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An Icelandic autumn. Bjarnarflag, roaring vapors in Reykjahlíÿ, South Tingeyjarsysla, Iceland. photo by Marie l’Amuse

The Good Fight || Solo Scene

“Mr. Pryce… Ahem, Mr. Pryce!” Wesley’s eyes snapped open and he quickly focused on the hand that was waving impatiently in front of his face. It had the distinct odor of an old library book and was stained with red and black ink. The red ink was a clear indication that it was most likely his father, recently finished marking papers for the afternoon and checking up on his son to rant and rave about the responsibilities of being a watcher. “It is irresponsible to fall asleep in the library but I am certainly not surprised. At least you kept the drool to a minimal and you appear to have finished your instructed chapters.” His father’s tone was cold and distant as he slammed the textbook shut and added it to a neat pile at the end of the mahogany table. Wesley straightened his glasses and leaned back against the wooden seat in a feeble attempt to prepare for another lecture. No matter how hard he tried to impress his father with an extensive latin vocabulary and a mastery of many forgotten demon languages, nothing was quite impressive enough. There was always room for improvement. “No, no! You don’t pronounce the e!” “When I was your age, I had already staked six vampires and destroyed one demon! And you - You sit around in this library and read. Yet, know nothing by memory! When information is needed, you do not have the answer right away. Instead, you turn to your piles of books…” “You will not be known as my son until you prove worthy of being my son!” Wesley felt his entire body tense as he waited for his father’s disapproving glare and raised voice. But uneasy silence fell upon the room as Roger Wyndam Pryce moved slowly to the opposite end of the table to sit in one of the more luxurious, velvet chairs. All that could be heard was the loud ticking of the grandfather clock and quiet bird song from the gardens outside. “Son…..” Son? He stared blankly at the man that sat across from him at the table. Was this his father? The man that never called him anything other than his birth given name? “Yes, father?” “I am sorry that you cannot be with her …” The words were not eloquent but somehow they made sense. Her…. Winifred Burkle. The woman he had lost just has quickly has he had won. Her with the kind brown eyes and playful curly hair. Her who had lived for five years in a cave but was still one of the only people that could keep up with him intellectually. Her who he had waited for…. Was he still waiting? And that’s when it all came back to him - The battle that he had lost. The sword had been painful and quick and she had watched over him. She had been there for his last breath. Only it hadn’t been her. No — She was long gone like a turkey in the corn. Her body had been ripped apart from the inside out and all that was left was a shell. An empty and broken shell. “Wesley… Wake up!” The quiet voice caught him off guard and his eyes flickered open again. The council’s library was gone and he was in a room that was ghostly white and completely empty, except for a young girl with blonde pigtails and warm brown eyes. She poked his side playfully with her index finger and offered her small hand to help lift him from the ground. Wesley took a quick glance around the large room as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. “Who are you?” he asked, his eyes searching the room for a door. It seemed familiar and he was almost certain that he recognised the girl but everything was sort of stuck together in his brain. He had the puzzle pieces but he couldn’t seem to fit them in the right order. The little girl giggled and her pink lips pulled into a knowing smile. “Do you recognise me now?” she took a step closer and her hair grew darker and her body taller. He stared at her for a moment and then blinked. Lilah Morgan? So, he really was in hell. “Lilah?” he whispered, although it was more of a statement than a question. The dirty blonde winked at him and placed a hand to his cheek. Her skin was soft and familiar and he couldn’t help but get lost in the past for a moment. Maybe if they had met under different circumstances… “Still got that signed dollar bill?” Her cheeks filled with color and she removed her hand from his cheek - As if it hurt her too much to be so close to him. “I’m here to offer you a deal. Well, not really offer.. more like force you to make a deal.. but you know as well as I do that that is how it usually works around here.” Wesley was stumped. He looked around the empty room for clues and then he met her gaze. Wolfram and Hart. Of course he was trapped in Wolfram and Hart. Happy endings were simply unheard of. “Tell the senior partner’s that I’m not interested in making any kind of deal with them,” he said and followed his arms protectively across his chest. He was not willing to be manipulated by some demon law firm - No matter what they promised him. Lilah shook her head and forced a smirk to her lips. “I’m just the messenger,” she said slowly, “So, please don’t shoot me.. I know you’ve got quite the trigger happy finger..” Her smile became more natural as she tried to comfort him with her wicked sense of humor. “Wesley, this isn’t exactly a yes or no kind of deal. You are signed to a Wolfram and Hart contract and you are bound to them - Even in death.” She grimaced and pointed to herself. “Like mine.. Your soul was signed away to the company.” This had to be some sort of mistake. There had been no mention of legal obligations to the Senior Partners after death in the pile of contracts that he had signed, had there? He wasn’t the sort of person that skipped over the fine line and didn’t read every word on every page… Angel. There had been contracts signed by Angel. So much for fighting the good fight.

There was so much blood, if she were to lie in it, limbs sprawled like the arms of a compass, north to west, east to south —— it’d make the shape of an angel.

That was where Davina was. With the angels.

The alternative was too much to bear, so she pushed it to the back of her skull and buried it in the darkest crevice of her brain, where no light could seep and illuminate the true nature of its HORROR.

The red wasn’t death but the promise of eternal life. Because no world that could steal millions of innocents from loving, necessary homes was holy, or pure, or worth sticking around for. Earth was HELL. It wasn’t fire and brimstone — or Hades dancing in blue flame — but loss and madness. Chaos and loneliness.

Death was peace. In a world of uncertainty and decidedly not okay, death was the onlysolution. At least with a dead body, you could bury it in the dirt ( or ) burn it to dust. There was no hope in death and above all else, hope was the cruelest sin of them all.

( Give a person hope and they will waste their entire life hoping for something better. )

So, she steadied herself, fingers ghosting the gun that splattered her sister across the walls. Stained the carpet. Bloodied her hands.

The gun her sister had stolen from her desperate grasp. The gun that had fired,accidentally. A game of Russian Roulette gone desperately wrong. One bullet. Straight to the temple, a vicious bull drawn to the gore. To the red. To the end.

❝ I was supposed to go first. ❞

She murmured, soft as a lullaby, pressing a kiss against Davina’s mattered forehead. When she pulled back, the gun remained sculpted in her hands as if the massacre had been predestined. Unavoidable. One more glance was spared around the room, from the collection of boxes, spilling with photographs and keepsakes, to her dead sister’s crumpled body. They’d been happy once. In her final moments, she had to believe that. That they’d been happy.

As if to reassure herself of that fact, she repeated a childhood mantra, low and steady, something that had been whispered on swing sets and ferris wheels a decade ago:

❝ Together, or not at all. ❞

Three clicks. Mike. Mom. Dad. One shot.

& she too was gone.

testing this out

yeah man

it's 2am

fuck

#tahhhhh