Being Human is the property of the godlike Toby Whithouse and the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended - I am just playing with the characters for a bit.

Set in season 3, obviously, Mitchell broods over Lia's prophecy and his response to her turns into a bit of a rant.

This is unremittingly angsty, so I apologise, but that's the mood that season 3 has put me in - there's not much sweetness and light about it. I wanted to get this off my chest before the season finale, as I have a horrible feeling I'll be very depressed after it. If I can pull myself out of my likely post-episode 8 funk, I have a lighter idea wriggling around in my head, so I may even do a non-angsty piece next however unlikely that may seem.

Any reviews appreciated, but I know this won't be everyone's cup of (Annie-made) tea.


Dear Lia...

I stop and gnaw on the end of the pen. The notepad resting on my knee is white and clean – a blank canvas for my deepest feelings.

Maybe this wasn't such a smart idea after all. I want to write it down - get it off my chest – but words aren't really my thing. Trouble is, pushing that shitty bucket around mopping up puke all day gives me plenty of time to brood; time to switch off higher order brain functions and run the options round and round in my mind. Sometimes it feels like I'm going insane.

A wolf-shaped bullet.

Dear Lia? That's a stupid way to start a letter anyway. She's not dear to me; she's messing with my fucking head. I wonder if she was a bitch when she was alive. Being dead changes people, and not always for the better. I'm proof enough of that.

Cross out the greeting. Try again.

Lia.

That looks rubbish too. I've got bad at writing letters. Not much call to do it these days. Everyone I might have sent a letter to is long dead. Except bank managers and the tax office, and they'd be better off that way, for sure.

You're gonna be killed by a werewolf.

Get out of my damn mind. I can see you in there, smirking at me. Taunting me to solve the riddle. Despite myself, I groan with frustration and my fists clench and pound the bedcovers beside me. I place the point of the pen to paper again. All that white space is intimidating. What would I say to you, right now, if you were standing in front of me?

I probably wouldn't say anything. I'd probably get you in a choke hold and squeeze until your eyes bugged out. Kill you all over again.

If you were standing in front of me would you still be wearing that dress and cardigan? Was that what you died in? I'm sorry, maybe I should have noticed, but I was a little bit distracted at the time. Blood drunk and out of my head. See, no excuses this time; Daisy didn't make me do it. I was right royally pissed off and people were going to suffer. It didn't matter which people. Human - that would do.

Fuck it. I'm getting nowhere with this. I tear the page out, crumple it in my fist and throw it in exasperation into the fireplace. No fire been set in there for years. Fling myself backwards on the bed and stare at the cracks in the ceiling. I've stared at them a lot the last couple of weeks. Even when I close my eyes I can still see them, like a roadmap of my thoughts. The highway to Hell.

You're gonna be killed by a werewolf. A wolf-shaped bullet.

Shit! I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stalk across the room to fetch the paper back. Smooth it out over my leg. Chew the pen some more. I have to get her out of my head and getting hammered is only a short term solution. This is the only way I can think of; don't they say write it all down and then burn the letter? Get it all out of your psyche. Worth a try – nothing else is working.

Dear Dead Bitch Lia,

I've gone over and over it. What the hell crap bullshit is "a wolf-shaped bullet" anyway?

No, too sudden. I can't just jump in with two feet like that. She'd just smile that mocking little smile of hers. "I'm missing Country File for this." What twenty two year old girl watches that anyway?

Damn, but you were good. Led me to think you were sympathetic – a friend even, maybe. Then hit me with the sucker punch. They knew what they were up to when they sent you to meet me. You played me like a fucking violin, didn't you? And now it's all I can think about: the train carriage, the corridor with the doors, the prophecy. Eating me up, just like you knew it would.

Bitch.

Vampires kill people. Get over it. It's what we do. No excuses. Not any more. Just hiding. And watching. And worrying, goddammit – lots and lots of worrying.

No, too aggressive. Need to get the tone right. Apologetic. Repentant. Asking forgiveness. Seems like all I do these days is ask forgiveness. I hear myself apologising over and over and it sounds so woefully inadequate. Like words can compensate for all the things I've done.

The more I hear your voice in my mind the more I feel that just feeding would ease some of the pressure that's building and building in my head. Was that what you intended? Tip me over the edge? If I managed to hide what I'd done from my friends this time did you think one big push would make me do something so outrageous – so unforgivable - that even they would reject me?

George and Nina. McNair and Tom. Line them up as suspects like goddamn Ellery Queen. Work through the evidence. Watch my back whenever any of them are around me. Especially McNair. Even George. Damn you, Lia, even George, sometimes. I hate suspecting my friend, but yes, even George on occasion. When he's a wolf he doesn't know what he's doing – it would just take a failure of the chicken system and I'm screwed. I saw what he did to Herrick and it wasn't pretty. You've even got me suspecting George. Sometimes.

It's easier for George. He wakes up next to a partly eaten deer with its throat ripped out and that's ok, because it was the wolf that did it, not him. Well it would just take him waking up to a partly eaten person with their throat ripped out – just once – and maybe he'd get some idea of what it's like to be me.

What if the person was me? What if it's going to be me?

He says he can't remember what happens when he's a wolf. George gradually disappears from his mind and the beast takes over until there's no recollection until George comes back the next morning. It's not like that for me. I can feel the vampire coming. The eyes... the teeth. But I'm still there. I can still try to stop it. Sometimes I manage it – I can flip the switch back; turn the vampire back off. But other times... other times it takes hold and I can't stop it. Maybe I don't want to. Does it win, or do I give in to it? I always remember though – every last detail. That's what used to make it fun.

OK, I admit it, I used to give in to it. Heck I didn't even have to give in to it. I loved it. Welcomed it. Relished it. You have no idea how good it felt, Lia. You feel powerful. How many people get to feel genuinely powerful even once in their lives? I've experienced it so many times – looking at the fear in peoples eyes before taking their mortality away from them. Godlike. Dispensing wrath on the puny humans.

Yes, it felt good. It felt fucking brilliant. Addictive. Compulsive. It's like a rage, Lia. Did you ever really lose your temper with someone? Completely lose it and shout and scream and yell? That's a little idea of what it's like. The red mist descends and you know you are gonna lose control. And then you taste the blood.

Jesus Christ. That feeling, when your fangs pierce their skin and you taste the blood on your tongue and the rational part of you lets go. It's like sex. Like the best orgasm you have ever had. Better. Wave after wave of pleasure hitting you and you can't stop it even if you wanted to. Not that you want to. You drink and drink because it feels so good and your body is craving more and you're riding the waves and not wanting it to stop. And before you know it you've drained them and you've got a corpse beside you. That's why it's so rare to turn someone: the control it takes.

But I can't explain to you, can I? Can't even begin to justify what I've done. You would never understand me, whatever I said. Bloody self-righteous bitch that you are.

Every word that comes out of your mouth is a fucking excuse

Now every word that comes out of my mouth is a lie. Does that make it better or worse? I've been lying to them all. Even Annie. Especially Annie. I'm seriously overdrawn on the good account and my own personal bank manager is going to call me on it.

Someday soon. Wolf-shaped bullet.

It will put an end to this half life, anyway. At least it sounds like it will be quick.

Damn you, Lia. I'm not going to let you win.