Posted in Headcanon

Disruption

To say that she’s pissed would have been an understatement. After all, it’s the third punching bag she pummeled today. And it’s not even noon yet.

In her defense, this isn’t how she planned to start the day. But she just woke up feeling understandably unhinged and since there’s no monster out there to kill, the punching bags would have to do.

Venting out is healthier than keeping it all in until the time bomb explodes, she reminds herself. And if Cullen protested about how she’s destroying yet another one of their training room, well even he would have to concede how it’s better than her relapsing into reckless bloodbath.

Not that she’s having a relapse. Not at all. Her focus just…. wavered. A bit. Tiny little insignificant bit.

 

 

… Okay, maybe more than a bit. Anyway, she just needs to unleash and then she’ll be on her merry way.

 

Since, you know, it’s not everyday a figurative ghost from a past figuratively rise up from a figurative tomb. Zombies, those she’s more than equipped to vanquish in a blink of an eye. But the absurdity which took place yesterday was not something she was trained for. And though she spent most of the day laughing her ass off about it (because bloody hell, how else would you react to a phone call filled with empty threat from someone who obviously inhaled too many Crane’s Fear Gas?), it still is a sore reminder.

 

Reminder about the git who broke her heart.

 

And a bitter reminder that she is not, and may will never be, actually get over John Constantine.

 

She’s not pining, she swore on the Bloodstone around her neck for it. Coping, maybe, but she was doing so damn well after he left. Her life did goes on and she had excel on putting him off of her mind, focusing instead on doing other things like purging the world as monster hunter. She even had some run-ins with mystical arts and all kind of divination, which obviously are HIS field, and took care of it for him. Not that she’s asking for thanks, but he could at least have the decency to do his part of the bloody job.

 

 

Yet the damned phone call triggered the part of her she shut out, tugged her down the memory lanes, and ignited the flames she thought she doused.

 

 

It’s just a matter of time, she reminded herself as the chain snapped and her fourth punching bag crashed on the wall. It has only been a month, even if it felt like a whole lot longer.

 

She just needs more time until his presence genuinely means nothing to her and she can relinquished his hold over her.

 

 

Her Bloodstone ensures she had all the time in the world. In a few centuries, give or take, John Constantine would just be a footnote in her interminable life.

 

 

 

 

 

À la mort,

Prompt: Winner’s Sentimental.
“I’m a bit sentimental. My small room feels so big today, too big to lay down by myself.”

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Author:

An emotionally invested enthusiast of pop culture. Apathetic by design. Aesthetically offensive and eloquently candid. A sentimental heathen.

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