2019-09-11 - Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

She had the privilege and the pleasure of studying ancient cultures around the world and when it came to the concept of sacrifice, it always had to be two things, as she had noted to Byron and the rest in Lilith's loft apartment; it had to be vital, and it had to be permanent.

Abraham's willingness to sacrifice Isaac upon Yahweh's sayso was the first example that came to mind.

Tired fingers flipped the switch of the recessed lights that held most of the responsibility of keeping her main living space illuminated, dark windows reflecting the images within. She had lost track of time, from the drive from Lilith's pawnshop and to the docks, and while she was never one to shy away from conflict, she would be lying if she didn't say that it didn't take a lot out of her when all things were said and done.

You tend to do that, anyway, she thought to herself, bitterly. Rub people the wrong way with your competitive nature, your defensive attitude and your big fucking know-it-all brain. And living her life as if she constantly had something to prove, because in her eyes, she did.

She had limited herself to two glasses of bourbon in the loft, having had no other option but to watch her intake, especially with the way Alexander had left, storming out of there after the white-hot lash of her temper and leaving her to drive home. And now Lilith, too, given the way she was acting when she left, too perceptive, in the end, to claim a false sense of ignorance there, not with how she answered Byron's question as to what he could possibly give up as a worthy sacrifice. Much like most of the people in her acquaintance, things didn't matter to him. For people like them, others did.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Love, also. That one was particularly thorny.

It was cold enough to justify the allowance for heat. Shutting off the lights, Isabella Reede turned on the electric fireplace installed underneath the living area's mantlepiece, and kicked off her shoes, stripped off her jeans and tossed them to the side. The bruise left on her shoulder and the gashes left on her forearm from Erin and Lilith's practice still throbbed, but she ignored them in favor of pulling out a bottle of scotch from her father's onboard stash and a short glass from the cupboard. Folding herself on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table, she pulled the spare afghan over her, tangling her body within it. Pouring a few shots in the glass, she took a solid swallow, feeling the liquor burn smoothly down her throat.

Her smartphone fished out from the pile her jeans had been in, after the reach of a long arm, she thumbed through her contacts list, and briefly considered calling Easton. She didn't know any priests, nobody local, anyway. Bartenders were just as qualified to take confessions, weren't they?

"Ugh," she muttered, instead, tossing the phone aside and swallowed more of the scotch. Reflexively, her hand reached up to grasp the moonstone pendant hanging from around her neck, feeling its white-gold setting carve its presence into her skin like a knife. The reminder that it was still there was a comfort, but for how long?

"You never told me where you got this." Alexander's voice murmured against her hair, his fingers playing with the chain around her neck, threading through it in the effortless, masculine way he generally executed in all things whenever they were alone. That particular proclivity never failed to generate an electric thrill curling down her spine - these small reminders that she was an exception to a very particular man's many rules.

It took her a while to respond to him, her cheek against his chest, her eyes fixed into the blue paint splashed into his walls. "....it was a gift," she finally said, her voice low to bury everything else roiling underneath the syllables. "Sid was late giving it to me, but he needed the time to save up for it. He managed to finally buy it for me before prom night, the year we turned sixteen. It's been with me ever since."

She couldn't see his face, not with the way they were positioned. But his head and presence were enough, how he couldn't seem to stop touching her. "That's when I knew you were truly in trouble, you know," he continued, his baritone low and contemplative, as if reliving the moment he had broken into her residence out of necessity, lit himself up like a beacon just to find her. "When I went looking for you. You'd left this behind. Before, I thought - maybe you'd just gotten distracted. If I hadn't found it, I probably would have assumed you were just standing me up - not that I would have blamed you - and returned home." His finger flicked down to slide over the stone. "But even knowing so little about you, I felt that you wouldn't have left this if you had a choice."

He was right. She closed her eyes. "I could never leave it behind," she affirmed softly. "It's..."

A few heartbeats passed, before she elected to say it: "...it's the only piece of him I have left, that was meant solely for me."

It wasn't fair. The idea of it, as it slowly sunk into her blood and bones. The idea that William Gohl had taken from her, and the only way to rid them of his infuriating presence, and Gray Harbor of his murderous rampage, was to let him take from her again. Teeth clenched, eyes burning with stubborn tears, she tilted her head back and shut them. She struggled to breathe.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Love.

But it was the perfect conduit. It had to be. She knew the moment the Exorcist had started talking about the costs. Captain de la Vega wasn't wrong, with what he told everyone else in the loft. The question they needed to ask themselves before they simply cast off whatever tributes they deemed worthy into William Gohl's new casket, to be buried for all eternity: Would parting with the thing change your life?

This last piece of her lost twin that had been meant solely for her. This thing that carried his hopes and dreams for her, the vast possibilities that they spent their sixteen years together talking about, even if he wouldn't be there to see them come to fruition. The perfect receptacle in which to carry something that would change her life, veer it away from the course it was on now.

What did she want, more than anything? What had she always wanted, since she was young and capable of thought?

It wasn't Love, even though most people dream of it. It wasn't to see Isidore Reede again - she knew what was waiting for her on the end of that bridge, haunted still by the terror those sins had caused. She always knew, somehow, that some part of her would always be somewhat averse to marriage; she harbored no dreams of a ring on her finger, two and a half kids and a picket fence. Alexander Clayton's entrance in her life had been purely by accident, she did not return to Gray Harbor for any such overtures.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Her life?

She remembered the skeletal trees, the way the moon hung heavy and fat in the skies, unable to completely pierce the darkness - just enough to illuminate the horror that followed. Dead earth clumping on her boot, the silhouettes of distant mountains. How willing she was, so many years ago, and the loss that moment of stupid, proud and youthful hubris had brought her. She could hear the stagnant wind laugh, its mockery filling her skull, only this time, it sounded like William Gohl.

What did she want, more than anything?

Fingers clutched at her pendant tightly. She choked back a quiet sob, and drowned it in another swallow of scotch.

It's not fair.

It wasn't. It wasn't. And because it wasn't, it might be worthy.

She swallowed more of the scotch.

Once the warmth had sunk deeply into her bones, permeated into her veins and rendered everything else numb and nerveless, she reached out with her fingers towards her phone, and hunted down Doctor Minerva Kosimar's number. It was late, she was probably neck-deep in research already, or she was probably sleeping.

She hoped she was sleeping.

Her voicemail picked up and that, at least, was a comfort. That she wouldn't have to explain herself until later. That could wait until tomorrow.

"Minerva?" Her voice was low, hoarse with alcohol and misery. "It's Isabella. I wanted..." She squeezed her eyes shut, forced the syllables through her teeth. "I wanted to talk to you about my sacrifice. I know what...I know what I have to give up. For it to be worthy. But I need your help."

She paused.

"Please call me back."

After a breath or two, her thumb pushed the button, ending the call.