Jul. 12th, 2006

stbethadettes: (glaring)
If she closes her eyes and sort of concentrates, she thinks she can remember exactly what Spike's voice sounds like when he says her name.

Those are the kind of thoughts that send her detouring to the nearest door to halfheartedly try it out before she does anything else.

If it ever worked, she wouldn't still be here.

Some people say there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. She's never been in denial; what happened is all too real for that. She's been angry, yes, and she's silently entreated the doors to open to the bar despite feeling that it was a stupid thing to do.

Acceptance, though, is what's underlying everything. She accepted the plague really quickly because she had to. She accepted the strangeness of the bar after a few days because she had to. Not that she minded.

And she's accepted showing up here again because she's had to. It's just not happy acceptance.

It sucks, to understate like Spike. It sucks a whole fucking lot, and there's not much she can safely do here now but sleep, think, read, think, clean, try to fit three small meals into each day, think, get into the occasional staring contest with the Jesus on the cross above the altar (she always loses those), and allow herself some time out in the churchyard for a while after dark most nights.

This place has a great sound system, and every now and then, back before she met Yorick, she'd play music. CDs weren't exactly being looted with the same intensity that food and toiletries were for the first few weeks after the plague, but once Beth settled here and discovered the sound system, she took some for herself.

It gets tempting sometimes to turn everything on and up and play something like Sympathy for the Devil to break the hush in here.

Now she just can't let herself take the chance.
stbethadettes: (pregnant as hell)
It's been over three weeks, but it feels like it's been much longer.

Beth lowers herself into a squat and paws through the pile of books she'd borrowed from the library before she ever went to the bar.

"At this rate, we might finish reading some of these a second time before you're even born," she directs to her belly. "What do we feel like tonight? Fiction? Nonfiction? Flight manual? Shakespeare?" She glances to the desk. "Hell, we've even got a King James Bible or two, but let's skip those for now."

Looking down at the books again, she moves one paperback to the side. "I'm going to veto rereading The Catcher in the Rye right now, too. Sorry, kid." She rubs her belly with one hand and picks up another book with the other. "How about Dracula?"

Personally, she was kind of disappointed with it when she read it. But it'd be a change of pace.

"It's not really scary, and besides, there's nothing to worry about. I set your father on fire with a fucking lighter and a can of hair spray. Imagine what I'd do to anything out to hurt you."

She's smiling just a little as she pulls herself up again and heads out into the main area of the church to sit on a pew and start reading.

Only four paragraphs in, she hears the front doors being pushed.

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January 2009

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