Tough Girl May 20, 2013 Ten Year Anniversary of Being Chosen Rhiannon's Personal Correspondence Las Vegas, Nevada
There's a feeling I get before I fight. I don't tell anybody about it. It happens in the quiet seconds before things get crazy. It's potent and personal and a big part of why I get up every day. It's not the only reason, but I can say it's as close as I come to having a genuine religious experience. I'm not saying I don't believe in God. I do. But even at mass, the things I feel don't run as pure as this. There's always interference, other things going on in my head. You know, like, 'oh shit, did I leave enough change in the meter?' or, 'Did I remember to pay the utilities this month?'
I'm not talking about the buzz. I get that, you know, that tickle in my spine, once I sense myself nearing a demon. I know that around the next corner, boom, there it is and it's sensing me, too. It's a rush. Think about all the times you imagined something was behind the shower curtain. That surge you got right before you pulled the curtain back? That's what the buzz is. Potential energy wound up inside you. Like paddles charged up right before an electric shock.
But no, that's not what I mean.
And I don't mean the fear of getting hurt. Once you've had a real ass-kicking, that's always there. Fighters talk a big game. We say we don't fear pain, but it's a load of BS. We fear it, we just don't stop because of it. When I see an opponent -- the thing that'll kill me if I don't kill it -- I check out its weaponry (natural and otherwise) and mentally calculate the possible damage. Claws, okay, that's expected. Teeth, yeah, all the better to bite me with. Tusks. Goddamn, those are gonna hurt, if it gets the idea to put its head down and charge like a bull in Spain. I know exactly what a horn feels like tearing into my intestines, and I've gotta say, it hurts like a son of a bitch and I'd like to avoid a repeat.
But that's no religious moment.
I'm not getting at the certainty of winning, either. Sure, I'm arrogant. I feel that brash swagger come over me when I'm talking shit, a little pre-fight conversation with the vocal ones. I get the balling up of itchy fists, and that sensation of being strung as tight as a bow, bouncing on my toes like a race horse that can't wait to tear out of a gate.
I've felt all of those things, and I continue to feel them. They're part of being a fighter, I don't care if we're talking soldier or boxer or Chosen One. Those are automatics. If you don't feel them, you're probably in trouble.
What I mean is gratitude.
Every day, no matter how hard things get, I thank God or whatever Powers are in control of these things that I was picked. They estimate there are over 1,000 of us in the world. But what's the total population? What percentage of all the people who've gotten to suck air on this planet were Slayers? Why me?
When I was sixteen, I was a regular girl. Trust me when I say, there was nothing about me that spelled out 'this girl can be extraordinary', or 'if we give her strength, she'll know what to do with it'. Look, I wasn't tough. I had brown hair and brown eyes and freckles. I was skinny. I sat in the middle of the classroom and got B's and C's. I liked drawing pictures and eating raisins out of those little boxes with two fingers. After Mom died, I did things for attention. I put on too much make-up and hung out with the wrong crowd and wrote bad poems. I wore my pain like an outfit. I cussed too much, broke my curfew, did whatever illegal substance somebody had in their pants pocket. It wasn't new or edgy, it was just teenage posturing in front of my friends. Inside, I was still a naive kid. I still got scared at night at home without my dad. I still shrank an inch when a man on the bus made a crass comment about my body. I still tucked my hands in my sleeves around people who hurt my feelings. Those weren't fists, they were convenient shapes for hiding my fingers.
So why me? Why not an athlete? Why not a girl who took shop class and beat up boys, just to prove she could? Why not a Senior class president?
Maybe it was written in the stars.
Maybe I'm only this good because I wanted to prove I could be... That I deserved it.
All I know is, before I fight, I'm stupidly grateful. Serious situation or not, once those other gears shift into place (the buzz, the fear, the arrogance), it's all I can do to keep a fucking grin off my face. I might've been given a gift, but I've earned the right to keep it by staying alive this long. This thing -- this ability, this leadership, this Calling -- is mine.