Vigilante. 19.
From the diary of Hailey Beckford -
I don't stray much from my own path now, don't go anywhere that might get me into trouble - after what had happened, it was probably best this way, but -
It hurt.
I'd made myself a prisoner in a golden palace.
Backs turned on me where I did go, as if my own path was going to lead to the icy fingers of death.
The gun stays with me now.
-*-
The door is locked, bolted - and even two locks don't make me feel safe about being here alone - I'd since given up having my own room, having the space where I could reassure myself.
It simply wasn't reassuring anymore.
Even the feeling of being tangled in limbs, twisted in agonizing bliss.
Nightmares come easy now. Easier. Visions of tainted touch take all my security away from me, no matter what I'm told.
The worst part of it is - I know it hurts him. I know that somewhere in the dark eyes that I've let myself get lost in.
I'd allowed myself to drown in the arms of another, to let someone else take care of me when I'd needed it.
Let someone else use me.
Let myself use someone else.
At first, though, I felt no guilt about doing what I had done - in my mind, Randy had been just as bad as the others, and I -
I almost felt good about stringing him along, using him for my own devices.
Then I'd found out he had reasons; I should have known.
We all have reasons.
But for now, I was alone, and behind locked doors; I knew I was safe, so to speak, but - part of me knew that he wasn't here.
Had some 'things' to take care of, or so he said.
Part of me felt - this was bad.
There was simply a few hairs at the back of my neck that refused to lie still, a preternatural sense that something was about to go terribly wrong.
Eyes closed, and I fell into restless sleep, long black silk skirt tangling around my legs, the fabric of my long-sleeved white shirt starting to creep up a barely-moving torso.
It's a bit later that I'm awakened by the sound of the telephone ringing beside the bed, and bleary eyes open, a hand moving to brush honey-gold hair from my face as I lift the reciever, sleepily answering.
The voice on the other end is unfamiliar, and - sterile. Part of me just knows it's the kind of voice that comes from a hospital.
Nerves dance on the edge of a skittish panic, and my breath becomes short.
Head nods, jerking up and down as I'm told things.
The worst possible scenario.
...severe trauma to the back...
Sledgehammer. Has to be.
...unsure of his condition...
"Bullshit." Eyes are filling with tears as I slam the phone down, and for a moment, I don't know what to do.
History repeats itself. History - stabs me again in it's transition to the present.
Vision blurred with tears that don't seem to stop, I grab my keys.
Think for a moment.
The gun gets stuffed in my purse.
From the diary of Hailey Beckford -
I don't stray much from my own path now, don't go anywhere that might get me into trouble - after what had happened, it was probably best this way, but -
It hurt.
I'd made myself a prisoner in a golden palace.
Backs turned on me where I did go, as if my own path was going to lead to the icy fingers of death.
The gun stays with me now.
-*-
The door is locked, bolted - and even two locks don't make me feel safe about being here alone - I'd since given up having my own room, having the space where I could reassure myself.
It simply wasn't reassuring anymore.
Even the feeling of being tangled in limbs, twisted in agonizing bliss.
Nightmares come easy now. Easier. Visions of tainted touch take all my security away from me, no matter what I'm told.
The worst part of it is - I know it hurts him. I know that somewhere in the dark eyes that I've let myself get lost in.
I'd allowed myself to drown in the arms of another, to let someone else take care of me when I'd needed it.
Let someone else use me.
Let myself use someone else.
At first, though, I felt no guilt about doing what I had done - in my mind, Randy had been just as bad as the others, and I -
I almost felt good about stringing him along, using him for my own devices.
Then I'd found out he had reasons; I should have known.
We all have reasons.
But for now, I was alone, and behind locked doors; I knew I was safe, so to speak, but - part of me knew that he wasn't here.
Had some 'things' to take care of, or so he said.
Part of me felt - this was bad.
There was simply a few hairs at the back of my neck that refused to lie still, a preternatural sense that something was about to go terribly wrong.
Eyes closed, and I fell into restless sleep, long black silk skirt tangling around my legs, the fabric of my long-sleeved white shirt starting to creep up a barely-moving torso.
It's a bit later that I'm awakened by the sound of the telephone ringing beside the bed, and bleary eyes open, a hand moving to brush honey-gold hair from my face as I lift the reciever, sleepily answering.
The voice on the other end is unfamiliar, and - sterile. Part of me just knows it's the kind of voice that comes from a hospital.
Nerves dance on the edge of a skittish panic, and my breath becomes short.
Head nods, jerking up and down as I'm told things.
The worst possible scenario.
...severe trauma to the back...
Sledgehammer. Has to be.
...unsure of his condition...
"Bullshit." Eyes are filling with tears as I slam the phone down, and for a moment, I don't know what to do.
History repeats itself. History - stabs me again in it's transition to the present.
Vision blurred with tears that don't seem to stop, I grab my keys.
Think for a moment.
The gun gets stuffed in my purse.
