My Aching Veins
Disc: Still, nope.
Yay for chapter whatever, reviews more
There's innocence and beauty flooding through the walls of this place. It surrounds you no matter where you stand, sit, or lie. You can sense it in the callused hands of testosterone loaded guards, you can smell it in the air, you can hear it in the quiet cries of a prisoner missing home, and you can see it in the soft smiles of few visitors. I have seen it first hand once before, and it's not a common thing. The Billy club is screaming at me: This is your fault, why did you do this?
According to my daily and regular schedule, I am supposed to be sitting in a brown coloured office, lined with photos of small smiling children, decorated with the undertones of dark green and maroon, and accustomed with three soft leather chairs with a wood polish finish, listening to my own personal Stockton "doctor". She's a shrink. I'm not though. I'm not in the comfy office, being offered tea and books to read to fill my time. I'm sitting on the crusty concrete floor, ruined with blotches and stains of what I know are the past occupant's blood. I don't feel guilty; I'm leaving my mark as well. I haven't bled so much in years. The fists and legs are accusing: State Property Damage! Paralyzed from her legs down!
My eye feels swollen shut and there's a warped, indirect look about the way my arm is twisted. As much slayer healing I have within my system, I can still feel slowly growing bruises making their way up my arms, over my abdomen. I had blacked out sometime after Debbie's legs stretched over her head, and when I awoke I was here, in the overheated cell with the marks of punishment and pleasantries. Solitary. Vaguely I could remember hands pulling me in all different directions. Some were prisoners, some guards. Then I was being dragged down a corridor, and every time I moved I'd receive another strike with the club in the face. Voices are condemning: You'll never see the light of day again.
All I hope is that Debbie and the rest of them got what they were looking for. They wanted a fight, and I sure as hell gave it to them. I couldn't wait to get back out just to see their faces contorted with fear when I stepped outside for yard time. They wouldn't mess with B or me again. I had made sure of it. A pair of footsteps comes clicking against the floor, softly, as if not to be noticed. Not to be noticed by anyone without Slayer hearing. A guard passed by the barred door, giving me a steady glance at what must have been the amount of gore I was covered in. Only then did I feel the wetness dripping down my face. My tongue was painted a bright red, dripping sac and it felt like I had lost a couple of teeth. Whatever, Slayer healing, right?
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(Buffy's Point of View)
Faith's fighting. I don't know what to do.
I don't know what to do.
What do I do?
She can handle herself, but there's people flying just to get their fists on her. She's knocking them off, but she could get in trouble for this. And what am I going to do if she has to leave? I can't be alone here. Please God, don't let me be alone here.
Guards are approaching.
They're fighting through the crowd.
The crowd is fighting back.
Faith appears beneath a large dog pile and there are uniformed professionals wielding guns at her. She stops—
No guns are fired.
She holds her hands up and they lead her away. And it's over.
It's over.
She submitted to higher authority, and it's over.
I'm alone here. I'm alone. I'm without Faith.
I'm without faith.
This place is disgusting. There's nothing here. No virtue, no humanity. There is only hate, and pain. And this is her life. This has been Faith's life for the past three years. How does she….
I don't even want to know how she survives. I don't want to know what she does to keep herself sane here. Then again, she was never sane. She was never normal, never right. And I judged her for that. I never considered her a friend, I considered her an object, a work partner, a thing. I belong here. I belong here in so many ways.
The people that come here, they're are animals. They are primitive and stuck in a never ending loop of reverence in their deluded minds of evil. The ones thatuse intellect as a coping mechanism, the ones you don't think would strike, are the binds that hold this ridiculous room together in chaos. Chaos that unleashes the monster within and shows you what it is like to truly face evil and fear in the eye.
I watch her being led away and see her finally struggle, then go to the ground as her entourage bombards her and reins blow against her. I want to help. I want to throw them through the walls, but this isn't the real world. This isn't Sunnydale. This isn't a place where I can throw down every Slayer combo I know and force face into cement. I am not the Slayer here. I am not the Slayer here.
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(Faith's Point of View)
The head of Infirmary has led me back to my normal cell with a normal bunk set, a normal toilet in the corner, and the normal roommate, who presently isn't present. I was neatly deposited into bed (the head was a gentle, understanding woman of 50 something), and immediately found the sleep I hadn't been getting in the heat of the temperature controlled room I had resided in for the past two weeks. Where is Buffy? Where is Buffy? Where is Buffy? Just by sight, I've considerably lost needed inches in my waistline, and the remnant of Billy sticks against my face hasn't faded; many times was the procedure repeated.
I don't remember much after waiting for Buffy for the three minutes I could stay awake back in my bed, but afterwards I was sleeping, apparently, to soundly to be woken. When I did awake, I was turned to one side and my head lay against the soft fleshy thigh of my Slayer. She was crying, but I didn't question, or speak.
Neither did she. We were both back in a zone of comfort and specialty and I wasn't particular for moving anytime soon. We were both in an utter state of contentment. We were where we wanted to be in the state of mind, rather than the state of place. If were happy, together, we would be fine.