Save me from myself; {John/Zed!}

[becca abigail faythe]

here inside, my quiet hell;

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You cannot hear my cries for help[/font][/center]

Becca felt utterly alone in the world. Though, given her circumstances she had ever right to feel that way. Becca was four and a half months pregnant and homeless. Her father, one of the most prominent pastors in Lipton, had absolutely flipped out and told her to leave the house. Her mother was too ashamed to even look at her. She'd been given fifteen minutes to pack up whatever she could and load it into her hearse and was informed she was not a member of the family anymore. The night she told Demetri she was pregnant hadn't gone well. Demetri, the father of her child and her then-fiance, said he wasn't ready to be a father. And that he wasn't sure he wanted kids yet. It led to a lover's quarrel that left Becca without a fiance. She had not a soul to go to considering she had no friends in Lipton. She was completely alone. Becca had been showering at the local YMCA and sleeping in the back of her hearse for the last two weeks. That was the only good thing about being kicked out, at least she had a home in her hearse.

She'd been alternating parking lots every night and had enough money put back for gas, thankfully. Otherwise she'd been keeping to herself and writing. Depression had grabbed her in it's clutches and refused to let her go. Every day had been more and more of a downward spiral. It had gotten to the point it took more than an effort to even get up every morning. She'd visibly lost weight since she hadn't been eating regularly. One could look at her and immediately think 'sick' because she'd become so thin and pale. Her arms were a mess at first glance. Old scars mingled with fresh razor cuts across her arms and wrists. Silently cries for help. The only thing covering them were bracelets that, having once covered them when she was a healthy weight, hung on her frail wrists. At least she'd been able to shower. So she didn't look entirely like a hobo. A few nice, older couples had offered her money and food. But no one, not a soul, wanted a pregnant teenager in their home. Now she was reduced to this, sleeping on a park bench out of sheer exhaustion.

She roused from her nap and headed back to the hearse to change. She gathered her clothes and found a secluded place in the woods, trying to get dressed there. She slipped on her tiered, black skirt and a Rocky Horror Picture Show shirt. Then she slipped on red tights and monster boots. After throwing on some jewelry and brushing out her hair she applied some makeup to attempt to hide the bags under her eyes. No such luck today. She merely made them worse. Becca quietly carried her stuff back to the hearse and then walked back into the park. Her purse was dangling on her shoulder hiding the last of her money and her notebook and pen. Finding a quiet spot on a bench near the entrance she settled in and pulled out the notebook. Her hand flew across the page as she wrote. She had begun a baby journal. Writing down every thought, emotion, and event that happened during her pregnancy. As a way to tell her future son or daughter the blessing he or she had been. She wouldn't know the sex for another month yet. Her hand absently laid on her stomach. She looked down at her swollen belly and smiled sadly, running her fingers over her stomach. The baby kicked at her touch. Sadness clouded her expression as she sat, musing what to do. She wouldn't give the baby up, even if her circumstances seemed that would be the best option. She couldn't let her child suffer for her mistakes. She wouldn't let the child grow up thinking it wasn't wanted, wasn't loved, was simply abandoned. No, this child wouldn't go through the turmoil she had.

Then she began to cry. Quiet sobs and sniffles that seemed louder than they were in the near-emptiness of the park. Tears splashed over the pages of her baby journal and dotted her red tights. She was so alone in the world and she didn't want to be alone anymore. She didn't like the feeling of being alone. She was scared, confused, and anxious. Anxiety. Oh great. Now that she'd mentioned the word in her head she could feel her own anxiety creeping up on her. Suddenly her chest constricted and her breathing sped up. Then it was all over for her. She began hyperventilating. She was now in the throws of a full blown panic attack. Scared, whining noises escaped her throat as she struggled to breathe. By now it was bad enough she forgot what to do. She merely cried silently and struggled to breathe and to think properly. Oh god, if she died now... it might be a welcome release.

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TAGGED, John/Zed WORDS, 835 OUTFIT here! [: NOTES, Sad panda face! LYRICS; Invisible - Skylar Grey TEMPLATE, RA!NBOW V3INS ?! of CAUTION 2.0

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[john hamish watson]

i felt the same today
AS I WAS FEELING YESTERDAY
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When John had some thinking to do, he would either jump in the shower, and turn the water up as hot as it would go, and stand there under the scalding spray until the water ran cold, or he would go out for a walk. Unfortunately, Julian was already hard at work violating the terms of their lease - not every landlord would be as understanding as Mrs. Hudson had been, and not every landlord would react with only mild shock to a bag of eyeballs in the microwave or thumbs in the refrigerator - and the bathtub was now temporarily part of Julian's chemistry set.

John had a sneaking suspicion that they would not be getting their security deposit back.

So option two it was, then, the walk. He was glad that his limp had vanished since his association with Julian; certainly he was never bored, and his shoulder only twinged from time to time. Of course Julian hadn't noticed when he left, deep in some obscure bit of research as he was; John had long since resigned himself to having missed entire halves of conversations that he had been expected to participate in while on the other side of town. God help him, but that was one of the things he actually found endearing, in an irritating sort of way - like when a cat drags in something dead and leaves it under the carpet as a surprise.

Oh, perfect. And now he had come to the real reason for his walk. He could not get his damned flatmate out of his head. And it was driving him absolutely bonkers. Not just the fact that Julian had invaded every single one of his waking thoughts (and some of his dreaming ones), but the fact that he knew damn well that it'd never be reciprocated so it was pointless to talk about it and pointless to try. He'd turn it off, if he could. He would quite gladly reach into his own head and pluck out the part of his brain that endlessly wondered about Julian, what he was thinking, how he was moving, the chameleonlike chatoyance of his eyes, the way his dark curls fell across his forehead--

Stop it now, he thought at himself with no small amount of anger. There was nothing to be done about it; it was unattainable. Ignoring the problem had obviously not helped whatsoever, so it was time to take a more proactive approach. The question was, however, what? How could he distract himself from the almost physical ache in his chest that he felt whenever he realized again and again that Julian would consider his stupid, ill-conceived feelings amusing at best and repellent at worst? It's not like I can control them at all, he thought at the puzzled phantom of Julian inside his head. You think I want to feel this way, to be in pain because I know this is never going to work out?

A normal person would just walk away. John couldn't do that. He wouldn't even consider doing that. While this was like a hand wrapped around his heart and slowly squeezing, walking away - cutting Julian out of his life - would be akin to actively ripping his heart out. It pained him to admit it, even to himself, but he couldn't deny that it was the truth.

As he walked through the park, he noticed a pregnant girl crying. That alone was enough to make him do a double-take - my God, she can't be any older than sixteen - and a flash of sympathy shot through him, combined with the awkwardness of seeing a stranger cry in public. The father had probably walked out on her, poor girl, unequipped to handle the unexpected child and just bowed out of the situation, stranding her...he wished he could do something to help, but Americans did not take well to strangers coming up and asking what was wrong.

Then as he got closer, he noticed that she was beginning to whine and hyperventilate, curling up into a ball. This was a familiar enough reaction to him; he was no stranger to panic attacks, as they were just another of the things that happened when your body betrayed your mind. Instantly thoughts of his own predicament vanished and he jogged up to the girl on the bench, his medical instincts refusing to let him just walk by. Panic attacks usually resolved themselves, but he would hate to let her continue to suffer alone.

"Are you all right?" he asked, crouching down slightly in front of her, to put himself more at her level. "I'm a doctor - take deep breaths, now, it's all right," he said, trying to sound as reassuring as he could.

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it'll be the same tomorrow
FROM THEN ON IT WON'T CHANGE

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tagged » ren/becca
words » 810
lyrics » never want to say it's love - dido
music » sail - awolnation
notes » yeah, I know there's not much anyone can do for a panic attack when it hits...but he's trying?

[becca abigail faythe]

Anyone from my past get your ammo;

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find my s u n in the dark side of my s h a d o w[/font][/center]

Becca hated when she got this way. When the anxiety consumed her life. But having not been properly medicated in several weeks time she couldn't really control it. She had no money, no one willing to hire a pregnant girl (who looked to be about fourteen and therefore would break child labor laws), no way of getting onto federal care without her parent's premission. And she wasn't about to sit on the street and beg for money. Although, with her being four and a half months pregnant she wouldn't be able to take anti-anxiety meds anyway. She had managed four days since her last anxiety attack, but this one...well her moods were so unstable it was inevitable that this is how it would go.

As she attempted to curl up on the bench. As her lungs struggled to find air. An angel had come to save her. Well, something akin to an angel anway. She heard a soothing voice with a British accent asking if she was okay, saying he was a doctor, telling her to breathe. She slowed her breathing and managed to get the worst of the hyperventilating down before bursting into sobs again. Becca struggled to focus on the figure swimming infront of her tear-streaked eyes. He seemed nice and his voice was reassuring. Soon enough she quieted the sobs and merely shivered out of anxiety. The hyperventilating stopped and her wide, pale blue eyes managed to see the man infront of her. He was crouched down to her level and seemed very concerned. She blinked the last of the stray tears away and struggled to find her voice. It seemed to all but have dissapeared. Embarrassment flushed her cheeks red as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Suddenly she leaned forward and hugged the neck of the man crouched infront of her. She buried her face into his shoulder and struggled not to cry. This stranger's care for her well-being was more than she'd had in several weeks and it meant so much to her. She leaned back and gave him a semi-brave smile. Blushing at her open display of affection towards the older man she blushed again. She cleared her throat and looked down at the ground. Becca nervously bit her lower lip before meeting the man's eyes again.

"T-thank you, f-for your kin-kindness. You d-do-don't know how much it me-means to me." Becca hugged the man quickly again before drawing her legs up under her on the bench.

She wiped at her eyes, smearing her makeup onto the back of her hand. Becca quietly sighed and went to open her coffin-shaped purse. Only, her shaking hands had other plans. As she unclasped the top her hand jerked and she dropped the purse from her lap, spilling it's contents everywhere. She slipped in her attempt to jump to her feet, not able to remember if her razors were in that purse or her messenger bag, and toppled to the ground. She winced as her right knee made contact with a rocky spot next to the bench. She bit back a cry of pain as she tried to scoop all of her stuff back into her purse. Her suicide notebook had scattered out of the way. It lie open to a page from her poetry. She hadn't even noticed it as she tried gathering the remnants of her life back into the bag. On the page, written in loopy cursive, was this poem;

It's not that you should care
About me or what I do
It's not that love is a requirement
Sign your name on the dotted line
Because ink fades and the promises
Were always meant to be broken
You see the scars dotting my arms
'Cut here' coupon lines
Failed attempts at the uphill battle
Of getting out of this life unscathed
Broken and left for death
Struggling to breath and to remember
What made me even care at all?
Can you not see the dreams we had built
Toddler's construction toppled on the floor
Breath in; remember how to live?
Breath out; broken, shattered, life
Sticks and stones may break these bones
But words will never stop haunting me

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TAGGED, John/Zed WORDS, 708 OUTFIT here! [: NOTES, Sad panda face! LYRICS; Not Your Fault - AWOLNATION TEMPLATE, RA!NBOW V3INS ?! of CAUTION 2.0

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[john hamish watson]

i felt the same today
AS I WAS FEELING YESTERDAY
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Oh. Well. That was unexpected.

"It's...it's no trouble at all," he said, trying to account for the fact that he'd just been hugged by a stranger. His immediate impulse had been to strike back and attack, used as he was to people trying to kill him in his extracurricular line of work. (Working as a GP usually did not involve people trying to stab you, but for obvious reasons it wasn't as stimulating.) He was a little worried that his first impulse had been to treat it as an attack...but you could never be too careful.

"Are you all right now?" he asked as she smeared her makeup, but her shaking hands (another problem he was all too familiar with) spilled the contents of her purse all over. Naturally, being the helpful type, he assisted her in the pickup process, pens and assorted items going everywhere. He came upon a notebook that had fallen down, and his eyes quickly scanned it. A poem of some sort, and a morbid one. He frowned. It was private and he shouldn't have seen it - but then, what about this whole situation wasn't private? He picked it up, closed it, and handed it back to her.

"Seriously, are you all right? You seem to be in a bit of a bad state." He smiled at her, trying to hide the fact that he was troubled. But hey, every second he spent dealing with her problem was a second he didn't spend thinking about Julian, so whether it was his business or not, he was going to throw himself into this problem headfirst. "I know it's not my place to ask, but..."

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it'll be the same tomorrow
FROM THEN ON IT WON'T CHANGE

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tagged » Ren/Becca
words » 280
lyrics » never want to say it's love - dido
music » there's an episode of Angel on
notes » this is short but hopefully there will be more to work with next time