SELF PARA ;Â Â THE CULMINATION OF OUR SINS
The fear is overwhelming -- has been for a while now. Everywhere Lillian turns, she sees them. The hunters. Sometimes theyâre really there and other times itâs a trick of her panicked imagination. She wishes that tonight fell into the latter category but then, that would require her to be lucky and her luck had long since run out. Thereâs a bullet in her thigh, burning hot, and her heart is a wild animal trapped by her ribcage. The only thing she can think to do is run so she does -- and so do they.
They chase her through the warehouse district of Beacon Hills, through derelict doorways and over heaps of rubble -- down empty streets and around blind corners. Itâs at least five against one. Gigi is in the lead; Andrew, Morgan, Damien, and Allen all following her orders, chasing their target into the inevitable trap theyâve set. Lillian can only hope she knows them well enough to avoid it or that she can get to her car before that.
She had been lurking in the rafters of an old furniture factory, one that had been out of business since the eighties and overrun by rats and squatters in the ensuing decades. There were holes in the roofs and empty air where there shouldâve been glass windows. It was a miracle that the building hadnât been condemned but the state of disrepair, at least, was enough to scare away the less desperate. She was all alone, tucked into a bed of shadows, one eye open as she tried to get some rest.Â
Lillian couldâve gone home, she supposes; her mother had said, in a halting voice, that she was always welcome. That may have been true but the fear kept her away. What if the hunters found her? Well they did, and it wasnât there.
Her footfalls are heavy, too heavy, and her pounding heart too loud. Adrenaline courses through her veins and fear rests on her tongue like ash, choking her. In that moment, she canât think of all the things she shouldâve done. In that moment, all she can think about is escape. Escape and survival -- because if she stops here, if they catch her, she dies. Itâs their code, the one she was too stupid to think about all the consequences of when she agreed to it.Â
Oh, mistakes were made. She didnât need to be a genius like her sister to know that.
Skidding around the corner, she ducks under a low hanging awning. The lights of the city center were growing closer. Maybe, just maybe, she could escape. With that sliver of hope, she pushes on, taking off across the asphalt. She knows where she needs to go. If she can only get to her car, she is free.
And she makes it.
She has never been happier to see the bright red, classic car -- not even when sheâd finally handed over the money sheâd saved up for so long to buy it. Right now, this car was going to be the thing that saved her life. Popping open the driverâs side door, she slides into the seat and starts the ignition. She is shaking, her movements jerky, but she manages not to fumble too badly as she peels out of the parking lot. She breaks every speed limit there is, whizzing past people and buildings, but she doesnât care. She has to get out of here.
Out of this area.
Out of Beacon Hills.
She shouldâve done that first thing, after she knew for sure sheâd turned. Rather than hang around, trying to make bridges out of ash, she shouldâve hit the road. New York, Houston, New Orleans; it wouldâve been so easy to get lost in one of those big cities, hiding out until she was eighteen and could make decisions about what to do with her life. She shouldâve ignored the notion that possessed her to stay. She should have.Â
But you know what? It isnât too late. She doesnât have much on her but that doesnât matter. She has her car and an emergency credit card; that can take her to Boulder or Chicago or Austin, somewhere no one will look twice at her and somewhere she can phone her mom or Lydia and explain. Then she can continue on; Miami sounds nice right about now.
Flying down the road, like a bat out of hell, she briefly glimpses the Beacon Hills sign fading into her rearview mirror. With every mile beneath her tires, she can feel herself growing more and more confident. Sheâs still jittery, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, but the fear is fading. Freedom is so close she can taste it.
Instead, she hears the pop of gunfire and the squeal of tires. She swerves, trying to keep control of her car, but the hunters have shot out one of her tires. She manages to stop the car before she wraps it around a tree and stumble out of the driverâs seat. Her head, heart, and pulse are pounding as she half-runs, half-staggers away from the scene. Another gunshot rings in her ears a split-second before searing pain blooms in her shoulder, then again her calf. She drops to her knees, still trying to crawl away, but a booted foot comes down hard on her back.Â
âNo, no, no,â she pleads, desperate and terrified, her eyes shining with tears as she rolls over. She feels weak and light-headed -- adrenaline, maybe, or perhaps wolfsbane. She doesnât know.Â
It doesnât matter; Andrew stands over her, eyes narrowed in a cold glare. He drops to his knees beside her, his fingers finding her neck. She gasps, reaching up to try and pry his hands away but his grip is stronger than she is. His grip grows tight and tighter and black spots appear in her vision, her gasps for breath coming weaker and weaker until the stop altogether, darkness swallowing her consciousness.
In the morning, two highway patrolman answer a call thirteen miles outside of Beacon Hills city limits about an abandoned car on the side of the highway. Itâs a vintage mustang -- cherry red and registered to a Lillian Martin. A back tire has been shot out and the driverâs door is still open, keys still in the ignition though that batter has long since died. They find no sign of the owner but they do find blood on the road a short distance away. They call it in and put out a missing persons report. Two days later, they close that when two hikers find her body in a shallow grave in the forest preserve.
OOC; Whelp. Nearly two years and one face-heel-semi pivot turn later, Iâm letting go of Lillian. My muse for her had been dying for a while; Iâd tried multiple methods to reinvigorate it but it reached a point where I just couldnât do more with her. I looked at my drafts, at my replies owed, and had zero desire to write any of them. I have done so much with Lillian in the past year and ten months that itâs just time to say goodbye. And this is, I think, the most fitting end for her story.Â
She always struggled to adapt to the revelation of supernatural elements to this town; the hunters exploited that but it left her struggling to keep her head above water, the bridges burned between her and her family and friends. When that blew up in her face, when she got bit and turned, she was too proud to apologize fully and thus couldnât make amends for all that she had done. Even if sheâd swallowed her pride, there was no guarantee. The code she agreed to said she had to die and the actions sheâd taken under it had left her with blue eyes. The odds were against her.
Lillian started off sweet. She always had a smile on her face, even when it was hard. She wanted to be a writer and love classic cars. Fear changes people though; sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. For Lillian, it was the latter and, unfortunately, that fear is what would ultimately cause her demise her.
Rest in peace.
