This is Normal, And You Are Fine: Part One
Prompt: “Anyway trying to teach Jaime a thing or two about vengeance (bonus points if Jaime ends up teaching her something too).”
The question hung in the air. Jaimeson hadn’t been paying attention; he was tense, as usual. Guilt laid heavy upon his soul–or what was left of it. Did he even have one now? Did he ever…?
A half-assed foundation in Catholicism was enough to make them doubt; the Church had yet to come round to the “homosexual lifestyle,” and Jaime had spent 15 years living in gay sin with another man. They didn’t consider the prospects of ascending to Heaven high, but suicidal ideation would be no help with that either…
D'Hoffryn’s high appraisal of Jaimeson as a new recruit shocked them, but so did finding out their own heritage. Heaven would never be an option for a demon half-breed.
The guilt they felt was pointless, but that’s the problem with being crazy: it rarely makes sense, and it’s always a nuisance.
Anya prompted them again, and Jaime heard her this time.
“I don’t know; what do you mean?”
They didn’t talk much–the two of them. Jaime had been… “shadowing” her, like they were training for a regular job, for three months now, and only a few minutes of actual conversation passed between the two of them.
Jaime was living the glamorous life of a vengeance demon intern–not a position you’d find at a local temp agency. They followed and observed Anya, and in the process mourned the loss of 15 years washed down the drain similar to the way water cascaded down Davvid’s back into the drain when Jaime caught him making love to another man. The image came as unbidden and unwanted as Jaime’s reaction to the work situation before them and Anya: “I’d slit his throat.”
Anya didn’t know them well, and she didn’t seem to be the most observant demon around, but her interest was piqued. She loomed into their face, curious, and scrutinized them. Jaime’s expression must have betrayed their internal struggle; they didn’t possess a skilled poker face. Jaime lightly touched their own cheek with the tips of their fingers and found the skin to be clammy and cool; they were most likely whiter than a sheet–so terrified of their own nature.
“What was that thought, Frowny Face?” Her nose now touched theirs; Anya loved to capitalize on whatever she could in any manner.
Jaime didn’t want to say, but they didn’t have the fight in them to protest. This was too close to home, and they pitied (no, empathized) with the woman before them, frozen in time as her unspoken plea ran bright and clear through their heads: Why? Why did he do that?
Jaime responded to… Hushed desires for revenge. The shy ones unaware if their hearts’ desires, because, largely they were not genuine wishes. They were called to the impulsive, intrusive thoughts so similar to their own.
Jaime was quiet, and their voice shook when they spoke. “I’d slit his throat…”
