Post by Evlyn Montgomary on Apr 25, 2010 5:02:29 GMT -5
Verica loved country music. Old, new, fiddles or steel guitars, it didn’t matter to her. She reveled in the anger and depression that stood in smashing up cars, crying in your beer country music. It was something she could always relate to. The emotion pouring out of her when she turned it up loud made her feel a little less like she was going to explode.
She was a broken glass, held together by a foul mouth and a lot of bravado. She wanted to put the blame on Cliff and Willie (they hadn’t talked her through teenage moodiness nearly well enough) but she knew she was broken, somewhere on the inside. Probably had been a long time. She’d grown up by herself most of the time, training with kitchen knives when her parents weren’t home. She was born to hunt. Mostly she’d just wanted them at home.
Rod had stayed at home. Never said how her parents died. What killed them. The grudge was to be taken on by anything that haunted the dark. Rod had died too. It had been her fault for getting him involved.
Frank was what really did her in. Her only friend, the only one who mourned her parents with her and listened to her problems, but her turned away from her. He had been there when Rod died.
She slept with him anyway. Sick, isn’t it? She’d known it was sick. On some level she knew what she was doing and hoped it ruined her life. Either he would turn her or give her some horrible disease. But she got nothing, just got sent away again. She spent the ride home thinking about how he was probably already in bed with some diseased, D cupped bimbo who had nothing to her but was DAMN FULL BLOOD.
She wondered a few times if it was love, or just a goddamn addiction, just being cared for.
She had a lot of experience with addictions. Nothing hard, but she found herself drawn almost irreversibly to things that gave her comfort. Sex was the first.
She’d managed to get Cliff in bed not too long after returning from Texas. He was sweet, but she soon bored of it. Still, barring Willie who was too old and FATHERLY, he was all she had for the time. She was less comfortable in bed with him than she was laughing and throwing things, screaming names at each other. She still felt this pull, something she shoved under more layers of self repulsion. He’s sleep with her. She was all he had around. But her looks, her personality, her needs, could never mean anything to someone like him
Her next addiction was the age old vice of money. Before she turned 18 she managed to convince Willie to let her do small hunts around the state, things he figured were tame enough for her. She was hungry for it. Maybe hunting was already an addiction. Soon her name was passed around, and she got calls from all sorts. The most startling being the blocked number, offering a sum of close to a million for some curse boxes. Dangerous things they were, especially in the wrong hand. But Verica happily handed them over to the department of defense for almost twice their original offer, not caring who they were used on. It wouldn’t be her.
Willie was upset when he found out what she’d done. She’d like to call him angry, explosive…. But in hindsight he was disappointed. Still, she’d screamed her head off. She wasn’t HIS daughter, it’s not like he CARED one whit about her. And he had cared about her; she’d known it even then. But she wasn’t worth his caring. Never had been. Never would be. She took the car she’d bought with her money and left, her one backwards glance at Cliff accompanied by a delicate lick to her upper lip and a deliberate wink. Willie had probably seen it too, not that she’d cared at the time.
She wandered the world, money and hunting starting to lose their luster. Of course she still needed them. She was a lot of things, but never a thief; hunting was how she made money to stay alive. And to feed the new addiction; alcohol.
It made her feel a lot of things, the old drink did. She was funny, sassy, sexy and interesting. She blacked out about half her free nights and carried a flask on her belt.
This of course led back into sex. She managed to find a new body every hunt or so. Older men at first, then younger. Then a few women. Every time Cliff swung around was bliss. This got boring too eventually. I mean, pump, thrust, tense, cum. It gets old, right?
So then she’d picked up smoking, but without much vigor. Returning to a life of drinking returned her to a life of sex. That led her into the drunken discovery of rough sex. Soon she didn’t want it unless it hurt her; unless of course the other person wanted to be hurt instead. Her hunting changed targets to mostly types of monsters- things that bled. The only exceptions involved Cliff, who still managed to make her feel amazing- and like an awkward retard.
Problem was that alcohol thins the blood and makes injuries dangerous. To keep up her sex life she’d have to give up her alcohol. Which was easier said than done, picking up people sober. She’d gotten so desperate a few times that she’d turned her knife on herself. She had scars where no one would see them.
The scars were on the inside, too. No one had ever noticed with as much time as she kept to herself. She could feel her mind circling, but it got stuck the same place every time. She swore she could fix it but she needed help and she had none. All she had was Cliff, who shut down her conversations with his kisses and his hot, tight body pressing on hers, refusing to hurt her like she wanted him to. Driving her crazy as her mind and body tightened around him and he was all there was.
But he would be gone soon anyway, leaving the circle to start again.
She was a broken glass, held together by a foul mouth and a lot of bravado. She wanted to put the blame on Cliff and Willie (they hadn’t talked her through teenage moodiness nearly well enough) but she knew she was broken, somewhere on the inside. Probably had been a long time. She’d grown up by herself most of the time, training with kitchen knives when her parents weren’t home. She was born to hunt. Mostly she’d just wanted them at home.
Rod had stayed at home. Never said how her parents died. What killed them. The grudge was to be taken on by anything that haunted the dark. Rod had died too. It had been her fault for getting him involved.
Frank was what really did her in. Her only friend, the only one who mourned her parents with her and listened to her problems, but her turned away from her. He had been there when Rod died.
She slept with him anyway. Sick, isn’t it? She’d known it was sick. On some level she knew what she was doing and hoped it ruined her life. Either he would turn her or give her some horrible disease. But she got nothing, just got sent away again. She spent the ride home thinking about how he was probably already in bed with some diseased, D cupped bimbo who had nothing to her but was DAMN FULL BLOOD.
She wondered a few times if it was love, or just a goddamn addiction, just being cared for.
She had a lot of experience with addictions. Nothing hard, but she found herself drawn almost irreversibly to things that gave her comfort. Sex was the first.
She’d managed to get Cliff in bed not too long after returning from Texas. He was sweet, but she soon bored of it. Still, barring Willie who was too old and FATHERLY, he was all she had for the time. She was less comfortable in bed with him than she was laughing and throwing things, screaming names at each other. She still felt this pull, something she shoved under more layers of self repulsion. He’s sleep with her. She was all he had around. But her looks, her personality, her needs, could never mean anything to someone like him
Her next addiction was the age old vice of money. Before she turned 18 she managed to convince Willie to let her do small hunts around the state, things he figured were tame enough for her. She was hungry for it. Maybe hunting was already an addiction. Soon her name was passed around, and she got calls from all sorts. The most startling being the blocked number, offering a sum of close to a million for some curse boxes. Dangerous things they were, especially in the wrong hand. But Verica happily handed them over to the department of defense for almost twice their original offer, not caring who they were used on. It wouldn’t be her.
Willie was upset when he found out what she’d done. She’d like to call him angry, explosive…. But in hindsight he was disappointed. Still, she’d screamed her head off. She wasn’t HIS daughter, it’s not like he CARED one whit about her. And he had cared about her; she’d known it even then. But she wasn’t worth his caring. Never had been. Never would be. She took the car she’d bought with her money and left, her one backwards glance at Cliff accompanied by a delicate lick to her upper lip and a deliberate wink. Willie had probably seen it too, not that she’d cared at the time.
She wandered the world, money and hunting starting to lose their luster. Of course she still needed them. She was a lot of things, but never a thief; hunting was how she made money to stay alive. And to feed the new addiction; alcohol.
It made her feel a lot of things, the old drink did. She was funny, sassy, sexy and interesting. She blacked out about half her free nights and carried a flask on her belt.
This of course led back into sex. She managed to find a new body every hunt or so. Older men at first, then younger. Then a few women. Every time Cliff swung around was bliss. This got boring too eventually. I mean, pump, thrust, tense, cum. It gets old, right?
So then she’d picked up smoking, but without much vigor. Returning to a life of drinking returned her to a life of sex. That led her into the drunken discovery of rough sex. Soon she didn’t want it unless it hurt her; unless of course the other person wanted to be hurt instead. Her hunting changed targets to mostly types of monsters- things that bled. The only exceptions involved Cliff, who still managed to make her feel amazing- and like an awkward retard.
Problem was that alcohol thins the blood and makes injuries dangerous. To keep up her sex life she’d have to give up her alcohol. Which was easier said than done, picking up people sober. She’d gotten so desperate a few times that she’d turned her knife on herself. She had scars where no one would see them.
The scars were on the inside, too. No one had ever noticed with as much time as she kept to herself. She could feel her mind circling, but it got stuck the same place every time. She swore she could fix it but she needed help and she had none. All she had was Cliff, who shut down her conversations with his kisses and his hot, tight body pressing on hers, refusing to hurt her like she wanted him to. Driving her crazy as her mind and body tightened around him and he was all there was.
But he would be gone soon anyway, leaving the circle to start again.
