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kangeikoshoudl be revising. or writing some of the many fics that are now due this very instant. can't. am stuck. watched 'I heart huckabees' and my brain melted and deconstructed itself. mission accomplished.
who the fuck was i channeling when i wrote this? hmpf.
unnamed faith-fic below, have some mercy. it's been a really long time since i wrote faith. actually, it's been a really long time since i wrote from an american pov. i bet that loads of britishisms snuck in. i don't care! moohoohaha! i shall go in search of pears. and also star-fruit. mmmmm.
You don't get to choose this.
There is no ticky box, no selection panel. There is no polling data and there is sure as hell no. God. Damn. Vote.
You don't get to choose this.
It chooses you – or it doesn't – but you don't get to have your say.
There is no one particular day where you'll wake up different, where you'll think, "Gee whiz, Miss Molly, I feel like a superhero today!" There is no fanfare and your teachers will not give you a gold-star for saving the world. There is no milk and cookies after patrol.
If you're lucky – and I mean dog-lucky, so fucking lucky you want to shoot someone in the head just to prove you can – no one will notice. You'll get up, you'll brush your teeth, you'll piss, you'll get to school, beat someone about the head with a fucking lacrosse stick or whatever, and that'll be the end of it.
It's only the next day that you'll realise – hey. No muscle-ache. No strain. No bruises.
It's only the next day, when you wake up five-by-five, that you'll get that something has Chosen you and made you that little bit special.
Maybe your Watcher will come for you, afterwards. Feed you candyfloss and icepops and stroke your hair and say what a pretty, pretty girl you are. Except that it's dark and he's no Watcher; your Watcher is probably trussed up like a fucking turkey, her legs splayed open and some goddamn vampire screwing her to death because, you got to have that perfect fucking day off and eat your goddamn milk and cookies.
No prizes for second best, girlfriend. You don't get anything for free and you sure as hell don't get to set the rules. It's like some big calculator is watching you from above. You want an extra day of being normal? Sure, but you get the rest of the year as worse.
And you don't know this before – well, who'd choose to have that extra day if they knew? No, you only get to find out later, when your Watcher is begging you to run, run as fast as you can because she can't protect you and the guy you thought was your Watcher, the guy who would only see you at night, who stroked across your thighs and fed you sweet melting icepops and called you darling and sweetheart is pushing the hair back from your neck.
So you run. You run as fast as you can and as far as you can, strong and bright and angry – yes, angry, not scared, because you don't get to be scared and live, no one gets to be scared after they're Chosen, it's like a rule or something – and you think to yourself, well, isn't this a fucking mess. Because it's your fault, isn't it? You wake up a superhero and you get this blissful day of being normal-but-not, and you meet your Mr Miyagi or whoever, and you should be learning kung-fu, you're sure of it. Instead, you're on the run, clawing your way free and heading West as fast as you can because you've heard-tell that there are others like you there. Tall ones, short ones, blonde ones, red-heads, girls, boys, adults - and this is very very important because, remember, you're still just a fucking kid and all you know about being a superhero you're picked up off comic books – and maybe they'll let you stay. You have this nagging feeling that maybe you're going about this all wrong as surely superheroes work alone, but your arms hurt and your legs hurt and you think, well, maybe so, but it's not like there's a fucking choice, is there?
Along the way you meet some fucked-up people and you work on your skills and tell yourself that your getting better. All you need is a Watcher, really – or maybe not, maybe all you need are others like you, but best not think that too loud because someone is obviously Listening and that someone really doesn't like you – but you're ok. You're fine. You're gonna be five by five as soon as you reach the coast.
There is no magic button of 'Makes It All Better'. Because every day afterwards you get to wake up and see what your life would have been like if you'd traded your perfect day in. (You were never given a choice, you tell yourself, but it sounds so fucking stupid when you see the way He treats Her and the way He looks at you with such infinite pity. You want to claw His eyes out but no, it's not his fault things went differently here.)
But afterwards… afterwards you think –
Fuck. I want that. I could have had that. I should have that.
There's no magic button, and there's no… there's no ticky box or – or – postal vote or – or – I don't know what. One moment you are perfectly normal and the next you're not, but there's no way of knowing until the morning after. And maybe you're lucky and maybe you're not, but you still have maybe four years left on average before you're torn up or bitten or drowned or stabbed and you're dead as dead can be.
Maybe four years. Maybe less.
It's been four years, almost, for me. Some of those four I slept – I slept such a fucking long time! – and some of those I was in prison. And some of those four I spent here, by Her side. But they're spent anyway. And I'm not happy at the way things turned out, but I'll be damned if I know what I could have done differently. I've done some wicked wrong things, don't get me wrong, but they didn't seem wrong at the time. And I'm trying to figure out the difference in my head and it doesn't always work. All I know is, time's almost up. Four years on average, girlfriend, more or less. If you live long enough to be Chosen.
Maybe less. Who's to say, hmm?
So, no, I don't have any advice for you, other than, be better. Don't die.
Now fuck off.
*
fin
who the fuck was i channeling when i wrote this? hmpf.
unnamed faith-fic below, have some mercy. it's been a really long time since i wrote faith. actually, it's been a really long time since i wrote from an american pov. i bet that loads of britishisms snuck in. i don't care! moohoohaha! i shall go in search of pears. and also star-fruit. mmmmm.
You don't get to choose this.
There is no ticky box, no selection panel. There is no polling data and there is sure as hell no. God. Damn. Vote.
You don't get to choose this.
It chooses you – or it doesn't – but you don't get to have your say.
There is no one particular day where you'll wake up different, where you'll think, "Gee whiz, Miss Molly, I feel like a superhero today!" There is no fanfare and your teachers will not give you a gold-star for saving the world. There is no milk and cookies after patrol.
If you're lucky – and I mean dog-lucky, so fucking lucky you want to shoot someone in the head just to prove you can – no one will notice. You'll get up, you'll brush your teeth, you'll piss, you'll get to school, beat someone about the head with a fucking lacrosse stick or whatever, and that'll be the end of it.
It's only the next day that you'll realise – hey. No muscle-ache. No strain. No bruises.
It's only the next day, when you wake up five-by-five, that you'll get that something has Chosen you and made you that little bit special.
Maybe your Watcher will come for you, afterwards. Feed you candyfloss and icepops and stroke your hair and say what a pretty, pretty girl you are. Except that it's dark and he's no Watcher; your Watcher is probably trussed up like a fucking turkey, her legs splayed open and some goddamn vampire screwing her to death because, you got to have that perfect fucking day off and eat your goddamn milk and cookies.
No prizes for second best, girlfriend. You don't get anything for free and you sure as hell don't get to set the rules. It's like some big calculator is watching you from above. You want an extra day of being normal? Sure, but you get the rest of the year as worse.
And you don't know this before – well, who'd choose to have that extra day if they knew? No, you only get to find out later, when your Watcher is begging you to run, run as fast as you can because she can't protect you and the guy you thought was your Watcher, the guy who would only see you at night, who stroked across your thighs and fed you sweet melting icepops and called you darling and sweetheart is pushing the hair back from your neck.
So you run. You run as fast as you can and as far as you can, strong and bright and angry – yes, angry, not scared, because you don't get to be scared and live, no one gets to be scared after they're Chosen, it's like a rule or something – and you think to yourself, well, isn't this a fucking mess. Because it's your fault, isn't it? You wake up a superhero and you get this blissful day of being normal-but-not, and you meet your Mr Miyagi or whoever, and you should be learning kung-fu, you're sure of it. Instead, you're on the run, clawing your way free and heading West as fast as you can because you've heard-tell that there are others like you there. Tall ones, short ones, blonde ones, red-heads, girls, boys, adults - and this is very very important because, remember, you're still just a fucking kid and all you know about being a superhero you're picked up off comic books – and maybe they'll let you stay. You have this nagging feeling that maybe you're going about this all wrong as surely superheroes work alone, but your arms hurt and your legs hurt and you think, well, maybe so, but it's not like there's a fucking choice, is there?
Along the way you meet some fucked-up people and you work on your skills and tell yourself that your getting better. All you need is a Watcher, really – or maybe not, maybe all you need are others like you, but best not think that too loud because someone is obviously Listening and that someone really doesn't like you – but you're ok. You're fine. You're gonna be five by five as soon as you reach the coast.
There is no magic button of 'Makes It All Better'. Because every day afterwards you get to wake up and see what your life would have been like if you'd traded your perfect day in. (You were never given a choice, you tell yourself, but it sounds so fucking stupid when you see the way He treats Her and the way He looks at you with such infinite pity. You want to claw His eyes out but no, it's not his fault things went differently here.)
But afterwards… afterwards you think –
Fuck. I want that. I could have had that. I should have that.
There's no magic button, and there's no… there's no ticky box or – or – postal vote or – or – I don't know what. One moment you are perfectly normal and the next you're not, but there's no way of knowing until the morning after. And maybe you're lucky and maybe you're not, but you still have maybe four years left on average before you're torn up or bitten or drowned or stabbed and you're dead as dead can be.
Maybe four years. Maybe less.
It's been four years, almost, for me. Some of those four I slept – I slept such a fucking long time! – and some of those I was in prison. And some of those four I spent here, by Her side. But they're spent anyway. And I'm not happy at the way things turned out, but I'll be damned if I know what I could have done differently. I've done some wicked wrong things, don't get me wrong, but they didn't seem wrong at the time. And I'm trying to figure out the difference in my head and it doesn't always work. All I know is, time's almost up. Four years on average, girlfriend, more or less. If you live long enough to be Chosen.
Maybe less. Who's to say, hmm?
So, no, I don't have any advice for you, other than, be better. Don't die.
Now fuck off.
*
fin
