Amanda Blake (fu_fangers) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2012-01-06 02:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-08-29, amanda, cameron |
you used to say live and let live
Who: Amanda & Cameron
When: A little while after 11:37
Where: Home
The happenings of 11:37am had been quite clearly saluted; with a frown, then a faint pout as Amanda held the bottle of wine out to Cameron because there was no way in hell she could open it herself. Which 0bviously meant he had to, because there was no one else in the house. She might even say ‘please’ if he asked nicely, she was in just that good a mood. The explosions on Broadway bridge had left her cell phone blissfully silent. They were all undoubtedly experiencing the same horrified white noise that every person who knew someone on that bridge did – well, all except her parents and Cam’s. Obviously. They had better things to do, and the last time she had checked, lounging in front of the television with a bottle of wine wasn’t a crime, even if it was perhaps a little early to start drinking. Someone somewhere would undeniably judge them for that, but it wasn’t as though they weren’t, in the very least, watching the very same channel as everyone else right at that very moment, so they could go straight to whichever hell they came from. Amanda didn’t care. Today was her day off, one of her lazy days, and nothing was going to spoil it. The very fact everything only seemed to be getting better only made her stare at the screen like she was watching the goddamn Moon Landing for the very first time. Preternaturals for Peace. Well, the freaks mights have wanted peace, but it took at least two side to form any kind of ceasefire. She didn’t think they deserved it until the vampires, at least, filed down their fangs. Actually, no. She she didn’t think that was enough. It didn’t account for the snake-thing. The snake-thing that kidnapped a were…
The world was going to hell in a basket brimming with napalm.
Slipping off the sofa, Amanda smoothed down the shirt of Cameron she had borrowed without consent. There was such a thing as modesty, even if all she wanted was the—What were they, Whoppers?—that she had hidden down the back of the cushion on the armchair. If they weren’t there, she knew who to blame. “Do you think they realised no one ever listens to peaceful marches?” Marches, protests, demonstrations… No one cared. Tugging the bag out from its hiding place, she quickly slid back onto the warmth of her previous seat, wriggling her toes. There was a reason why some people went straight for the jugular. She knew this because her work ethic had functioned around it since before ninth grade. Curling a piece of her hair, left down, around one finger, she tilted her head lazily and fought to keep the smile from her face. “Sticking ‘Peace’ to a really big target is just asking for it.” Like a big red button saying ‘do not push’. What else was anyone going to do? And they think they’re our equals.