fredless: (Lost and Found by Buffyreed)
He's a monster.

He's not the villain in the story book or the crooked politician or the men with dark eyes that do even darker things to you in the most midnight blackness you have ever, ever known. No, he's a monster.

He's only a monster.

That shouldn't be comforting. If you were as smart at the walls of your stone house suggesting, whispering their wisdom at night? You'd be scared out of your wits -- the very last wits that you possessed. But you aren't, because he's only, just a monster.

There's rage and anger and strength and teeth. Because really, there's no missing the teeth. But there also isn't any plotting and hurting and ripping you apart from the inside out. He just wants to rip and rend and bite. It's just the body he's after, and if there's any sort of anguish in his eyes? Well, it's not your own.

Don't look to deep though, cause then you find your own anyway, all by yourself.

No. No he's just a monster.

And there's something almost seductive about that.

The blood's slick in your hands, ragged flesh catching up under your fingernails and tugging at places you try and forget. It's all sinew and muscle and it still connected to bits of you as you connect with him. It's your turn to seduce him, pulling him up off the stranger from the ground. Pulling him back to you and your stone walls. He isn't their monster, he's yours.

Yours and you don't want to share. It's not them you're saving, it is yourself. Not that they see that. You see though. You see your monster, simple and raw and real. You can identify him, categorize him and define him through and through. As confusing as this world is, as lonely as it is? As much as failure's your friend now, for every attempt gone wrong food that's not write and names that are lost?

You look at your monster, know what he is.

And it feels like he knows you back.


Nov. 19th, 2007 12:38 am
fredless: (Lost and Found by Buffyreed)
"In my own little corner in my own little chair I can be whoever I want to be."

There's girls, she thinks.

All sorts of girls that can do all sorts of amazing things and none of them end up in caves. Castles, sure. Lots of them actually. And towers and dungeons and under glass and wearing it too, and sometimes just outside the caves. But they never go in because they know better or some else knows better but there's always knowing and that is better than not.

Oh, and the sleeping. So many of them sleeping through so much. She's forgotten what a full night's rest feels like, all safe and warm and she's pretty sure somewhere her body's had it before because it seems content to be discontent with what it has now. What tastes like not dry with anticipation for the next time they find her, not feeling the hurts, not thinking through the night and jumping at every little sound.

They have names, the vowels and sounds of them flit about bugs, picking at bits of her in an annoying sort of way. They're here, they seem to be saying, so give a little notice. But the minute she does they fly out of reach, startled.

She thinks there's one that is always being tested, always being pushed. She has a strange name and is always sleeping in the oddest places and on the oddest things. She seems worth liking.

She seems strong.

There's something at the end they always find, and she feels like she's always reaching for it. Even as she can't exactly remember what it is. The pictures are there, of course. Bright colors and glowing smiles. But sometimes they get more and more real and the faces fade into something that looks a little bit like her own reflection in the water. Ir's probably the most worrisome.

Because somehow that's the scariest thing of all.


Oct. 10th, 2007 01:58 am
fredless: (Default)
Setting exercise - Write a scene of your muse eating a meal. Focus on the setting, and illustrate the surroundings that he or she is dining in. It can be in their home, outside, in a restaurant, whatever, but it must be someplace that the muse would IC'ly eat.

It's heaven.

Fred's very, very sure it's heaven right there in paper colored pleasure, all dyed in the sorts of oranges and reds that aren't really the kind to be found in nature. No, these are manufactured hues for manufactured paper for manufactured foods, which is to say it's been a good five years since she's had anything like it. They're not bright, but the burn her eyes anyway. Her little bits of heaven.

You just stop seeing certain things anymore, and sometimes they cease to be. And you try and remember them. There's taste, and texture, the way a voice sounds when it's not shouting at you, they way honest to goodness electrical lighting lights up a person's whole being, and they can't hiding anything. From you or yourself. Every facet, every flaw just lit up like a Christmas tree. All you've got to do is look to see. And if in the end you choose to blink and squint your eyes so those lights and lines blur a bit? Well that's on you.

Just like the taco is...on you. Fred can't even be sure who shoved it in her hands. The girl with a tree for a name had taken Angel away to talk about the girl they both knew. Which of course left Fred with a bunch of people she didn't. Know, in any well or real way. But they'd listened to the bit about tacos it seemed, and now the small sack filled her hands. They were distracting her and she was distracting them. Back and forth and back and forth because if it's one thing Fred knows? It's listening. And they're trying to listen to the talking going on outside, even if they don't want to admit it. The not admitting it is where the food comes in.

She takes two steps back, then three, then two more. Eating's not something she's accustomed to doing in public anymore, especially with all those eyes on her. Normally there's the part when she has to steal her mean first too, with the running that comes after. So the bag is hugged that much closer even as the back on her knees hit something soft. Fred lands on the small circular sofa with an unexpected woosh of air, mouth drawn up in a nervous bow. She pulls herself even deeper into the upholstery, and that's when Fred revises her religion a bit.

Heaven is brightly wrapped tacos and this particular bit of fabric.

It's old Old, and used, and loved. One half of it sits higher than the other just below her, and the smell of it mixes itself up with the beef and tomato in her hands. There's soap, where someone's obviously tried to get a cleaning it. Real, actual soap. Fabric softener too, maybe bits of it left behind by the last person that sat there. So it helps her see a crampt wooden room with dappled afternoon light, filled to the brim with white bits of electrics way part their prime, and a soft, brown woman with more than enough good years left to call her own.

There's sweat, and dandruff, a small burn hole just to the left, and a flash of white where the covering is clear worn away on the right. It's people, and love, and age, and the not-cave, and about all the normal Fred's about to be able to handle in that moment.

It's holder her, and she's holding it right back.

So she opens up her first taco, and steps right through those heavenly gates. Which are somehow made of golden arches topped with a sombrero. It's the not normal in her back again, but she's plenty used to that my now. Fred thinks, sometimes, it might get a little lonely without it.

The taco itself tastes like a test. Will it be a good as she remembers? As wonderful as all those flavors she clung to for so very long, desperate to recreate? It's a taco and a memory and herself. She's going to sink with it, she expects to. Because it can't possibly be what wants it to be. Bits of the wrapper are inside Fred now, because she's eating it that fast. It's a five-year famine coming to an end.

Fred smiles, and it's everything but angelic.

But it tastes right.

Just exactly right.


Sep. 6th, 2007 12:32 pm
fredless: (Lost and Found by Buffyreed)
"The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place." The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon.

She watches them from far away, metal collar limp and lifeless at her neck, and eyes wide to the scenes that play themselves through over and over and over again. It's like a movie she can't quite remember. The story and the words, and then the people that say the words to the story -- they're nothing but a vague sort of mess in her head now. More than a little forgotten, like everything else. It's on the pile with clothes that cover you whole, names, and voices that sing you to sleep at sight. And even though the pile they make sounds comforting enough, she knows it's not meant for sleeping well.

Some something lingers from that movie. Just one little image. A picture in a picture, of a family slowly fading away. Hands and feet and head and heart all slowly disappearing, lost to the nothingness. That's how it feels here, she thinks. That's what watching it looks like.

They all start out so tall and clean and strong, not really sure what's happening to them. Let's of them determined to find out. But then the collars and the beatings come, the backbreaking work and night that...

Well, it's where the fading starts.

But it isn't just clothes that go away, or heads and limbs. It's what made each of them different. How you could tell any of them apart at all. It's names and smiles and if laughter sounds short or long. What you found funny, on;y nothings really funny anymore. 'Cept yourself, anymore -- in that hard, painful way. Anything that's anything is stripped away. Gone.

Until you're all alike.

And you're all alone.
fredless: (Default)
There hadn't been one in her room, so it had taken Fred four trips down the stairs, in the early hours of morning to find everything she needed. She'd tried late at night first, falling back of old habits that sent her scurrying through farms and shacks and homes with a desperate sense for survival. Of course, she'd stopped short, head barely clearing the stairwell at the sight of the activity bustling downstairs.

Didn't these people sleep at night? She might have forgotten a lot of things through the years. The smell of clean, the way whipped cream can tickle your tongue in that airs way, even her own name. But at least she still knew that nighttime was for sleeping. Or at least listening for the things that weren't, curled up in your bed all the same.

But no, they didn't sleep. At least not then. She waited and watched, and observed a sort of early morning exhaustion that struck them all. The hotel fell quiet, and that's when she took action. Pens, and more pens...because she didn't need paper but everything was so empty and she knew it would take a lot to fill it up. Her head was spinning and Fred needed to make sense of it. Desperately. There was food, and water, and even a weapon or three. The important things.

Finally, she had everything. And what followed was simple enough, at least to her.

The wall was blank, and then it wasn't.

Read more... )
fredless: (Lost and Found by Buffyreed)
Mathew? Charles? Maybe even all those memories that'll never be mine now? I guess any of those could be an answer to the implied, but it wouldn't be the answer. The one that sits heaviest with the most truth to hold it down. The fact is I held onto all of those before, as long as they were probably meant to be held on to. Time's measured in seconds and days, in weeks and years for a reason -- to divide it up and measure it out. And if there weren't things to fill up separate and distinct chunks of it, I think we would of all stopped counting a long time ago. They didn't get away from me, they simply had their time.

Or were never meant to have a time at all.

That doesn't mean nothing's ever escaped me. I'd never claimed to be not so flawed as that. I've let plenty of my own get lost along the way. memories and moments I should of held onto, and people I never should have let walk out the door. There's doors that turned the other way too, ones I never should have done the walking from. But if there has to be one, the one that got away and I never had a hope of getting back?

It would have to be him.

Professor Seidel.

There's nothing that will ever make me stop thinking that he got off easy, Charles killing him. I think he always had that wrong, Charles thinking that's what stood between us. The words got as messy as the action itself, and it never really got cleared up. He never should have been put in the position where he felt like he needed to take away that potential tarnish away from the person he thought I was, or even wanted me to be. That's true enough. But the truth is I still sometimes I wonder how much Charles really saw, or if he ever even knew how deep some of the scars went, and will always go. But what it all comes down to is the person Charles and Angel were trying to keep me from becoming stopped existing a long, long time ago. Plyea took care of that. And I'm not ashamed of that, and I wouldn't change it either. Because I survived it. I pushed through and survived and I refuse to be anything but ok with what I did there. What's done is done, and what was done to me can always be faced down later.

I never intended to kill Professor Seidel that night, and that is what lodged itself firmly between Charles and I. I was going to trick him, shove him, trip him, or push him through that portal by the tip of an arrow. But I wasn't going to kill him that night.

I wanted him to go where we had. And by go, I mean go. To all of those horrible places, most of them mental, but plenty of them real and hard enough to strip away layers of skin at a time. Let him get chained up. Let him have to run. Let him get forced into a place where you're the only weapon you have left, and you have forgotten how it works.

He sent us there, all of us, because he was afraid that we were better, or smarter than he was. Or maybe because he was so sure he was better and smarter, and he was punishing us for even hoping, and aspiring. Beyond the basic fact that he can't possibly talk through his reasoning , he lost the right to explain himself with the first life that he destroyed.

And they didn't want me to kill him, because he was human.

Angel got to be more than a vampire. Why couldn't the professor be less than a man?

All I wanted to do was send him there. Because he thought he was better than us, than all of us. He was supposed to finally have his chance to find out.


fredless: (Default)
Fred Burkle

May 2015

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