You're only sad and lonely and no one is impressed
It takes ten shots of Jack Daniels on top of having her ass handed to her by a clan of Notlimah demons in South America before she's brave enough to call him. Sitting by the dark window in the cheap motel room she rented, her fingertips casually trace the confines of the windowframe before she hears Harry's voicemail click on. Damn it. He's not there. She's not entirely sure if that's a blessing in disguise or not. Maybe she was never meant to make this phone call, maybe there's some things that are better left unsaid. Faith knows that's true. Some things are better left to the imagination because it's easier and less painful to yank a band-aid off than it is to peel it off bit by bit, stretching out the process into an agony that never seems to end.
She perks a little at the sound of his voice but immediately settles against the wall and props her boots up on the windowsil as the loud beep resonates through her head and indicates it's time to talk now. Except her mouth is so dry and she's so filled to the brim with misery she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't say anything at first, just sighs deeply and tries to fit her thoughts into her mouth. It's usually so easy until her thoughts are filled with something besides wise ass sarcasm.
"I dunno what I'm supposed to say now," she finally confesses. "Guess I could start with I'm sorry but apologies make me itchy and I'm guessin' you could give two shits less whether I'm sorry or not."
Her voice is dark and slurred as she lights up a cigarette and blows a smoke ring for good luck. Good luck? Faith would have no luck at all if it weren't for bad luck.
"I swear I didn't mean for things to go down like this," she twists the phone cord around her index finger lazily as she pours herself another shot of whiskey on the sil. "The first time I met you I thought you were an axe murderer, or some kinda sick psycho freak who liked lurin' girls away with promises of puppies and cars over the internet. Then I saw you and I thought 'well damn, that is one pretty psychopath' and you know me. I take care of myself so I went along for the ride. Could never really figure out why you treated me the way you did, still do. I figured it was some kinda game you like to play or something cause shit, who marries ex-cons they meet over the net, ya know? I mean fuck, Harry. You can get yourself killed doin' some crazy shit like that."
She tips her head back and lets the alcohol slide over her tongue, savoring every second of the foully bitter taste before it warms her skins. She's already warm, too warm and a small bead of sweat slides down her neck.
"When you popped the question I didn't think you were a psycho anymore but definitely one crazy son of a bitch," she snickers a little bit. "I kinda liked that about you. And I thought well damn, here's this crazy rich hot millionaire who wants to take a chance on me. Nobody ever takes a chance on me, not really but you did. You took one look at my prison record and tossed it out without a second thought. I found it in the garbage can you know, all crumpled up like you wanted to get rid of it for me cause you knew I wanted it gone. You did things for me.....you did something for me that nobody's ever really done. You made me feel so fuckin' special too, always puttin' me first, makin' me feel like I was the center of the universe. Hell, I ain't one for gettin' all dressed up and shown off but I gotta admit I dig the attention. You told me you'd be my best friend when you asked me to marry you, and you were. Never had a friend like you before."
The combination of whiskey and cigarette smoke topped by the beating she'd taken earlier was starting to get to her, making things lazy and slow. Her tongue feels like it's weighted to the bottom of her mouth, loosened only by the alcohol in her system.
"You kinda got me like nobody else gets me. Can't really explain it I don't think but I guess the real fucking tragedy is I never got you. I wanted to. I tried. I want you to know that I tried so fucking hard. I thought that being married to you would make me happy which is completely fucked cause I never believed in that shit. Fairytales are what retards and little kids believe in. Maybe everybody was right about Princess Grace and Prince Albert, maybe they only made eachother miserable." She pauses for a second, leaning her head heavily against the wall. "And you tried. You gave me everything I wanted, always paid attention to me. Nobody else is ever gonna do that for me. And I hate that I hurt you same way everybody always hurts me, I hate it. It's making me crazy. I can't sit still, which I know you're thinkin' not really a big change for me but it's different this time. If you could see where I'm stayin'? You'd laugh your ass off right now."
Walking over to the bed, only lit by the pale moonlight streaming in through the window she flops down on her back, tracing the ceiling with her dark eyes.
"If I could do anything I wanted, if I didn't have to worry about fucking consequences I'd do it over with you. We could get a start over. Like a spell or something. Go back and meet you before any of this. Before your dad made you so screwed up you had to take those stupid enhancement drugs just to feel better about yourself. I'd meet you before I ever met B. I'd pick you and we'd be on top, ya know? Things would go right. We'd be different, better, what the fuck ever. Maybe we shoulda stayed in New York after all. Things just got so messed up in LA. I want things to be different but I can't walk away from this thing with Angel. Stayin' with you isn't fair to either one of us. I want you to be happy, I really do cause you deserve it and I don't say that about most people. Maybe people like us aren't supposed to have that, or maybe we tried so hard for so long cause we need that little bit of pain. Can't live without it. Is that why you said it? Cause you knew I'd run just like I warned you I would?"
She sighs again before rolling over and grabbing the bottle of whiskey again, taking another long drink. She has the distinct feeling she's not the only one getting drunk tonight either.
"I miss you." She adds in at the end before pulling the phone away from her ear for a second, maneuvering her bottle and her cigarette around so that she can press the pound sign.
"Your message has been recorded. To save this message please press one. To delete this message please press two."
Faith bites down hard on her thumbnail, hard enough to draw blood before she allows herself one small gamble. Reaching out blindly in the dark she hits the first button she reaches without looking at what it is.
"Your message has been deleted."
Dial tone.
She perks a little at the sound of his voice but immediately settles against the wall and props her boots up on the windowsil as the loud beep resonates through her head and indicates it's time to talk now. Except her mouth is so dry and she's so filled to the brim with misery she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't say anything at first, just sighs deeply and tries to fit her thoughts into her mouth. It's usually so easy until her thoughts are filled with something besides wise ass sarcasm.
"I dunno what I'm supposed to say now," she finally confesses. "Guess I could start with I'm sorry but apologies make me itchy and I'm guessin' you could give two shits less whether I'm sorry or not."
Her voice is dark and slurred as she lights up a cigarette and blows a smoke ring for good luck. Good luck? Faith would have no luck at all if it weren't for bad luck.
"I swear I didn't mean for things to go down like this," she twists the phone cord around her index finger lazily as she pours herself another shot of whiskey on the sil. "The first time I met you I thought you were an axe murderer, or some kinda sick psycho freak who liked lurin' girls away with promises of puppies and cars over the internet. Then I saw you and I thought 'well damn, that is one pretty psychopath' and you know me. I take care of myself so I went along for the ride. Could never really figure out why you treated me the way you did, still do. I figured it was some kinda game you like to play or something cause shit, who marries ex-cons they meet over the net, ya know? I mean fuck, Harry. You can get yourself killed doin' some crazy shit like that."
She tips her head back and lets the alcohol slide over her tongue, savoring every second of the foully bitter taste before it warms her skins. She's already warm, too warm and a small bead of sweat slides down her neck.
"When you popped the question I didn't think you were a psycho anymore but definitely one crazy son of a bitch," she snickers a little bit. "I kinda liked that about you. And I thought well damn, here's this crazy rich hot millionaire who wants to take a chance on me. Nobody ever takes a chance on me, not really but you did. You took one look at my prison record and tossed it out without a second thought. I found it in the garbage can you know, all crumpled up like you wanted to get rid of it for me cause you knew I wanted it gone. You did things for me.....you did something for me that nobody's ever really done. You made me feel so fuckin' special too, always puttin' me first, makin' me feel like I was the center of the universe. Hell, I ain't one for gettin' all dressed up and shown off but I gotta admit I dig the attention. You told me you'd be my best friend when you asked me to marry you, and you were. Never had a friend like you before."
The combination of whiskey and cigarette smoke topped by the beating she'd taken earlier was starting to get to her, making things lazy and slow. Her tongue feels like it's weighted to the bottom of her mouth, loosened only by the alcohol in her system.
"You kinda got me like nobody else gets me. Can't really explain it I don't think but I guess the real fucking tragedy is I never got you. I wanted to. I tried. I want you to know that I tried so fucking hard. I thought that being married to you would make me happy which is completely fucked cause I never believed in that shit. Fairytales are what retards and little kids believe in. Maybe everybody was right about Princess Grace and Prince Albert, maybe they only made eachother miserable." She pauses for a second, leaning her head heavily against the wall. "And you tried. You gave me everything I wanted, always paid attention to me. Nobody else is ever gonna do that for me. And I hate that I hurt you same way everybody always hurts me, I hate it. It's making me crazy. I can't sit still, which I know you're thinkin' not really a big change for me but it's different this time. If you could see where I'm stayin'? You'd laugh your ass off right now."
Walking over to the bed, only lit by the pale moonlight streaming in through the window she flops down on her back, tracing the ceiling with her dark eyes.
"If I could do anything I wanted, if I didn't have to worry about fucking consequences I'd do it over with you. We could get a start over. Like a spell or something. Go back and meet you before any of this. Before your dad made you so screwed up you had to take those stupid enhancement drugs just to feel better about yourself. I'd meet you before I ever met B. I'd pick you and we'd be on top, ya know? Things would go right. We'd be different, better, what the fuck ever. Maybe we shoulda stayed in New York after all. Things just got so messed up in LA. I want things to be different but I can't walk away from this thing with Angel. Stayin' with you isn't fair to either one of us. I want you to be happy, I really do cause you deserve it and I don't say that about most people. Maybe people like us aren't supposed to have that, or maybe we tried so hard for so long cause we need that little bit of pain. Can't live without it. Is that why you said it? Cause you knew I'd run just like I warned you I would?"
She sighs again before rolling over and grabbing the bottle of whiskey again, taking another long drink. She has the distinct feeling she's not the only one getting drunk tonight either.
"I miss you." She adds in at the end before pulling the phone away from her ear for a second, maneuvering her bottle and her cigarette around so that she can press the pound sign.
"Your message has been recorded. To save this message please press one. To delete this message please press two."
Faith bites down hard on her thumbnail, hard enough to draw blood before she allows herself one small gamble. Reaching out blindly in the dark she hits the first button she reaches without looking at what it is.
"Your message has been deleted."
Dial tone.