#ashling davis

[pepsiwriteswords]

94. Reality

   Ashling sighs loudly, running a hand through her hair as she paces.

   Ghosts aren’t real. Spirits aren’t real. Therefore, the person standing in front of her right now can’t be either. No matter what they claim.

   Regardless of the fact that they’re not quite touching the ground.

   “If you don’t believe me, just look me up. I told you my name, you have my face.” They shrug, smiling down at her.

   She stops pacing, takes her hand out of her hair to put it up between them, palm facing them. “Excuse me, you are the result of an overly stressed imagination and you don’t get to interrupt my train of thought.”

   “Even if that train of thought is rather quickly becoming a panic attack?”

   With a jolt, she realizes that she’s shaking harder than the night’s low temperature warrants, and that she’s not breathing quite right and it’s making her chest hurt.

   She shakes her head. “No, not even then.” Her hand moves to her chest, and she starts counting. Four in, hold for seven, out for eight.

   Ghosts and spirits aren’t real. They’re not.

   The person in front of her isn’t any closer to the ground, though. And they’re not changing their story.

   Ashling takes one more deep breath. “Guess I’m going to the library,” she mutters.

[pepsiwriteswords]

"No. She doesn't really do friends. Just does illegal shit for money."

[pepsiwriteswords]

“In case you missed it, I kill people, Dakota. Stealing isn’t exactly difficult.”

[pepsiwriteswords]

6. Obsession

It was a slow morning. Hardly anyone was in the shop. It was peaceful.

Then a skinny girl with frizzy red hair sat down across from her. No coffee in hand.

Ashling took a slow sip of her drink, giving the slip of a girl a flat look.

“You want something?”

It was several seconds before the girl said anything. 

“You killed my father.”

“ . . . Okay.”

The girl sighed heavily, folding her arms over her chest. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Ashling put her drink down, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know what you want me to say. If I got him, then I had a good reason or six for it. Didn’t you see my card?”

Another sigh. “Explain it to me. I’ve spent so much time tracking you down--I just want to know why?”

“If you saw the card, you know why.” Ashling shrugged. “He was getting away with awful things. The cops weren’t doing a thing. Someone had to do it.” She brushed her hair back again, but this time she showed the girl the mark just behind her ear. “Besides, I got this mark for a reason.”

[pepsiwriteswords]

2. Complicated

Running away isn’t nearly as easy as they say.

Face on the news, business out for everyone to see . . . It gives everyone the buttons to push if they think they recognize you.

The hair color in that picture is wrong. You dyed it again right before leaving town.

It’s harder to change your eye color. And you can’t really change your face. Not that you really try to.

Most people that see it don’t get to stick around to describe it, right?

Except for her. And the kid. They saw your face, and they got to hang around. Because they’re family, right?

They don’t have to go like everyone else. They’ve not committed any crimes. They were just trying to find their sister. Wanted to make sure you were okay.

Neither of them care that you have the mark.

Hell, the kid’s mark is worse than yours and she’s still taking care of him. Of course, authorities are watching him same way they watched you, but she’s still there. 

Or, she is until he acts on his. The way you acted on yours.

It’s best to keep running. Much less complicated. 

Least until you get caught.

[pepsiwriteswords]

Ashling Davis

Headcanon posts again! Prepare for spam! :)

Sleep:

       She can fall asleep anywhere, and does, but is also a very light sleeper. 

Angry/Violent:

        Girl’s violent as hell. She likes stabbing. A lot. She’s not awesome at hand-to-hand things--doesn’t get into a lot of fist fights--but put a blade of some kind in her hand and you don’t stand much of a chance.

Living Quarters:

        She doesn’t have a permanent residence anymore. Travels all around the states. Probably stays in homeless shelters, sometimes a little bit of couch surfing, and on the streets. 

Cooking/Food:

        She can cook--but she doesn’t. Except for a couple of her couch surfing adventures. In thanks to whoever gave her a roof for the night, she might make breakfast or something, and then she’s back to running.

Appearance:

        She dyes her hair regularly. And might have a bit of a thing for dark lipstick. And she loves dressing up and doing her makeup and everything for some of her victims. The ones she lets see her coming. 

Family:

        She has an older sister and a younger brother. Mom left when she was 12, and Dad . . . she killed him when she was 16.

Drinking/Drunk:

        She’s not old enough to drink, and has only done so once. She didn’t like the taste or how it messed with her ability to think and act, so she’s not done it since. Too easy to get caught that way.

[notsoevilpepsi]

100 Themes Writing Challenge

The moon is high in the sky—full, and surrounded by stars. The house is small, barely more than a shack. There is no family.

Good. No one to miss them.

Stealthy steps to the back door, and a quick turn of the knob to see if it’s locked.

It’s not.

Tiptoeing inside, a gloved hand grabbing a knife from the kitchen counter.

They’re sitting in the easy chair, watching the news on their shitty television set. There’s an open bottle of beer on the end table beside them, a few empty ones keeping it company.

Struggling to keep quiet. To keep from saying something that will be regretted. Walking quietly toward the back of the chair, making sure there’s no reflection on the screen.

The cold blade against their throat.

A gulp. Sweat beading down their face. Sudden begging.

Pressure being put upon the blade.

Blood seeping out, oozing down the neck and onto the back of the chair.

Gurgling, coughing up blood.

Another look at the sky when it’s back in view. The moon hasn’t moved.

It’s midnight.

This is kill number twenty-seven.