"I've been told plenty of times I'm a monster - it's time to prove them wrong. Even the devil knows that's a compliment."
Her friend was one of many to die at the hands of the Winchesters. Another splash of blood on their red stained hands. They di...
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She knew that she had to leave the house at one point. Yet she found herself stuck in the apartment, stuck in the memories. In the kitchen the two had debated about whether or not to have a Gollum cookie jar (Celeste had won, by saying that the face would creep people out so much that they wouldn't suspect that there were delicious treats inside. It was also less likely to be robbed considering the ugliness of his gaunt face. Didn't exactly scream fortune.) Even if Celeste hadn't made those valid points, Ebony would have found herself folding under the pressure easily, giving in because one look into them gorgeous eyes made her know that she would do anything for this girl. That both excited and terrified her at the same time.
However, in the moment where Ebony was festering on the couch, letting her body odour ripen and become the envy of any skunk. Her breath could poison an entire nation, her hair a tangled birds nest. She hadn't eaten properly in 168 hours; her palette being take out and dodgy food from the pizza place down the street. Her eyes were surrounded in purple shadows; she hadn't slept a full night ever since the news brought her whole world crashing down around her for the nightmares that plagued her mind. When Ebony reminisced on her juxtaposing emotions, she knew that she no longer had the feeling of thrill - she was shrouded in fear. If one nightmare had come true, why couldn't any others?
Her fear made her numb. She didn't care that the potted plant shoved hastily in the corner was wilting, dying like her memories of Celeste. She didn't care about the boxes and wrappers that were creating a sort of fort around her. She didn't care about how the bills were flying through the letterbox, screaming at her to pay with the little money she had. She didn't care about the endless people commenting on her Lord of The Rings fan-fiction, begging for her to update. She didn't care.
It's that lack of care that made her realise that staring at an unopened door to her dead friends domain wasn't doing anything. She needed to do something, and that wasn't writing her story she wished one day to be published, wasn't working at her local bookshop and volunteering at the soup kitchen the next day. She was in the perfect state to commit sins - being numb meant that she couldn't feel remorse or guilt. She needed to start the mission that she assigned herself the moment the drunk man at the graveyard spoke of her favourite dead geek. But she had promised Celeste that she wouldn't hunt; does it count if you promise a corpse? And anyway, they had never clarified if humans fell under one of the monsters forbidden to be hunted by either of them.
There was a mental battle happening within her head - should she venture back into the world of the supernatural again or deteriorate in her home whilst she falls into a deeper depression? It was a difficult choice to make, especially when it was the very thing she swore never to do again, but if Celeste broke her word, couldn't she? Celeste wasn't there to nag her about betraying her trust, breaking the sacred promise of the pinky swear. It was Ebony's life, and if she wanted to hunt, she would hunt. Human or supernatural creature, she no longer saw a difference. Both committed crimes that needed punishments.
In that moment, Ebony noticed that she was in control of her own destiny, no longer restrained by friendship and love to live a mundane life. She once again would be a hunter, the best, and she would destroy every son of a bitch out there. Starting with the Winchesters.
The decision to once again jump head first into the world of the supernatural forced her to pick her aching body off the floor. Her legs wobbled, steadying themselves after several hours of sitting still. She held onto the wall for support, dragging her feet towards the bathroom. If she was going to be successful in her plan, she needed to clean up her act. Literally.
*
Ebony had never felt so pristine, her hair absent of its greasy shine and in its place a healthy gloss. It was no longer a puzzle of knots and tangles, now a waterfall of black locks that brushed her shoulder blades. Her breath was no longer a toxin - unless strong mint was considered something bad. The only thing that hadn't changed were the bags under her eyes, so bright and eye catching that even concealer couldn't hide them.
She was eating the only thing she could find in the cupboard, Lucky Charms, digging her hand through the box for a handful of her favourite cereal. With each handful, she analysed the paper from two weeks ago, scanning the articles for anything spooky and out of the ordinary. So far, she had nothing, and that meant that there was nothing that hinted at where the Winchesters could be. With every article that didn't ramble about the freaky stuff, her eyes drifted to the door again. Even though she tried not to think about it, she wondered if her body was still there, and if it had been buried. Or maybe they gave her a hunters funeral, letting her burn and crumble into ash. A thin film covered her eyes, and she had to wipe her eyes quickly before the tears fell. She refused to cry again, for crying showed weakness, and she was anything but weak.
Quickly, she shook her head, as if she was forbidding the tears to escape. Ebony kept shaking her head, blinking more than normal, hoping the tears would disappear. Celeste was dead, and she had had enough time to grieve.
She focused on the paper again, distracting herself from the sorrow that churned inside. Ebony absorbed herself in the empty words on the page, concentrating on the story about a heroic fire-fighter saving a five year old from a blazing fire. It was working, until she saw the bleeding print on the page. She was crying. Again. It wasn't about the person's bravery, in all honesty, she didn't see the perks of being a hero. Ebony didn't really like the word either, it seeming to flouncy for her. She thought it was pointless squeezing your body into metaphorical Spandex and saving kids from burning buildings. Ebony wanted to be more - she wanted to be the reason the house was on fire. She was crying for her friend who would've praised the fire fighter, who secretly yearned to be a 'hero' like him. Like all heroes, she met her destiny.
The sight of the tears sent her fist slamming into the table. There was a huge crack, and in her enraged state Ebony didn't care if it was the table or her hand. The box of Lucky Charms toppled, and spilt all of its delicious contents onto the stained floor. Her eye twitched, breathing becoming heavier.
She was enraged.
A mirror smashed. A chair snapped. A window fractured, then shattered into tiny fragments. Her hand bruised. The dying potted plant reached its predicted end, thrown out of the window and sent hurtling down to the pavement. She was too soaked up in her own emotions that she didn't hear the pedestrians below yell. "STOP! STOP CRYING!" She screeched repeatedly, pulling at her hair and tugging mercilessly.
It lasted ten minutes. By the end of it she was curled into a ball, cradling her bleeding left hand. She didn't feel any better, if anything it made her want to break more things, but she resisted. From the mess that was her apartment, she knew she'd done beyond enough damage. The entire place looked as though a tornado had hit, and a heavy feeling settled at the bottom of her gut. She destroyed the home she had with Celeste, and it felt like Ebony had disrespected Celeste's memory. She felt unimaginable shame.
It hadn't been something she had done before. She had never been the type to flip tables over and demand that the world apologise for what it'd done, then give her back the person who kept her grounded. Ebony had always been the one to calm them down, offer them a soothing smile and a person to talk to.
Ebony Walters died the moment her friend took her last shaking breath.
No longer being able to live in the past, she packed her bags hastily. When the bulging bag had been zipped up, she had no clue what was in it, apart from the few photo frames she sobbed over, then cleaning the glass of the tears as though it never happened. She left behind the bills. She left behind her Lord of the Rings fan fiction. She left behind the Gollum cookie jar.
She left it all behind, so she could go get vengeance on the people who forced her to.
