‘Why not? I mean, what would it really hurt?’ Would her absence really mean anything in the grand scheme of things? Not just in the big picture but to anything or anyone at all. Who would notice? Even if they did happen to notice, no one would care. If anything, it would be a weight off a few people’s shoulders.
'Would anyone notice?' More importantly, though it shouldn’t mean anything 'Would he notice? Would he care?...Of course not. She’d be lucky if he paused at the news of her demise. He’d be better off, or so he believed. She, on the other hand, was unsure. He didn’t need her and certainly didn’t want her. So, what was the point in sticking around to get dumped? Well, I guess to get dumped you actually have to be in a relationship. Though he had been the one to say it was a quote-unquote ‘relationship’. There is a signed dollar to that effect…somewhere, probably in the cash lock-box of a run down bar.
If anyone would think to say ‘well, what about family or friends?’ she had an answer to that too. It would simply be—‘have none’. Family had dwindled down until there was nothing left but her mother who no longer recognized her, yet still managed to give her hell about everything and anything. Friends had long since become a luxury she could not afford. Personal attachments were healthy but dangerous as far as Wolfram & Hart was concerned. Anyone related to her might as well wear a shirt saying ‘perfect blackmail material’.
Then there was the Senior Partners, who already had her head (most likely *literally*) for this Wesley-Project going under. Her position at the firm could not handle another mishap on its record. Even though practically none of the previous ‘mistakes’ had actually been her fault she had been blamed regardless. This time, however, it was nonnegotiable that the burden lay heavily upon her shoulders.
So, let’s count it up, shall we?
Love= nonexistent
Family= dead or close to it
Friends= potential hostages
Job= doomed, which meant...
Life= doomed with a possible forecast of beheading
This was her life and it wasn’t ending one minute at a time. No matter how profound and true it was when Ed Norton spoke it.
Her life was ending--now.
Slowly, yes, but not in a day or a week, not in a month or a year, hell she might even go so far as to say half-a-decade if she were to have been especially lucky and cautious. No, this was her life and she would go out the way she choice, when she choice. Death would come by her own hands, on her own time. No star-crossed vamp or power-hungry colleague would be the end of her.
It may seem as though taking one’s own life would be seen as running away or giving up. She saw it as – This is something I have control over. So I’m taking control. That’s all.
Well, maybe that wasn’t all but it was a nice thought.
“Leave them on.” was what he’d said. Who knew that after six months of torment & teasing, torture & treats, pain & pleasure (usually at the same time) that it would only take three words to really get under her skin? To call it quits on their little charade. And that’s what it had been after all—a charade.
It wasn’t really the sentence it’s self that caused any of this to happen. After half-a-year she had taken much harder hits from him then that. Much harder, verbal and physical alike, then sent them all back at him tenfold.
It was the meaning behind the sentence. The underlying tone ‘You’ll never be good enough, you'll never be her’. Not even his usual cut-to-the-core comments could do the damage that half-sentence had. No amount of name calling and insult tossing could compare. It’s pathetic really; she was supposed to be able to handle this. More then handle it, control it. This was her game and she held all the cards, so why is it that he only seemed to have the instruction manual? She had a few cheat codes but not enough to give her another heart. Why did she care what he thought? 'What should it matter if he didn’t care?' Well, probably because right when her eyes looked away for a split second he had somehow wound up finding a soft spot in her armor and crawling underneath it. Damn, that armor was supposed to be full-proof. Oh well, nothing can be done now.
‘God, the room is freezing all of a sudden’. Cold, dark, and vacant - an extremely cliché setting for the plot at hand but suited well nonetheless.
There they were, perched at the end of the table, just taunting her. Everything she wasn’t. Everything she couldn’t bring herself to be--those damn glasses. Square lens but rounded at the corners, taking a sharp edge and curving it to soften the appearance. The frame was small and fragile, just asking to be broken by anyone strong or daring enough to do so. Not very vivacious but without-a-doubt red in color. They reminded her of the girl she had originally bought them to impersonate. The Texas Twig was a lot like her glasses, uncanny really. Wonder if the little girl with the big ole’ brain even realized how alike she actually was with an inanimate object that was probably chosen at random or by fancy. Most likely not but working at Wolfram & Hart taught you a few things about noticing the details, reading in between the lines.
Wrapping her fingers around a large hammer she brought it down upon the glasses without regard to silence or beautiful cherry-oak tables. Shattered glass and specks of red plastic scattered the table. It formed a sort of art arrangement, as if a glass replica of the Texan had been crushed to bits. The once whole-and-intact red frames were now merely fragments of what appeared at first glance to be specks of shiny blood. Those small tokens of disaster would be the only evidence to such a brutal crime--the Looking Glass Massacre. It had a nice ring to it and also matched the girl in question to a 'T' if any one sat back and thought about it.
Now that that was finished she popped the top on a bottle of large blue pills. The name of the medication escaped her; just that it was used in Wolfram & Hart's infirmary for demons with such extreme injuries as dangling limbs and missing internal organs. Just one could knock out an average human for a straight week. Two could probably kill but 'better safe then sorry, right?'
Instead of taking the time to individually pick them out she turned the bottle upside down letting the pills pour out, flooding the table and spilling over to the floor. No need to worry about the pick up. It wasn’t as if she would be cleaning this mess. In a number of hours or perhaps minutes she would be someone else’s mess.
A sigh escapes her lips; this is the first noise she’s made sense arriving home after visiting her (now former) lover. The stopover had been right in the midst of this Rain of Fire that everyone’s got their knickers in a bunch about. Her problems had been bigger at the time, the disintegration of her patience, humanity, and perhaps most importantly, sanity.
The words he spoke had not begun to fade from her mind, no matter how nonchalant and unmoved she had tried to seem at the time. “I can’t do this anymore…it’s over Lilah.” At first it seemed like another trick, a play on words to ruffle her feathers. But this was no joke; she’d realized that a little too late.
It seems that even Hell would be better then this, which is no doubt where she’ll end up; signed a contract guaranteeing it actually. The soul she once acquired was long since signed away to ensure she would live more then comfortably until the time came for the Devil to collect. 'Gee, he sure got jipped.' She had nothing left to give. When you have nothing left—that’s the moment you know that life as you know it over. And she didn’t have the energy to build another one.
“One, for the money” popping the first pill into her mouth and washing it down with a mix of every kind of alcohol there was in the liquor cabinet, which is basically everything but beer. She had never had a taste for beer, he did though. Always drinking, they were alike in that aspect.
You aren’t supposed to drink whilst on this sort of medication. Really, you aren’t technically supposed to drink with any form of medication. But what the hell, what is she going to do? Operate heavy machinery? Not likely
Alcohol tended to numb the pain, used to wash away the hurt. You know you’ve hit a bad place when two and a half bottles of vodka can’t make you forget your problems, even for a moment. No amount of alcohol could make his face disappear from her mind; continuously etched in her corneas.
“Two, for the show” dropping another pill to the bottom of her glass then drinking until it and the rest of her liquor-schmorgusboard were gone.
Sitting her in the dark and the quiet she had time to think of a lot of things. Her mind was growing hazy so any thought processes that may have been sharp before were now dull and rambling.
She began to wonder what everyone else was doing as she sat on this black leather couch—dying.
'What is the former-Watcher' her ex-lover, her constant memory 'doing at this moment? I can bet he's devising some plan to get the stick figure into his bed. Just waiting for the moment where he can snatch her back and live happily ever after. Sorry lover, this isn’t a fairy tale and you’re no prince charming.’
'What is the Texan Boy Wonder' her ex-partner, her cohort in crime 'doing at this moment? Somewhere in Texas or maybe Oklahoma', she guessed, 'sipping a slightly warm beer in a ratty bar still trying to forget all the horrid things we did together. All the violence, all the terror and pain, all the power-hungry missions that usually ended in us coming dangerously close to death. The good ole’ days.'
'What is the Dark Avenger', Tall Dark and Broody, Mr. Doom and Gloom 'doing at this moment? Saving a puppy from the interstate, rescuing some damsel in distress, or maybe putting more product in that 80%-gel-induced hair of his. '
'What is the Texas Twig', the Stick Figure, the Brainiac with worthy theories 'doing at this moment? Decrypting an ancient scroll, admiring her article on String Theory, or maybe just banging that black boyfriend of hers with the name that is supposed to strike fear or…something like that.'
'What is everyone I know doing at this moment?' They were living. Unaware that in apartment 105 a woman was sitting on her couch shivering from more then the cold. All of them were ignorant to the knowledge that in a matter of time (guestimation-10 minutes) a life would be taken, a soul slowly slipping away to be swallowed up by Hell. Yes, she did in fact have a soul; a rather impure one but a soul nonetheless. It had its highlights, she just never let anyone see them, except him that is and he had dismissed it as nothing more then a trick.
“Three, to get ready” her hands shook involuntarily as the third pill was swallowed. Might as well let her guard down now, no one was here to see it. No one could criticize her soft side; tell her she was weak or inferior. Only now did she allow the tears to stream silently down her cheeks.
Losing track of all previous thoughts in the haze that clouded her eyes and brain, she sidestepped into running through all the possible ways to say ‘dumped’. It was a random thought that she was sure she would regret if it happened to be her last.
‘Dumped…discarded, booted, axed, canned, cast off, shown the door, thrown out, cut off, not needed, deserted…abandoned, rejected, forsaken, unwanted, unloved, lifeless…stripped of all dignity’
Without the ability to stop it, her shoulders slumped and her body wilted, falling to the side. She was only aware of this happening when her head hit the cold leather.
Her body was so heavy. ‘Go away’ Her limbs were lead, eye’s half open to make sure she didn’t close them and see his face. ‘Can’t get rid of that face’ Every move was like walking through wet sand. ‘He-wont-go away’ his face, haunting her every second, nothing made him go away because no matter how much she denied it—she loved him. Through everything she still couldn’t deny that the pain that came with him leaving her was not of rejection it was of losing the only thing she loved. The one-and-only true feeling she had allowed her self to have was ripped away so suddenly by the very person she felt it towards. ‘Go away, please…Have to get…rid…of him.’ Even her thoughts were jumbled like the ramblings of someone who defiantly didn’t have a law degree.
There’s someone in her head, but it’s not her. It’s the beaten, battered, and weakened form of someone who used to be strong enough to hold the mantle of ‘vicious bitch’.
‘…rid of him…have to…make the pain stop’ this was pathetic to the old her. The Ice Queen would have laughed and slit this bitch’s throat, but he had melted her into some human being with emotions and a heart that was in the process of shattering.
This wasn’t going to be an accidental overdose where she gets better and goes to some celebrity rehab center. That would be horribly embarrassing. No, she was going to make sure it stuck.
It took a lot of work but she finally made her arm start working, painfully slow but moving regardless. Fumbling to grab another pill she ended up knocking a dozen or so off the table before she mustered up the strength to grasp one between her fingers. With all the will power in the world, the pill made it some how back to her lips and down her throat.
The room got fuzzy around the edges and eventually just blacked out all together. Either that or her eyes closed, at this point she couldn't tell. The couch dissolved underneath her so it felt as though she had gone from being a lead weight to light as a feather.
The show’s over folks. So, grab your coats and top hats and get gone.
The curtain’s closing on the cast.
It was an entertaining sight while it lasted but that’s all there’s left to see here, move along.
Come see us again sometime and don’t forget to tell your friends.
“and four…to go…”
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
busy
accomplished...sort of
content
theif
You are a nocturnal superhero! You're a wealthy industrialist, playboy, and philanthropist by day, and a superhero by night. You do not possess any superpowers but make use of intellect, detective skills, science and technology, wealth, physical prowess, and intimidation in your war on crime.
Misfit You're quirky and unique and a free spirit. High school is too confining for you. Who cares what people think of you, you do your own thing and to hell with conformity and society.
O.C.D. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder--I see it all the time. I'm surprised you were able to finish this quiz at all what with your fixation on the dust around your computer and the distraction of needing to type an equal amount of letters with each hand.
sexy&goth&superhero&misfit&ocd
disappointed
nostalgic
devious
Glad to finally be home
frustrated
mad as a hatter
accomplished
blank