for a few days, but she knows that monster better than she knows anyone else, except for her parents. Come to think of it, even better than she knows her parents.
A few days with Lilith is like a lifetime with a normal person.
She remembers the smell of birthday cake. Freshly baked by a mother as frightened of her baby as a child fears the boogeyman. Forced to sing happy birthday while her grandma lay dead on the table. Grandma, who had always baked cookies and cakes for her, who had told her stories as she sat at that very table. The table she was sitting at for her fourth birthday party in a row, looking at Grandma's corpse.
"Isn't this wonderful, little one?" Lilith chuckled. "I always loved parties."
The icing tasted like ashes in her mouth and inside Lilith continued to twist the knife.
"I am so sorry about your grandmother," she murmured, in a voice that mocked the pain in her heart. "But it's your birthday party. Time to be happy, darling. You can mourn her later..."
Monster! Get out of me! she yelled, knowing that her shouting had no effect. She'd been screaming for days. She tried desperately to shove against Lilith in her mind, but nothing happened.
"Oh... you don't want to piss me off, little girl. Let's see...What can I do to make this day even better for you?"
She stilled her inner struggle, afraid of the glee in the demoness' voice. She needed to stop reacting, the monster fed on her own feelings. But she was only five years old. She couldn't control herself. With mounting fear, she heard the words coming out of her mouth, the words she couldn't stop, as the demoness turned to her grandfather.
"Why did you try to go to Mr. Wayburn for help?"
Her grandfather's face turned white.
Oh no, Grandpa... she couldn't help moaning inside. It gave Lilith as much satisfaction to hear her pain and she knew she had to stop reacting. But the monster was in her own head. She could read her thoughts and feelings.
At first he denied it, "I didn't. I don't know what you mean."
Lilith stopped smiling with her mouth. "You big fat liar."
Don't react, she told herself.
Then the witch turned to her mommy and daddy. "Did you two know about this?" And little girl though she was, she could tell, they were afraid. Her mommy and daddy were so afraid.
"No," her daddy finally said.
Her grandpa looked devastated and for a moment, her anger turned on her parents.
They're afraid to die, she reminded herself, before remembering she shouldn't react.
"No," her mother said, sealing her grandpa's fate.
She shuddered inwardly when Lilith put on the hurt little girl look. "Grandpa? You don't love me?"
Leave him alone! she shouted, feeling raw inside, wondering why she was still trying.
"I'm sorry. It was a mistake," her grandpa protested, and she knew what was coming.
"Sorry, baby," whispered Lilith in her head, sounding anything but sorry. "I need to do this. I would have let it go, but you called me a monster. And I hate that word."
Allyourfault, Allyourfault, Allyourfault... The feeling continues, ten years later. Another death on her hands. The sight of her grandpa's twisted neck is what she sees when she looks at birthday cakes and ice cream.
Every year, when she's alone in the kitchen, she takes a knife from the drawer, turns it over, looks at it. Looks at her wrists.
Every year it gets harder to resist.