Ficlet: Old And Lonely, Dirty And Cold
Maybe I should post this here too, since not all of you are sickchicks and I want more feedback I don't want to deprive you of my brilliancy you might enjoy this.
Dark, Buffy S7, school basement, 300 words
Old and lonely, dirty and cold
"One." Yes. "Two." Please. "Three" More. "Four." Please. "Five."
Angelus strong voice echoed in his head as he banged it against the wall. The pain was soothing. Familiar. Maybe not in the right place but it didn't matter. It still made him feel at home.
"Fifty five." Love. "Fifty six." You. "Fifty seven" Sire. "Fifty eight." Always. "Fifty nine"
It was cold but it was ok. That was also familiar. Cold nights locked in a basement. Very familiar indeed. He let loose a quick giggle but stopped almost immediately. It threw off his counting and he couldn't have that.
"One hundred and sixteen." Please. "One hundred and seventeen." Sire. "One hundred and eighteen." Save. "One hundred and nineteen" Me "One hundred and twenty."
He could smell blood. Again soothing. Familiar. It made him hungry but that was all right. He was used to that too. Maybe if he concentrated though he could make his tongue taste it, his teeth tingle with it, his throat moisture and his stomach finally be filled.
…
No. Didn’t work.
“One hundred and sixty three.” Pain. “One hundred and sixty four.” Pleasure. “One hundred and sixty five.” Love. “One hundred and sixty six.” Hate. “One hundred and sixty seven.”
It’s all the same. One for all and all for one. And everyone is happy. He giggled again.
“Two hundred and eight.” Tired. “Two hundred and nine.” Sleep. “Two hundred and ten.” Now. “Two hundred and eleven.” Please. “Two hundred and twelve.”
Look! Pretty red colour. running down into a puddle on the floor. He ran his fingers through it, painting letters, poems. Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m going mad and I am too.
“Two hundred and ninety seven.” Dark. “Two hundred and ninety eight.” Cold. “Two hundred and ninety nine.” Lonely. “Three hundred.”
Dark, Buffy S7, school basement, 300 words
Old and lonely, dirty and cold
"One." Yes. "Two." Please. "Three" More. "Four." Please. "Five."
Angelus strong voice echoed in his head as he banged it against the wall. The pain was soothing. Familiar. Maybe not in the right place but it didn't matter. It still made him feel at home.
"Fifty five." Love. "Fifty six." You. "Fifty seven" Sire. "Fifty eight." Always. "Fifty nine"
It was cold but it was ok. That was also familiar. Cold nights locked in a basement. Very familiar indeed. He let loose a quick giggle but stopped almost immediately. It threw off his counting and he couldn't have that.
"One hundred and sixteen." Please. "One hundred and seventeen." Sire. "One hundred and eighteen." Save. "One hundred and nineteen" Me "One hundred and twenty."
He could smell blood. Again soothing. Familiar. It made him hungry but that was all right. He was used to that too. Maybe if he concentrated though he could make his tongue taste it, his teeth tingle with it, his throat moisture and his stomach finally be filled.
…
No. Didn’t work.
“One hundred and sixty three.” Pain. “One hundred and sixty four.” Pleasure. “One hundred and sixty five.” Love. “One hundred and sixty six.” Hate. “One hundred and sixty seven.”
It’s all the same. One for all and all for one. And everyone is happy. He giggled again.
“Two hundred and eight.” Tired. “Two hundred and nine.” Sleep. “Two hundred and ten.” Now. “Two hundred and eleven.” Please. “Two hundred and twelve.”
Look! Pretty red colour. running down into a puddle on the floor. He ran his fingers through it, painting letters, poems. Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m going mad and I am too.
“Two hundred and ninety seven.” Dark. “Two hundred and ninety eight.” Cold. “Two hundred and ninety nine.” Lonely. “Three hundred.”