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Lacerated Sky
by Jennifer-Oksana (
rating: R, Angel/Fred
spoilers: S2 Angel
archive: list archives, others ask
summary: Madness, poetical, fantastical, and of a love-melancholical type as well.
disclaimer: The owners own. Jennifer doesn't.

In other words

in simple words

he loves somebody else. and the somebody is Very Dead. (oh, this will never never do. I--that is to say, i--am a scholar. Or I was. in any case, this non-standard english will Never Do in my papers about opening the doors to other dimensions.)

He loves somebody else. My handsome man and he's in love with somebody else. And she is very dead. I repeat this because it's very important and also because I haven't been able

I haven't been able to think of anything else except for enchiladas. I should think about enchiladas again because when I realize that he loves somebody else who's dead I can't think of anything and I start to cry because he loves somebody else who's


Point understood beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Four blocks away from the hotel, there is a mexican restaurant that makes delicious cheese enchiladas, but the meat in everything except their rolled tacos tasty funny. so I don't go there unless I'm really hungry or I don't have time for lunch and I don't always have a lot of time because

when you disappear, you have to answer a lot of questions when

you reappear

and your hero loves somebody else who is very dead.

do you get the gist of what I'm trying to say? do you? it's very important that you do. do you think you have it?

this is what I'm trying to say (and it's important):

Never get beef or chicken enchilada's at Ramon's, because it tastes funny and I don't want to sound like I think the meat is made of something funny at Ramon's or anything but

Eat at La Posta's instead.

They have really good beef enchiladas and I like their bean and cheese burritos except when they get lettuce in the burrito because I don't like the taste of that.

I told Cordelia that and she laughed.

Maybe because Princesses like shriveled strands of iceberg lost in a sea of refried beans and long strings of cheese but to me, who's not a Princess and will never be a Princess

I, who was never a Princess and had to eat bark to stay sane

it makes me sick to taste it there where it doesn't belong.

What was I talking about again? The psychologist says that this is common in someone with post-traumatic Stress Disorder

(he doesn't say that he thinks maybe I'm crazy and that the Post-Trauma is for a Trauma lost somewhere in my brain folds that never existed outside of them)

he says I have to work for my recovery

He says I'm doing well.

it just takes time and patience

he asks where the five years went, taking grunge and plaid and democrats in office and the dot-com boom and bust with it

But how would I know? I lived in a cave and thought that maybe this world, which he says is so real and solid, was a Massive Delusion I used to deal with my status as a slave.

When you disappear, you have to answer questions for which you don't have any answers. No matter how many times you get the question wrong, they still ask you for answers.

I don't have any answers.

where did five years go, winnifred?

do you remember them, winnifred?

don't tell me about Pylea. tell me about the five years. tell me about what you Really Remember, winnifred.

where did the five years go, winnifred?

he's not listening to me

I talk and nobody listens

he's not listening to me because he was in love with someone and she died and she died and he loved her and she died and one night he asked me

hey pretty don't you want to take a ride with me through my world?

Actually, that's just a song lyric from that song on the radio all the time. When he asked me to take a Ride With Him, he didn't call me pretty.

he doesn't see

I'm pretty.

pretty crazy, too. Took a Ride With Him under a starry darknight sky and

I took a Ride With Him.

when I told my psychologist he changed the subject

(My psychologist, you see, thinks that I have been involved with Angel before, and that my slow recovery from my PTSD has to do with my refusal to admit that my interest in Angel is dangerous and damaging to my psyche. Therefore, my psychologist refuses to talk about Angel. My psychologist and I don't have much to talk about during our Fifty-Minute Hour.)

he doesn't hear me when I'm screaming something important at him.

do you get the gist of the song now? he doesn't love me because he loves her and she doesn't love him because she's dead.

we were riding together when I took a Ride With Him and we were somewhere in the dark up in the Hills and he stared up at the sky and he said

When I try to tell anyone what he said, they stop listening. it's like they're all afraid to hear something and I can't understand what because they know the significance, but won't stop to hear the details.

he stared up at the sky and he said

aren't you afraid that I'll hurt you?

he said that because he was in love with somebody who was dead and we were in the dark up in the Hills staring at the lacerated sky

he called it the lacerated sky and I don't know what that means

he asked if I was afraid over and over and over

he didn't know that I was still pretty crazy and that I'd take a Ride With Him just about anywhere.

My psychologist says that I'm blurring reality and fantasy. He says that when I talk about the ride I took, I'm not working for my recovery.

he says that I want to recover (and I do) and I have to stop talking about what Didn't Happen and focus on What Did because

(because he's scared of hearing about how he's in love with a dead girl and he can't stop because he's in love and how he could feel thin girl bones under his fingers and the sky was dark and lacerated and it could be anyone next to him)

winnifred, we have to focus on what's real

winnifred, you have to stop

I haven't even begun. Five years without a voice, and you think that I'm done already?

you have to stop this obsessive focus on angel and focus on what's real, what will heal you.

where have you been, winnifred?

but my name is Fred.

and I've been where you'd never imagine--an alien dimension, a world inside my head so alien it might as well be a different dimension--and just a few days ago, I was in a black convertible, on top of my hero, tasting the inside of his mouth as he tried to say it was wrong to take advantage of a crazy girl but I ate all the protests up before they could be problematic.

where have you been, winnifred?

I took a Ride With Him. Haven't you been listening?

where have you been, winnifred?

he repeats this because it's very important. so does he, as if he can figure out all his secrets by discovering some of mine.

so in other words

my name is Fred. And I've been where you'd never imagine.

The End

Note: This is what happens when you listen to a remix of Poe's "Hey Pretty" and 41 seconds of Tori's cover of Slayer's "Raining Blood" at two in the morning. Send feedback:

"share with me a common disaster" --Cowboy Junkies
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