Still - fic
Sep. 18th, 2009 11:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deird1This was written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
still_grrr's Jammin' July, and was inspired by the song Keep Breathing, by Ingrid Michaelson.
Title: Still
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 410
Summary: Angel wants Darla to live. Darla wants not to.
Still
I breathe. I know I am alive.
My heart beats. I know I am alive.
I sneeze. I spit. I bleed. I cough. I know I am, unfortunately, alive still despite my best efforts.
I breathe. And my breath – my stupid, stinking breath – tells me that I am, in fact, alive.
I want to die. My body wants me not to.
He’s trying so hard. My stupid, pathetic boy – with his soul trapping him, holding him back from true greatness.
He doesn’t want me to die, but he won’t – he refuses to – do what he should do, and let me live. Traitor.
I want to rip his eyes from their sockets, peel his skin from his chest, stick a knife in his gut for forcing me to stay in this horrible body, this breathing, living body.
I want to set him on fire and watch him scream.
I want to drench him in holy water, and see his flesh burn bright with pain.
…I never thought he’d do it for me.
My heart beats loud in my chest. I know I am alive.
I breathe in slowly. I know I am still here.
He plunges his hand deep into water – my stupid, stubborn boy – grabs the key, and runs. Not caring that his arm is stained red, that his feet are screaming in agony.
Something so ridiculous, so horrific, for no real reason. And yet he doesn’t stop.
And I know that I hate him, that I want him to suffer, but right now every inch of me is aching to hold him, to help him, to stop this, to make it better.
Why? Why would he do that when I never even wanted him to?
My chest rises. My chest falls. I am not dead yet.
My heartbeat floods out all other sound. I am not gone.
His poor body, broken and battered, is captured, laid open to certain destruction.
One touch, and he’s dust.
He’s going to die. My stupid, precious boy is going to die – for me – and I can’t move.
He’s going to die, and all I can do is stand here silently screaming for him to leave, turn back, betray me, run, because I don’t want to live! I don’t! It doesn’t matter at all!
…but I am still breathing. My heart is still beating.
And suddenly, treacherously, I don’t want it to stop.
I breathe. I know I am alive.
I breathe again.
still_grrr's Jammin' July, and was inspired by the song Keep Breathing, by Ingrid Michaelson.Title: Still
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 410
Summary: Angel wants Darla to live. Darla wants not to.
Still
My heart beats. I know I am alive.
I sneeze. I spit. I bleed. I cough. I know I am, unfortunately, alive still despite my best efforts.
I breathe. And my breath – my stupid, stinking breath – tells me that I am, in fact, alive.
I want to die. My body wants me not to.
He’s trying so hard. My stupid, pathetic boy – with his soul trapping him, holding him back from true greatness.
He doesn’t want me to die, but he won’t – he refuses to – do what he should do, and let me live. Traitor.
I want to rip his eyes from their sockets, peel his skin from his chest, stick a knife in his gut for forcing me to stay in this horrible body, this breathing, living body.
I want to set him on fire and watch him scream.
I want to drench him in holy water, and see his flesh burn bright with pain.
…I never thought he’d do it for me.
I breathe in slowly. I know I am still here.
He plunges his hand deep into water – my stupid, stubborn boy – grabs the key, and runs. Not caring that his arm is stained red, that his feet are screaming in agony.
Something so ridiculous, so horrific, for no real reason. And yet he doesn’t stop.
And I know that I hate him, that I want him to suffer, but right now every inch of me is aching to hold him, to help him, to stop this, to make it better.
Why? Why would he do that when I never even wanted him to?
My heartbeat floods out all other sound. I am not gone.
His poor body, broken and battered, is captured, laid open to certain destruction.
One touch, and he’s dust.
He’s going to die. My stupid, precious boy is going to die – for me – and I can’t move.
He’s going to die, and all I can do is stand here silently screaming for him to leave, turn back, betray me, run, because I don’t want to live! I don’t! It doesn’t matter at all!
…but I am still breathing. My heart is still beating.
And suddenly, treacherously, I don’t want it to stop.
I breathe again.