[fic] first kill.

[inthistwilight]

 April 1992 - Colorado

Two years had passed since she’d gotten her Calling. Two years and she hadn’t killed a single demon. The fights back in her high school felt like an age ago, like some fleeting memory in the back of mind. Sometimes she couldn’t believe how much time had passed. It had been just over six months since she had left Delaware.

She sat in a twenty four hour diner, warming her hands on a mug of coffee. The waitress had at first since been annoyed with her taking up a booth in the corner. She’d been there for nine hours now; all she’d had to eat was toast. That was hours ago. Now she did nothing but accept refills of free, too-hot coffee. The waitress could see the teenager mustn’t have had much money, there was barely anything on the girl - she was all skin and bones. She passed the corner booth when she could, topping up her mug, trying to talk to her when it got quiet, but the girl wouldn’t say anything.

Dylan’s stomach ached for food, her wings ached for blood, her heart ached for her mother.

The waitress sighed, pushing two plates onto the archangel’s table: scrambled eggs and toast on one, a slice of apple pie on the other. Dylan looked up at her and stared, trembling slightly.

“I.. I didn’t order these.” She said softly.

“Honey, you need to eat. Coffee isn’t a good diet.” The waitress told her. She was a short, middle-aged woman. Her hair was dark, but her eyes were bright. They looked a lot younger than the rest of her. Dylan found that weird. “It’s on the house.”

Dylan looked at the food, her lower lip wobbling. She wasn’t sure how to react. Her head bowed and she nodded slightly.

                 “… Thank you.”

                 “That’s alright. You eat it all up, now.” She waitress told her before heading off.

                 She ate like a ravenous dog; forcing the food down as fast as she could, desperately trying to sate at least one of her hungers. She felt better for it afterwards, well, mostly. The satisfied feeling from eating disappeared in seconds. Now felt sick from the sudden food in her system and the rate at which she’d ate, toast and eggs and pie all churning up in her stomach. It didn’t sit well with her, and she was soon running in the direction of the bathroom.

She was too busy throwing up to notice the waitress following her in.

“Hon, you alright?” she asked, reaching for her shoulder.

As soon as her hand touched her, the archangel jumped, veering round and accidentally hitting the woman. She skidded back in the stall, yelping in pain. Dylan choked, not quite done throwing up and vomited down her shirt: black bile, coffee and undigested food. She let out a small wail, curling up slightly, away from the woman.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m sorry!” Dylan gasped, still retching.

And then she saw.

Black blood.

 “I’m so sorry, hon. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The woman started dabbing at her cut lip with a handkerchief, unaware of the look the girl was giving her.

 Dylan stopped retching and held her breath. The ache in between her shoulder blades burned fiercer than ever, her Calling screaming at her, desperate to be sated. And she knew, with this woman.. this.. this demon bleeding in front of her – she wouldn’t be able to help herself. She couldn’t ignore the urge. Even if the woman had been kind to her, offered her free food, the woman represented all that was wrong with this world. She was wrong and evil and filth. It was someone like her that had killed her mother. The rage that began to rise inside her burned, everything that wasn’t rage, everything that wasn’t archangel was shoved away – it was like the archangel had taken over, ready for its first blood.

She had to kill her.

Dylan reached under her skirt for her knife, finally getting to her feet. The woman turned to look at her, her expression changing when she saw the knife.

                “What.. what’re you doing?”

                “You’re wrong.” She uttered, wiping at her mouth, dragging dribbles of vomit and saliva from her lips. “You’re wrong and you shouldn’t be here. You don’t deserve to live.”

                “Look, please – you… you’re… I know I’m one of them,” the waitress said desperately. “Please, I don’t want any trouble – I’m not like that. I’m a good person, I don’t want to be—“

She couldn’t ignore her wings any longer. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from screaming from the intense burning pain between her shoulders and the clumsy force she let them out. With one swift movement, as if her body moved without her needing to order it to, she was towering above the waitress. Before the woman could even scream, Dylan grabbed her and drove the knife into the woman’s stomach. A small strangled sound escaped from her lips and she stared up at Dylan in horror. Thick, hot, black blood spewed from the wound, covering the teenager’s hands and she suddenly felt dizzy from it. She could barely focus. She pulled the knife out and immediately stabbed her again, two, three, four – the last tearing into her chest.

“You’re wrong.. you’re wrong.” Dylan breathed, her mouth fumbling on the words.

The woman fell back and slumped against the wall, slipping down it to rest on the floor, her eyes growing dim. Blood coated the floor, spreading across the white tiles like an oil spill. Dylan backed up, her wings quivering and stared, watching the woman’s last moments.  There’s so much blood. Too-hot, oily blood. She wanted to scream. The woman choked softly, blood spilling from her lips and eyes wide. Dylan stood and watched as the woman stared at her for a few seconds before letting out a strange sound and falling still.

A minute passed, it felt longer. She was glad of it; she wanted it to last forever. She gazed down at her hands and suddenly felt very calm; it swept over her and lingered in her bones, the cooling blood on her hands felt like it belonged there.

For a moment, everything felt okay again – that nothing hurt, not the ache in her stomach, her heart, her wings.

She took a breath and the moment broke, snapping like a piano string. The aches returned and she felt sick, the vomit on her shirt hitting her nostrils and making her wretch. She looked at the dead woman on the floor and trembled slightly; she had to get out of here. She washed the blood from her hands, put the knife away and made a run for it.

Skidding back into the main area of the diner, the chef looked up at her from a small window and gaped at the wings. He watched, stunned, as she grabbed her bag from her booth and hurried out the door. She never looked back when he called after her.