you are all bluster & torrent, a firestorm with skin. your eyes are the color of dark woodsmoke, always burning, and your fists are always clenched so tight that your nails bite furious crescent moons into your palms. girl, that rage deep within your core that burns as hot as hellfire, it'll consume you if you let it β and sometimes, in your darkest moments, you think you just might. / here's what they don't tell you about fire: it can warm as well as burn. beneath your bravado & burning rage, your love & devotion blazes as fierce as your fury β perhaps even fiercer. oh, it hurts to burn this much. it hurts to care. it hurts to hold so much flame beneath your skin. your once-bleeding heart has become this shriveled, furious little thing, wasting away in the blistering sun. / sometimes you wish you could just tear your chest from your body, just so you could stop this unrelenting aching. oh, sometimes you think, if you could, you'd sharpen your heart into a gleaming, serrated knife, make yourself so razor-edged that no one could touch you again without piercing themselves β it's better to cut than be cut. / phoenix fire burns within you, bringing destruction and rebirth β how many times have you died and been reborn again? girl, you are death-touched, death-starved, death-enamored, death-sick. in your dreams, you build coffins with the dead, and you wake up with this gnawing ache you can't shake. / you're burning & you will burn out, and sometimes you wonder what you'll be in the end. will there be anything left of the girl you were before grief carved you hollow? before the fight made you resilient & strong? will you ever learn how to put down the sword, to stop burning yourself at the stake of your own convictions? oh, girl, will you ever give up the flame?
pinboard + web weaving + playlists [ lily a-side / lily b-side / the prydes ].
reginald had been on a rampage lately, that stupid old prick. alistair and matteo were the ones who'd started that bar fight, not her. she hadn't even been there that night, and yet somehow, it was still her fault, all because she'd been the one to get her brother hired in the first place. two weeks now of vomit duty, more shifts than she could count. she figured old reg would've fired them both by now if the night shift didn't scare off half the town. magnolia creek had its superstitions about going out after dark. lily couldn't say they were wrong to have them.
she'd been watching the clock, nursing a whiskey bottle behind the counter, ready to call it a night. then matteo walked through the door, and he looked like hell. shadows carved deep under his eyes, dark enough that she wondered how many hours of sleep he'd actually gotten since maroon peak. probably none, if she was being honest with herself. his hair was disheveled, uncombed, like he hadn't so much as looked in a mirror in days, hadn't cared to. and that knuckle. split open, scabbed, worried raw again by his own thumb, like some part of him needed the sting more than he needed it to heal.
"well, well, well. look what the cat dragged in." she murmured, head cocked slightly. "you know, you're technically banned from the premises after that little stunt you pulled with tweedle-dee." she should've checked up on him sooner. she knew that, and the guilt chewed away at her even though she still didn't know where they stood. two weeks was a long time to leave someone alone with whatever he was carrying, and she of all people knew better than to let it go that long. she knew, better than almost anyone, what silence like that could do to a person left to sit in it. but every time she'd thought about picking up the phone, she'd talked herself out of it. she just couldn't stand to hear whatever excuse he had for her.
she kept coming back to those few seconds he'd stood there, uncharacteristically frozen, while that thing wearing kaden's voice made its offer. had it been fear? she wanted it to be fear. fear she could understand. fear she could hold against him gently. but some quieter, meaner part of her kept insisting it was something else. something closer to consideration. and she hated herself a little for how easily that thought had come, how it'd been sitting there ready. sure, she'd learned not to trust most people. but matteo wasn't most people.
he crossed the room and took the stool at the end, like he wanted an easy way out if the conversation went south. she watched his thumb find that split knuckle again, working it open in slow, absent circles, more interested in his own hand than in looking at her. "you're one to talk, teo." she said, nodding at the wound. "that's going to need stitches if you keep picking at it." she shook her head, more at herself than at him. "you know, sometimes i think you like the pain." sometimes she thought she liked it too. thought maybe it was what she deserved. some nights she lay awake thinking it was almost a mercy, being a slayer β at least it gave her a good reason to drown in that pain. she wondered if he ever felt the same.
she reached behind the counter for another bottle and set it in front of him. a peace offering, of sorts. they'd spent plenty of nights like this before, drinking side by side, self-destructing quietly next to someone who wouldn't judge them for it, who understood without needing it explained. but this was different.
"we need to talk." she didn't elaborate. she didn't need to. they both knew what she was talking about. "i know this is hard for you." she began, quieter now. "i know you wish β" she let it trail off, unwilling to put the rest of it into words, to make it real by saying it out loud. that he wished it had been his brother who came back instead of hers. "i get it. i do." she made herself hold his eyes. "but i didn't think you wanted ali dead. that's not the matteo i know."
πππππππ π ππ: lily β the pyre @pyreburn
ππππππππ: outside of the pryde family home, july 18th, 7 pm
maybe it was naive to have hoped that the mayor's address would make her feel the slightest bit better. in actuality, it wasn't even his lack of answers (because could they really blame him?) that had bothered her so much. it was the worried looks on the parents of her students, the marks she'd seen on little clover's wrist.
"lily?" she calls, using her good arm to tap at the door. then, remembering her friend's ankle, "if you're in and it's unlocked, just yell! don't move if you've got your ankle up...you better have your ankle up!" the brunette probably sounds like a nagging grandmother, but knowing her friend, lettie doubts that lily has been taking it easy as her wound heals; she doesn't want to contribute to that pattern if she can help it.
lily was on her feet the instant the door tapped, jaw clenched against the pain ripping up her leg. her ankle was healing slower than it should have, even with her slayer abilities, probably because she kept fighting against it. true to their name, prydes were, well, prideful, and lily most of all, especially when there was work to be done. no time to sit around waiting for a broken bone to knit itself back up when there was a descent to plan and a world to save.
she made her way to the door without letting herself limp, careful to keep the weight off her right leg, hoping lettie wouldn't clock it. maybe a distraction would do the job. "uh, i always lock the door. this is maggot creek." she answered, eyebrows slightly raised, incredulous. "lettie, you lock your door, right? you need to lock your door. even if vampires can't get in without an invite, there's still plenty of other things that bite." a beat, then, tacked on before lettie could get a word in edgewise β "and i'm fine, by the way. perks of being a slayer, remember? i heal quicker than wolverine."
itβs not his head slamming into the floor that causes alistair to start shaking again, nor is it the bite of the blade against his throat, pain tuning in and out as his powers adjusted to existing in a place of so much; it was his sisterβs voice. harsh and violent, like a butcherβs knife intent on cleaving you in two; she sounded so much like the phantom voice that spoke to him in the void, not the cruelly gentle version of her that hurt him the most, but the one that always came after it, the one he sometimes preferred because at least she didnβt give him hope only to take it away.
he didnβt hear everything she spat out, only processing the last part of her threat to slit his throat.Β this isnβt real. the thought hit him harder than she had. he was being tricked again; he had to be; if the phantom voice was coming out of thisΒ apparition, thenβ¦ maybe he never left the void as heβd thought.Β
maybe this was a new evolution to his torture.
on muscle memory alone, alistair tried reaching for his karambits, but his hands found nothing where they used to be. heβd dropped them halloween night just before throwing himself into the gate. without weapon, he could only buck against lily, neck forcing the blade deeper as he shoved her off of him, powers lashing out on protective instinct to make the shove hurt more than it should as he crawled backwards fast; arms and legs contorting back into the familiar position theyβd been in when he was still crawling in the void. however, it was faster, without the weight of the void pressing down on him, he moved too quickly and nearly crashed into the dining table as he pushed himself up.
βnine hundred ninety-nine.βΒ
blood trailed down his throat unnoticed as he glared at her, confusion and anger at war with each other on his face. he couldnβt tell if this was real or not.
βnine hundred ninety-eight.βΒ this isnβt real. lily would never attack him like this, she wouldnβt respond like this to him.Β
βwouldnβt i? remember? i wanted you gone, ali. if you refuse to stay gone, then iβll have to take care of you myself.β
βno, this isnβtββ she was wrong, she would never hurt him on purpose.Β butβ alistair circled the space, keeping his distance from apparition lily or maybe real lilyβΒ heβd touched her, shoved her. he felt that and it was different. he had sensory hallucinations that felt like touch in the void, but it was always one way. they could touch him, hurt him, but he couldnβt do the same back. no hugs returned, no punches avenged, nothing, but he had shoved this lily.
βyouβre real!β he half argued, half demanded of lily
'but what if itβs a new trick.βΒ
alistair growled and pulled at his hair in pure frustration as his glare deepened, an old habit. he couldnβt decide if what was happening was actually happening or if he was still at the mercy of the void.Β nine hundred ninety-six.Β
he looked around the room again, trying to find anything that would tell him the truth, but he didnβt see anything but lily and a sink full of unwashed dishes.Β lazy.Β she never liked doing the dishes, always preferred taking out the trash and leaving the dishes to him or their dad.Β βwhere is he?β it was too himself, not to in-question-lily. his dad would knowβ¦ or maybe he wouldnβt, he might not be real either, alistair didnβt know.
eyes landing on a bottle of beer, alistair lunged for it without thought and drank, suddenly remembering what hunger and thirst was, and discovering he was both starving and parched. it felt refreshing even as it burned. another tally for team real. he never hallucinated satiating feelings, only taunting tastes.
this is real.Β
βthis is real. this is real. this is real.β he scrunched his eyes closed; in the time heβd been gone his powers never evolved beyond what he was used to. it didnβt make sense that theyβd do so now. it couldnβt make sense because then heβd still be trappedβ¦ and the vampire from earlier. they made him hallucinate visually; this didnβt feel like that. and if this was real thenβ¦
βyou never came for me.β nothing was making sense, he wanted this to be real, but if it was then that meant nobody ever came for him. it meant that, that was true. but that couldnβt be true because why wouldnβt they? why didn't they?
his eyes filled with tears of angry frustration and potential grief, as he asked something in a language they created long ago, that would give him the answer he needed, because if it was lily telling him, then heβd believe it.
βare you real?!βΒ
her father used to tell her that if there was any supernatural creature worth fearing, it was a demon. vampires, you could reason with, sometimes, if you caught them young enough, before the hunger hollowed all the person out of them. werewolves kept to a season, a moon, something you could set your clock to. witches would bargain, if you knew what to offer and were willing to pay for it. most things had been human once, underneath. but demons were another thing entirely. they had no humanity left in them, no worldly desires you could barter with, nothing that still knew what it meant to want the way a person wants. no, a demon wore whatever face got you to open the door. that was the lesson he drilled into her, over and over. don't trust the face. trust the wrongness underneath it.
he'd taught her the tell-tale signs. black eyes. not the void-dark of a vampire mid-feed, but flat, bottomless, no shine to catch the light. eyes that didn't track you so much as take you in, whole, the way a mouth takes in food. a foreignness to the smell, something under the skin gone sweet and rotten at once, like fruit left too long in the sun. a voice that came out almost right, almost familiar, but ever-so-slightly off. and the stillness. that was the one he'd stressed the hardest. demons didn't fidget, didn't blink, didn't breathe when they didn't need to. they didn't carry any of the small, restless proof that a body belonged to someone still living inside it.
she'd been so sure a moment ago, sure enough to stake her life on it. but something was wrong here. he had the black eyes, flat and lightless. he had the smell beneath the skin, sweet gone to rot β she'd caught it the second he stepped through the door. but the movements weren't right, and neither were the words. demons didn't shake like that. they didn't stumble backward into the dining table like their legs had given out under them. they didn't tear at their own hair like something feral, something breaking. didn't drink a stolen beer with their whole throat working, desperate, human. didn't count like they were trying to keep their mind in one piece.
this was no demon, and somewhere underneath the daggers and the disbelief, she already knew the truth. this was her brother. she knew it in the way his hands went to his hair when the frustration got too big for him, fingers dragging through the straw-blond locks he'd inherited from his birth father. in the way he rambled like he always did when he was scared and anxious trying not to show it. and more than that, she just knew, bone-deep, the way a twin always knows when their other half is near.
and then he spoke again, and any doubt she had left went out of her all at once. he asked if she was real in the language they'd invented together one summer years and years ago, stitched together out half-invented words and stolen syllables, spoken so long ago that hearing it now landed like a hand closing around her throat. no one else on earth knew it. no one else on earth could know it. only him.
her hand didn't move yet. she needed one more second where the knife was still up and the boy on her kitchen floor was still maybe-a-monster, because the alternative meant putting the blade down and being lily pryde again, the girl whose brother had been dead for six years and had just asked her, voice cracked open, if this was real. if she was real.
if this was real, then she'd failed him. every night she lay awake in her bed, telling herself that he was dead, that he had to be dead. that whatever took him had been quick and there was nothing left for her to save. it'd already taken her so long to accept the first time. she'd looked for so long before finally giving up and choosing to live her life in his honor. she wasn't sure she had it in her to survive hoping again, only to be wrong.
she dropped the knife anyway. what else could she do? it was alistair, her brother, her twin, her missing half. it was alistair, and he was home.
the blade hit the floor tile with a sound too small for what it meant, and she was moving before it finished ringing out. she didn't care that some part of this defied everything she knew about what could and couldn't come back from the void. all she knew was that he was here, in front of her, and she'd spent six years learning to live in a world without him in it, and she wasn't going to spend one more second pretending she could.
"i'm real." her voice broke clean in half on the word, all the fight gone out of it at once. her hands found his face, cupping it like she needed to feel the shape of him to believe it, thumbs swiping at the mud and grime like she could wipe six years off him if she just tried hard enough. "ali, i'm real. i'm right here."
she pulled him in without waiting for him to close the distance himself, arms locking around him tight enough to hurt, her face pressed into his shoulder so he wouldn't see it crumple. "i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. i didn't know β i swear i didn't know." she let out a shaky breath, her grip tightening further, like letting go even an inch might mean losing him all over again. "i should've done something. i tried, i tried so hard, night after night, and i just β" her breath caught, a sound half-sob and half-laugh, wrecked and disbelieving all at once. she pulled back just far enough to look at him, hands still fisted in the fabric of his ruined shirt. "i failed. i failed you." that was the truth, small and bitter and rotten. she'd failed the one person she swore she'd always protect.
π€ closed for ece candemir ( @heartfled ), π fryday's, π july 2 at 9:15 pm
fryday's was quiet at this hour, the dinner crowd long gone, the counter stools mostly empty save for an old man at the far end nursing a cup of coffee and the cook's radio bleeding faint and tinny through the kitchen window. the overhead lights hummed their same old tune, a low persistent buzz she'd learned to block out years ago. the smell hadn't changed either, bacon grease and burnt coffee and something sweet underneath it all, pie warming in the case by the register. she'd ordered a burger, fries, and a chocolate cherry milkshake, the same order she'd been placing since she was ten years old, back when she still ate the fries before they went cold, back when eating wasn't something she had to remind herself to do. the waitress didn't even write it down anymore. she didn't need to.
she didn't sit in the booth. she hadn't sat in that booth in six years. bright red vinyl, corner table, window seat, the one where the leather was cracked along the left edge from the time matteo rocked back too far in his chair and nearly took the whole thing with him. she could see it from here, from the counter stool she'd chosen deliberately, close enough to look at it but far enough to pretend she wasn't. it was stupid. she knew it was stupid. it was a booth in a diner she'd been coming to her entire life, just furniture, and the wood didn't remember anything. she drank her milkshake and looked at it anyway.
friday nights, that's what kept coming back. every friday without fail, all six of them crammed into a space built for four, elbows knocking, somebody always stealing somebody else's fries, somebody always laughing too loud until the waitress gave them a look and they laughed louder. she could still picture it if she let herself. ece across the table, somehow still put together even after a late-night hunt, mascara perfectly intact, hair falling exactly right. laughing so hard at something lily had said that she had to press the back of her hand to her mouth, eyes watering, nose snorting. that ugly-beautiful guffaw she only ever let slip when she forgot to be careful.
lily remembered the early mornings more than anything. the two of them back in this same diner, post-party, slumped over the counter on adjacent stools, nursing greasy food and cold water. cramming for exams in the corner booth until the staff started stacking chairs around them, surviving on coffee and whatever passed for "brain food" on the laminated menu. talking about clothes and makeup and crushes, like they were ordinary teenage girls in an ordinary town, like nothing was coming for any of them. she thought about the last time they'd been in this diner together. she couldn't even remember what they'd ordered. she wished she'd paid more attention.
ece hadn't even called her. that was the part she couldn't get past. six years of radio silence and she couldn't pick up a phone to say she was back. lily had found out from helen at the pharmacy, of all people. "oh, i saw ece is back in town," helen had said, not even looking up from the register. like she'd assumed lily already knew. she should've known. they'd been sisters once, or close enough that the difference never mattered. lily had held ece's hair back more nights than she could count, had taken hit after hit meant for her without a word about it after. none of that, apparently, had been enough to earn a phone call. well. she was never the type to let someone avoid her for very long. so when she heard ece would be at fryday's that night, lily decided she'd be there, waiting. for old time's sake, of course.
ece walked in at a quarter past nine, chestnut-dark hair longer than lily remembered, a fur coat that probably cost more than her mortage. new york had been kind to her. that much was obvious from across the room. the bitterness crept in before lily could stop it, tucked somewhere underneath all her blistering fury. they'd talked about it once, years ago, curled up in one of their bedrooms with the lights off. moving to the city. taking it by storm together, the two of them against the skyline. for lily, it had stayed exactly that, a dream in the dark she could never chase. magnolia creek didn't let its slayers dream that big. but ece had gone and made it real anyway, all on her own, and hadn't even bothered to send a postcard.
lily stood before ece could even think about running again, that old habit of hers, and stalked her way over to her booth, jaw set tight. "ece. you're looking good." she started, no smile, no warmth to her face. it wasn't intended as a compliment. "helen at the pharmacy says hi, by the way. she's the one who told me you were back. isn't that something? six years and i find out from the woman who sells me ibuprofen." she slid into the seat next to her, like she'd been invited all along. "so, what brings you back to town, e? couldn't cut it in the big apple? need daddy to bail you out?"
π€Β closed for lily pryde ,πΒ the pryde family home, π mayΒ 28th, 5:27Β am @pyreburn
hands clawing through mud; clay and grit piercing beneath the nailbed.Β nine-hundred ninety-nine.Β a dog barking, too loud even at a distance.Β nine-hundred ninety-eight.Β frigid water and cloying fog choking down stale lungs. heβd pulled himself out of water once. a memory of burningβΒ nine-hundred ninety-seven. a foreign voice saying his name in a hushed, disturbed tone as he looked up at them.Β nine-hundred ninety-six.Β flashes of light, colors, stabbing into unused eyes.Β nine-hundred ninety-five.Β adrenaline rushing. body shivering. time slipping by too fast to processβ a guttural sound coming from deep within like long-suppressed pain.Β nine-hundred ninety-four. a fightβ¦ with a vampire. a false forest. a paramedic.Β ironic, is that how they feed?
'they didn't feed on you?' phantoms speaking, always speaking.
βtheyβre a paramedic.β
Β
'you made it.'
βi made it?β
Β
another flash of light, singular and passing; directly in his eyes. a grunt of pain.Β
βstop.β
nine-hundred ninety-three.
body shaking. still shaking. a question.
alistair looked up, around; he was in a room with posters, a clinical smell that reminded him ofβ¦ his mamaβ she was dead, he recalled like dusting off a long neglected shelf.
β¦the lights were off, lowered, and a doctor stood in front of him. they too had a disturbed look, as if seeing something that shouldnβt be. they had asked him somethingβ¦Β 'if you were cold.'
βno,β alistair responded, voice rough with gravel. it was mere moments ago, no, hoursβ no. a singular hour ago, he was still in the void, screaming obscenities, crawlingβ his joints almost hurt, the ache of dulled pain somewhere beneath the skin, next to the bones or in them.Β nine-hundred ninety-two.Β
they tried offering him a change of clothes, forcing them, scrubs, but he declined, and theyβd heard from the sheriff how heβd fought the vamp medicβ human to them. he was given towels instead. his clothes half-ruined from time and crawl, but usable still.
the doctor said something, or asked something again,Β βare we about done here, doc?β quick and sharp, eyes deeply empty, as if something had devoured the light within and left only a yawning dark behind. he didnβt want to be in this room anymore; its smell too strong, the questions grating both ears and nerves.Β he wantedβ
βdid you want us to call your sister?β heart freezing, turning over, adrenaline not gone but paused, holding its breath for an answer to a question he wasnβt going to ask this stranger.Β nine-hundred ninety-one.
alistair slid off the observation bed, fluid movement at odds with tightly wound muscles. he wasnβt crawling anymore, and it felt unnatural. perhaps looked it too, not that he cared. he didnβt even care to answer the question, taking it as a sign that he was clear to leave, and when he shouldered past them without much protest, and an awkward βwelcome back, kid.β from the sheriff waiting outside, he took it as confirmation. no one seemed keen on getting or asking for answers.
they didn't know what to do with a dead boy who resurrected himself.
out of the hospital and into the nightβ morning, before the sun would rise, alistairβs feet carried him down familiar roads. not many were out, nearly none save for stray cats that hissed, and what looked like dock workers or drunkards. likely one and the same. he was spared the looks he received in the hospital, the ones that were to become familiar and commonplace in the coming days.Β
eventually, concrete turned to tangles of moss and narrow streets. pinewood; porches sinking and grass drained of any life, he knew this place more and more as he walked, knowledge and memories returning as if theyβd always been there and not lost in the time heβd been elsewhere.Β six years.Β
Β
nine-hundred ninety.
heβd been trapped a mere six years, but it felt as if it were forever; until he remembered and crawled out, it felt as if there had been nothing before. but here was before, after, six years later, and things seemed unchanged. six years and heβd crawled out on his own because no one ever came.Β nine-hundred ninety-one.
a house with a familiar shape, pulled him to a stop, and for a moment, he believed it to be empty. when their mama was killed, their dad had fled town with them in tow. if no one came for alistair in the six long years heβd been gone, then it mustβve meant they fled again. they were free from this place and its horror, and that was almost a consolation.Β
but then he saw the painting on the mailbox, handprints that were twins. his and hers in their favorite colors. they never left. they never came.Β
Β
'welcome home, ali.'
Β
βnine-hundred ninety-two.β he was meant to count down, a quiet muttering no longer in his head, but counting wasnβt a linear thing anymore; it was a cycle meant to comfort and distract.
adrenaline unpaused itself, and time slipped again, rushedβ he rushed. hands diving into a familiar pot and digging for a key he hoped would and wouldnβt be there. the entrance to this home suddenly in his face as if he hadnβt been at the end of their driveway one second ago.
Β
βnine-hundred ninety-three.β
Β
the door unlocking quietly, heart pounding harder than he liked, and no more than a few steps inβ he had his question answered as he stood in the kitchen doorway. a face heβd forgotten staring back at him in blessedly low light. the real version of the phantom that reminded him of who he was by saying somethingΒ sheΒ would never.
lily. his sister and twin.
Β
he didnβt know what to do. they never left. they never came. did they even want him back?Β 'why would they when you weren't supposed to come back?'
Β
he ignored the phantom, too focused on the real person in front of him to acknowledge the fake inside of him.
for a long moment he didnβt know what to say, but then his eyes caught on something. two blades on the counter, in hands, familiar ones not meant for kitchens. a question and answer.
Β
βwhy are you guys still here?β his tone was too many things at once; he knew the answer, but he wanted to be wrong. it was an accusation as much as it was genuine confusion.Β why didnβt you come for me? why didnβt you guys leave like we did when mama died? why areΒ you still fighting?
βwhereβs dada?β cold burning anger was taking root. not the kind that would come for lily soon enough, but the kind of anger a son held towards his father when he intended to confront him.
he didn't know he wasn't there anymore; the doctors hadn't told him; he hadn't given them the chance.
though his feet stayed where they stood, still unsure of their place in this home, his head didnβt wait for an answer. snapping and scanning the room with the same at-odds-with-itself fluid and tight motion.Β
nine-hundred ninety-four.
it'd been another long day, in a series of long days.
that was how lily lived her life these days, stuck in an endless time loop of her own making. wake up. the gentlest reach for something that was no longer there, a loyal scruffy dog that had died by her side so many years ago. walk to the kitchen. try not to catch a glimpse of her twin brother's bedroom door beside hers, or her parents' door on the other end of the hall, rooms she hadn't let herself enter in nearly five years. make some food. don't think about how her father used to make pancakes just the way she liked them, blueberry buttermilk, tart and sweet. or her mother's perfect cup of lavender chamomile tea. or her brother's obnoxiously loud chewing, how much she'd give to hear it again. go to work. throw out the underage kids, with a sharp reminder that she knew perfectly well who they were and where their parents lived, the way everyone knew everyone in this wretched town. fight off the advances of drunken losers who reeked of piss and something even worse. go behind the bar and sneak a drink, maybe two. pretend that it was fine. she was completely fine. slayer metabolism, right? the gift that kept on giving. then the graveyard shift, at the literal graveyard. kill the ferals who came out to play. don't think about how they used to have a life and a family too, before the hunger grabbed hold of them and refused to let go. don't think about how she knew the feeling. stumble on home. dress the wounds the best she could. (her mother and her brother had always been better at that.) drink to fall asleep. rinse and repeat.
sometimes there were a few fluctuations. sometimes, she'd visit alistair's grave with xingyu, letting herself lean ever-so-slightly on his shoulders, quietly grateful for his presence. other days, she'd meet kaden at the motel for a late-night dinner from the motel's vending machine, knowing he was likely to be up, as unable to sleep as she was. occasionally, she'd walk past thalia's place and very nearly knock on her door, walk all the way up the driveway before thinking better of it. or she'd venture out into the hollows and meet matteo's mom, slip her some cash when she was sure he wasn't around, softly ask her how her son was holding up. sometimes, it wasn't vampires in the graveyard but demons up to no good, or werewolves unrestrained on a full moon, or witches playing with forces beyond their comprehension. there were occasions where she'd accidentally looked them too closely in the eyes and couldn't bring herself to kill them. she'd let them walk away instead, knowing that they might go on to do worse, and that she'd have to live with it. but mostly, there was just this.
that night had started out just like any other, until she heard the news on the police scanner she'd bought years ago. "something coming up the creek. an animal...no, wait...a person...it's a person! uh, sheriff riley, i think you're gonna want to see thisβ" then the connection went dark. she remembered thinking that it must've been a stray werewolf, or maybe a vampire gone feral. told herself she'd check it out after going home for a quick dinner, get some sustenance in her before heading off to battle. "never go on a hunt when you're weak, or hungry, or tired," her father had always stressed to her. "that's how you get yourself killed." then she made the fatal mistake of closing her eyes. just for a moment, she told herself, but of course, she fell asleep within minutes, right there on the faded leather couch. usually, she could fight off sleep, make her body keep moving with nothing but sheer force of will. but that night, there was something in her that was just so exhausted, so bone-weary and dog-tired. a fatigue that had crept its way into her chest over the course of six years and found itself a home there, right in her core. one good night's sleep was never going to be enough. it was internal, all-consuming. it was never going to go away, not completely. but maybe if she could just rest for a few hours β
it'd been the same recurring dream for weeks now. she was there, in the void, or how she'd always imagined the void β stygian-dark and endless, nothing and no one for miles upon miles. until she heard a voice through the dim β her brother's voice, calling out for her in the dark, echoing from somewhere she couldn't see. she tried to stand, but something in her couldn't seem to manage it, couldn't find the strength. so she stayed on her hands and knees instead, yanking and dragging herself through the emptiness, until she finally reached him. but she was already there. another version of herself, whispering to him, saying things she'd never say, would never even think. "dada never loved you. he only ever tolerated you. you were the screw-up, the mistake. who could ever want you? you know, i was so relieved when you died. finally, you weren't there to hold me back anymore. finally, i didn't have to keep constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure my stupid, useless brother was okay. of course i'd never come for you. i hope you rot in here." she was screaming at that point, tears streaming wet and hot down her face, banging her fists against the invisible barrier that kept her from running towards him. she tried to tell him that it wasn't true, none of it was true. that she was here, right here, and she wasn't ever losing him again. that she was going to save him, find a way to walk out the darkness together. but somehow, he never heard her. no matter how long she shouted, how hard she'd pushed, how loud she cried, he never heard her. and then she woke up, alone again, so terribly and truly alone. no brother, no father, no mother, no dog. just her and everything she hadn't done.
but something else roused her from her sleep that night. the soft sound of a door creaking open. the sharp smell of something rotten, something dead. vampire, she thought, sure of it. whatever crawled up the creek earlier, here to haunt her doorstep. her own fault for falling asleep. but hey, at least they'd done her the favor of coming right to her, saving her the trouble of hunting them down herself. simpler this way, really. maybe she ought to leave a thank-you card on their tombstone when all this was over with. dragging herself up from the couch, she grabbed her trusty daggers from the table beside her and stalked towards the kitchen, swinging the blades in her hands as she moved. a bad habit, or a party trick, depending on who you asked. "hey, jackass! didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to interrupt a girl's beauty sleep? if i don't get my full eight hours, i start to get a bit teβ" she started, before stopping dead in her tracks as she took in the face in front of her. the face she knew so well.
ali. her brother and her twin, looking like he'd crawled out of his own grave.
soot-dark eyes gleaming in the lowlight, she lifted her gaze to meet his β but his eyes weren't the brilliant blue she remembered. (their mother's eyes.) they'd gone black now, blacker than hers, and there was no gleam in them, no shine, no sign of life. just an endless emptiness, a void with no bottom to it, save for one faint, guttering flicker, there and then gone, like a candle drowning in its own wax. and then he spoke, and it was even worse than in the dream, worse because it was real. this was real. he was here, he was here, with her again. for one unbearable second, she let herself believe it, let herself want it so badly her knees nearly buckled. ali, alive once more, after all these years β no. no, she knew, head over foolish, foolish heart, that it couldn't be. it was impossible. this had to be some sort of trick β a witch's idea of a sick joke, or a demon trying to lure her into a trap, or even the hunger playing games with her. she always knew that whatever her brother did that halloween night, the hunger hadn't died along with him. that it would be back someday, to claim the rest of them for maggot creek. the signs had started again, weeks ago, and this was only the beginning, the first in a long line of snares that were coming for her. she couldn't fall for it, couldn't let herself. the real ali would never forgive her if she went down that easily.
not real, not real, not real, she told herself as she lunged towards him while his eyes wandered the room, distracted. pushed him down to the kitchen floor, his shoulder blades striking the same tile she used to stand on watching her father flip pancakes, blueberry batter spitting in the pan. her hands didn't shake, she wouldn't let them, not for something wearing her brother's face. he was much colder than she remembered, and beneath the rot-smell that clung to him now, some ghost of the boy he'd been still lingered β the same hint of detergent their mother always bought, sharp and clean and wrong against the mud and decay. more proof that this wasn't her brother but something else. she'd make him regret this. pressing a cool knife against his death-pale throat, the growl that ripped itself out of her was so unlike her, so different from how she used to talk to ali, back when he was still alive. "who the hell are you, and what the fuck did you do with my brother?" she demanded, digging the blade in a bit, enough to cut. just barely. "you have five seconds to answer before i slit your throat."
βBut how was I to begin letting it go when anger was the force that gave me momentum? My anger was my power. It was what protected me. Without it, wouldnβt I be sad and naked?β
β Stephanie Foo, What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma (Ballantine Books, February 22, 2022)Β
