A
Allycat
Guest
WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS SCENES OF GORE AND IS NOT
SUITED FOR CHILDREN OR THE WEAK OF STOMACH. R-RATED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Quentin,
I have failed. Through this letter, I wish to inform you that my assigned
Slayer, Miss Renate van de Broek, 17 years of age, has been killed. I feel I
am, at least partially, to blame for this. Therefore, I feel that I have failed to
do my duty as a Watcher. It is because of this failure, as an active Watcher,
that I (and it grieves me much to admit this) must resign from the Council.
I am sorry.
Before my Slayer went in her tragic final battle, she wrote a letter to no one
less than you, explaining her situation. I have taken the liberty of translating
it into English for you.
Dear Mr. Travers,
My name is Renate van der Broek. I am a Slayer and have been for a few
months now. For the past three weeks, my city, "˜s-Hertogenbosch, has been
haunted by an old vampire lord called Trogon. Tonight, his reign ends.
Tonight, I'm going to take revenge for all the people he killed, for all my
family members he killed. Tonight, I'm going to kill him. Tonight, I'm going to
die.
Before I do, however, I want to tell you how this all came to be, so that you
may learn from this, so that this may never happen again. Now, at first
everything was ok. I slayed the vampires; I hunted the demons; I killed all
the bad guys. I managed to lead my double-life, just as my Watcher, Marcel,
had instructed me to. He would rather've seen me give up on my social life all
together, but he knew I couldn't ever part with that, not even for my Slayer-
calling. After all, I'm a teenage girl too and my family and friends meant the
world to me.
Then, Trogon appeared on the scene or rather a trail of his bodies did. It
wasn't hard to find out who was leaving these corpses. They all had the top
of their skull ripped off and their brains partially eaten; this presumably
happens, when the victims are still alive. (My apologies, Mr Travers, if you're
having anything to eat, while reading this.) After our discovery, my first
encounter with him soon came. He claimed he wanted a taste of my and by
that he didn't just mean he was looking for a good fight. So, we fought and
he won. I wasn't exactly any kind of match for him. Perhaps, it was, because
I had spend that entire night slaying and got some substantial damage from it
or perhaps, just because he was more than I was a (what I now hold myself
to be) tool of Death.
Luckily, (at least, that's what I considered myself at that time) he didn't kill
me; he had just and hadn't really expected to run into me. From now on,
however, things would change; he would be looking for me, he claimed and I
(too) boldly replied I would be looking for him too. The next time we were to
meet was at my friend Saskia's house. He was at her ****ING house!
He parents were away for the night and she had invited me to come over
and, even though Marcel told (or should I say commanded, Mr. Travers?) me
not too, I accepted; he was waiting. How he knew, I don't know, but he
knew I was coming. He had tied her to a chair in the kitchen and had planted
bombs in the basement. When I reached her house and I found the front door
open, I knew he was there and I thought I was going to die. (I don't expect
you to grasp this emotion. Safely sitting behind desk in London, it's nothing
you can understand, but I don't blame you. I'm merely including this for
completeness.) When I found her there in the kitchen, he was there too and
ready to fight. I wasn't.
For a second time, we fought and he won. For a second time, he "spared"
me. This time, however, he put me to the test. He, with remote control, put
the timer of the bombs on 30 seconds. He knew that was too little time for
me to untie her, but I couldn't just leave her there either. As it turns out, my
brain can certainly best his and therefore, I cannot truly disapprove of him
wanting it. I simply picked up the chair and ran out with it. We made it,
though barely and her whole house was blown up. (Yet again, this is
something I don't expect you to ever understand, it's not like you'll ever
witness any kind of action, let alone an explosion, but believe me when I say
this has an impact on a human: Slayer or no-Slayer.)
Nevertheless, we had survived. This was ("however" to me, "of course" to
you) not enough for Marcel. By going down to her house, I had endangered
her. I had to cut off all my social contacts; there was no other way. I even
had to run away from home. I had to abandon my parents, my sister, my
baby-brother, my best friend, all my family members, all my friends, everyone
I cared about, as an ultimate way of caring for them. This was to be my
sacrifice. This was the work that I had to do. This was my gift to the world,
to the ones I loved; loneliness is my gift. (Or so you, Watchers, claim.)
Cold, wet, draft, dark, lonely, that was to be my new home, an abandoned
house on the south side of town. I've been living here, as an animal, as a rat.
Preferably a rat, at least then I'm amongst my kind. But no, I'm not a rat
either. At least, they're free, while I'm locked up inside this house; this is my
cage and I can only do as my Watcher pleases and commands me. Sit! Down!
Play dead! And my favourite: Go fetch stake! I thought this existence felt
dead inside. Boy was I wrong. Finally, he took me out hunting again; he
thought I was ready. Surely, we met Trogon again; we fought and he won,
again. That bastard once more let me live; he wasn't done playing his sick
game. He ordered me to stop hiding and just go home. I defended myself and
said that I wasn't hiding. He said that was correct for, I was being hidden.
Marcel told me not to listen to him, but Trogon persuaded me. He simply
asked me how far taking orders from Marcel, from you, had gotten me. That
convinced me.
The house was quiet and dark. When I opened the door, I was hit by a wall
of stench. I was afraid, more afraid than I had ever been in my entire life. I
entered the living room. The telly was on; my dad was in favourite chair in
front of it. Everything was okay, except the spoon still sticking out of the
whole on top of his head, from which his brain had been eaten. I ran into the
kitchen. In a similar scene, I found my mother and my 8-year-old sister. From
the position they were in, one could tell, they had been fed each other.
Then I ran upstairs. As I did, my brother's cries reached my ear. I ran into his
room. I found him on the floor. Alive. Not well. Top of his skull removed.
Brains partially eaten (just enough to keep him alive). Limbs chewed off. He
was in pain beyond comprehension. (Not just for you, but for me too.) He
was dieing. Slowly. Painfully. Just like that bastard planned. With only me to
ease his pain. Just like that bastard planned. So, I did it. Just like that
bastard planned. Be proud, Mr. Travers, I've become the emotionless killing-
machine you've always wanted me to become. Are you happy? No more
friends or family. No more loved ones. They're dead. My story continues
though.
I ran away from that house, that house formerly known as my home. Marcel
is probably looking for me in my cage, but instead I went here. I'm at his
house (his home) now. I've taken control now. If only I had done this before.
I shouldn't have left my parents. I didn't stay away from Saskia and that was
the very thing that saved her. I shouldn't be afraid of my loved ones. I
shouldn't be running from them. I should be there with them, to protect
them. But, it's too late now! However, I've realised the truth now and I want
you to know, because you can still change it for all the girls to come after
me. Please do!
I have to get going now; I've realised loneliness isn't my gift, but rather
death is my death. Trogon told me where to find him; he's ready now; I am
too. We will fight and he will win. This is okay; I'm going to bring my
backpack and I'll put a timed bomb in them. He is too stupid to realise. I will
die too, but that's okay, "˜cause you'll just get a new girl in my pitiful stead
(plenty more where I came from, right?) and it's okay to me too; I've lost
everything in this world, except my life besides, this is the work that I have
to do.
Farewell, Renate
She's right you know. What we do to these girls is wrong. They're not slaves
to our bidding; I see that now. We're supposed to serve them, support them,
love them but instead we're power-hungry old foolish men. We're jealous of
their strength and thus we hold them back. We try to control them; try to
control the thing only they were chosen to control, "˜cause only they can.
We're nothing, but sad old men. I am the saddest and most pitiful of the lot.
My heart, had I one left, would be filled with grief, not just over her, but
over all the others to have come before and over all the others to come
after. She wasn't the first to suffer our incompetence and she won't be the
last. Renate was brave to write you a letter, but foolish to believe it could or
would change you. I know better than that, Quentin; it's never going to
change, certainly not while you're around, certainly not in the next 10 years,
probably never. I can't work for you with that knowledge, nor with the
knowledge of what I, or we, have done to Renate; we killed her, just liked we
and not the demons killed all the others. In fact, I cannot even live with this
knowledge. That's right, Quentin; I'm too weak to fight you and your policy;
too weak to live with my guilt. Death isn't my gift; Death is a gift to me. In
fact, it is not even a gift; I'm stealing it, seizing it, though it isn't rightfully
mine. I've sinned so much before though; one squeeze of a trigger can be
over-looked.
Farewell Quentin
I pray thee, Lord: forgive me.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Yes, this is the Slayer who immediatly preceeds Charlie Anderson.
- The name Renate van der Broek came from my ex-girlfriend. No, this wasn't her real name; she used this as an internet alias. It is a valid Dutch name though.
- Again, this one deals with the death of a Slayer; I'm sorry. It's just an idea I got for a story for this project and a very good way to explore that intrecate Slayer/Watcher relationship. I promise, if I ever do another one, the next one won't involve the death of a slayer.
- Thanks Mr. P for the inspiration for writing an epistolary.
SUITED FOR CHILDREN OR THE WEAK OF STOMACH. R-RATED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Quentin,
I have failed. Through this letter, I wish to inform you that my assigned
Slayer, Miss Renate van de Broek, 17 years of age, has been killed. I feel I
am, at least partially, to blame for this. Therefore, I feel that I have failed to
do my duty as a Watcher. It is because of this failure, as an active Watcher,
that I (and it grieves me much to admit this) must resign from the Council.
I am sorry.
Before my Slayer went in her tragic final battle, she wrote a letter to no one
less than you, explaining her situation. I have taken the liberty of translating
it into English for you.
Dear Mr. Travers,
My name is Renate van der Broek. I am a Slayer and have been for a few
months now. For the past three weeks, my city, "˜s-Hertogenbosch, has been
haunted by an old vampire lord called Trogon. Tonight, his reign ends.
Tonight, I'm going to take revenge for all the people he killed, for all my
family members he killed. Tonight, I'm going to kill him. Tonight, I'm going to
die.
Before I do, however, I want to tell you how this all came to be, so that you
may learn from this, so that this may never happen again. Now, at first
everything was ok. I slayed the vampires; I hunted the demons; I killed all
the bad guys. I managed to lead my double-life, just as my Watcher, Marcel,
had instructed me to. He would rather've seen me give up on my social life all
together, but he knew I couldn't ever part with that, not even for my Slayer-
calling. After all, I'm a teenage girl too and my family and friends meant the
world to me.
Then, Trogon appeared on the scene or rather a trail of his bodies did. It
wasn't hard to find out who was leaving these corpses. They all had the top
of their skull ripped off and their brains partially eaten; this presumably
happens, when the victims are still alive. (My apologies, Mr Travers, if you're
having anything to eat, while reading this.) After our discovery, my first
encounter with him soon came. He claimed he wanted a taste of my and by
that he didn't just mean he was looking for a good fight. So, we fought and
he won. I wasn't exactly any kind of match for him. Perhaps, it was, because
I had spend that entire night slaying and got some substantial damage from it
or perhaps, just because he was more than I was a (what I now hold myself
to be) tool of Death.
Luckily, (at least, that's what I considered myself at that time) he didn't kill
me; he had just and hadn't really expected to run into me. From now on,
however, things would change; he would be looking for me, he claimed and I
(too) boldly replied I would be looking for him too. The next time we were to
meet was at my friend Saskia's house. He was at her ****ING house!
He parents were away for the night and she had invited me to come over
and, even though Marcel told (or should I say commanded, Mr. Travers?) me
not too, I accepted; he was waiting. How he knew, I don't know, but he
knew I was coming. He had tied her to a chair in the kitchen and had planted
bombs in the basement. When I reached her house and I found the front door
open, I knew he was there and I thought I was going to die. (I don't expect
you to grasp this emotion. Safely sitting behind desk in London, it's nothing
you can understand, but I don't blame you. I'm merely including this for
completeness.) When I found her there in the kitchen, he was there too and
ready to fight. I wasn't.
For a second time, we fought and he won. For a second time, he "spared"
me. This time, however, he put me to the test. He, with remote control, put
the timer of the bombs on 30 seconds. He knew that was too little time for
me to untie her, but I couldn't just leave her there either. As it turns out, my
brain can certainly best his and therefore, I cannot truly disapprove of him
wanting it. I simply picked up the chair and ran out with it. We made it,
though barely and her whole house was blown up. (Yet again, this is
something I don't expect you to ever understand, it's not like you'll ever
witness any kind of action, let alone an explosion, but believe me when I say
this has an impact on a human: Slayer or no-Slayer.)
Nevertheless, we had survived. This was ("however" to me, "of course" to
you) not enough for Marcel. By going down to her house, I had endangered
her. I had to cut off all my social contacts; there was no other way. I even
had to run away from home. I had to abandon my parents, my sister, my
baby-brother, my best friend, all my family members, all my friends, everyone
I cared about, as an ultimate way of caring for them. This was to be my
sacrifice. This was the work that I had to do. This was my gift to the world,
to the ones I loved; loneliness is my gift. (Or so you, Watchers, claim.)
Cold, wet, draft, dark, lonely, that was to be my new home, an abandoned
house on the south side of town. I've been living here, as an animal, as a rat.
Preferably a rat, at least then I'm amongst my kind. But no, I'm not a rat
either. At least, they're free, while I'm locked up inside this house; this is my
cage and I can only do as my Watcher pleases and commands me. Sit! Down!
Play dead! And my favourite: Go fetch stake! I thought this existence felt
dead inside. Boy was I wrong. Finally, he took me out hunting again; he
thought I was ready. Surely, we met Trogon again; we fought and he won,
again. That bastard once more let me live; he wasn't done playing his sick
game. He ordered me to stop hiding and just go home. I defended myself and
said that I wasn't hiding. He said that was correct for, I was being hidden.
Marcel told me not to listen to him, but Trogon persuaded me. He simply
asked me how far taking orders from Marcel, from you, had gotten me. That
convinced me.
The house was quiet and dark. When I opened the door, I was hit by a wall
of stench. I was afraid, more afraid than I had ever been in my entire life. I
entered the living room. The telly was on; my dad was in favourite chair in
front of it. Everything was okay, except the spoon still sticking out of the
whole on top of his head, from which his brain had been eaten. I ran into the
kitchen. In a similar scene, I found my mother and my 8-year-old sister. From
the position they were in, one could tell, they had been fed each other.
Then I ran upstairs. As I did, my brother's cries reached my ear. I ran into his
room. I found him on the floor. Alive. Not well. Top of his skull removed.
Brains partially eaten (just enough to keep him alive). Limbs chewed off. He
was in pain beyond comprehension. (Not just for you, but for me too.) He
was dieing. Slowly. Painfully. Just like that bastard planned. With only me to
ease his pain. Just like that bastard planned. So, I did it. Just like that
bastard planned. Be proud, Mr. Travers, I've become the emotionless killing-
machine you've always wanted me to become. Are you happy? No more
friends or family. No more loved ones. They're dead. My story continues
though.
I ran away from that house, that house formerly known as my home. Marcel
is probably looking for me in my cage, but instead I went here. I'm at his
house (his home) now. I've taken control now. If only I had done this before.
I shouldn't have left my parents. I didn't stay away from Saskia and that was
the very thing that saved her. I shouldn't be afraid of my loved ones. I
shouldn't be running from them. I should be there with them, to protect
them. But, it's too late now! However, I've realised the truth now and I want
you to know, because you can still change it for all the girls to come after
me. Please do!
I have to get going now; I've realised loneliness isn't my gift, but rather
death is my death. Trogon told me where to find him; he's ready now; I am
too. We will fight and he will win. This is okay; I'm going to bring my
backpack and I'll put a timed bomb in them. He is too stupid to realise. I will
die too, but that's okay, "˜cause you'll just get a new girl in my pitiful stead
(plenty more where I came from, right?) and it's okay to me too; I've lost
everything in this world, except my life besides, this is the work that I have
to do.
Farewell, Renate
She's right you know. What we do to these girls is wrong. They're not slaves
to our bidding; I see that now. We're supposed to serve them, support them,
love them but instead we're power-hungry old foolish men. We're jealous of
their strength and thus we hold them back. We try to control them; try to
control the thing only they were chosen to control, "˜cause only they can.
We're nothing, but sad old men. I am the saddest and most pitiful of the lot.
My heart, had I one left, would be filled with grief, not just over her, but
over all the others to have come before and over all the others to come
after. She wasn't the first to suffer our incompetence and she won't be the
last. Renate was brave to write you a letter, but foolish to believe it could or
would change you. I know better than that, Quentin; it's never going to
change, certainly not while you're around, certainly not in the next 10 years,
probably never. I can't work for you with that knowledge, nor with the
knowledge of what I, or we, have done to Renate; we killed her, just liked we
and not the demons killed all the others. In fact, I cannot even live with this
knowledge. That's right, Quentin; I'm too weak to fight you and your policy;
too weak to live with my guilt. Death isn't my gift; Death is a gift to me. In
fact, it is not even a gift; I'm stealing it, seizing it, though it isn't rightfully
mine. I've sinned so much before though; one squeeze of a trigger can be
over-looked.
Farewell Quentin
I pray thee, Lord: forgive me.
THE END
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Yes, this is the Slayer who immediatly preceeds Charlie Anderson.
- The name Renate van der Broek came from my ex-girlfriend. No, this wasn't her real name; she used this as an internet alias. It is a valid Dutch name though.
- Again, this one deals with the death of a Slayer; I'm sorry. It's just an idea I got for a story for this project and a very good way to explore that intrecate Slayer/Watcher relationship. I promise, if I ever do another one, the next one won't involve the death of a slayer.
- Thanks Mr. P for the inspiration for writing an epistolary.
Mr. Pointy
You're more than welcome Ally - good story
