Lillith

Continued. part three.

I take a final glance in the mirror, admiring my work. Short, choppy, pixi cut hair. My hair. Me. I sigh solemnly and walk to my bedroom. Evading mounds of clothes on the floor, and the scattered books, I make my way to the closet and begin rifling through the clothes. After about 10 minutes of this I finally settle on a black, low v-neck tank top as well as a pair of gray, flair legged jeans. I lay them neatly on my bed and cross to the vanity/dresser, pulling out a pair of thigh high black socks with purple candy cane spirals. Slipping them on my small feet I smile and laugh a little.

Socks have always been a weakness for me. Socks and candy. I don't know for sure when it started, but I remember as a kid I always had to have ankle socks. Anything else, and I'd throw a fit, but over time my sock drawer held less ankle socks, and more knee-high and thigh-high socks. None of them very professional looking, mostly crazy designs like multicolored spirals, or rainbows, or little themes and some even have settings; my favorite pair are tan, with tall trees going all the way up and elephants and giraffes and lions at a watering hole.

I get dressed quickly and walk to the kitchen realizing how hungry I've become. Frowning and annoyed at the fridge, as if it was the fridges fault it was empty, I shut the door and grab my keys off the counter. Clipping them to my belt with one hand I grab my knee-high black boots with the other. I slide one on after the other, zipping them up the back of my calves. Quickly padding them down to make sure everything is in the hidden pocket of which it should be.My mothers butterfly knife, top left outside: check. 4 inch knife, middle inside left: check. .375 magnum Rhino, inside right: check.

I grab a dagger holster from under my couch and tie it to my left leg tightly. Jumping up I can feel the weight of the 6 handle-less dagger blade attached to my thigh, finding my trench coat and sliding it on I gently pat the left side, making sure my .22 pistol was still on the inside hidden pocket. It was, of course. Lastly I grab my Nokia cell phone off the counter, taking pause only to check the new message as I walk out of my apartment into the brisk air outside.

'Lil, 1470 knoll way. 6pm. tuna melt. Martta sina re.-Jake.' I glance at my watch to check my time, "SHIT! SHIT FUCK SHIT!" I holler, slamming the door on my way out. Quickly stealing my keys from my belt loop I jam the key into the door, and then into the ignition of my BMW Z3. The tires squeal and I smile at the sound as I leave the parking lot.

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completely off topic. FUCK WRITERS BLOCK!

Lillith

(continued.)

ch.2

I fold my trench coat in half, and lay it across the back of the couch in my apartment. Walking past the bathroom I catch a glimpse of a woman's dark brown hair, My dark brown hair. I sigh as I enter the bed room and go to the oak vanity. I gently run my fingers over your picture on the mirror. You were wearing a sun dress that day. Well, until I tripped and you got slices of watermelon tossed at you. I giggled at the memory.

I stripped off the damp clothes as I walked to the bathroom, leaving them in the hallway. A mess to be tamed latter. I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at myself. Trying to look Into myself. Dark brown hair, longer then I remember. Baby blue eyes more pained then ever resting in a sickly pale coloured body. I look and look, only to realize this isn't the lilly I know. This couldn't be me, but it is. This girl staring back at me, looking nothing like she should, is me. she's who I've become.

Sighing, I turn on my heels and pull back the shower curtain just enough to step in and turn the water to hot. Standing under that drizzling water is what must be keeping me alive, my only alone time.

I wash and rinse off, exiting the shower. i grab the fuzzy and worn black towel and wrap it around myself, folding it into a close where my shoulder and breast meet. I step to the mirror, wiping away the steam with my palm. Grabbing the brush on the counter top i take one last look at this strange girl in the mirror. the girl who should be me, but isnt. Slowly the knots fade from my wet hair and it eventually straightens. hastily i open the top drawer and grasp my shears. Another glance at the mirror and my choice is made; the hair falls to the floor chunk by falling chunk. cutting away this unknown lillith.

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again, not finished. and sorry its taken so long. lifes been.....hectic to say the least. i do plan on continuing this. but this will just be a short story, whilst im writing my book.

thorn's journal.(E-1)

(march 25,2010)

Piss yellow walls. Piss fucking yellow walls. Thats all that this got me. Piss. Yellow. Walls. I hate my life. Here, lemme start from, well, the only decent place to start, the beginning.

I was just barely 19 when it happened. Such a small, insignificant thing: I got my tongue pierced. It wouldn't stop hurting, so, a friend gave me some Weed. And yes, it got rid of the pain. It also gave me this amazing feeling I wanted more, and more, and more of. Because of this event, with in two years I lost several things, first, I lost my nice house, well, my nice Rented house. I almost lost my kid, and I lost all form of my dignity, pride, or self respect. All I wanted was to get high. We had to move; I lost my job, and I couldn't afford that area of town anymore. we moved towards the Marina. NOT the best place to live. I got a job as a waitress at the local bar.

There, I found a few more sources of income. Things I would have never thought of. Prostitution, and Drug dealing. I'm not proud, not at all...

Anyways,

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meh. not my best work. no, im not done. yes, this should hopefully go on for a while. expect more.

Lillith

Lillith sat upon the table at the park, all her prized possessions in a single bag next to her on the table. Everything except a camera,the trench coat she was wearing, and a black butterfly knife engraved with 'Selde', the elven word for Daughter. This was her most prized possession, and her most deadly. Her mother had killed her father with this knife, the last time he had come home drunk. Lillith picked up the knife, recalling that night.

We were in the bathroom, playing with your make-up when he came home. You heard his truck and ushered me under the bathroom cabinet, telling me to keep quite, and to not come out until it got all quiet. i heard you shut and lock the bathroom door, so no one could get in, just as he slammed open the front door. I lost track of time, being in there. i heard shouting, breaking glass, and cursing. The last words i heard either of you say were him calling you a bitch, a gunshot, and then you telling me to run, and i did. i ran out of the bathroom and into the living room, it seemed like time slowed down as i ran past the scene. He had a trail of blood flowing from the left side of his chest, and you had the same blood flow from the right side of your chest. it seemed like i stood over you for what must have been half an hour before i finally grabbed your blade from your lifeless hand, and your trench coat by the door. I was 13.

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"How do you want your coffee Mr. Johnson?" I ask politely. I hate this job. Being up at the but crack of dawn to serve rude ass-holes their coffee.

"Three scoops of sugar and whipped cream on the top," the oh-so-polite Mr. Johnson barks back.

I hand him his coffee, and mutter as I turn around, "Auta miqula orqu." I smile to myself.

My watch beeps, and its the end of my shift, finally time to go home. I rush to the back of the shop and hang my apron simultaneously pulling down my trench coat on the next hook over. I slide the black material up my arms and over my shoulders as i pull out my cell phone and turn it on. I sigh, realizing that i have no messages, yet again.

I leave through the back door and begin walking down the damp sidewalk of this dumb town, headed towards the cemetery. I smile at a few mothers with their children as I walk past the park. I envy those children; they will have their mothers all their life, until their mothers die of old age at least. My mother died at the ripe old age of 33, by the hands of that bastard. I reach the cemetery and smile as I walk through the isles of death, picking only the nicest flowers off of other's tombstones. I reach your place of final rest and sit on the cross at your feet.

"Martta sina re, Ammil." I smile and lay the flowers under the cross. I walk away and repeat myself in a whisper, "it happens today mother."