The Passion of Cassandra

Sal sits back in his chair and slowly wipes the blood from his fingers with a clean, white cloth. This past week has been a lot of fun, but like all good things, it’s about to come to an end. He kicks at the cringing, weeping brunette huddled at his feet and smiles.

“I figured you for a tougher nut to crack, honey.”

Cassandra whimpers, her voice rough from all the screaming. Oh, she’d gone into the game strong enough. A defiant tilt to her chin? He fixed that by breaking her jaw. An angry glint in her eyes? He fixed that by blackening them. She told him to go fuck himself. He fixed that by fucking her. Repeatedly. Violently. In every degrading way possible. The harder she screamed, the harder he came, which worked out just fine with him.

Venus wasn’t too pleased with that part, but he thinks he fixed that problem by letting his bot have the honors of preparing his messages to all of Cassandra’s under-bosses. Venus was quite clever with the packaging, too. Freshly severed toes tend to bleed far more than one would anticipate, and a leaking package would give away the surprise inside.

He grins at the memory of Venus cutting each toe from Cassandra’s elegant foot. His bot chose to use an old, rusty kitchen knife. Made for a messier cut, but from the look of satisfaction on her lovely face, Venus didn’t seem to mind. She enjoyed herself so much, that after he fucked her as a bleeding, sobbing Cassandra watched, he had Venus sever Cassandra’s thumbs – a special gift for dear old, drug king, daddy.

Two thumbs up did catch the attention of one Mr. Priam Nathans, and initial shots were fired. Pawns were taken down, otherwise useless junkies finally having purpose as cannon fodder. And maybe a few buildings, alright, blocks of buildings, were burned by both sides. Small prices to pay for keeping a hand in the London drug pot, and Sal wanted BOTH hands in.

Cassandra was right – he was living beneath his means, and he’s decided that he’s tired of it. He wants the castle on the hill, and he’ll be damned if he’s not gonna take it from Nathans. It was time for the guard to change. Le roi est mort; vive le roi, and all that shit.

He’s got hell of an ace up his sleeve, and it’s time to lay her on the table. Fuck, he’s already laid her on his own table…and sofa, and floor, and sink, and everywhere else except the bed. He kicks his pretty little ace in her bruised and broken ribs.

“It’s time to see your pops, honey. Let him take a good look at how well his little girl held onto his empire.”

Time apart.

“Only a few days, he said. Not even a week, he said. You won’t even miss me, he said.
Harumph. For a Fae, he’s a big, fat liar!”

Buffy continues slogging through the eastern Californian desert. Vision quests just aren’t what they used to be. There was a time she’d just hike a few hours, make a fire, and the quest would come to her.

Now, she’s hiked for days, made a few fires, and a whole lotta nothing came to her. Nothing but sadness and longing and a seriously weird sensation of emptiness that had nothing to do with her dwindling supply of trail mix.

“It’s all Jareth’s fault. I can’t focus on questing when I miss him so much. Damn, when did I become /that/ girl? I’m a strong, independent woman! Hear me roar and kick demon ass!”

She stands to pace around her small fire.

“I’ve spent years on my own. Well, with my friends, but that’s different! I don’t need somebody else to make me whole. I am a complete, fully realized, self-fulfilling…”

Her words trail off as she sinks to the ground. She wraps her arms around her legs, rests her head on her knees, and for the umpteenth time begins to cry.

“I need you, Jareth. You’re, like, the other half of my soul, and I’m broken without you.”

She lifts her head, the tears on her face shining in the firelight.

“Is that what my quest has been trying to tell me? That I don’t have to fight alone, anymore? Maybe I’m stronger as part of a whole…like when gems fuse on that cartoon…”

The fire blazes higher, brighter than before, as if answering her questions. She nods in understanding before speaking the words she’s been refusing to say for days.

“I wish my Goblin King were here with me…right now!”

I miss you.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

And I love you with whatever is left of my heart.

Dear Jareth 10-17

I need you and you’re not here. I’ve spent a lifetime being strong, and after a moment of weakness with you, I’m broken. There’s not enough of me left to put back together. Billions of infinitesimal shards ground to dust.
For what it’s worth, I truly loved you.
I still do. Only, there’s nothing left of me.

It’s not fair…but that’s the way it is.

I know it’s unfair to ask you to sacrifice something just because I have, so that’s why I didn’t ask.

But I was kinda hoping you’d stop too, just because you wouldn’t want to without me.

Instead, you’re still there. You say you miss me…but you’re still there.

If you left, I’d be done. There’d be no point without you. I couldn’t start up with someone else in the meantime, because there is no one else for me.

I guess it’s wrong to be upset that you evidently feel otherwise, since you do deserve to take care of yourself.

But it really, fucking hurts to be so quickly replaced.

Letter to Jareth 10/15

I woke up without you.
I got dressed, had breakfast, and went to work without you.
I came home, changed, and went on patrol without you.
I almost got my ass handed to me because I still couldn’t imagine my life without you.
I limped back home without you.
I showered and had a non-fat yogurt without you.
I crawled into bed, so big and cold without you.
And now, I’m going to cry myself to sleep, because in my dreams is the only time I don’t have to be without you.

I’m so empty without you.
I’m so numb without you.
I grieve without you.
I’m half the person I can be without you.
I don’t want to live without you.

I love you, Jareth.
Goodnight, Goblin King.

Letter to Jareth 10-14

Dear Jareth,

I may be cutting off my own nose to spite my face with this hiatus.

I already miss you so much, my stomach hurts. Like, shot through with a cannon, hurts. Pain around an empty, bleeding space clear through my body.

I need you like I need air, and I’m suffocating without you.

I love you.
Good night, Goblin King

The Next Morning (Ripper’s Reply)

Solo: Everything is Fucked by @HeartOfOnyx_ Read: http://tl.gd/n_1smsv95 

The first thing he becomes aware of is that his head feels like the size of the Hindenburg, and is also going down in flames. The second thing is that his stomach is quite eager to vacate the premises, and he lunges for the loo, arriving just in time to kneel at the toilet and worship at the porcelain throne.

Between the throbbing of his head and the cramping in his gut, it takes him a fairly long while to remember why he was in such a state. And as soon as those memories flood back, he retches again and again, the acid burning his throat and coating his tongue.

The things he said to her…the things she said to him…but mostly the things he said to her… He sits against the bathroom wall, too horrified to feel. Numb with shell shock. He was vicious…and cruel… He told the only woman he’s ever loved that she should fuck herself after getting beaten up by her ex. How could these word fall from his lips? Who was he? And where was she?

Ah. Where was she. That was something he could /do/. He could find her, make sure she’s safe. And then…and he’ll deal with then, then. He steps into a cold shower, until the freezing water makes his headache feel less painful by comparison. He rinses his mouth again and again, unable to chase away the bitter taste that lingers in his mouth. He gets dressed quickly, and downs three aspirin with the last few mouthfuls of bourbon left from the two bottles he consumed rapidly last night.

The alcohol tastes like his vomit, but even that was better than the taste of his own guilt. He slips into his jacket and opens the door to the flat.

He nearly trips over the rusty-looking, dried blood-covered, woebegone figure huddled in the doorway.

“Wot th’ hell…Dite? Is tha’ you? Good lord…wot have ye done?”

Buffy: The First Day Of School

“Buffy? Dawn? Good morning! Happy first day of school! …Girls?”

“Thanks, mom!” Buffy shouts at her closed bedroom door. She’s been up for an hour refining her outfit for the day. It’s crucial to have just the right look to set the tone for the entire rest of her High School career. One false move on the first day, and it’s loser town forever. She nibbles her bottom lip as she makes her final selection.

Burgundy skirt, pale blue, shirt sleeve cardi over a white tank top, and her “I’m sorry for leaving you, your sister, and your mother, have some shoes as a consolation prize” brown leather knee-high boots from her dad. Perfect. She’s already packed her brown leather satchel – some notebooks, some pens and pencils, a few sharp, wooden stakes, and a make-up bag for mid-day touch-ups. Perfect.

She heads out into the hall and is stymied by the locked bathroom. She rolls her eyes and bangs on the door. “Dawn! Get out of the bathroom! You’ve been in there for 20 minutes!”

Dawn opens the door, vacating the room in a dramatic cloud of sickly sweet steam, and flounces past Buffy before slamming her bedroom door shut. Buffy rolls her eyes and steps into the bathroom. She turns on the shower…and the water is tepid at best. Cursing to herself, she takes the shortest shower in the history of mankind and jumps out just as the tepid turns to frigid. She’s so getting first shower tomorrow.

Back in her room, she straightens her honey brown hair, and thinks that she’s definitely gonna get it lightened next time she’s got enough allowance to hit a salon. Do they even have hair salons in Sunnydale? Her eyes widen in fear at the thought of trying to get a decent cut at some podunk barbershop, and she calms herself with the thought that she’ll be in LA once a month for visitation with her dad. LA where they have amazing salons. And more than one coffee shop. And a high school that’s still sans gymnasium…and part of the Science wing.

She applies light makeup, several chunky rings, and appraises herself in the mirror. Not bad. Here’s hoping. She grabs her satchel and heads down the stairs for breakfast. She can totally have one day without any incidents of weirdness and violence, right? Please, let today be that day.

Dawn: The First Day Of School

“Buffy? Dawn? Good morning! Happy first day of school! …Girls?”

Dawn squeezes her eyes closed and hides under her quilt. If she ignores mom, maybe she’ll go away and she won’t have to start 5th grade in a whole new school.

“Dawn! Time to get up! Cereal’s on the table. Dawn?”

Dawn sighs and sits up. So much for wishful thinking. “I’m up, Mom! Sheesh!” she yells at her door as she finally gets out of bed. Crisp new jeans, a cute shirt, and she runs for the bathroom before Buffy can get in and hog all the hot water.

“Dawn! Get out of the bathroom! You’ve been in there for 20 minutes!”

Dawn opens the door in a cloud of floral-scented steam and flounces past her irritated sister to her room, and slams the door behind her. It’s all Buffy’s fault she’s not back at home in LA, planning matching outfits with her friends. If her stupid sister hadn’t freaking set FIRE to the GYM…

She sighs and brushes her long hair until it shines. She’s been down that train of thought before, and there’s no doughnut shop at the station. She applies the faintest bit of beige eye shadow, and some pink-tinted sheer lip gloss, and hopes Mom won’t notice.

Nodding in the mirror, she bounds down the stairs to dive into her first bowl of sugar flakey goodness. Today she might reach the prize at the bottom of the box!