Most of the time it's just snippets. A voice comes inside my head and I just start writing. A lot of these snippets get abandoned because I try to keep my focus on whatever my current WIP is. There's Spuffy, there gen BtVS fic, there's original fic. It really runs the gamut.
Today, I was flipping through the notebook I'd taken with me to Oakland last fall and found something that really jumps out at me. I think I started scribbling it down during one of Tom's bathroom breaks. I got interrupted, obviously, and I'm not sure where I was going with it, and it's rough as hell, but I kind of like it. It's dark for me. And I'm having concentration issues, so I'm posting it here...
Some say they only come at night.
These are the ones he learned to ignore years ago.
Those that know the truth don’t speak of it, of course. Speaking of it validates its existence, and it’s hard enough to try and shy from the truth without the truth bearing some psychobabble name that he would need six degrees just to be able to pronounce. Easier to just keep his mouth shut, keep his eyes down, don’t cry when the blows come, don’t shout when they go away. It’s a game. Like Life. Except…not nearly as color-coordinated.
He decided long ago that the designers at Milton Bradley had no clue what the real world was like. In the real world, parents didn’t go out of their way to try and land on baby spaces because they knew when they retired they’d clean up at the bank. Instead, they got drunk at birthday parties inhabited by five-year-olds and told stories about some old friends he’d never heard of who’d talked them out of having the abortion. They called this “life affirmation,” like they were doing him a favor by letting him know.
Sometimes, he wishes the friends hadn’t been quite so persuasive.
Or maybe, that aborting one’s parents wasn’t considered a felony.
Nobody hears these thoughts, of course. He’s not stupid. He can live as much as he wants in a scarlet world, and he can see as many stories on the news about someone else who was murdered, but he knows the truth. He knows he lacks the power to do it. Not the strength, or the smarts, because those are attributes that can be honed, but the lack of conscience that would make such an act bearable.
He’s not his parents.
He refuses to become them.
Problem is, he’s not exactly sure what he has become.