Monday, October 2, 2000

Ever tasted a doughnut? Chocolate of course. I'm sure you have.
Who hasn't? Just close your eyes, and you can picture it.

Your teeth burying into the flesh that gives way into a burst of
flavor that fills your mouth. It's so good; it's like heaven. The
chocolate, the sweet bread rolling over your tongue. But it doesn't
last forever. Before you know it, you've taken the last bite, and
you realize that nothing is left. The flavor fades until you are
left with nothing but a degenerating aftertaste and decaying breath.
The only thing that's left that's worth hanging on to is the memory,
but you can't really grab a memory and put in into a safe for
keeping, you know?

Ahh, fuck it. What the hell am I saying? There aren't any doughnuts
in prison anyway. It's not "healthy" food.

I've never really put much thought into life. I'm the get some and
get gone type of gal. Instant gratification is the only thing that
does it for me. Or at least that's what I thought. Prison kind of
forces you to think. Lights out at nine, wake up at five-thirty.
It's fucking crazy. It wasn't too long ago that I couldn't wake up
before late morning. The night was my playground before I lost the
job. Well, I never really lost the job. It's not the sort of thing
I can just hand over to some random stranger on the street. Not
unless I die, that is.

To tell you the truth, though, when I first got here, dying is
exactly what I thought about. I mean, what good is an imprisoned
slayer with anger management problems? I'm probably not even as good
as that doughnut is to your body. Wouldn't it be better to pass on
the job to a new girl with a 99.9% chance of not being as fucked up
as I've been? Yeah. But I couldn't do it. I tried, believe me.
But when you get down to the quick, all I am is a chicken wearing the
feathers of a hawk. What's worse is some girl caught me trying, and
now they've got me all trussed up for psychiatric sessions and anti-
depressants on top of anger counseling. Sometimes I wonder what the
hell could have possessed me to turn myself in to the cops?? I
always regret asking.

Green eyes. I always felt like they were boring into my soul. She
was the only person who I almost completely opened myself up to. But
I stopped myself every time. I had a cocky attitude to begin with,
but I just built on it so that I could ignore her. She had her
friends, her vampire with a soul, her mother. She didn't need me.
No matter how close I got to her through our slayer bond, I could
never touch her. My world was the motel room and my dirty past.
Hers was home and school and friends and a future. She didn't need
me to screw her up. I even tried to do exactly that. I don't know
if I was high on something or what, but when that night ended with
blood on my hands, I knew I could never wash that blood off. I could
never be around her without driving myself insane. I guess I just
wanted too much. More than I knew that I wanted at the time. It's
kind of hard to control desire. It's even harder when I don't really
know that it's there because it's buried under everything else that
I'm trying to hide.

Did you get what I'm trying to say? The doctors say that's one of my
biggest problems. Usually I'm blunt, but when it comes to the things
that are really important, I tend to dance around the bushes.
Whatever that means. Maybe it has something to do with camping in
the woods, and you really have to go to the bathroom, but you're
embarrassed to use the wildlife, so you're dancing in front of the
plant trying to gather the courage to just let your pants down and
pee. Ok, I read what I just wrote, and it sounds pretty stupid. I
wonder what's really in the drugs they give me? I'm a pretty good
dancer, huh? It gets tiring after a while, so I'm going to try
stopping and letting the material down.

I love her.

Damn, I can't believe how much my hand is shaking. All I'm doing is
writing down some thoughts like I'm supposed to for my "recovery".
The doctors promised what I wrote in this stupid book would be
private, and no one else would read it. I'm not a fan of trust, but
they're pretty cool for people who work for the prison. It's
probably the thought that someone could get their hands on this book
and figure out who "she" is. Maybe they'll be someone who
knows "her", and they'll run off and tell her. That's what I'm
afraid of. Stupid huh? I'm so fucking paranoid, it's pathetic.

I can't believe how pathetic I am, me who was so cool that nothing
could faze me, not even accidentally killing a man. And hey, I did
it once, the second time should be easier, right? I'm so moody now,
at least in my mind. It's all anger and sadness and depression
though; I think I've forgotten how to laugh. My muscles aren't
built that way anymore. Even when I'm pissed though, a lot of times
I don't have the energy to do what I'm thinking of doing. I guess
that's good for my prison report card, though. There was that one
time this guy who helped me once visited. He likes black, a lot. I
put on a happy face and told him I was doing all right and how this
girl attacked me and I broke her arm. He got all worried that I
might have killed her. I guess I deserved that. It's kind of sweet
though, how he visited and was concerned. Makes me feel like I might
be worth something if he took his time to come see me. Or maybe he
was just wasting his time.

This piece of crap is turning into a pity note. I always sucked at
writing anyway. I would bluff in English class at high school before
I dropped out, and the blind teachers always gave me A's and B's. I
guess I didn't make a bad student, but school just wasn't my thing.
It all seemed pointless too me, like I was headed nowhere. Then my
calling hit me like a train, and it was pointless. I was glad it
came. It gave me life, it gave me freedom, it gave me a purpose.
What better purpose to have than fighting the powers of darkness
Batman-style?

My watcher came along soon after with her prerequisite British
accent, tweed, and tea drinking preferences. She was the closest
thing to a parent that I had ever had, closer than the Mayor, even.
She honed my skills, tried to clean up my language and correct my
manners, and did her best to be the parent that I'm sure she knew I
didn't really have. When my mom died in a DUI, I moved in with her.

Is it wrong to be grateful when your mother dies? I guess it doesn't
really matter now that I'm probably going to hell anyways, but when
the cops came by and spilled the news, all sorrowful-like with
serious faces and hats held respectfully, and after I hassled with
them in my usual skeptic style, a wave of relief flooded through me.
I had no problem maintaining my shock, but it was hard for me to hold
in a tentative smile of joy. I hated her so much. Even when I
gained my powers, I was powerless in front of her drunken rage. I
hated myself so much. I still hate her and I still hate myself, but
I wonder why? She'd always been a drinker, but it wasn't until after
my second step dad left her brutally that she started abusing. Damn,
I don't want to talk about this. All the bruises I had to hide, all
the lies I had to make to protect her in the thinning hope that
somehow, the mother I once knew was still in there. She hadn't been
the best mother, the one who takes their her kids to the soccer games
and goes to the PTA meetings, but she had been there for me. She
died the day she first beat me unconscious. When I woke up, I never
looked at her the same way again. I stayed away from school for a
week so I didn't have to deal with the questions and the whispered
comments. I cringed every time she came near me. Whenever she was
out late, I made it a point to make myself scarce. Dealing with her
in the morning was always better that dealing with her drunk. It was
easy for me to lose myself in the clubs, in the beds of men I didn't
even know most of the time. Use them and lose them. I'm glad that,
even though I was only sixteen, I looked a lot older. Yeah, I hate
my mom a lot. But somehow, I miss her too. I miss what she had been
before she drowned herself in alcohol.

When it comes down to it, only two people really were there for me.
My watcher and the Mayor. "She" tried hard, but I've found if
there's one thing I'm good at, it's driving people away. I wish that
she had tried just a little harder or that I had given in just a
bit. I know helping me wasn't worth dealing with all the crap that I
threw at her, but there was always a little part of me that hoped
maybe it was otherwise. I'm so stupid. My friend who visited me is
trying too. I wonder if it will help?

I miss the Mayor. I just used him as a shield from "her", but
somehow, he saw through me and really tried to be a father to me,
spoiling me and everything. He could be sick and insane at times,
but he was pretty goofy and sweet too. I couldn't save him from her
because I couldn't deal with her. I never could, and I don't know
why I try. That's a lie. If I were to pit everyone who had ever
been in my life in terms of importance, she would win. Hands down.
I told you I was pathetic.

I'm just a sucker for my unrequited love. She has her all-American
guy, she wouldn't even look at another guy much less a girl much less
me. And leave it to me to fuck everything up again. When we did
the "freaky Friday" thing, I was in shock. I was giddy like I was
high, and I had to test out the new bod like it was a brand new
Ferrari. My god, she has a wicked sexy body. The first thing I did
was take a bath and give myself a feel. Kind of like a heightened
form of masturbation. I had to pose in the mirror just to prove to
myself that this was really happening. You can't do that. That's
wrong. What a rush, living her life, her perfect life with a mother
and friends who cared. But I could never forget that I wasn't her,
that I was me, and that pissed me off beyond belief. I hope these
anger management classes are going to help.

I tracked down her boy toy and hopped into bed with him. He wasn't
bad, but when he said the four letter word, I freaked and hit the
road. I was about ready to rush out of town when I caught the news
about hostages in a church. Usually I would have brushed it off and
figured that they could take care of it. I was just the fuckup. But
Buffy wasn't. I went to the church and was kicking some vamp ass
when she showed up wearing my face. I snapped. All my hatred at
myself, at what I'd been through and what I'd allowed it to do to me,
I threw it at her. When we fight, it's like a kind of rough poetry
in motion. Can you imagine what the sex would be like? Ok, enough
of my sick and perverted, horny imagination. Somehow, I got on top
of her and was hammering her (my) face with all my hate screaming
something like 'I hate you!' Then we switched back. That
was the end of my taste of her life. Scary, huh? I was lying there
dazed, then I ran out of the church and away from her. I'm good at
running. I hopped on some freight train, ended up in L.A. where more
shit hit the fan, and now I'm here.

I make a fucking pretty life's story, don't I? Let's see, I'm good
at having sex, killing people, pushing people away, hiding my true
feelings, messing up everyone's lives including my own, and running
away. How's that for a resume? Will you hire me for the job now?
Oh yeah, and I'm a dropout, I've got a prison record too, and the
person I love hates my guts and would love to open the newspaper and
find out that I had been killed by a hit and run driver.

I'm just fucking five by five.

I can't write this shit anymore. I just really wish they had
doughnuts in this place. They may not be eternal, but they're pretty
damn good while they last.

Faith