My Aching Veins
Disc: Nuffing. Duh.
B/F, Roughly around season six of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Prologue
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The lights were dancing. They swivelled and shook, illuminating the darkened cell with soft, vapour like halos, floating up and down, back and forth, from side to side, trying to catch her gaze. One smiled longingly at her, grinning its wide spread smile and inviting her to touch, which she promptly refused to do. Her hands remain stationary at her sides, limp, tired. They were the hands that had yet to carry the calluses of years of work. Although it was years she had been in her job, her hands refused to show. They were still smooth and in neck to neck competition with silk.
The lights continued hovering, fading in and out of focus as her own chocolate coloured orbs moved around the room. It was soon she realized that the lights weren't physical beings hanging from the ceiling, but small illusions her mind had made for her.
No, not her mind. The drugs.
The pills they had her swallowing these days. Those were what decided what she saw, when she saw it, and how she would react. Dosage was too high and she knew it. She wasn't crazy. Maybe, maybe she had been. Maybe at one time in Sunnydale. But she wasn't crazy now. No, not at all.
Although it had been lights out hours ago, two lone fluorescent bulbs glared in through steel bars from the hallway across the bars, creating tiny, churning shadows, playing in patterns and once more confusing the Slayer's mind. She liked it.
Stretched out among the cold, plastic mattress, groaning beneath her weight with every slight shift of weight, thin blanket kicked to her knees, Faith smiled a silent, sleepless smile. The night time was where she had always belonged. In prison or not, this was her time. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to be done about her restlessness, for guards surely didn't understand the itching beneath a Slayer's skin. And so she lay, staring at the base of the bunk above her, littered with obscure drawings, poems, and even remnants of ripped away pictures.
These nights were usually consistent among the same pattern, lights out, hallway lights confusing her, finding new treasures on the walls and ceiling above her, and finally, if possible, the restless sleep that came with too many nights of unrest. That only happened once a week or so, the sleep, that is. Tonight wasn't one of those nights though, unfortunately. Faith stay tossing and turning throughout the night and until the blaring horn of what could have been a steamboat blew through each cell. She was used to it by now, though the occasional cringe would appear at each horn.
The routine of the day went on as usual. First, cell check in which it was made positive that each prisoner was still in tact, still incarcerated, still sane. 5:30-6:00. Next was meal time. A large auditorium like room crammed everyone into synthetic plastic seats with too small amounts of sludge along unwashed trays. 6:00-7:00. And then yard time for last names A through L where the occasional violent game of basketball was played, on looked by smokers, nonchalant bystanders, and fresh meat. 7:00-9:00. Once more, another cell check. 9:00-9:30. And then the routine repeated itself, exchanging those with yard time with those who had morning labour. Three times the pattern repeated itself in one day.
One day's pattern continued seven days a week. The occasional occupation change and occasional fight resulting in possible solitary confinement. That was rare, even for Faith.
Today though, she was stumbling, fingertips shaking as they grabbed hold of the plastic fork. It was difficult to hold. It was difficult getting any portion of food into her mouth. It was difficult to swallow. She finally pushed the tray away and let it be attacked by still hungry mates. She hated that food anyway.
The day continued into its rhythmical pattern though with a slight tingling in her gut over unknown matters. It felt like something, somebody was following her, but with Slayer senses nothing was there, but with the medication there was a whole world behind her. She refused to see it.
Her feet carried her heavily back to her cell, legs moaning with each step. Exhausted, without appetite, and in the same haze she had remained in for the past days, Faith collapsed atop her bed and found herself falling into one of her re-charging days, which sufficiently could last for days. Her eyes remained heavy, drooping lazily until they were too tired to open again.
Her cell mate had unusually been absent the past few nights. Solitary confinement, she decided. Which was too bad, but there was a possibility she deserved it. She was a rough member of the prison society, always getting into fights, denying every right she was accounted for and sitting in the shadows during her own yard time. Faith had finally given up on shaping her to the correct form a prison inmate should have, rebellious or not.
When Faith's eyes opened again from sleep, not too many hours later, she discovered she had been deliberately awakened by the tiny body making its way up onto her own and cascading her neck with soft flicks of her tongue.
"What?" The Rogue growled obviously not in the mood. She turned.
"M'home." The mass of body responded, still struggling to not be pushed to the floor by Faith.
"You don't know what you're talkin' about. This ain't home. It's punishment, and you still got a lot to learn, B."
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I throw rotten vegetables when I don't like stories. What do you throw?