A/N: Short piece through the mind of Lilah as she dies. Hints of Wes/Lilah. Inspired by Lilah's quote in the season four episode, Calvary: "I just want my life back…all my pretty things. I'm selfish that way."

Rated for hints of violence and mature themes.

Disclaimer: Nothing here belongs to me, 'cept for the words.


Prettier Things

Hope for prettier things.

That's what she used to say. Back when her memories weren't broken, shards of itty bitty life, doomed to die.

I guess we all are. Doomed to die. That's just the way the world works.

Pray for better days.

My mother had always been fragmented. Even so by the ravages of time, long consuming her sanity. Squirted out a kid she can't even remember now. Grew old, senile, old. Doomed to die.

All doomed to die.

Even me.

Never occurred to me before, how delicate we can be. How precious the pretty things are. How much time we think we have, when really, there's no time at all. Not really. Not when you really think about it.

He thinks he has all the time in the world. Even the things he's seen doesn't affect him. He thinks he has time.

There is no time. Not for the wicked.

A dislocated life, mine was. Always has been. The game face, the one covered in savoury makeup, the one I can't remember how to take off. I wish I could have, looking back.

Sing for love.

A joke, obviously. No love for me. Never. Not once. Meaningless existence, some might call it. I'd call it fortune.

Love hurts, buried deep inside, where you can't get it out. Hurts like a mother.

He won't ever know I loved him, deep down, somewhere between the hate and the addiction. I knew there was love.

That is why it hurts so much to die.

Blood pouring from the flesh wound in my neck. Fresh. Warm. Beautiful.

Leaking memory from me with the steady pain.

Eventually the pain stops. It always does. Can't feel anything. The mask, the game face. I'm disconnected, pale. Alone.

All the while the blood pours gently from the broken skin as I find myself wanting my pretty things. The prettier things.

I've always been selfish, always been in the game to win, no matter the side.

Thinking now, or at least trying to think, it was kind of hard, I realise selfish wasn't enough. I should have wanted more; I should have fought for my soul instead of delivering it up for them to take.

And now I just want my pretty things.

I want him to see me, dying on the floor, and I want him to love me. I want him to cry for me as I leave with a shuddering breath.

I wanted him.

He's not there. In some ways, he never was. The sweet smell of him, the salty skin that tasted so good, it was never him.

Blood ripens, stiffens with time. I'm still here, chained to the ground, bubbles of blood and breath curling in my throat.

And he's not.

He's not with me.

He won't be.

But I still want my pretty things.

I still want to touch the familiar outline of what I hold close. I want those things that smell good, that bring a smile to me every time, and never grow old. I want those things. Never will have them.

Not now.


Never have.

Blood dries, ash thickening within me, tasting raw.

Sing for love.

Voice no more.

Pray for better days.

No more prayer left.

Hope for prettier things.

Never more pretty.

Yet, I still want them.

I'm selfish that way.

A/N: Fin. Reviews are always appreciated.