From the diary of Hailey Beckford -
I'm really starting to wonder about the intentions of certain people - mainly, however, the intentions of the one I've been spending most of my time with.
I know what I have to do, but - I know that he's interested. Maybe.
Maybe it's the fact that he hasn't broken me yet; all the other girls he comes across, he mows right back down, not even looking back.
Me? I haven't gone down so easily.
So maybe that's it.
It doesn't explain that I do have a shiver of something for him, though I know it's not love - maybe a slight bit of affection, appreciation for the fact that he has seemed to be a little more than protective of me lately.
There's something...genuine there, even if it is hidden under more bravado than anyone should legally possess.
If I have to kill him - I may shed a few tears at his funeral.
He knows not what needs done.
-*-
A few days had passed - days in which I'd been almost fully accepted, if not almost forcefully, into the fold of the three, and most people saw that. They steered clear of the girl who had sided herself with what seemed an inpenetrable source of evil, the strange girl with the off colored eyes who seemed to have Randy Orton at her every beck and call.
It was nice, in a way, to have someone there, almost hovering protectively over you, in case anyone decides that I need 'a talk.'
But you can feel the tenseness in the small group, the nearly audible feeling of trust slowly cracking, even as everything else seems to be perfectly fine.
Tonight - tonight is when I may make a move. Nothing's happened yet, and I don't suspect anyone realizes it, but...
Fingers rap gently on the door, and I glance around the hotel hallway uneasily, knowing the heaviness in my purse had six bullets encased, the safety ready to be switched off at any second.
I didn't plan on using it now, but...soon.
When the door opens, however, I'm greeted by a blink and a slow, almost catlike grin before I'm tugged inside, and I nearly trip on my stiletto heels - black.
Black purse. Black dress. Short. Black.
Evil.
The harbringer of death, at your doorstep.
"...Ha..." A clearing of the throat, as if to remind himself that we were going out tonight, and that he couldn't just rip my clothes off here and now, "...you look...damn..."
"I know, I know, take pictures, bask in my sexiness..." Snickering a bit, I snake one of my hands down his arm, and fingers twine together as I tug him out the door.
To a bar. Another bar. Always a bar.
Right now, it doesn't matter. The hand that keeps wandering over my ass doesn't really feel there, showers of compliments and whispers of the night to come fall on deaf ears.
My nerves are starting to sizzle, and for a moment, the fingers twined with his give a brief squeeze. He'll protect me. He'll believe me.
But that doesn't make me any less scared.
I'm really starting to wonder about the intentions of certain people - mainly, however, the intentions of the one I've been spending most of my time with.
I know what I have to do, but - I know that he's interested. Maybe.
Maybe it's the fact that he hasn't broken me yet; all the other girls he comes across, he mows right back down, not even looking back.
Me? I haven't gone down so easily.
So maybe that's it.
It doesn't explain that I do have a shiver of something for him, though I know it's not love - maybe a slight bit of affection, appreciation for the fact that he has seemed to be a little more than protective of me lately.
There's something...genuine there, even if it is hidden under more bravado than anyone should legally possess.
If I have to kill him - I may shed a few tears at his funeral.
He knows not what needs done.
-*-
A few days had passed - days in which I'd been almost fully accepted, if not almost forcefully, into the fold of the three, and most people saw that. They steered clear of the girl who had sided herself with what seemed an inpenetrable source of evil, the strange girl with the off colored eyes who seemed to have Randy Orton at her every beck and call.
It was nice, in a way, to have someone there, almost hovering protectively over you, in case anyone decides that I need 'a talk.'
But you can feel the tenseness in the small group, the nearly audible feeling of trust slowly cracking, even as everything else seems to be perfectly fine.
Tonight - tonight is when I may make a move. Nothing's happened yet, and I don't suspect anyone realizes it, but...
Fingers rap gently on the door, and I glance around the hotel hallway uneasily, knowing the heaviness in my purse had six bullets encased, the safety ready to be switched off at any second.
I didn't plan on using it now, but...soon.
When the door opens, however, I'm greeted by a blink and a slow, almost catlike grin before I'm tugged inside, and I nearly trip on my stiletto heels - black.
Black purse. Black dress. Short. Black.
Evil.
The harbringer of death, at your doorstep.
"...Ha..." A clearing of the throat, as if to remind himself that we were going out tonight, and that he couldn't just rip my clothes off here and now, "...you look...damn..."
"I know, I know, take pictures, bask in my sexiness..." Snickering a bit, I snake one of my hands down his arm, and fingers twine together as I tug him out the door.
To a bar. Another bar. Always a bar.
Right now, it doesn't matter. The hand that keeps wandering over my ass doesn't really feel there, showers of compliments and whispers of the night to come fall on deaf ears.
My nerves are starting to sizzle, and for a moment, the fingers twined with his give a brief squeeze. He'll protect me. He'll believe me.
But that doesn't make me any less scared.
