Misery in Multicolor
by Alexandra J. Campbell aka FuffyChick45
Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but you can imagine if I did ;) Let it be known that Joss Whedon is god and there is no copy right infringement intended.
Author's Notes: This is set during "Empty Spaces". I'm usually a first person type of girl, but I adore experimenting in third.
Feedback: Much appreciated. I'm a whore who's been deprived for far too long because some people are far too moronic to get the concept of B/F, thus I say FEED ME!

PART 1: Yellow- Stained Skin and Somethings

Pulses quicken. Adrenaline pumps. Both driven by a steady, yet irrational beat, mirroring the others. Eyes dialate then shrink down to pin size. Flesh is made canvas by an assult on the outside, worming its way ever inword. The bruise could have been blue, years of sadness snug tight in skin, boiling silent below in the confines of mangled bone, bursting to seep to the surface.

Yellow perhaps, but the skin is as sedate as the owner wearing it. No shine. No glow. Nothing to bubble forth, just everything no one would know. Lights fell years ago, what could possibley come along to re- awaken it all?

One would almost consider the loss of a vital organ to the sting of a blade a blessing, an infinite welcome to everything that followed, venom swallowed, curled disappointment rapped in the leather she wore so very well. Vein popping, eye gauging resentment of herself and her 'better' half being unburied again. There was crusifiction in the sockets, a blind ineptness that stood luxury for one. She and she alone could see she'd always be her Judas, nothing less than that, but nothing more. Then thoughts of envy snuck in, drawing patterns on her skin. Psychological vines of poison ivy rapped around what was left of the shell she created for herself, lifting only to the green- thumbed aggressor responsible for planting them.

All of this followed by her own momentary, miniscule aggression, the red, far too weak to make an appearance. In it lies the passion she'd felt not long before, however long forever may have been, but it was beyond all of that, *far* beyond all of that. Passion was some snooty, text-book cliche' addressed in romance novels featuring Fabio on the cover, so many pipedreams in a beauty queen's, bleach-blond mind.

There was an inherent dislike for empty, over-used words, as cheap and charitied as the hallmark type of 'love'. She failed to remember the last time it was said with the actual ache of conviction, and then her head craddled her cheek, her eyes fell weary, and the memory of it, tainted and auburn as it could possibly be, kicked in.

But none of these colors were adorned by her pores. The night surrounding the scene blanketed the blow, made it too dark to see, though it's never been anything, but too dark to see. Some part of her was praying for the punch to be shallow and careless, direct relativity to the force behind it, as a dim duel image, regarded it as pennance. Marks to bare. Marks to crave. Proof of the contradiction that lie inside the adversary. Proof their hand marrs nobody else and when it did it was fueled on memories that they shared. If abuse was the single thing to respond to, so be it. It's been that way all her life, why would it change now, though everything else has, though she has?

Her lips gushed with that red, however. Nursing the true wound that consumed, biting down on swollen gums to compensate, eyes awash and watered with blue. Green vanished in the wake of a replacement yellow, a coward's prized yellow. She no longer envied her anymore than she could have herself, caught in the coat of a heeling puppy simply looking up at its owner, much more than remorseful, looking up at nothing less, or more, of a similar, tossed aside mongrel, finally breaking free from the cage she prophosized her counterpart would to begin with.

If one is so inclinded to create a monster, forget to feed it every now and again, yet be there to cherish it as just you could, but never leave it to its own devices. It might very well become you, it might very well become worse and abandon you, having surpassed the standard to create hypocrisy as a credo to live by, without a second thought to its teacher. And like a master of masocism pensive thoughts of insanity creep in and fade fast, fueling a fire that couldn't help, but to burn and belittle everything else inside, because somethings matter more. Because she always would.

...to be continued...

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