TITLE: Addiction
AUTHOR: Jana Kay
EMAIL: jana_kay17@yahoo.com.au
DISCLAIMER: All characters named here belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the WB and 20th
Century Fox. No profit being made, I'm just playing.
RATING: PG-13
WARNING: There are some themes in here that might make you uncomfortable. Read if you think
you can handle it.
SPOILERS: Vague references for 'Sanctuary' and 'Blind Date.' Major references for 'Lover's
Walk' and 'Hero.' Standard canon, though 'To Shanshu ...' hasn't happened yet.
SUMMARY: Not everything is as it appears.
NOTES: //...// means thoughts
*****
Quote : Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which they never show to anybody.
--Mark Twain
*****
Cordelia waved as she walked out of the office door, a bright smile plastered on her face that
bordered on real, but couldn't quite make it up to par.
They didn't notice though of course.
A great actress she may not be, but she knew how to read the lines when it came to her own
life. She knew how to tilt her head and raise her brows, pursue her lips and deliver the zany
one-liners.
She may have had only a few minutes to memorise and read the lines from that play //not thinking
about it// the other day, but she had a lifetime's experience on reading the cue cards when it
came to her own twisted life.
She paused on the steps outside, the warmth of the oncoming summer blanketed for the moment in a
chill fit for winter, and she shivered as goosebumps raced up the length of her arms, and the
dull ache she'd reluctantly grown used to began dancing along the edges of her scar again,
eating away at her from the inside out.
Rain was coming.
Maybe she should get a job as a weathergirl instead of an actress. She'd stopped counting how
many times the news-crew reported a sunny and fine day, and then her scar had eaten away at her
again, leaving her feeling hollow, and she knew instantly that they'd be wrong.
Never more would citizens throw shoes at television screens for lying to them and letting them
get caught in the downpour, if they had Cordelia Chase on board.
But how many times had she felt an icy rush of hatred for the people who'd given that very scar
to her. How many times had she wished she could wreak revenge on them and make them see just
how much their foolish thoughtlessness had hurt her.
Her! Cordelia Chase. Cordelia FUCKING Chase. She was so much better than them, and what had
they given her in return for her friendship? A handful of broken promises and twin holes in her
side, marking the entrance and exit of them in her life.
But of course, wishing was no good, because she had made a wish after all, and the memory of
that wish was always enough to make the hatred die a little. Douse the flames of her anger the
tiniest bit, and make the snapshot in her head of the two traitorous friends kissing seem like a
faraway nightmare from another life that wasn't really hers.
A black and white photograph left out in the rain whose colours had bled together to form a
lifeless gray, pushed far, far down beneath the muck and betrayal to be forgotten, so she could
still pick up the phone and talk to Willow as if they were old friends, relay messages back and
forth from her to Wesley and Angel, making her two best friends think that she actually was
still chummy with her highschool classmates, when in reality, she never wished to have anything
to do with them again.
Her new life was in LA, not Sunnydale. And it may not be perfect, no, but it was *hers*, and
she'd be damned if little Miss Likes-To-Fight or any of the rest of them were going to take that
away from her.
Angel was more hers now than he ever had been Buffy's anyway. She didn't love him like Buffy
had loved him, no, but she was his friend dammit and she cared about him. She was the one that
he'd turned to when Doyle had died, just like she'd turned to him, and she was the one that he
whispered his problems and fears and hopes to in the dark of his office when he thought she
wasn't around, but still needed to tell somebody so badly because he could no longer keep it
locked up inside of himself to burn away like an unchecked acid, forever cloaked in darkness and
despair.
Not Willow. Not Xander.
And never. ever Buffy.
She was the one who accepted him for who he was, bringing him blood and patching him up, and
complaining all the time, yes, but that's who Angel signed up for, right? She wasn't Florence
Nightingale and he knew that ... but she was his friend, and Angel accepted her for who she was
moreso than anybody else ever had in her life.
The ache of her scar grated on her taut nerves as she got in the waiting cab and told the driver
her address. She sat quietly in the back, staring out of the grimy window as she watched the
traffic and buildings fly by in a flood of neon and white and gray and orange, trying not to
remember the days when she had her own beautiful car and was never. ever reduced to paying a
lecherous cabby to take her back to her rent controlled apartment.
Halfway there, the rain started.
//Weathergirl strikes again//
She shook her dark head as she stared down at her feet, decorated in the latest, albeit cheapest
fashion, refusing to look at the falling rain which mocked her and her ever-present scar as it
fell from the sky and splattered on the roads and pavement below, hissing slightly as the moist
drops made contact with the dry ground.
Time passed and they were at her house, her stepping out of the cab quickly after paying the
driver, racing up the steps as quickly as she could so she wouldn't end up looking like a
drowned rat.
Didn't work though of course.
Next thing she knew, she was shaking water off of her clothes as Dennis opened the front door
for her, sensing her as she walked up the hall, and she greeted him as she always did before
slipping quietly into her bedroom.
The alarm clock on her night-stand read 11:13, the moonlight slanting into the room making the
red numbers glow almost silver.
Another late night thanks to painful vision number 43.
She's been keeping count, even though she's never said anything to the others. They'd probably
think she was crazy or ungrateful or just incredibly nit-picky. Maybe all three and a few
others as well. God forbid she should ever feel pissed off for having to put up with
mind-numbing visions that never once helped *her* ... well except for that first one. But then
again, she never would have needed it in the first place if she hadn't gotten them.
But she admits to herself that it's nice to have a small reminder of Doyle always with her.
Carried around snug and safe, tucked away inside of her. And every vision she gets always
leaves behind a ghostly aftertaste of Ireland and whiskey and male, and she's never told that to
the others either.
She wonders sometimes if, when her time comes and she dies thereby passing the visions on to
someone else, leaving them bound to Angel in service of the Greater Good, whether they'll be
able to taste her too, mixed up with the flavour of Doyle and pain and heartbreak and more pain.
She thinks now that she loved Doyle in her own way even before he was gone, but now that he is
gone, that love has long since been mixed up with pride and hate, because he believed in her
enough to give the visions to her, entrusting her with something so much more important than any
one person ... and because he *did* give them to her, thereby tying her to somebody else for the
rest of her -- now undeniably shortened -- life.
It's hard for her, always hating the men she loves.
Xander. Doyle. Wesley, for just being so *him* sometimes. Angel, for never once being able to
let go of even the smallest memory of the past.
She wonders if he thinks he has to atone for even the smallest of indiscretions, like rapping
some little girl's knuckles at the neighbour's house when he was only a little boy himself ...
Probably.
Cordelia feels tired all of a sudden. So many old, painful memories. She feels drained as she
haphazardly drops her coat on the bed and wanders into the kitchen.
Her stomach is grumbling now, craving for food as it keeps perfect time with the throbbing of
her scar. She absent-mindedly runs a finger over it, massaging and tracing the lines she
memorised long ago as she opens the refrigerator door with her other hand.
A pitiful half lettuce sits on the uppermost shelf, three small tubs of yogurt on the shelf
beneath it, a packet of cheese and four tomatoes on the one below that, and a 2 litre bottle of
Evian is tucked into the side.
She thinks she's run out of bread, so she can't make herself a sandwich. Instead, she grabs all
three tubs of yogurt and the Evian, lugging them over to the small kitchen table in the centre
of the room, grabbing a little spoon on her way from the side drawer.
Normally, she would have eaten at Angel's after the fight. Scrambled eggs and juice and toast,
plus a piece of fruit he seems to always make magically appear just for her.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Angel got hurt.
She patched him up as she always did, hovering over him as she chewed on her bottom lip and
heated up two packets of blood to make up for all that he'd lost, trying to clean out the gaping
wound that was directly over his heart but thankfully, the cause of it not made by anything even
remotely made of wood, worry eating away at her because there was just. so. much. Blood.
And usually, Angel was always able to make a slightly witty remark when he got hurt and she
patched him up, showing her that he was going to be just fine ...
But this time, all he did was close his eyes and grit his teeth, silently gulp down the blood
and wince as he did, his throat aching from the ring of bruises around it. And when she was
done, all he did was catch her hand as she turned to leave, squeeze it lightly and nod his head
in thanks, and she pretended that his actions appeased her, that she wasn't worried anymore,
turning to Wesley and joking around, getting a smidgen of a laugh out of her broody boss before
she turned with a smile and a wave and left, her work for the evening done.
She tries not to think that it was *her* vision that got him hurt so badly, tries to squash the
image of Doyle that rises in her mind instinctively when even the thought of a vision is
broached.
Her face becomes a stone mask as she rips off the plastic covering of the first small tub and
dips her spoon in.
For right now, she's had enough of walking down memory lane. If she so much as thinks of Doyle
again just once tonight, she's going to either a) smash her apartment to pieces, b) tear out her
eyeballs with her fingernails or c) start crying and be seriously afraid of never being able to
stop.
She still thinks there were never enough tears shed for Doyle, even after nearly a year since
his death.
She concentrates on the menial things.
Holding her small spoon tightly in her palm.
Dipping it into the yogurt.
Making sure the spoon is full before lifting it out, being careful not to let anything drip.
Put it in her mouth and lick it off the spoon, savouring the taste of vanilla and strawberries.
She thinks that if someone were to see her now, they'd see nothing but a cold shell of her, left
behind as her empty chrysalis, while her inner self has moved on to better pastures.
But there are no better pastures to move on to.
Just her and her visions and her motley group of friends, whom she clings to like a drowning
woman clutching a lifeline or a woman possessed. She can never decide which one is the more
flattering of the two.
If only the casting directors could see her now.
//Meryl Streep, eat your heart out. The angst queen has a new name//
Without even realising it, she's eaten all three tubs of yogurt and has chugged more than half
of the Evian.
The scar still scratches at her, the ache lessening now that the rain is coming down less
heavily, but now she feels bloated, like a whale about to burst at the seams. And she has a
headache as well. First she got the vision, and then she knocked her head. Not bad enough for
a concussion though, says Wesley's thorough inspection, so she duly took care of Angel and then
went home to 'sleep it off.'
But she knows it won't sleep off.
Working with Angel, she's had her fair share of headaches. And she's become so used to them by
now, especially in recent months, that she's come to understand what types of headaches there
are.
And this is one of those headaches that she knows won't just disappear with a good nights sleep
and a cup or two of chamomile tea a la Wesley.
This is one of those headaches that's always waiting back there in the wings, lurking somewhere
in the back of your skull and behind your eyes, beating an ever so faint drummer boy rhythm at
the temples that you can't always catch, but leaves you with a bad case of lethargy and a tapping
of your foot nonetheless. And it's always waiting for just the right moment to make it's
appearance, because this is the type of headache that always picks the wrong time. It's what
it's known for.
The knock to her skull merely precipitated this, it didn't bring it on. Now that it's here,
Cordelia can sense that it was building up for weeks.
It'll be a good few days before she's really herself again, and she can only pray to whatever
sends the preternatural sight to her in the first place, that they forego any outward messages
for at least a weeks time.
As she covers her bloated stomach with her hands and tries to block the gnawing of her scar
until it fades to a faint nibbling and the pounding of her skull until it's reduced to a gentle
tapping, she feels that this is the perfect opportunity to act out of character for once.
After all, for a week she truly won't be herself, it's the perfect chance to do something
outrageous that none of the others would ever expect of her.
And the fact that they'd never know would only make it all the better.
She groans as she stands up, taking the three empty tubs and throwing them in the trash can
below the sink, then returning to the table to grab the Evian bottle and put it back in the
refrigerator.
Turning resolutely and resisting the urge to cover her scar, she walks to the bathroom and
carefully locks the door behind her.
Part of her knows that this is wrong, has scorned people who did this sort of thing herself
time and time again ... but she still can't stop. She's been fighting the urge to do this for
so long now, it seems like forever.
Probably since only three or four months after she got to the city though.
If she was in her right mind at the moment, she knows that undoubtedly, she'd never be doing
this. After all, she's Perfect Cordelia Chase. Beautiful Cordelia Chase. Queen Cordelia Chase.
But even being all those things, she still can't measure up. Oh she knows she does in Angel and
Wesley's eyes, but in the giant scheme of things, she's nothing more than a tiny bug on the
radar, not even worthy of a blip.
In a few days time when she's herself again, she'll try and forget she ever did this. It'll be
pushed to the back of her mind like certain acts performed in Sunnydale and certain half-demons
whom she still wakes up in a frigid sweat about most nights.
Part of her knows that what she's about to do will not help anything, and perhaps it'll only
aggravate matters more, but she's sick and tired of fighting.
And after every knock back, after every refusal ...
//Too tall ... too squeaky ... too dramatic ... too dark ... too innocent ... too bad//
The list goes on of course, but the one that gets her the most, the one that really kills her
because it's something she's always prided herself on, the corner-stone of her entire image in
highschool, going hand in hand with her knowledge of fashion and her money, is when they turn to
each other and say, just purposely loud enough for her to hear ...
//Too Fat//
If she was thinking properly right now, she'd know she wasn't fat, just like she'd know the
difference between a Gucci bag and a Prada one. She'd ignore the voice whispering in her mind
that if she only did this, they'd notice her. If she only lost a pound or two, she'd get that
next commercial for peanuts, or that other one for soap.
Maybe, if, what harm could it do? Just the one time, to see if there was any difference
afterwards.
If she was in her right mind, she wouldn't even need to answer that question. She knew from
years of carefully perusing beauty magazines as the leader of her clique just exactly what harm
it can and very often does do, but the ache of the scar and the bloatedness she feels and the
headache that seems to be liquefying her every thought is not helping her.
She groans again, her eyes fluttering tiredly, and then she suddenly drops to her knees before
the toilet bowl, sticking her finger down her throat and gagging before she has the chance to
change her mind again.
Acid burns all the way up her oesophagus and her stomach seems to have lurched up to her lungs.
Her body convulses as she flops over the rim of the bowl, her dinner and lunch and maybe even
breakfast exiting her body in the worst way possible.
When it's over, she lies there afterwards, sprawled out on the cold tile of the bathroom floor,
beads of cold sweat lining her forehead and tiny chunks of digested food still floating around
unchecked in her saliva.
After a few minutes of gathering herself up, she stands on only slightly shaky legs and walks to
the sink. Turning the tap on, she splashes her face with cold water, gargling with the
mouthwash she has in the cupboard and scrubbing at her face and throat with a washcloth.
When she's done, she dries herself off and looks carefully in the mirror, ignoring the dark
rings around her eyes and focusing instead on the lines of her face, trying to see whether there
was any change. Whether they seem a bit sharper or whether they've remained the way they always
were.
There's no change of course, she should have known.
She would have too, if only her head didn't feel as though it was being constantly pounded at
with a hammer.
And now that she's done it and knows it hasn't accomplished anything, she'll never do it again.
Cordelia Chase will go back to being herself, and will never speak of this to a single soul.
Her one moment of weakness when she bowed down to shallow vanity will never be repeated.
But she's underestimated the urge, and next time she's waylaid with a headache that puts her out
mentally for days, anguish and desperation and fear of Failure that she hides so well during the
day as she works steadily at the office clawing to the surface to rip through her stone wall
defenses, then the need to repeat the act, to prove to herself and to all those casting
directors out there that she does have that special something if they'd only be able to see past
her waistline, will be even stronger than ever.
Like an addiction, it will creep up on her, giving her the illusion of control until one day,
her stomach will cramp when she actually wants to hold the food, and there won't be a damn thing
she can do about it.
But she's Cordelia Chase.
She can get through that. She can get through anything she puts her mind to.
Right?
And as she nods her head at her reflection in the mirror, she vows that she'll never ever do
that again. Her scar does a jiggy dance to mock her mental thoughts as her temples throb and
her eyeballs itch, her body no longer bloated, and with a turn of her heel, she unlocks the
bathroom door and goes out.
Time for bed.
Tomorrow's an important day.
Audition at 9:00am.
~Finis~
AUTHOR: Jana Kay
EMAIL: jana_kay17@yahoo.com.au
DISCLAIMER: All characters named here belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the WB and 20th
Century Fox. No profit being made, I'm just playing.
RATING: PG-13
WARNING: There are some themes in here that might make you uncomfortable. Read if you think
you can handle it.
SPOILERS: Vague references for 'Sanctuary' and 'Blind Date.' Major references for 'Lover's
Walk' and 'Hero.' Standard canon, though 'To Shanshu ...' hasn't happened yet.
SUMMARY: Not everything is as it appears.
NOTES: //...// means thoughts
*****
Quote : Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which they never show to anybody.
--Mark Twain
*****
Cordelia waved as she walked out of the office door, a bright smile plastered on her face that
bordered on real, but couldn't quite make it up to par.
They didn't notice though of course.
A great actress she may not be, but she knew how to read the lines when it came to her own
life. She knew how to tilt her head and raise her brows, pursue her lips and deliver the zany
one-liners.
She may have had only a few minutes to memorise and read the lines from that play //not thinking
about it// the other day, but she had a lifetime's experience on reading the cue cards when it
came to her own twisted life.
She paused on the steps outside, the warmth of the oncoming summer blanketed for the moment in a
chill fit for winter, and she shivered as goosebumps raced up the length of her arms, and the
dull ache she'd reluctantly grown used to began dancing along the edges of her scar again,
eating away at her from the inside out.
Rain was coming.
Maybe she should get a job as a weathergirl instead of an actress. She'd stopped counting how
many times the news-crew reported a sunny and fine day, and then her scar had eaten away at her
again, leaving her feeling hollow, and she knew instantly that they'd be wrong.
Never more would citizens throw shoes at television screens for lying to them and letting them
get caught in the downpour, if they had Cordelia Chase on board.
But how many times had she felt an icy rush of hatred for the people who'd given that very scar
to her. How many times had she wished she could wreak revenge on them and make them see just
how much their foolish thoughtlessness had hurt her.
Her! Cordelia Chase. Cordelia FUCKING Chase. She was so much better than them, and what had
they given her in return for her friendship? A handful of broken promises and twin holes in her
side, marking the entrance and exit of them in her life.
But of course, wishing was no good, because she had made a wish after all, and the memory of
that wish was always enough to make the hatred die a little. Douse the flames of her anger the
tiniest bit, and make the snapshot in her head of the two traitorous friends kissing seem like a
faraway nightmare from another life that wasn't really hers.
A black and white photograph left out in the rain whose colours had bled together to form a
lifeless gray, pushed far, far down beneath the muck and betrayal to be forgotten, so she could
still pick up the phone and talk to Willow as if they were old friends, relay messages back and
forth from her to Wesley and Angel, making her two best friends think that she actually was
still chummy with her highschool classmates, when in reality, she never wished to have anything
to do with them again.
Her new life was in LA, not Sunnydale. And it may not be perfect, no, but it was *hers*, and
she'd be damned if little Miss Likes-To-Fight or any of the rest of them were going to take that
away from her.
Angel was more hers now than he ever had been Buffy's anyway. She didn't love him like Buffy
had loved him, no, but she was his friend dammit and she cared about him. She was the one that
he'd turned to when Doyle had died, just like she'd turned to him, and she was the one that he
whispered his problems and fears and hopes to in the dark of his office when he thought she
wasn't around, but still needed to tell somebody so badly because he could no longer keep it
locked up inside of himself to burn away like an unchecked acid, forever cloaked in darkness and
despair.
Not Willow. Not Xander.
And never. ever Buffy.
She was the one who accepted him for who he was, bringing him blood and patching him up, and
complaining all the time, yes, but that's who Angel signed up for, right? She wasn't Florence
Nightingale and he knew that ... but she was his friend, and Angel accepted her for who she was
moreso than anybody else ever had in her life.
The ache of her scar grated on her taut nerves as she got in the waiting cab and told the driver
her address. She sat quietly in the back, staring out of the grimy window as she watched the
traffic and buildings fly by in a flood of neon and white and gray and orange, trying not to
remember the days when she had her own beautiful car and was never. ever reduced to paying a
lecherous cabby to take her back to her rent controlled apartment.
Halfway there, the rain started.
//Weathergirl strikes again//
She shook her dark head as she stared down at her feet, decorated in the latest, albeit cheapest
fashion, refusing to look at the falling rain which mocked her and her ever-present scar as it
fell from the sky and splattered on the roads and pavement below, hissing slightly as the moist
drops made contact with the dry ground.
Time passed and they were at her house, her stepping out of the cab quickly after paying the
driver, racing up the steps as quickly as she could so she wouldn't end up looking like a
drowned rat.
Didn't work though of course.
Next thing she knew, she was shaking water off of her clothes as Dennis opened the front door
for her, sensing her as she walked up the hall, and she greeted him as she always did before
slipping quietly into her bedroom.
The alarm clock on her night-stand read 11:13, the moonlight slanting into the room making the
red numbers glow almost silver.
Another late night thanks to painful vision number 43.
She's been keeping count, even though she's never said anything to the others. They'd probably
think she was crazy or ungrateful or just incredibly nit-picky. Maybe all three and a few
others as well. God forbid she should ever feel pissed off for having to put up with
mind-numbing visions that never once helped *her* ... well except for that first one. But then
again, she never would have needed it in the first place if she hadn't gotten them.
But she admits to herself that it's nice to have a small reminder of Doyle always with her.
Carried around snug and safe, tucked away inside of her. And every vision she gets always
leaves behind a ghostly aftertaste of Ireland and whiskey and male, and she's never told that to
the others either.
She wonders sometimes if, when her time comes and she dies thereby passing the visions on to
someone else, leaving them bound to Angel in service of the Greater Good, whether they'll be
able to taste her too, mixed up with the flavour of Doyle and pain and heartbreak and more pain.
She thinks now that she loved Doyle in her own way even before he was gone, but now that he is
gone, that love has long since been mixed up with pride and hate, because he believed in her
enough to give the visions to her, entrusting her with something so much more important than any
one person ... and because he *did* give them to her, thereby tying her to somebody else for the
rest of her -- now undeniably shortened -- life.
It's hard for her, always hating the men she loves.
Xander. Doyle. Wesley, for just being so *him* sometimes. Angel, for never once being able to
let go of even the smallest memory of the past.
She wonders if he thinks he has to atone for even the smallest of indiscretions, like rapping
some little girl's knuckles at the neighbour's house when he was only a little boy himself ...
Probably.
Cordelia feels tired all of a sudden. So many old, painful memories. She feels drained as she
haphazardly drops her coat on the bed and wanders into the kitchen.
Her stomach is grumbling now, craving for food as it keeps perfect time with the throbbing of
her scar. She absent-mindedly runs a finger over it, massaging and tracing the lines she
memorised long ago as she opens the refrigerator door with her other hand.
A pitiful half lettuce sits on the uppermost shelf, three small tubs of yogurt on the shelf
beneath it, a packet of cheese and four tomatoes on the one below that, and a 2 litre bottle of
Evian is tucked into the side.
She thinks she's run out of bread, so she can't make herself a sandwich. Instead, she grabs all
three tubs of yogurt and the Evian, lugging them over to the small kitchen table in the centre
of the room, grabbing a little spoon on her way from the side drawer.
Normally, she would have eaten at Angel's after the fight. Scrambled eggs and juice and toast,
plus a piece of fruit he seems to always make magically appear just for her.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Angel got hurt.
She patched him up as she always did, hovering over him as she chewed on her bottom lip and
heated up two packets of blood to make up for all that he'd lost, trying to clean out the gaping
wound that was directly over his heart but thankfully, the cause of it not made by anything even
remotely made of wood, worry eating away at her because there was just. so. much. Blood.
And usually, Angel was always able to make a slightly witty remark when he got hurt and she
patched him up, showing her that he was going to be just fine ...
But this time, all he did was close his eyes and grit his teeth, silently gulp down the blood
and wince as he did, his throat aching from the ring of bruises around it. And when she was
done, all he did was catch her hand as she turned to leave, squeeze it lightly and nod his head
in thanks, and she pretended that his actions appeased her, that she wasn't worried anymore,
turning to Wesley and joking around, getting a smidgen of a laugh out of her broody boss before
she turned with a smile and a wave and left, her work for the evening done.
She tries not to think that it was *her* vision that got him hurt so badly, tries to squash the
image of Doyle that rises in her mind instinctively when even the thought of a vision is
broached.
Her face becomes a stone mask as she rips off the plastic covering of the first small tub and
dips her spoon in.
For right now, she's had enough of walking down memory lane. If she so much as thinks of Doyle
again just once tonight, she's going to either a) smash her apartment to pieces, b) tear out her
eyeballs with her fingernails or c) start crying and be seriously afraid of never being able to
stop.
She still thinks there were never enough tears shed for Doyle, even after nearly a year since
his death.
She concentrates on the menial things.
Holding her small spoon tightly in her palm.
Dipping it into the yogurt.
Making sure the spoon is full before lifting it out, being careful not to let anything drip.
Put it in her mouth and lick it off the spoon, savouring the taste of vanilla and strawberries.
She thinks that if someone were to see her now, they'd see nothing but a cold shell of her, left
behind as her empty chrysalis, while her inner self has moved on to better pastures.
But there are no better pastures to move on to.
Just her and her visions and her motley group of friends, whom she clings to like a drowning
woman clutching a lifeline or a woman possessed. She can never decide which one is the more
flattering of the two.
If only the casting directors could see her now.
//Meryl Streep, eat your heart out. The angst queen has a new name//
Without even realising it, she's eaten all three tubs of yogurt and has chugged more than half
of the Evian.
The scar still scratches at her, the ache lessening now that the rain is coming down less
heavily, but now she feels bloated, like a whale about to burst at the seams. And she has a
headache as well. First she got the vision, and then she knocked her head. Not bad enough for
a concussion though, says Wesley's thorough inspection, so she duly took care of Angel and then
went home to 'sleep it off.'
But she knows it won't sleep off.
Working with Angel, she's had her fair share of headaches. And she's become so used to them by
now, especially in recent months, that she's come to understand what types of headaches there
are.
And this is one of those headaches that she knows won't just disappear with a good nights sleep
and a cup or two of chamomile tea a la Wesley.
This is one of those headaches that's always waiting back there in the wings, lurking somewhere
in the back of your skull and behind your eyes, beating an ever so faint drummer boy rhythm at
the temples that you can't always catch, but leaves you with a bad case of lethargy and a tapping
of your foot nonetheless. And it's always waiting for just the right moment to make it's
appearance, because this is the type of headache that always picks the wrong time. It's what
it's known for.
The knock to her skull merely precipitated this, it didn't bring it on. Now that it's here,
Cordelia can sense that it was building up for weeks.
It'll be a good few days before she's really herself again, and she can only pray to whatever
sends the preternatural sight to her in the first place, that they forego any outward messages
for at least a weeks time.
As she covers her bloated stomach with her hands and tries to block the gnawing of her scar
until it fades to a faint nibbling and the pounding of her skull until it's reduced to a gentle
tapping, she feels that this is the perfect opportunity to act out of character for once.
After all, for a week she truly won't be herself, it's the perfect chance to do something
outrageous that none of the others would ever expect of her.
And the fact that they'd never know would only make it all the better.
She groans as she stands up, taking the three empty tubs and throwing them in the trash can
below the sink, then returning to the table to grab the Evian bottle and put it back in the
refrigerator.
Turning resolutely and resisting the urge to cover her scar, she walks to the bathroom and
carefully locks the door behind her.
Part of her knows that this is wrong, has scorned people who did this sort of thing herself
time and time again ... but she still can't stop. She's been fighting the urge to do this for
so long now, it seems like forever.
Probably since only three or four months after she got to the city though.
If she was in her right mind at the moment, she knows that undoubtedly, she'd never be doing
this. After all, she's Perfect Cordelia Chase. Beautiful Cordelia Chase. Queen Cordelia Chase.
But even being all those things, she still can't measure up. Oh she knows she does in Angel and
Wesley's eyes, but in the giant scheme of things, she's nothing more than a tiny bug on the
radar, not even worthy of a blip.
In a few days time when she's herself again, she'll try and forget she ever did this. It'll be
pushed to the back of her mind like certain acts performed in Sunnydale and certain half-demons
whom she still wakes up in a frigid sweat about most nights.
Part of her knows that what she's about to do will not help anything, and perhaps it'll only
aggravate matters more, but she's sick and tired of fighting.
And after every knock back, after every refusal ...
//Too tall ... too squeaky ... too dramatic ... too dark ... too innocent ... too bad//
The list goes on of course, but the one that gets her the most, the one that really kills her
because it's something she's always prided herself on, the corner-stone of her entire image in
highschool, going hand in hand with her knowledge of fashion and her money, is when they turn to
each other and say, just purposely loud enough for her to hear ...
//Too Fat//
If she was thinking properly right now, she'd know she wasn't fat, just like she'd know the
difference between a Gucci bag and a Prada one. She'd ignore the voice whispering in her mind
that if she only did this, they'd notice her. If she only lost a pound or two, she'd get that
next commercial for peanuts, or that other one for soap.
Maybe, if, what harm could it do? Just the one time, to see if there was any difference
afterwards.
If she was in her right mind, she wouldn't even need to answer that question. She knew from
years of carefully perusing beauty magazines as the leader of her clique just exactly what harm
it can and very often does do, but the ache of the scar and the bloatedness she feels and the
headache that seems to be liquefying her every thought is not helping her.
She groans again, her eyes fluttering tiredly, and then she suddenly drops to her knees before
the toilet bowl, sticking her finger down her throat and gagging before she has the chance to
change her mind again.
Acid burns all the way up her oesophagus and her stomach seems to have lurched up to her lungs.
Her body convulses as she flops over the rim of the bowl, her dinner and lunch and maybe even
breakfast exiting her body in the worst way possible.
When it's over, she lies there afterwards, sprawled out on the cold tile of the bathroom floor,
beads of cold sweat lining her forehead and tiny chunks of digested food still floating around
unchecked in her saliva.
After a few minutes of gathering herself up, she stands on only slightly shaky legs and walks to
the sink. Turning the tap on, she splashes her face with cold water, gargling with the
mouthwash she has in the cupboard and scrubbing at her face and throat with a washcloth.
When she's done, she dries herself off and looks carefully in the mirror, ignoring the dark
rings around her eyes and focusing instead on the lines of her face, trying to see whether there
was any change. Whether they seem a bit sharper or whether they've remained the way they always
were.
There's no change of course, she should have known.
She would have too, if only her head didn't feel as though it was being constantly pounded at
with a hammer.
And now that she's done it and knows it hasn't accomplished anything, she'll never do it again.
Cordelia Chase will go back to being herself, and will never speak of this to a single soul.
Her one moment of weakness when she bowed down to shallow vanity will never be repeated.
But she's underestimated the urge, and next time she's waylaid with a headache that puts her out
mentally for days, anguish and desperation and fear of Failure that she hides so well during the
day as she works steadily at the office clawing to the surface to rip through her stone wall
defenses, then the need to repeat the act, to prove to herself and to all those casting
directors out there that she does have that special something if they'd only be able to see past
her waistline, will be even stronger than ever.
Like an addiction, it will creep up on her, giving her the illusion of control until one day,
her stomach will cramp when she actually wants to hold the food, and there won't be a damn thing
she can do about it.
But she's Cordelia Chase.
She can get through that. She can get through anything she puts her mind to.
Right?
And as she nods her head at her reflection in the mirror, she vows that she'll never ever do
that again. Her scar does a jiggy dance to mock her mental thoughts as her temples throb and
her eyeballs itch, her body no longer bloated, and with a turn of her heel, she unlocks the
bathroom door and goes out.
Time for bed.
Tomorrow's an important day.
Audition at 9:00am.
~Finis~