[ retired journal ] America Jones

[lizbot]

Leave Solo: 1/28/2014


You'll be sorry when I'm gone.

It's the sort of thing all children say, out loud or in their hearts, at one point or another. It's one part vindictive and the other part hopeful that maybe they're important enough to miss. That another would stay up at night, haunted by thoughts of if only I'd noticed them sooner, if only I'd appreciated them more, if only I'd never wronged them so terribly, if if if...a lifetime of regrets.

Everybody wants to be important to the people they love.

Staring down at the pages in her hand, America remembered how it had been a mantra of hers for years, right up until she was gone. She called up all the old familiar feelings that had accompanied the idea of it, the way it had always made her cry quietly in the end, chest tight with imagined remorse. Because she didn't want him to hurt, he'd been hurt so terribly and for so long and how could she be glad to make him relive it all again? Because what if he wasn't sorry? What if he was relieved, and wasn't he always a little relieved when they parted? His back straighter, his step lighter, a burden left behind.

And here she finally had her answer, and it was yes.

Sorrow, regret, relief. She'd never been one for books let alone poetry, and especially not his (he saved up all his words for empty pages and never a bit for her), but she'd always been able to read between his lines, and break all those wordswordswords down to the simplest elements of I am unhappy, I am tired, I need to run, I have seen beauty, I am afraid.

He wanted to mourn her but he never knew her. He regretted her loss, but he'd let her go years before. He wanted to hold her one last time but given the chance he knew he'd just flinch from her touch again and again and now he had nothing more to avoid. There were a lot of if only's in his heart, but they'd always always been there. A mystery lurked around her death but it was no greater than the one he'd faced during her life, this was simply so much more permanent. All second, third, and thirtieth chances are gone and in that loss he is, perhaps, a man who has been freed. The guilt of years is now absolute. There is no more waiting in sick anticipation to see what results from his actions and inactions, it is here and it is forever.

All the words he could never say spilled out in neat, black letters, published in a single slim volume. The dedication read simply, to my daughter. It must have been so much easier talking to a dead one than the living reminder who could only stare down at the wordswordswords and realize you'll be sorry when I'm gone was a ******** useless sentiment.

Because he was.

And she couldn't feel any sort of victory or even the meanest bit of spiteful satisfaction because she is gone and the only thing she can truly take from his wordswordswords is that, as in life, he's always loved her more easily in her absence than by his side.




Before

Jan was an a*****e and a ******** liar who'd try to take advantage of someone more gullible than herself. The way he spoke, it sounded like that's how he'd made his living, the classic embodiment of the snake-oil salesman. America was torn between wishing he'd just die or disappear soon and hoping he'd have a long and terrible life full of a misery that was likely his just desserts. But for all that, he raised a small, quiet worry when he'd made it sound like Pa was dead or in some sort of trouble. Nevermind that the man had quickly twisted his words to another end, even cheaper than the last, a worry had set in and begun to nag at her until the need to make sure was vital on her next leave.

Checking was a simple enough matter of visiting a library somewhere in Nowhere, Nebraska. No card necessary because all she needs to do is ask the boy if she could please use his laptop and of course he says yes, because boys are sweet and they always do.

Pa's publisher had a small webpage for him which contained no notice of his demise, but rather an announcement for a new volume of work, well-received within his particular niche. Written after the death of his daughter, Pardon is Jones' sixth... And there she stopped and smiled at the boy as she left. Maybe she'd wanted to see exactly how sweet the boy was, but that moment had since passed. Don't fill your pleasures with your tragedies was a piece of advice that'd done well by her for quite awhile.

The library had a copy, still fairly new, and she felt not a single piece of regret over its theft. This was hers, for all that she wasn't sure she truly even wanted it.  

[lizbot]

Day One / Day Two


Her feet hit the dirt and for a moment America just stood there, wiggling her toes in the mud with a childish glee that age would likely never diminish. Then she was sprinting off into heavy sheets of rain that felt near solid as they came down upon on her. The water was near blinding, but the wind was not in force, and so she started her run with a carefree speed, reveling in how her body adjusted to not just the harshness of the rain, but the cold as well.


The first time she'd been twelve and if was the summer she'd begged and maneuvered Pa to stay the entirety of her vacation. It had taken nearly a year long campaign but in the end he'd stayed and she didn't spend the better part of three months with one branch of the family or another, but at their house. With him. They were going to be just like all the other families for once. They were mutually miserable by the first month, neither knowing quite what to do with the other. Both trying to meet some unspoken standard that they thought the other held but couldn't bring themselves to ask and make sure.

It'd been easy, making up the fake parental release form for a Girl Scout camping trip with a troop she'd been kicked out of the year before. What hadn't been easy was pretending it didn't hurt when she saw the relief on his face, the easing of tension as he signed. She never noticed that it was look of someone finally given a purpose, a clear direction. His quiet words of encouragement on how well she'd do out there earned a tight, determined smile.

She'd found the little shack years before. It wasn't the most comfortable of places, with its wide array of terrible smells, never ending splinters, and it turned out that she had only stowed enough food for about three of the seven days she was there. But somehow, it was fun, having that time to herself. Presented with a situation where she had to survive and take care of herself while also not getting caught made everything else pull back and become a little less important by comparison. On her own and free of well-meaning care and supervision she could be more than Truck's Poor Girl or The Spitting Image Of or Pretty Little Miss America. She was purely herself and nothing else.


Rocks left small cuts and large bruises against feet grown tender since her recruitment, and Stryker spoke with quiet insistence.

Ignore it they'll heal.

Ignore.

Her limbs seemed to grow longer and looser as the pace continued, steady and not enough to burn.

Faster.

Fast.

The beach was gone, leaving only a hungry sea surging hungrily over the lowlands. She slowed and stared out at the water, allowing a moment of speculation.

Not yet.

Some day.

She turned and began making her way toward the paths that led to the jungle surrounding the mountain.

Faster.

Faster.

The footing was less sure here and soon she was skidding down toward a ditch that had turned into a small river.

Grab.

Grab.

Climb.

Climb.

Ignore it.

It'll heal.


The fourth time she'd arranged for an escape was also the first time she didn't hole up someplace in the wild, and the first time she wasn't alone for it. At sixteen she'd decided to take on a new sort of survival in the form of one Jonas Delmarr and his summer house down in Miami. He hadn't been nearly the twenty-three he'd claimed (she'd known) not quite as sweetly infatuated as he'd seemed (she'd learned.) It would be the last time until she left for Deus instead of Illinois for basic.


There was a shift in the air.

Down!

She crouched low, anchoring herself into the dirt as the wind suddenly returned with interest. It slammed into her and the freedom of movement and endurance was scraped away, leaving only the impetus to survive. Running turned into a careful procession of heavy crawls, constant pauses to anchor against the winds, and narrowly avoided projectiles. The appreciation she'd felt for her body's increased ability was put aside for the narrow focus of hand, foot, down, move.

The island was riddle with caves and niches and the sorts of little secrets that she gathered like treasure to gild her own little adventure stories with. Her favourites were a series of caches and hidey holes that had to be the product of the most paranoid mind on Deus, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to shake their hand or hit them over the head for their sheer quantity, the overly elaborate traps that accompanied them, or the content which was very often just snacks. In this particular little cave, she twisted her ankle ignore it stepping out of the way of a ******** crossbow bolt. There were long dead scorpions that accompanied the thing, and for what? Not that she minded, staring out at the storm and sipping a juice box, protein bar in hand. But it wasn't nearly worth the elaborate set-up.

She was forced to stay in the cave the entire night and even as she shivered against cold stone, she felt infinitely less pathetic than she had sleeping in the relative comfort and safety of the dorm commons. Even when the shadow crept in through the entrance, an inky shape that shook off the rain with a twisted jerking motion before it noticed her, America couldn't find it in herself to regret running into the storm.

Fight.

Survive.


HP: 26  

[lizbot]

Week 1

Part of Obadiah Ezekiel Something Thompson's charm was that he could be bothered and persuaded into doing what you wanted. It was never easy enough to take for granted, but rarely difficult. You don't get bored with him, nor tired. He's satisfying in small ways he may never trust or understand. The exception, of course, is that he kills himself in slow, passive measures. You learned to accept it even as you hoped for better, taking every little scrap of after and later he tosses you as a sign that maybe he's changing. Maybe he'll try. Maybe you were wrong, and the only options aren't between hear he died out in the desert and watch him die gradually in front of you.

He leaves, and between that and Lawrence's threat, you're cheerfully pissed off. Instead of good lucks and be safes you aggressively send him pictures of everything he's missing out on, sandwiched between petulant comments. It's childish, but you feel better after. You end the day feeling warmer, more forgiving, and wistful. You think maybe things will be okay.

He send you a picture in turn and you would have been torn between pleasure and irritation if it had not been followed by a message that sounded a lot like a man's last words. Irritation wins out. If he was able to write a coherent message, tidy with is caps and punctuation, it surely could not be as dire as all that. Unless is meant he simply did not intend to try.

Week 2

Your response is at turns chiding and playfully desperate. Again, he sends you something that sounds final, he says he loves you and again, that he's sorry. Because he always is, though rarely for the right reasons. The tidy, careful typing is gone and maybe you thought you'd accepted his death as likely, but that was when you naively thought you'd just hear of it as a second hand certainty.

And then he's alive and missing his phone, but alive, and you'd be glad if it weren't for Lawrence. Untrustworthy and manipulative and acting the savior and friend.

Week 3

You don't know what you hope is the truth of the matter, and spill all your near manic doubt and anger out to a phone that's been lost, because you have to let those words go somewhere. Because you hope it's another lie and they'll go to him anyway. Again desperation. And despite the fact that you know they won't go through until next week, you send them daily.

Lawrence messages more often, and in the dark of the night you whisper plans for his murder in Konstantin's ear.

Only one message from the one who matters, and it's nothing clear. Nothing reassuring. And you make a determination that you'll do something next week. You'll make sure for yourself.

Homecoming

And it would have been too late. Your phone comes to life in a sudden flood of pictures and the desperation of broken man.

i cant keep doing this please pleaseplease help me

Everything tenses and freezes, and you numbly make your way to the portal room to see if the way was still open. You don't make it that far, because exiting the building you see him, trailing behind a vaguely familiar woman, with no sign of recognition for the area or, as he turns, you. Before anything can be asked or exclaimed the woman kindly explains that the real one is in the infirmary, and could you please return his phone to him?

You can't seem to react, not even as you catch a glimpse of him, the real him, through the room's window before being shooed away. You don't recall entering the bathroom. You don't remember vomiting, though the bitter taste of bile in your mouth is undeniable. One moment you were in the infirmary, and the next a toilet is flushing as cold tile bites into your palms and knees. Your chest is wracked with quick, deep gasps for air, and your eyes burn. Sounds escape you and you can't tell if you're sobbing or trying to choke out small screams because you're eighteen and powerless and relieved and he'd asked you for help, he'd finally asked you for help and it would have been too little too late because the last real chance to

please america

help him had been before he ever left. And you don't believe in regretting past choices or dwelling on the could have been's. Done is done and everything should be okay now, but you can't stop thinking about how

i cant keep doing this please pleaseplease help me

he'd set his life at your door for even a moment and you would have failed him. Had already failed him, because the last point you'd had any power to help him, you dismissed. You wouldn't sleep with one man to help the other, and you hate yourself for regretting that. You hate yourself for thinking at least then I'd have done everything I could. You hate Lawrence for his threats, for his deal. You hate Taym for bringing his life to this point but most of all

please america

for asking for your help, for shifting responsibility for his life, even in such a brief, barely coherent way, into your hands. After all the help you'd offered and he'd shot down, you resent that this was when and how he asked. Because of course, he would. Of course.

You don't know how long you've been crying, only that breathing gradually becomes easier and you finally think I should get up, I should wash my face. For the first time in years, the girl in the mirror is someone you don't quite recognize, someone you can't find much love for, and hate fills you once again. You want to want Konstantin here, or Peyton, or for Taym to be up so maybe you can yell at him until the anger spills out and dries up. But you don't. Not really. You want Lawrence and there's just so so much ugly in you, so much disgust and hatred. Nobody you love deserves that. Nobody decent should have to see it.

You choke it down instead. There's a small voice asking if he's still worth it and you no longer know the answer.  

[lizbot]

01 Crash

It would be very easy and even a little satisfying to blame Obadiah's "betrayal" for her inattention, something to throw at his door in petty spite. She knew it was a shallow thing, unimportant in the greater scheme of who and what they were, and it made the dissatisfaction bordering on hurt all the more frustrating. She couldn't be angry and vindicated and righteous, she really shouldn't even blame his priorities on the matter at all, but oh did she anyway. There was a small, irrational part of her that saw it as the continuation of the minute but constant rejections that had marked their friendship from the very beginning. It'd be nice to have a reason to be properly angry about it for once.

It'd be less easy to blame the distraction on Konstantin's condition and the near constant level of quiet anxiety that hummed like a livewire whenever they were apart, sparking sudden bursts of paranoia throughout the day. But she hated to blame him for anything, really. And for the first time in a long time she was letting her focus slide around a problem until it remained only on the periphery. Don't look too closely, don't meet its gaze.

The truth though, was the most obvious and least expected. As she walked the floorboards, testing the wood for weak and rotting sections, America's thoughts kept drifting to, You are not stupid. Because it was not something she'd been told often in her old life. Because she knew the way he'd have said it in person, voice empty and to the point, stating a fact rather than making an attempt to soothe or comfort or reassure. And there was an odd, raw moment, where she considered the overlaps of the person she loved above all and the one she hated more than any other.

Closing her eyes, the girl began to silently list out the reasons for that hate, why it was there and why it would remain. The floor groaned beneath and remained ignored until suddenly America was crashing down, splintered wood scratched and scraped and then followed by the shock of a hard lading into cold, disgusting water. Leftovers from the hurricane. They'd meant to pump it out next week. Something moved nearby and she should have known there'd be a nest down here. Should have known it'd been too quiet inside the house recently. Stryker lit up the basement as the shadows closed in, and the girl couldn't help a small, relieved smile.

Finally a problem she could just fight.


02 Dim

The town was lit in dusk's fiery orange reds, the cooler shades of night slipping and spreading through all the places inbetween. Legs sprawled on the back porch, America leaned back against peeling white paint and watched the town's transformation. She should go back. The town wasn't nearly safe in an unsecured house after dark.

Konstantin wouldn't be there for some hours yet, but there were other things she could do. Should do. People to visit. Extra work and training to do.

Instead she just stared through tree leaves and took in the sounds of the nearly abandoned town, slowly slipping down until her head rested against the rough floorboards. America quietly stared out at nothing while listening to the house settle. As the world dimmed and grew dark around her, she thought it might be breathing in time with her, that at any moment she could sink down into it until bone and wood merged.

Soon she'd get up and walk back to the dorms, and that was the truly daunting part of all this. Not cost, or work, or potential dangers. With every passing day it was getting more difficult to return and there were still months and months to go and she wasn't so sure how long she could stand it.


03 Futile

The nightmare had become a constant companion over the past few months. She opens her eyes to see Konstantin sleeping nearby and knows one of them must have let go during the night. She tries to reach out and close the gap, but her body remains still despite her will and growing panic. She is voiceless and helpless and paralyzed despite the wildly urgent desperation that overwhelms all thought as something drags her back into the darkness of sleep. He is lost to her once more.

The regularity is almost a comfort because this is the nightmare she knows. This is the one she's lived and in the morning she can shake it off and shrug it back with a practiced ease.

But now its shifting and instead of Konstantin's sleeping face she stares helplessly into his vacant eyes and frozen features. The new logic of the dream insinuates itself and she knows now that no simple touch can rouse him. He is lost to her once more.  

[lizbot]

04 Erratic

The ragged, uneven breathing above her sped and slowed and caught.

05 Loved

Leaning forward, her breath a warm puff of air against him, she looked up through the plastic rims of unnecessary glasses, expression earnest, and asked him talk about something he loved. Stuttering and confused he tried to talk about some book with an odd name by someone neither of them really knew s**t about. But as his words sped up, numbers began to slip from his mouth. More than math but symbols. History. They were the framework of the universe and held all beauty within their gaps.

Tracked in gravel bit into her knees and it'd no doubt tear a hole in her stockings before she was through, which was a damn shame but acceptable loss. She didn't understand half of what was said, but she loved it when boys couldn't seem to help themselves. It made them sweet.

06 Soft

She's always liked it when everything went soft, most especially herself. She didn't need to show a world the steel of her spine in these moments and stiff upper lips were strictly forbidden. He asked her about love at first sight with a hopeful glance, and she explained what love was and what it wasn't in her vast experience of eighteen going on nineteen years. The affections of a stranger willing to listen weren't love. They were convenience. An offended glance followed and she laughed, shushing protest with a whispered, Not here for that, honey. Conceal don't feel.

He admits he loved that movie. She asks him to tell her all about it.

07 Hold

Hands on thighs she steadied herself, careful not to grip too tight.

08 Shackles

There was the restraint she choose, the proof that she was the one in control of herself. There was the restraint required to move amongst people and places. Do, do not, dress like this, talk like so, have a beaux on hand for that. Laws and social expectations and things she cherry picked and moved around. They were obstacles more than anything that she'd allow to truly hold her back.

There was the restraints of those who cared for her, binding her up in their concern and regard. And those were both treasure and nuisance. She'd come to the island finally freed from all such and had intended to keep it that way. The gentle but achingly deep restrictions were worth it, though. Of course they were. Of course.

For every set of rules and limits she thought she'd rid herself of, another always seemed to take their place. It had been exhilarating to think that safety and caution when moving among the regular world could no longer hinder her movement and decisions. She could go anywhere and be the most dangerous person in the room. She could approach any person in any fashion and the worst she'd walk away with would be a few bruises, already fading.

The problem with being the most dangerous person in the room was that unless you wanted to hurt or even kill somebody, you had to be careful. You had to be cautious and suddenly once more there is something hindering movement and decisions.

At least home held people equally and often more dangerous.

Freedom and restriction in one go, she never could manage one without the other.

09 Broken

She leafed through the magazine and smirked quietly to herself. It faded after several moments because she still didn't know if this was her giving in or simply the next step in arming for a quietly vicious war. She didn't wish and she didn't look behind in regrets, but here she was doing just that. She wished he was different. She wished the empty doll of a boy had found purpose in something other than money, a thing known for twisting even normal people into ******** monsters. What chance did something like him have against that?

10 Precious

She visited the aquarium again, it was her third time there in only a couple months, but she wished she could come by more often. Seeing Fillip Pierre (her name for him, because hers were always better) she grinned and cooed all the more for the now ridiculous comparisons. The place was quiet this time of day, and so she leaned into the glass alcove and began to talk. And talk. And say all the little things she'd wanted to for the past couple weeks until it turned into a quiet confessional. The manatee watched her, it's expression never really changing yet always appropriately concerned, or supportive, or comforting. She'd grown up mostly talking to herself, to stuffed bears, to pets.

She never really grew out of it.

11 Odds and Ends

Snacks and candy and magazines. "Carrots" for Ever. For herself there was a stack for woodworking, for lawn and garden, home improvements. She picked up the requested extras for others because she and Konstantin were vulnerable now in ways they couldn't even understand, could barely plan for. Because Otto was right: there is power in numbers. And she'd always believed in positive reinforcement.  

[lizbot]

Storyteller

A stumbling journey through dense foliage and lively darkness, no lights allowed because that's how shadows are drawn. There is no hush for the middle of this night, punctuated by her laughter and his angry mutters and all the other things that creep about the jungle. It ends in a sprint as something gives chase, and they scramble up to safety while she laughs still more, a little bit breathless and unreasonably pleased. What she shows him then is definitely a treehouse.

Settling in, he with a half parted Jack and she with the much scorned Rose, there is a demand for another story, because she is greedy for the people she cares for, and will take every little bit of them on offer. But fair is fair is fair, and he points out that it is now her turn.

Quote:

Well, I don't know if it's much of a story, but sometimes when you fuss at my hair? You bring to mind my Uncle Brutus. When I was a teenie little thing, 'bout five or six I guess? I had the longest hair, let me tell you. I don't even know how I managed it, they must've been feeding me some of those supplements or what have you, cause it was down to my knees and thicker n'hell. There was practically more hair than girl, and for the past three Halloweens they'd kept dressing me as that monster on that show, you know the one? Cousin It.

Well Brutus is a woodsman type, always loved to go out exploring wild bits of land and he'd take me out on the regular, got me a tiny little camo dress and little hunters orange jacket with poofy princess sleeves and everything. One day I'd found a nice bush full of blackberries and practically crawled through the damn thing trying to fill my bucket. By the time I was through, though, I couldn't get myself out, cause a chunk of that ridiculous hair had gotten caught. Because of course it would.

But Uncle Brute, he was there to rescue me as soon as anything. He took out his hunting knife and quick as you please, cut me out. Unfortunately, he was rushing, worry making him take the quickest action at hand. Which of course was to just cut all the damn hair off. He didn't even realize what he'd done until a moment later when he was staring down in shock at the mess of hair in his hand. What happened then, well, I'd been ready to have myself a good big cry, but Brute, he'd beat me to it! Poor man was sobbing and apologizing, like he'd cut off my ear as well. It ended up with me consoling him all the way home, all there there Broots and you can have some of my blackberries Broots and telling him we could fix it no problem.

Eventually he calmed down enough to think that was a good idea but not enough to realize it was a ******** terrible idea. By the time my Uncle Tim had come home it was such a lost cause and we were both howling something awful with tears and woeful theatrics, he just took the trimmers away from Brutus and shaved the rest off. For a couple months after people kept asking me if I had cancer, and then a good while after that, if I was a boy or a girl.

Brutus never really stopped apologizing for that day, you know. Sometimes people'd mention it, just funning but he'd get this look on his face, like he wanted to just start crying again. Right up until I graduated he'd always bring me pretty ribbons and pins. I'd boxes full, and even brought a few here with me. I don't wear 'em much, though, but when I do, I remember the blackberry pie he'd baked after all that to-do, and how we'd tearfully both agreed it was the best either of us had ever tasted.

She doesn't mention that eventually she'd found out Brutus had loved her mother something fierce. As a friend or more she'd never been told nor had the heart to ask. The expression on Pa's face once he'd come back a few weeks later had stuck with her too. It was rare to see him angry, and it'd been gone in a flash, replaced with something that, looking back, might've been relief. Where Brutus had gotten her clips, Pa had given her hats of all sorts and sizes and those she'd enjoyed greatly, though few lasted long. The life-span of a hat on a small, active girl was not particularly long in the first place, but America Jones had always had a knack for losing and destroying them through some unlikely means or another.

Taking a drink from her bottle, she leans against the wall, shamelessly odd and increasingly tipsy in the bright yellow costume of a cartoon mascot and drawls out, Your turn.

rejam

this has turned into both a story solo and also a tag if you see fit to respond in kind

 

[lizbot]

Feeling warm and lazy, she grabs a cushion to wrap her arms around. As he tells his story, she watches the expressions play over his features, the shifts in his tone, and just soaks it all in along with picture he paints of another life. When he finished, she laughs and grins and tells him that she has every hope that Harley, which is a wonderful name by the by, wrung him dry for it.

Quote:

And you'd better not have bitched a stitch, 'cause I'd have loved to have had someone that watched my back like that. I had cousins and such, but those are always...well, it's hit and miss, y'know? Sometimes you can be kinda friends but other times they just resent the hell out of you for getting all the guest privileges n'such while they got most've the punishments. Though, I never did have any party at a house I stayed at, and me'n Pa's place...well, I liked to make sure it was always nice, just n'case he came back early. The woods were another matter, of course, and I may have gotten in trouble for a few of those. Fact is, for all you get huffy when I mention prison? Let me tell you, I have been arrested upward of 'bout two dozen times.

Y'see, my Uncle Junior? Well he was one of the town deputies, and taught me all sorts of little things, most of them stuck, except maybe the law abiding ones. First time he picked me up I was all of four years old. My Aunt Bitsy wouldn't let me wear my princess dress until I'd cleaned my room, and it was such an act of tyranny that I'd just grimly packed my little suitcase and announced that I was going to live on my own from then on. Get myself a 'partment and a princess job. Because princesses didn't clean rooms, y'see. Bitsy, bless her heart, made me a lunch for the road.

So I marched myself down the dirt road for a good half hour or so, with my suitcase and wearing my damn princess dress to complete the act of defiance, an I reach the highway and stick out my thumb. I had every expectation of a pumpkin carriage, or a shining white pony, or even a Barbie pink corvette to stop an pick my royalself up any minute. But instead what I got was police sirens, and Uncle Junior stepping out of his sedan to read me my rights. Know them backwards and forwards now, gotta say. He drove me to the station, had me printed and processed and everything. Tiny little girl in my princess dress, and he and the rest of the folk there treated me with solemn serious of hardened criminal. Eventually Junior had me use my one phone call to dial up my Uncle Malby to act as my lawyer, and who drew up a deal to get me off with the light punishment of renouncing my title of princess and cleaning my room everyday, instead of the 'lectric chair as I'd been warned most direly.

It's a small town and quiet enough, so folks there just went along with it every time; took years for me to realize it was a bit of a joke. Didn't much help to stop me, though I always tried to be more careful the next time. Sad fact is, though, I have more mugshots than school pictures. But Uncle Junior never laughed about it, and the last time he arrested me was right before graduation when he caught me parking with a boy whose reputation left a lot to be desired. Truth be told, that applied to more than just reputation so I wasn't too heart-broken 'bout it. Uncle Junior took me to the station that final time and explained that I'd be eighteen soon enough, which meant my record would become something I'd have for the rest of my life. He didn't get preachy 'bout it, but we spent a long time talking 'bout choices and making sure they're worth it.

Uncle Malby was called in once more, as was tradition, and after much debate, it was determined that the boy in the car had not, in fact, been worth it and his many faults gone over in great detail. My taste was deemed lacking, and don't you ******** smile Obadiah Ezekiel Bless You Thompson, and once again I avoided death row by the skin of my teeth.

There is, hidden on this island, a plastic evidence bag that Junior had given me when I left that night. Turn'd out he'd kept my ******** princess crown in lock-up for thirteen years, the sentimental old a*****e, and damn if didn't feel good to get my proper title back.

Though that part's gotta stay a secret, pinky up Obadiah this is serious now and requires your solemn promise. Can you imagine the revolt if someone realized I was both president and princess? Not to mention Edgar'd get ideas, the little s**t.

 

[lizbot]

She wonders if the shaking is because he's cold or if it's because he's Taym. In the end she draws out a cushion from the cupboard for herself, to wrap her arms around and lean against, along with a small fleece blanket that she sets between them should it be the former. It gave her something to do instead of recapturing his hand, holding it tight as he spoke. It was a desire that was less about reassuring him and more about reassuring herself that he was there and that leaving Deus was not an option.

Never mind dream wells and all they held.

There was a question on her lips, perhaps several, and they all ran along the lines of: was it choice or circumstance? Is this why you're never really enthused at the idea of making this place home? Do you just want it to be easier to leave in the end?

She keeps her silence in the end though the questions remain, but they could hold for another time. It could wait.

As the little story unfolds, so too does she, sinking and relaxing until she is lying on the floor beside him, the trim of his sweater idly worried by her fingers as she watches Taym speak. A peal of quiet laughter follows the final line and there is a comment that you always have to watch out for that sort, those missionary boys. She stays thoughtful and quiet for a long stretch, enjoying the way both man and night breathe around her, and then begins to speak once more.

Quote:

My Aunt Prudence, she used to make the most wonderful cinnamon rolls. They were rich and huge,and flaky, just lasted forever and a day, with this sticky topping that my Uncle Sampson used to refer to as the Spunk of Angels. Though never where she could hear acourse. He's not the smartest of fellows when it comes to that sort of thing, but Aunt Prudie could put the fear of...well, Auntie Prudie into even the most foolish of fellows. She'd make them once a month for our big family brunch and they were a wealth both hoarded and bartered with.

But sometimes she'd make them just for me.

Auntie...well...you saw her in that dream. Leslie called her a b***h after, and he wasn't wrong, but...it wasn't all there was to me n'her. She was a lot like my Pa in that she wasn't good at talking with people. Unlike him, though, she was great at telling people things. Ordering them about and pointing out the what's what. But the idea of a sit down and chat? Of anything that seemed like it might lead to, god forbid, feelings talk? She'd shut that down real hard and real fast.

She wasn't a monster though, though sometimes it was hard to remember. Not long after I'd first come to live with her, she'd made a dinner one night and there were peas, which was a terrible offense to my six year old self and I wasn't going to put tiny green mush balls in my mouth. Nuh-uh no way. Perish the ******** thought. Well, Aunt Prudie would have none of that, and made me stay at the table until I ate it all. ******** hours went by, I think it was 'bout one in the morning by the time I gave in, half asleep and practically falling out of my chair. After, of course, she slapped the s**t out of me. For being an ingrate and trying to be wasteful.

We didn't come to any sort of agreement, she just told me I wasn't gonna try that ever again and I didn't. But peas never crossed my plate again, either. And she watched me, the things I didn't seem to like, well, those'd get cut out too over the years. And the things I did like, those she marked out. Even had a little recipe book of all my favorites. They were her ways of saying I'm proud of you, you're a Good Girl, and I'm going to miss you.

The cinnamon rolls, of course, were I love you, and nothing else has ever really measured up to their memory.

She refrains from mentioning that they were the only I love you's that Prudence ever gave her. Not even in cards did the words pass between them. Unspoken too is the fate of the recipe book, which was burned along with the rest of the little mementos left to her in the will. She could forgive a lot of things, the harsh words and lack of kind ones, the hitting, the strict standards. But dying and leaving? That would never be forgiven. b***h indeed.

The girl takes another sip of Rose, and nudges it toward him with a sly smile after noting the state of his own bottle.  

[lizbot]

The Purge

Hunter Camp ♖♖
Scavenging 1 with Taym ♖
Scavenging 2 with Taym ♖
Prep Team with Dakota ♖
Dispatch I ♖
Dispatch II ♖
Dispatch III ♖ (need to fill out)
Unfriendlies with Taym vs Lurks ♖
Corridor of Ancients ♖
Corridor of Time ♖
Corridor of Madness ♖
Corridor of Dreams ♖
The Gathering of Legacies ♖
Versus Guardian of the Tower ♖
Versus Medea Redux ♖ ♖♖♖♖♖  

[lizbot]

Post Apocalyptic AUs

Harbinger of Merlin words: 4
Atlantic Edge words: 219
Nuclear Winter words: 124
The Ship is Waiting words: 0
Super Power Wasteland words: 294
Cyberpunk Dystopia words: 85
Go Ask A.L.I.C.E words: 12
The Legacy That Never Was words: 28
The Dead Walk words: 16
Rebuilding words: 13  

[lizbot]

The envelope was plain white with Obadiah Thompson printed neatly on the front in America's familiar hand. Inside were a number of sheets. The first was nicely written, no strike outs and the script was very tidy. It was very clearly a final draft, giving away little of the writer's process except in the fact that it was, apparently, required. The following pages made it even more obvious, many of them crumpled around the edges. Strikes dashed through lines, often with a palpable, frustrated violence. The ink shifted several times, both in color and weight. The pages held smells, most strongly those of fresh cut grass and cigarettes and just the faintest bit of familiar perfume. There were unfortunate smudges across several.

rejam just say it got eaten by the ******** cats

Taym,

I am writing you this letter because I am unsure how to best talk to you. In person seems like a bad idea and even Twitter seems like it may cause problems. You said yourself that I make you stupid, that your worst habit is telling yourself things are fine when they aren't. I think that probably includes telling me things are fine when they aren't and me believing you because it's what I want to hear. So maybe if I just do this all slow and distant, it'll be better, because I'll have time to think and talk, and you won't be able to interrupt that by saying the things I would like to be true. Obadiah, I trust you every little bit of myself, but I don't trust you with yourself at all, and I don't want to keep ruining things while you just tolerate it until you can't stand what I'm doing any longer.

But it's really strange, to try and make this more casual and distant by writing a letter, because it makes everything I say feel all weighty and more important because a ******** text should do, right? And that's the thing with you, always that's the thing and that's why I don't know what to do because you have a way of making every little thing feel more important than it probably should. I don't know how to be a normal friend with you, because I hug my normal friends, I kiss them and hold them even if we aren't close, but just holding your hand feels like something I should cherish, and I don't even think it's because it's rare. I used to but even when it wasn't so rare it felt so damn important. How can you be my normal friend when less is somehow always more? When further away means so close I can hardly breathe because then it's like you're with me all the goddamn time?

I want you to have the things that'll make you happy. I haven't forgotten that other you. The one that wanted to be worthy of a nice home and a family, enough to risk it all to the point of what basically meant suicide. And I think you, the real you, probably wants a bit of that too. That sort of normal. Stability and all. I don't want to hold you back from that, I don't want to block your path to someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. I don't want our friendship to be the thing that makes you feel too ashamed to even try, I don't want to be the bad habit you're trying to work on. I don't want you looking at me and just seeing a long line of you being stupid.

And I'm so ******** scared that is what you see. I don't know anymore what was okay and what was wrong, because I wasn't lying when I said living here is the happiest I've ever been, and you're a large part of it. I really, really enjoyed our dinner, and never a bit realized that it was something that you weren't proud of, that it was a problem. How many other times has that happened, and you just didn't say anything? Will you even tell me, or will you just say they were fine, even if you know that's bullshit? But I think, for the overall, I know the truth.

When I told you I spent a night writing apologies, some to you, do you know what I was apologizing for? It was because I thought maybe things would be better for you, if I wasn't in your life. And for being unwilling to let you go even so. Even if it hurt you.

And it's true, I don't want to let go. And being "just a regular old friend" is so ******** galling, because I've had a lifetime of being "just" this and that to people. I want to be able to say "I love you" and have that be at 120% and not some lukewarm 30% where I give a smile and wave in a hallway and maybe fave a tweet or two, maybe talk once a month about things that aren't hardly interesting or important. I don't want to the times I talk to you be about the ******** weather and s**t like "gee that mission was hard glad you're back, though" and then say hardly boo to you for another month more. As if that's good enough. As if that's anything.

But I said I'd try. There's what I want to do and what I should do, and the latter seems to be what's most important now. You asked me to help you, so I'm gonna try, if only just for that.

If it was just sex it'd be easy. But I don't have sex with Kon and you can't say me and him are just friends. So I don't know what to cut short, what to stop doing. Should I visit your room? That seems like a normal friend thing, right? But is it? You haven't asked me to visit, in fact you avoided it so, maybe not. I send other people messages a couple times a month, so should I limit my own to you the same way? I don't drag my other friends out and about all the time, so maybe that'll be an easy one. I don't try to give them every bit of who I am and where I came from, and don't demand the same in return, and that's nowhere near as easy, that makes me ******** ache to give up, but I will.

I'm in that little square house you lingered over for awhile. I've been fixing it up on the sly, I wanted to have it ready by the time you were promoted but you beat me to it, you a*****e. it's for the best though. I'm making an omelet and it's your omelet, and it's so hard not to add extra s**t into it but I'm being all restrained and such because I practiced this thing so much and I was gonna make it in this kitchen for you. Buttered plate and all. It's a cute one too, bit of china with a little black cat. I'm wearing the blue dress, because I wanted to try and soften you up a bit before asking you to be my neighbor, to be in my life to the point where we saw each other every morning and made breakfast for each other while bitching about people we both hated, and then bitching at each other because we always do.

And that's not a regular friend thing to do and I'm trying, even if I have to give up s**t, I'm trying, which is why I'm eating this delicious ******** meal alone and not asking you for anything more. You don't even have to answer this letter. And maybe it'll be easier even, when I'm living over here for good and you're building a better life for yourself over there. I'm not sure, though, because this doesn't feel easy at all. I really hope it'll be worth it.

I'm not going to stop, but I'll stop saying it okay,

America Jones

 

[lizbot]

ear and there and back again a story by america jones

[queue]
AMERICA JONES
stuck in a sandstorm in this little tent full of people and bored as ******** wonder if theyd be down for strip pictionary im pretty good at pictionary
i wish i could go running in this without getting sand all up in my everything
ill tell you a story instead
a once upon a time sort

AMERICA JONES
once upon a time there was a little boy named earzekiel
now it may be that his mama meant to name him ezekiel but had a slip on account of the remarkable size of his ears even then
even so thats what went in the doctors record and family bible
earzekiel had a grumpy face and the sorta posture associated with neverdowells and often folks would circle wide of him but under that he
was the best of boys and helped his little town through all sorts of troubles
when a little kitten fell down a well he was the first to hear its cries
when the days were blinding hot he offered the best shade
when folks had a worry he was always there to listen even a few blocks down
he was the best at sending smoke signals when bandits were about
and one year when the candles ran low
well
he was a good boy and valued even if he was a bit cranky
he had one special treasure he never left home without and that was a brilliant marble his ma had given him when he was just a little baby
when shed realized hed always be a bit more ears than head but with a heart biggest of all and she told him
"never step outside with out this in your pocket, honey, else the road home will be long indeed"
he abided by this for years and years but one day a passing witch caught sight of the monstrous bulge of his pocket and thought something all sorts of improper
the truth was found out soon enough but the witch was a greedy sort and marble was lovely all over cause it shone with all a mothers wishes
so of course she stole it
he tried to give chase and get it back but the witch was quick and tricksome and in his path she sent a mighty breeze that filled
his ears with such a mighty gust that poor earzekiel was lifted right off his feet and blown far and away

he flew across the land and then the sea for three days and nights
it would have been a terrible trip indeed if he hadnt made friends with a passing bird who brought him small treats and friendly songs that
he refused to sing along with but enjoyed anyway even if he scowled quite a bit
on the fourth day though he was sailing through a shower and wondering if he should ask it to bring soap next so hed could get clean in the
next one but then suddenly the clouds parted and he ran right into the roof a tall tall tower
he grabbed on tight to its ledge and climbed down through the window to see a beautiful fairy princess perfect and tiny just up to his knee
she introduced herself as princess peyflower and warned him that she could kick his a** if he had bad intentions
they became friends soon after and over an ice cream she told him about her troubles
peyflower had been in love with prince arc for years and years but a jealous witch full of mischief had fallen in love with him too
so she put peyflower in the tall tall tower in far away to keep them apart
but the princess knew her stuff and was ready to rapunzel the ******** out of there except just as her hair got long enough the tower was
attacked by a fellow named jack whod wandered into the wrong story and thought he was climbing a very hard beanstalk
thinking she had gold the two got in a terrible fight that peyflower won of course
but as he escaped her brutal little fists and kung fu grip he slashed at her hair and stole it away
so here she was and prince arc was waiting down below and what could she do
at first they thought maybe he could carry her down the same was hed arrive but that was much to risky a venture
so instead he offered to share her burden and cut the rapunzel work in half
they lived in that tower for months and months until her hair was half as long as it need be and his beard matched it to the inch
they tied the ends of their majestic hairs together and carefully lowered her down to the prince
they worried a bit about him staying stuck up there but in the end were able to fly earzekiel about by their hair the same as you would a kite
they all went to the princes castle and he wished he could give earzekiel gold and land and ships but it turned out arc was prince of arch
the kingdom of cobblers and so all he had was a title and a lot of really well made shoes
he was able to make earzekiel a knight though which he did
and give him a heroes parade that included a hundred dancing girls in very nice heels
and to help earzekiel get home the prince made him a pair of fine wooden clogs that earzekiel accepted with a lot of doubt
they were not nearly as nice looking as the other shoes
but he wore them to be polite
snipping of his beard he waved them goodbye and soon the wind lifted him up and off again

the princes wisdom was soon revealed when the wind died and earzekiel next landed in the middle of the sea
bobbing up and down for a bit in his well made clogs earzekiel pushed one foot forward and then the other and soon he was skating across the
water once the wind picked up and started pushing at his ears the boy was going along at a fine clip
he might have made land in a day cept after a few hours he heard a bunch of tiny cries
tugging on his ears this way and that earzekiel steered himself toward the sound and found a bag of kittens floating about and near drowned
he was quick about rescuing the poor things and soon there was a kitten in every pocket and half a dozen in each ear and a scrawny one clinging at his neck
the prettiest one of all he held in his hands and it was her paw that pointed out the way
hours and hours later they came upon a great pirate ship and at first earzekiel was extremely doubtful about the prettiest kittens sense
but as they came close the kittens gave a tremendous kitty cheer and hopped from earzekiel to scramble up the netting and onto the ship
except the prettiest who waited for him to carry her up
as a reward she smished her face to his and suddenly the kitten turned into a girl and not just any girl at that
she was the infamous dread pirate georgia of the peach tree pirates!
quickly the rest of the kittens were smished to earzekiels face causing them to change back into the pirate crew
the first being her renowned first mate constant bromet
and the last being a grumpy little cabin boy
and over a big barrel of rum they told their stories that night
turned out the crew had attacked and boarded a witchs ship and for their effort had been cursed into kittens one and all
then put them in a bag and tossed them into the sea to drown
once theyd heard earzekiels tale they sussed out that the princess peyflower had blessed his beard with fairy magic and even short as it was
it was still a beard of great and mighty power
the dread pirate georgia was greatly impressed by his rescue and charming ears and heroic jaw and proposed right then and there
he turned her down though cause knights cant become pirate brides and still be knights and also he wanted to go home not sail the seas
the dread pirate was having none of it though and so she tied him to the mast to keep him from flying away and tried to court him daily
she offered him sweets and kisses and treasures of all sorts but he just asked her to take him home no matter what she did
one night she offered to steal the moon and stars and to string them on a necklace for him
and he was telling her how unmanly a gift that would be when suddenly a song filled up their ears
it was his bird friend and it sang a beautiful tune called "freebird"
it brought the dread pirate and her crew to tears and they freed him with many apologies to him and his mother and his beard
the dread pirate georgia called for the ship to change course to drop him to the shore closest to home with many gifts and treasures enough
to anchor him to the land on his trip
not ready to give up the dread pirate told him she was going to conquer all the seas and become a pirate princess and then she would find
him and ask him again because surely a knight could marry a princess
he was still very doubtful of her sense but agreed to take a raincheck on some future proposal
once they dropped him off with lots of tears and promises to write earzekiel continued on his way home

on his way back he saved a town from bandits and ended up the bandit king and turned them toward stealing stories instead of gold
eventually they wrote down every story they took and ended up a kingdom of deviant librarians
he didnt stay too long though and was back on his way after a year of kinging around the mountains
he got caught in a terrible blizzard and nearly lost his ears but was rescued by a familiar friend
the littlest kitten of the peach tree pirates had turned into a small and grouchy cabin boy with the foulest of mouths and in the time since
that boy had become a healer to a little mountain town
with lots of complaining he rescued earzekiel and saved his ears and told him about the many adventures of his old crew
the dread pirate georgia was of course as pretty as ever and was keeping to her promise which maybe also was a bit of a threat cause pirates
are greedy even the nicer ones
after he was well again earzekiel used his excellent clogs to skate down the icy mountain just in time to run into that witch again
well her eyes went to his pockets right off and sure enough they were filled with treasure once again but what really got her interest was
the incredibly handsome beard he had grown since shed last seen him
deciding that she should just abduct him so she could have both beard and treasure the witch cast a curse on his ears making them small and useless
and then she shot him with a magic beam and knocked him right out
when he woke up it was with lots of pain and he was locked up in a cage and the witch was talking about how useless he was and how he kept
ruining her plans but every once in awhile the sun would light up his manly facial hair and she would get all fixed on how nice it was
his bird friend visited for weeks and always sing songs to convince the witch of letting him go but she was an a*****e and very mean so
that didnt work out so well this time
after a bit the witch found out he was also the bandit king a few mountains away and so she decided to marry him up and become a fearsome
bandit witch queen which would be terrible indeed
on their wedding day she gave him a gift of sorts and it was the marble his mother had given him and even with all his woe he gave it a kiss
cause hed missed it dearly
his beard rubbed against the marble and soon it began to grow and grow and grow but the wedding had already started and the witchs thugs
were making him say the vows right quick because the gates of the castle were under attack by bandits and pirates and fairy princesses and wise cobblers whod all come to rescue him
but they were too late because the vows were said and the witch planted a big old smooch on him finally getting to feel up his manly scruff
except after she touched his fairy blessed whiskers she began to shrink down and down and down until she was just a tiny black kitten with a
a little white streak of fluff and a bad attitude
at that moment the marble had grown as big as a cart and out of it flew a handsome blue beast with fluffy white wings
all his rescuers had broken through the gates and earzekiel thought about greeting them for a moment but had a feeling hed just get held up
with blessings and proposals and maybe even another kingdom thatd keep him sticking around for years more
so instead he hopped on the beasties back and asked it to take him home and of course it knew just where that was cause it had been made
with all his mommas love and concern for just such a reason because shed always known hed end up leaving one day but wanted to make sure he always had a way back

it didnt take long and as soon as he was out of the witchs castle his ears popped right back to their proper size and nearly blew away again
but finally he had made it home and there was a great celebration cause maybe he was a bit cranky but earzekiel was good and the town had been the better for him
he managed to stay at least a year but soon enough he was following the cries of help and getting caught in adventures one after another
so many that itd cost me my thumbs to describe them so just imagination that out
earzekiel became a hero of the land and when folks went traveling their well wishers would always raise their hands to the sky and hope that
he would come and rescue them if there was ever need
they would say "earz to you my friend" and sometimes if they were both really unlucky but fortunate all the same hed come swooping down from
the sky or skating across the seas and down mountains and lend them an ear to their troubles

 

[lizbot]

12. Tea

There are more empty spaces in her life, and she doesn't know how that happened. Upon the completion of old projects, old interests and meddles, she does not pick up new ones. With Konstantin gone for anywhere from days to weeks, the gaps multiply. She starts picking up more missions, but it is not enough. America doesn't even bother telling herself that it is. The things she could be doing are there and within in easy reach, but the desire to fix a town in order to fix lives, just a little bit, doesn't quite register the way it had.

There is Taym, of course. As much of him as there ever has been, and sometimes a bit more. But he'd asked for them to go slow, and it was such a laughable request. She agreed, of course, she tried to respect this at least. But what was there left to scale back between them? What hadn't gone past the point of fast and slow, because she was already there? Only time, really. And space. So she gives him those and much as she can stand, and in those empty sections of her days, America feels around the edges of those gaps, tracing them with idle, listless hands.

There are boxes to be unpacked, small treasures to pour over and touch and smell and remember. With a half-hearted smile, she brings out the little portrait of Edgar and tries to figure out where to place it when something falls from the frame. America catches the little packet automatically, and she smells it before it even comes into view. A leftover bit of tea from the wonderful birthday box, and the longing she feels for that point in time, for being that girl has her sliding to the floor.

Eventually she stands up again, and she walks slowly to the kitchen and makes herself a very shitty cup of tea that should not be as comforting as it is.

She should go visit Edgar. (She does not.)

She should go figure out what's up with Pan. (She does not.)

She should go cry on Peyton for awhile. (She does not.)

She should go see if the other folks in the basement need help. (She does not.)

She should go. (She goes out onto the back porch and lays down. In her half waking dreams America sinks down into the wood, and she is herself the house. She is empty and abandoned and a lost cause to all but the most optimistic. She is not a future but the reminder of tragedy.)

(It is not a nightmare.)

13. Twisted

(This is.)

His head is in her lap and she playfully runs her fingers through his curls. There is a joke on her lips, and disbelief in his expression as she begins to softly speak to him in his native tongue. All this time she'd been pretending and wasn't that such a shock? He claps both for her cleverness and his enjoyment in a joke so well-played on him. He looks so happy. He has such a nice laugh. The weight of him is warm and comfortable and sturdy, and she revels in it and smiles all the wider when she notices the door swinging open. Voice low she whispers something terrible in his ear, and watching that laughter die, that joy and security crumple is so, so much better. She holds him down, and the others walk in, all smiling and pleased.

14. Echo

(This is.)

Bloody and panting, she scrambles away from the man. Rubbing his neck with a shocked look, she can see the moment awareness fills him. He is himself and he remembers not just every horrible moment, but every horrible surge of pleasure and satisfaction and hunger that those moments held. And then he was attacking her again, desperate and angry and himself. He was himself and he kept fighting her even now.

She laughed, in small incredulous bursts as they fought. He was supposed to have gotten better. He was supposed to decide to help her. Together they could stand some small passing chance to get out of here, to save the <********!

He was supposed to help her survive, but instead he wanted to...

...die. Here and now without even a moment longer of living with what he'd done.

The realization was accompanied by both disgust and envy. How nice, she thought, standing over his still body and trying not to think of food. Trying not to think of the hot splash of fresh blood on her arm. How nice it must be, for it all to be over.

15. Soothe

She sinks back down under the water and counts every heart beat.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The noise and color of the world fade back under her heartbeat and she has this, at least. No matter where she lives or who is or is not with her, America Jones has her heart. It's beating steadily on until things get a bit better, through her own hand or luck or maybe just a lowering of the bar for better.

She comes back up for air, sharp against her lungs, and then sinks back down once again.  

[lizbot]

13. Fight

At the stove she sways, humming softly in the candlelight. She'd wanted to have a stay-in date tomorrow night, something nice and soft and normal. Normal is always so very good between them until it turns, and becomes the wound that will likely never close. The wound that kills. There was new dress, a white, flowing thing made of a material that seemed almost sheer, as if turning just so would reveal everything beneath. There were new shoes and her hair was up except for a few curls here and there. She is a girl done up nicely for no one but herself, and it will be a nice night. It will be a treat and all for her.

She is alone tonight and there will be no dinner tomorrow, the invitation having died under greater understanding, along with similar requests that would have followed. She cannot give him or herself this sort of normal, the home sort of normal, and something inside goes numb at the realization. But she can live without that. She can get over it. She is strong and she is independent and everyone says so. Everyone knows it for true.

They have always been a countdown of some kind or another. It should have been freeing to have it out and obvious between them. It should have meant ignoring walls and hang ups and making the most of this time they had together, taking everything all at once and enjoys it while it's there. Instead she is holding back and creating new little rules for herself, so careful not to push things more quickly to the end. Six months, if that. With greater freedom came restrictions. Always, always, always.

She wishes she did not care so much about someone else's happiness. She wishes she could give him what he wanted. She has never been one for wishes but in this he has changed her. In this he has given her back the sort of hopeful helplessness that she had left behind with childhood.

The plate shatters against the far wall, and Kostya would tut that it was from the good set, and not the for-breaking cupboard. She goes back to stirring the sauce, still humming softly, still swaying to the tune. The little pan boils over and she takes no notice.

Five bites and that plate goes too, the sauce spattering the new dress, the new shoes, the pretty girl. The next few hours fills in the picture of a quiet evening alone, full of small treats and indulgences toward herself, peppered with sudden, unblinking moments of violence toward the house.

She wishes Konstantin was here to disapprove of her tantrum, to call her on it. To shake his head and offer the shitty box of china while making mild sounds about budgeting. To stop her from reaching out and casually smashing her hand through the window as she passed.

He is not there. She doesn't know when he will be again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next month. Maybe-

There are leftover cans of paint she calmly collects from the basement and these are carried to his the guest room. The pristine whites make the room light and airy, and it smells like fabric cleaner. It is a room that has been treated thoughtfully in the manner that we treat most hopeful things. They are tended to and looked upon fondly, even empty, for what they may one day contain.

She covers over the white of the walls with no distinction between colors and some part of her is ashamed for giving up and another is ashamed for even trying. The strokes are loose but efficient with the skill of one who has done this often. She picks up the bucket of sunshine yellow and heaves it at the dresser, shattering an odd little deer figurine found in a Russian market and splashing the walls and furniture nearby. She returns to painting, singing soft little nonsense songs to herself.

The world is not fair and those who complain about it are whiners. They aren't born deserving of anything more than what they can do for themselves.

But it's not fair.

The house has stood for months as what she can do for herself, what she can do with her own two hands. She can build a future, a good one, as long as she worked for it. As long as she was honest about what she wanted. She has been trying to find a home for nineteen years and this was it. This was supposed to be it and things were going to be the better for it. She was supposed to be better. All she'd ever really needed was a home and maybe one or two people who'd share it with her and love it and her and they'd be there for each other. She would have a place in this world and it would be hers and it would be nice. It would be so ******** nice and so would she.

Her heels, sauce dried against white and the speckles of pain still wet and tracking all over the floor, walk through the broken glass of what was once the bedroom window without pause or caution. There were once books upon the shelves, copies of ones she remembered from his own. There was once a mirror. Her heels remain an authoritative click click click and her hips continue to sway, dress loose and willowy in the flickering light of a lamp trying, and failing, not to die of its wounds.

The destruction follows her upstairs and despite the evidence, she is not flushed, she is not panting and bright-eyed with rage, her heart is steady even as she begins to fill the tub.  

[lizbot]

He doesn't call her Meri again and she tells herself it's because the name just never felt natural for him anyway. That it's an easy thing to forget. Other times it's that he doesn't understand it wasn't some special reward to him, but rather a balm to her. She doesn't remind him or ask again because she knows those little hopes are likely lies and for once doesn't want to turn them over and see what's really been growing underneath.

It's not important.

America Jones is so very strong, right down to the syllables of her name. Everybody says so.

---

She hasn't checked in months. Despite the regrets she now carried, the act of leaving was not one of them and she had so much now. She has so much love, now. So much home.

The marriage was four months ago. A baby now on the way. Does it count as being Big Sister when you're dead?

She tries to be better than her old hurts and jealousies, she has so much now and it couldn't matter all that much, right? Not now. Not a whole life away from all that.

---

She almost gives up on William Reid entirely when it seemed like he'd given up as well. He's let her glimpse into so many of his windows, so many of the scary things and ones that left her feeling helpless in the face of their despair that the idea of walking away from him gave both a deep sense of disappointment and the haunted sense of relief. He is not so simple though, instead remaining an ominous sort of question mark always at the edge of her vision.

She hopes he picked up some better habits in regards to other people. She stops confronting him. Of anyone, it's so easy for her to draw out his worst. It's a bitter pill, when she takes a moment to think of it. To be that person.

---

She ignores Horace in every way she can manage and it's as close to peace as she's felt over the boy since they'd first sparred.

---

She relearns the house by touch; strong, bony fingers guiding her with a surety that she revels in. For her it's a silent sort of dance, those odd, modern ones that tell stories. Later, half asleep with her lips against his neck, she tells him as much. Tells him the story was a good one and he should write his name at the end. Tells him that the marbles are at the airport because everything is sliding into the nonsense of sleep.

---

She dreams of a door in the basement and it does not belong to her old room, or the room of any friend. It's an empty on but maybe not so very empty after all. She touches the handle and does not go in. It doesn't mind. It can wait for as long as need be.

It'll be a hard choice, but she's good at those now isn't she?

---

She pampers her feet more, without even thinking about until what she's doing actually occurs to her. They were never a focal point of care before him, and he rarely vocal about the interest and yet...

Toes sparkling with a glittery blue, she prods the back of his head with her foot for attention.

They couch their affections in teasing and jabs and shitty cute names and obnoxious behavior. The safest place to keep them during these hours, when daylight is unkind to raw edges, even the gentler ones.

---

Lawrence is still gone, and in his absence there grows a feeling of safety to counter the loss of trust in the community. It's easier to think things are fine when there's no monster casting shadows and looking like everyone else.

---

The distance between her and Konstantin grows and bends until it becomes a sort of bridge instead. It is, perhaps, a friendship that is less intense but all the more sustainable for it. One cannot be everything to the other, though the realization was bitter to a pair of hearts so childlike and needy for mine and forever and safe.

---

It wasn't until she watched Prudie dying, small and disgusting in a bed that had once been kept to crisply immaculate, that it wasn't a kindness to be told she was strong. At least not a kindness to her. Everybody had always called her aunt strong, was probably the second or even first word next to her likeness in the dictionary. They called her strong while shaking their heads over hurricane weather and doctor's visits and too many funerals. They called her strong while leaving burdens on her doorstep and driving away.

Prudie never called America strong. And, in the quiet of helpless resentment at the show of mortal weakness before her, she realized Prudie had never called herself strong either.

---

She nearly asks him again anyway, an obvious question aborted before it can gain more than a few words of momentum. It's easy to ignore for the distraction of the fight that follows, his prodding curiosity giving way to something at turns nervous and acrid.

It doesn't matter. She's more than a name.