See Prologue for disclaimers, spoilers and such.
author: cheebs!
email: chbkamen at optonline dot net
site: http://bite.to/bloodandfire
datestamp: 8/29/02
Siamese Whispers - chapter 1
------------------------------------------------------------
Upward strike with the heel of your hand, shattering a nose
and forcing bone into brain. Roundhouse kick, snapping his
neck; kneeling; twisting; poof. One.
Sweep his leg, faster than his eyes can follow. Listen to
the satisfying wet crunch of skull on cement and grin that
grin you grin so well, that berzerker snarl that tells them
death is coming and its going to hurt, and you're going to
get off on it. Elbow to his cheek as he starts to rise;
another crunch and his head snaps back and forth like a
child on a rocking-horse. Laugh, and watch him cringe. He
knows who you are: the crazy slutty evil bitch whore they
whisper about in the darkest nights; a cautionary tale to
keep fledgelings in line.
He knows you are the last thing he will ever see.
Let it sink into his thick skull. Let his fear, agonisingly
and unexpectedly sweet for a vamp, sink into you.
End it. Twist his head 'round so quickly it flies out of
your hands and hits the wall before turning to dust. Two.
Jump up and shout your victory. Feel that post-Slayage need
for food and release and be glad for privacy and your hand
and pissed off at the lack of food and hate them for thinking
you'd go down so easily.
And then...
Feel it, a deep, penetrating wrongness. You just ripped the
heads off two vamps, yet you shouldn't have been able to,
thanks to the Council's serum and a broken arm. Realise
the arm is healing, and you're stronger than you've ever
been. Let the knowledge wash over you.
Close your eyes. Feel your heart hammering and try to slow
it, still it and listen for the echo of /hers./
It does not come.
Your eyes widen in panic; far worse terror than the demon
you'd just dusted. Your nostrils flare, like an animal
scenting, searching for something, someone. Your breath
catches. You will yourself silent, trembling all the while.
Knowing.
Nothing.
Scream your anguish to the steel rafters. Cry, rant, rage,
until your eyes are red and puffed shut, your voice is gone
and your fists are bloody from wall-punching. Hate them, all
of them, Scoob and demon and Council and gods, for letting
her die, and before you could apologise. Hate yourself, for
what you did that needed to be apologised for, and put you
where you could be of no help to her. Tell yourself you're
worse than any of them, because you could and should have
been there, on the side of good.
Curl up in a ball. Tears won't come anymore, but that won't
stop you from trying. Suddenly you wish you had let the vamps
win. You wish you'd risked the blows, back in Angel's flat,
and said your sorry's then. You wish once, just once, you'd
stopped waiting for her to figure it out and told her how
you felt about her. You wish you'd trusted her. You wish
she'd trusted you.
You wish for a rope, or a blade, or a nail; anything that
would allow you to end it or feel sensations beyond this
wrenching heartache.
If wishes were fishes.... You don't know the rest, but you
couldn't finish the thought anyway. You can't finish any
thought, can't get any to form beyond the absolute certainty
that Buffy is gone, probably for good.
Grieve. Howl. Claw at your arms, too perfect and clean for
all the blood on your hands. Watch in fascination as the
skin changes color, splits, oozes red life, and know that
/she/ will never bleed again. Wonder if she bled in death.
Wonder how she died. Wonder why you haven't died in all
these years. Wonder if it's all just a cosmic joke with you
as the butt of it.
Stop, finally exhausted even with your newfound strength and,
in part, because of it. Lie down and stare at a spot on the
wall until your vision blurs with the effort. Drift off into
a restless slumber punctuated with nightmares that cause you
to thrash and cry out.
Wait for the day, and the rest of your life as the Chosen One.
----------------
author: cheebs!
email: chbkamen at optonline dot net
site: http://bite.to/bloodandfire
datestamp: 8/29/02
Siamese Whispers - chapter 1
------------------------------------------------------------
Upward strike with the heel of your hand, shattering a nose
and forcing bone into brain. Roundhouse kick, snapping his
neck; kneeling; twisting; poof. One.
Sweep his leg, faster than his eyes can follow. Listen to
the satisfying wet crunch of skull on cement and grin that
grin you grin so well, that berzerker snarl that tells them
death is coming and its going to hurt, and you're going to
get off on it. Elbow to his cheek as he starts to rise;
another crunch and his head snaps back and forth like a
child on a rocking-horse. Laugh, and watch him cringe. He
knows who you are: the crazy slutty evil bitch whore they
whisper about in the darkest nights; a cautionary tale to
keep fledgelings in line.
He knows you are the last thing he will ever see.
Let it sink into his thick skull. Let his fear, agonisingly
and unexpectedly sweet for a vamp, sink into you.
End it. Twist his head 'round so quickly it flies out of
your hands and hits the wall before turning to dust. Two.
Jump up and shout your victory. Feel that post-Slayage need
for food and release and be glad for privacy and your hand
and pissed off at the lack of food and hate them for thinking
you'd go down so easily.
And then...
Feel it, a deep, penetrating wrongness. You just ripped the
heads off two vamps, yet you shouldn't have been able to,
thanks to the Council's serum and a broken arm. Realise
the arm is healing, and you're stronger than you've ever
been. Let the knowledge wash over you.
Close your eyes. Feel your heart hammering and try to slow
it, still it and listen for the echo of /hers./
It does not come.
Your eyes widen in panic; far worse terror than the demon
you'd just dusted. Your nostrils flare, like an animal
scenting, searching for something, someone. Your breath
catches. You will yourself silent, trembling all the while.
Knowing.
Nothing.
Scream your anguish to the steel rafters. Cry, rant, rage,
until your eyes are red and puffed shut, your voice is gone
and your fists are bloody from wall-punching. Hate them, all
of them, Scoob and demon and Council and gods, for letting
her die, and before you could apologise. Hate yourself, for
what you did that needed to be apologised for, and put you
where you could be of no help to her. Tell yourself you're
worse than any of them, because you could and should have
been there, on the side of good.
Curl up in a ball. Tears won't come anymore, but that won't
stop you from trying. Suddenly you wish you had let the vamps
win. You wish you'd risked the blows, back in Angel's flat,
and said your sorry's then. You wish once, just once, you'd
stopped waiting for her to figure it out and told her how
you felt about her. You wish you'd trusted her. You wish
she'd trusted you.
You wish for a rope, or a blade, or a nail; anything that
would allow you to end it or feel sensations beyond this
wrenching heartache.
If wishes were fishes.... You don't know the rest, but you
couldn't finish the thought anyway. You can't finish any
thought, can't get any to form beyond the absolute certainty
that Buffy is gone, probably for good.
Grieve. Howl. Claw at your arms, too perfect and clean for
all the blood on your hands. Watch in fascination as the
skin changes color, splits, oozes red life, and know that
/she/ will never bleed again. Wonder if she bled in death.
Wonder how she died. Wonder why you haven't died in all
these years. Wonder if it's all just a cosmic joke with you
as the butt of it.
Stop, finally exhausted even with your newfound strength and,
in part, because of it. Lie down and stare at a spot on the
wall until your vision blurs with the effort. Drift off into
a restless slumber punctuated with nightmares that cause you
to thrash and cry out.
Wait for the day, and the rest of your life as the Chosen One.
----------------