Wesley had broken a lot of her things. Mostly her pretty things. Easily replaceable things. Expendable things.

Nothing of real worth or sentimental value. Not that she had many objects with any emotional attachment.

Breaking these things was usually a joint effort. Rough days led to rough nights. Tearing off more then clothes--dignity. Ripping each other apart until there was nothing left but two sweat coated bodies, unrecognizable, unwanted, overused and frequently abused. Wearing away to a point where there was no more down, only up. So that’s exactly what they did, climbed up. Got out of bed and started the day, unaware of any collateral damage their actions might cause.

Yes, Wesley had broken a lot of her things.

Three coffee tables

Dining room table leg

Egyptian vase

Two picture frames

Bedside lamp

Hinge on her bedroom door

Her heart

It would seem as if Wesley should be expectant of anything seeing as his life was definitely an eventful one. Yet, this simple and seemingly unimportant change of character shocked him almost as much as Cordelia’s demonic side had. Almost, if not more.

He rapped on the door a few times before growing impatient and opening the door with the key he’d had made months ago. If she thought he wouldn’t take a precaution like that then she was drinking something other then coffee in her cup.

The lights may be off but her car was outside and she hadn’t worked today so where else would she be? It isn’t as if Lilah exactly had that big of a social life. Actually, it was basically just work and him. That’s all she really had. And he was just an instrument for sex and anger release. So, really, there wasn’t much he could picture her doing at 11 pm other then sitting at home, watching House (even though she pretended to never watch the TV at all.)

Okay, every light being off was a little strange admittedly and he thought about turning right around. There was a certain feeling of ‘this is another rabbit hole, Alice, run.’ But he pressed on, like any man with a healthy dose of curiosity would.

There was a dark shadow in what he could guess to be a human form in the living room. Flipping on the light switch, Wesley turned just in time to see Lilah’s hand fly up to block her eyes from the light and recoil into the couch. She sat with her knees pulled in front of her chest, cup in one hand and a bottle on the coffee table.

“Turn off the lights!” She snapped in a tone that would have sounded more authoritative if it weren’t so hoarse. Hesitating over the light switch as if flipping it was giving her some kind of win, but he finally complied. The room went back to its dark and gloomy appearance, a sole light coming from a moonlit glow beaming in through her window.

“You sit alone in your apartment in the dark…often?” He asked in a way that implied more sarcasm then actually inquiry.

“Depends, you barge into people’s apartments uninvited and unwanted often?”

“Only those I am positive it will frustrate. Let’s not pretend you wouldn’t have-” He faded out when the shine of her eyes caught the moonlight. It wasn’t an ordinary glimmer where the light just happened to reflect at a certain angle. It was the kind that can only come from someone who’s forgotten how to cry but is sure they need too.

There was a long moment of awkward silence and unsure motions that were meant to start something, maybe a sentence, but never panned out.

“Okay…I am going to venture into uncertain, possibly dangerous territory and actually show some of my humanity that you despise. Resist the urge to open fire.” Wesley spoke calmly, sitting on the arm of the couch, looking over to Lilah who hadn’t moved the whole while.

After another series of silent moments which lasted way to long to end in any sort of comfort, Lilah spoke. It wasn’t that she really wanted to; more that, she needed too. He was there and she was caught off guard. A chain of events that neither he nor she really wanted to be a part of, much less have it lead to this situation, but there wasn’t much to do about it now.

“Lindsey’s dead.” She said with surprising calmness to her voice.

“Oh.” Wesley nodded slightly “How?”

“Shot by a client…13 times.”

“That’s a bit extreme.”

“When is Wolfram & Hart not extreme?” Lilah said, starring at the wall in front of her, face unreadable.

“True.”

Wesley wasn’t sure exactly why this was an ordeal. It wasn’t as if they were close or even barely above colleagues for that matter.

“Could have been me…but it wasn’t. Should have been me.” She shrugged. “I’ve always been the lucky one though.”

“And…you blame yourself? Or is this just about the fact that you could have been killed?” Wesley asked, confused. If this was about her then he was going to leave, no doubt. “You think about the possibility that it maybe-conceivably-on a chance- could have been you? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s all about yo-” He came close to finishing his sentence before Lilah interrupted. Her low voice seemed to wield more power and impact then one would assume.

“17 years.”

“Pardon”

“I’ve known…*knew* him for 17 years, since my first day of college.”

Background checks were tradition for the both of them so it was only natural that Wesley knew where she had gone to college but couldn’t remember if he had ever bothered to learn the same about Lindsey.

“They divide the ones with the most potential into an entirely separate wing. When there are only fifty people in your everyday curriculum you start to spend every minute of every day with them.”

Wesley had always just presumed that they met as employees. Then again, that could have been what their college was about – creating Wolfram & Hart employees-to-be.

“There was a time when we we’re different, ‘good’ I suppose some would call it. Though, it seems impossible now. We were friends, believe it or not. I certainly find it hard too.” She chuckled in that sad sort of way people do when nothing is funny, it’s just a weak attempt to pull back their emotions. “I just remember what he was like before – how nice he was, unselfish, funny. Definitely funny, he always made me laugh, even when I didn’t want to, even after being up for so long I was considered legally intoxicated.” This time her sad and soft laugh held trueness that he hadn’t heard much of. Come to think of it, Wesley had never heard Lilah laugh--ever.

“But…” There was always a ‘but’ to these stories. “There came a time when I didn’t laugh anymore and he didn’t joke anymore. Have you ever been so tired and completely sick of life itself that you couldn’t even pretend to be happy anymore?” He knew well enough to recognize this as a rhetorical question and that if he spoke she would realize he was listening and stop talking all together.

There was a pause as he slid onto the couch next to her. Wesley could tell by her tone that this was the first time in a long time Lilah had opened up to anyone. Treading lightly was crucial. She was liable to throw him out and pretend this never happened. He was expecting it actually. But, this is what he had wanted to see. To know that there was something inside that still felt pain, emotional pain. A few months ago Wesley would have looked at this as a downfall, not wanting to get tangled up in Lilah’s web. He would have thought this to be surely a trap. Now, it seemed nice to know there was another side to everyone, even Lilah, though some part of him always suspected its presence.

“It seemed like I hated him and in a way I did. But it didn’t really have anything to do with him. I saw myself in him. What he became, what we became. I saw myself in him and I hate myself so it just sort of paralleled somehow. Hating him was easier then admitting the truth, always has been. But now he’s gone and there’s no one to blame. It’s just…eye opening.”

It’s as if all of the mirrors that were surrounding her in a box of perfect illusion were cracking, slowly falling to pieces so all that’s left is reality. Turns out, reality is a bigger bitch then karma.

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t deserve this. I do. It’s as much my fault as it is theirs. Lindsey has nothing to do with it. I understand that. I do, really. And I know it’s stupid to be upset about it. I know it’s pathetic and I am just going to hate myself more for saying any of these things out loud, but…” she stopped herself there, either not being able to find the sufficient words or not wanting to speak them.

“But, it still hurts.” Wesley completed, finding now to be the only moment when his words were needed.

Lilah nodded slightly.

Wesley plied her hand from around the glass which she had forgotten was in her hand, setting it on the coffee table next to an almost empty bottle.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” She asked and he couldn’t tell if it was rhetorical or not. It sounded as if she wanted an opinion but already knew the answer.

“I was broken before he was gone and will always be, so there’s really no point in sulking about it.” Lilah continues mindlessly, barely aware of Wesley pulling her into his arms. “Why do you even bother?” She asked, laying her head on his chest. “It’s not like you can fix me.” Didn’t he recognize a lost cause when he saw one? Ungluing her eyes from the spot on the wall and closing them slowly, drifting into sleep.

It wasn’t but a moment before she was asleep. Lilah had never slept this soundly with him in the same room. She always seemed to be on the verge of waking up, always alert, ready for anything.

He draped the blanket from the back of her couch over them, up to her shoulders. “We’ll see.”

Big Five Test Results

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[Credit is apprectiated]




Bonnie & Clyde
they used to laugh about dyin'
but deep inside'em they knew
that pretty soon they'd be lyin'
beneath the ground together


I will not fall in love with a co-worker


I will not fall in love with a co-worker


I will not fall in love with a co-worker


I will not fall in love with a co-worker


the legendary BONNIE & CLYDE

‘Why not? I mean, what would it really hurt?’ Would her absence really mean anything in the grand scheme of things? Not just in the big picture but to anything or anyone at all. Who would notice? Even if they did happen to notice, no one would care. If anything, it would be a weight off a few people’s shoulders.

'Would anyone notice?' More importantly, though it shouldn’t mean anything 'Would he notice? Would he care?...Of course not. She’d be lucky if he paused at the news of her demise. He’d be better off, or so he believed. She, on the other hand, was unsure. He didn’t need her and certainly didn’t want her. So, what was the point in sticking around to get dumped? Well, I guess to get dumped you actually have to be in a relationship. Though he had been the one to say it was a quote-unquote ‘relationship’. There is a signed dollar to that effect…somewhere, probably in the cash lock-box of a run down bar.

If anyone would think to say ‘well, what about family or friends?’ she had an answer to that too. It would simply be—‘have none’. Family had dwindled down until there was nothing left but her mother who no longer recognized her, yet still managed to give her hell about everything and anything. Friends had long since become a luxury she could not afford. Personal attachments were healthy but dangerous as far as Wolfram & Hart was concerned. Anyone related to her might as well wear a shirt saying ‘perfect blackmail material’.

Then there was the Senior Partners, who already had her head (most likely *literally*) for this Wesley-Project going under. Her position at the firm could not handle another mishap on its record. Even though practically none of the previous ‘mistakes’ had actually been her fault she had been blamed regardless. This time, however, it was nonnegotiable that the burden lay heavily upon her shoulders.

So, let’s count it up, shall we?

Love= nonexistent

Family= dead or close to it

Friends= potential hostages

Job= doomed, which meant...

Life= doomed with a possible forecast of beheading

This was her life and it wasn’t ending one minute at a time. No matter how profound and true it was when Ed Norton spoke it.

Her life was ending--now.

Slowly, yes, but not in a day or a week, not in a month or a year, hell she might even go so far as to say half-a-decade if she were to have been especially lucky and cautious. No, this was her life and she would go out the way she choice, when she choice. Death would come by her own hands, on her own time. No star-crossed vamp or power-hungry colleague would be the end of her.

It may seem as though taking one’s own life would be seen as running away or giving up. She saw it as – This is something I have control over. So I’m taking control. That’s all.

Well, maybe that wasn’t all but it was a nice thought.

“Leave them on.” was what he’d said. Who knew that after six months of torment & teasing, torture & treats, pain & pleasure (usually at the same time) that it would only take three words to really get under her skin? To call it quits on their little charade. And that’s what it had been after all—a charade.

It wasn’t really the sentence it’s self that caused any of this to happen. After half-a-year she had taken much harder hits from him then that. Much harder, verbal and physical alike, then sent them all back at him tenfold.

It was the meaning behind the sentence. The underlying tone ‘You’ll never be good enough, you'll never be her’. Not even his usual cut-to-the-core comments could do the damage that half-sentence had. No amount of name calling and insult tossing could compare. It’s pathetic really; she was supposed to be able to handle this. More then handle it, control it. This was her game and she held all the cards, so why is it that he only seemed to have the instruction manual? She had a few cheat codes but not enough to give her another heart. Why did she care what he thought? 'What should it matter if he didn’t care?' Well, probably because right when her eyes looked away for a split second he had somehow wound up finding a soft spot in her armor and crawling underneath it. Damn, that armor was supposed to be full-proof. Oh well, nothing can be done now.

‘God, the room is freezing all of a sudden’. Cold, dark, and vacant - an extremely cliché setting for the plot at hand but suited well nonetheless.

There they were, perched at the end of the table, just taunting her. Everything she wasn’t. Everything she couldn’t bring herself to be--those damn glasses. Square lens but rounded at the corners, taking a sharp edge and curving it to soften the appearance. The frame was small and fragile, just asking to be broken by anyone strong or daring enough to do so. Not very vivacious but without-a-doubt red in color. They reminded her of the girl she had originally bought them to impersonate. The Texas Twig was a lot like her glasses, uncanny really. Wonder if the little girl with the big ole’ brain even realized how alike she actually was with an inanimate object that was probably chosen at random or by fancy. Most likely not but working at Wolfram & Hart taught you a few things about noticing the details, reading in between the lines.

Wrapping her fingers around a large hammer she brought it down upon the glasses without regard to silence or beautiful cherry-oak tables. Shattered glass and specks of red plastic scattered the table. It formed a sort of art arrangement, as if a glass replica of the Texan had been crushed to bits. The once whole-and-intact red frames were now merely fragments of what appeared at first glance to be specks of shiny blood. Those small tokens of disaster would be the only evidence to such a brutal crime--the Looking Glass Massacre. It had a nice ring to it and also matched the girl in question to a 'T' if any one sat back and thought about it.

Now that that was finished she popped the top on a bottle of large blue pills. The name of the medication escaped her; just that it was used in Wolfram & Hart's infirmary for demons with such extreme injuries as dangling limbs and missing internal organs. Just one could knock out an average human for a straight week. Two could probably kill but 'better safe then sorry, right?'

Instead of taking the time to individually pick them out she turned the bottle upside down letting the pills pour out, flooding the table and spilling over to the floor. No need to worry about the pick up. It wasn’t as if she would be cleaning this mess. In a number of hours or perhaps minutes she would be someone else’s mess.

A sigh escapes her lips; this is the first noise she’s made sense arriving home after visiting her (now former) lover. The stopover had been right in the midst of this Rain of Fire that everyone’s got their knickers in a bunch about. Her problems had been bigger at the time, the disintegration of her patience, humanity, and perhaps most importantly, sanity.

The words he spoke had not begun to fade from her mind, no matter how nonchalant and unmoved she had tried to seem at the time. “I can’t do this anymore…it’s over Lilah.” At first it seemed like another trick, a play on words to ruffle her feathers. But this was no joke; she’d realized that a little too late.

It seems that even Hell would be better then this, which is no doubt where she’ll end up; signed a contract guaranteeing it actually. The soul she once acquired was long since signed away to ensure she would live more then comfortably until the time came for the Devil to collect. 'Gee, he sure got jipped.' She had nothing left to give. When you have nothing left—that’s the moment you know that life as you know it over. And she didn’t have the energy to build another one.

“One, for the money” popping the first pill into her mouth and washing it down with a mix of every kind of alcohol there was in the liquor cabinet, which is basically everything but beer. She had never had a taste for beer, he did though. Always drinking, they were alike in that aspect.

You aren’t supposed to drink whilst on this sort of medication. Really, you aren’t technically supposed to drink with any form of medication. But what the hell, what is she going to do? Operate heavy machinery? Not likely

Alcohol tended to numb the pain, used to wash away the hurt. You know you’ve hit a bad place when two and a half bottles of vodka can’t make you forget your problems, even for a moment. No amount of alcohol could make his face disappear from her mind; continuously etched in her corneas.

“Two, for the show” dropping another pill to the bottom of her glass then drinking until it and the rest of her liquor-schmorgusboard were gone.

Sitting her in the dark and the quiet she had time to think of a lot of things. Her mind was growing hazy so any thought processes that may have been sharp before were now dull and rambling.

She began to wonder what everyone else was doing as she sat on this black leather couch—dying.

'What is the former-Watcher' her ex-lover, her constant memory 'doing at this moment? I can bet he's devising some plan to get the stick figure into his bed. Just waiting for the moment where he can snatch her back and live happily ever after. Sorry lover, this isn’t a fairy tale and you’re no prince charming.’

'What is the Texan Boy Wonder' her ex-partner, her cohort in crime 'doing at this moment? Somewhere in Texas or maybe Oklahoma', she guessed, 'sipping a slightly warm beer in a ratty bar still trying to forget all the horrid things we did together. All the violence, all the terror and pain, all the power-hungry missions that usually ended in us coming dangerously close to death. The good ole’ days.'

'What is the Dark Avenger', Tall Dark and Broody, Mr. Doom and Gloom 'doing at this moment? Saving a puppy from the interstate, rescuing some damsel in distress, or maybe putting more product in that 80%-gel-induced hair of his. '

'What is the Texas Twig', the Stick Figure, the Brainiac with worthy theories 'doing at this moment? Decrypting an ancient scroll, admiring her article on String Theory, or maybe just banging that black boyfriend of hers with the name that is supposed to strike fear or…something like that.'

'What is everyone I know doing at this moment?' They were living. Unaware that in apartment 105 a woman was sitting on her couch shivering from more then the cold. All of them were ignorant to the knowledge that in a matter of time (guestimation-10 minutes) a life would be taken, a soul slowly slipping away to be swallowed up by Hell. Yes, she did in fact have a soul; a rather impure one but a soul nonetheless. It had its highlights, she just never let anyone see them, except him that is and he had dismissed it as nothing more then a trick.

“Three, to get ready” her hands shook involuntarily as the third pill was swallowed. Might as well let her guard down now, no one was here to see it. No one could criticize her soft side; tell her she was weak or inferior. Only now did she allow the tears to stream silently down her cheeks.

Losing track of all previous thoughts in the haze that clouded her eyes and brain, she sidestepped into running through all the possible ways to say ‘dumped’. It was a random thought that she was sure she would regret if it happened to be her last.

‘Dumped…discarded, booted, axed, canned, cast off, shown the door, thrown out, cut off, not needed, deserted…abandoned, rejected, forsaken, unwanted, unloved, lifeless…stripped of all dignity’

Without the ability to stop it, her shoulders slumped and her body wilted, falling to the side. She was only aware of this happening when her head hit the cold leather.

Her body was so heavy. ‘Go away’ Her limbs were lead, eye’s half open to make sure she didn’t close them and see his face. ‘Can’t get rid of that face’  Every move was like walking through wet sand. ‘He-wont-go away’ his face, haunting her every second, nothing made him go away because no matter how much she denied it—she loved him. Through everything she still couldn’t deny that the pain that came with him leaving her was not of rejection it was of losing the only thing she loved. The one-and-only true feeling she had allowed her self to have was ripped away so suddenly by the very person she felt it towards. ‘Go away, please…Have to get…rid…of him.’ Even her thoughts were jumbled like the ramblings of someone who defiantly didn’t have a law degree.

There’s someone in her head, but it’s not her. It’s the beaten, battered, and weakened form of someone who used to be strong enough to hold the mantle of ‘vicious bitch’.

‘…rid of him…have to…make the pain stop’  this was pathetic to the old her. The Ice Queen would have laughed and slit this bitch’s throat, but he had melted her into some human being with emotions and a heart that was in the process of shattering.

This wasn’t going to be an accidental overdose where she gets better and goes to some celebrity rehab center. That would be horribly embarrassing. No, she was going to make sure it stuck.

It took a lot of work but she finally made her arm start working, painfully slow but moving regardless. Fumbling to grab another pill she ended up knocking a dozen or so off the table before she mustered up the strength to grasp one between her fingers. With all the will power in the world, the pill made it some how back to her lips and down her throat.

 
The room got fuzzy around the edges and eventually just blacked out all together. Either that or her eyes closed, at this point she couldn't tell. The couch dissolved underneath her so it felt as though she had gone from being a lead weight to light as a feather.

The show’s over folks. So, grab your coats and top hats and get gone.

The curtain’s closing on the cast.

It was an entertaining sight while it lasted but that’s all there’s left to see here, move along.

Come see us again sometime and don’t forget to tell your friends.

“and four…to go…”