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make-it-mavis · 4 years

Text

Homesick (Entry #29)

(cw: drunkenness, heated verbal fighting, blood) ----------

01/15/88 1:12 PM

Hey.

Writing all this down hasn’t been easy, you know.

When I started, it was hard to even get anything from my brain to paper. It seemed even more pointless than it does now, for one thing, but for another, it forced me to remember things I’d rather just forget. All these memories are still raw. I haven’t been able to bury them yet, as much as I’ve tried, and writing about them, thinking about them, just feels like ripping open dirty scabs. There are memories so awful that they keep me awake, they infect my dreams, they make me physically ill. Those are just the bad ones.

The good ones hurt about ten times more.

That’s why, sitting down to write this entry now, it feels like I’ve taken nearly half an hour just to get this far. I remember everything, down to each minute detail, so it’s all here in my head, already written. Believe me, I read it all the time. I can hardly put it down, despite my best efforts. I can’t say whether it’s good or bad for my well-being, when it comes down to it. I will say that every word I read feels like its own tiny dagger in my heart.

I’m not sure whether writing them down will feel like pulling the daggers out or twisting them. Best I can figure is, I’m gonna bleed either way, right?

So, let’s take a look at what is, without a doubt, the worst good memory of my life.

Before walking through your door, I paused. I don’t know what I was waiting for. I just wavered a bit and listened to the distant and dissonant riffs of your game’s theme that was nearly drowned out by my heartbeat in my ears. I’d been in your trailer not moments before, and left with the intention of really leaving, of going back to my game and presumably drinking more, breaking stuff, or most likely, both. But I didn’t get a few paces away before I stopped short and turned around. Something tugged at me and urged me to go back in. Like I had unfinished business, or I’d forgotten something. Apparently, it was important enough to call me back into a situation that I had clearly wanted to leave not moments before.

It took something pretty bad for us to part ways while still drunk. Whatever ugly situation I’d just left, I was about to make it uglier. On purpose.

I’ve got a talent for that.

Biting the bullet, I pushed through the door, slammed it shut, and locked it.

It was dark. You’d cranked the blackout shutters just a bit shy of closed, so it was still bright compared to a dark room in Niceland, but shady enough that the glow of your eyes really stood out when you turned to look at me. You were braced against the kitchen sink, and you were holding a bottle that you’d just pulled away from your mouth. I got the impression that you’d just drained most of it in one go by the way you smacked your tongue, and, honestly, you looked way too rough to be sipping anything. Your hair was a disaster (an unintentional disaster), and the distinct pride in your posture was just drowning. You looked slower and heavier than I ever thought I’d see you. I didn’t like it.

You didn’t like what you saw, either, if the blunt glare in your eyes was any indicator. You took another hefty swig, sighed wetly, and growled, “You said you were leavin’.”

I held my ground at first, but I could feel something awful pushing up from my chest. “I did,” I growled right back, “and I’m back now.”

“You forget somethin’?”

“Yeah. I forgot to tell you--” I paused, as my sentence had tumbled completely out of my drunken head, “I decided I can’t leave, ‘cause someone has to tell you how ridiculous you’re being, and ain’t nobody else here to do it.”

Your glare sharpened, and you stood a bit straighter. “‘The cuss you just say?”

I stepped forward. “You heard me. You’re being stupid. You’re making such a huge deal over nothing.”

“I--” you pointed to yourself, “haven’t been doing anything! You’re the one who’s been acting weird all night! What is with you?! Did your sense of fun just fly outta your pocket, or what?! Go on n’ just scram ‘til you find it again!”

I took major offense to that. “I’M not being fun?! I’m always fun, dickbag! You’ve been a mopey, grouchy, pissy, boring, complete and total drag all night, and I know why!”

“Oh, do freakin’ tell.”

I swiftly struck a nerve.

“You’re all hung up on this-- this Roadblasters garbage! It’s got you all--”

“Are you KIDDIN’ me?!” you snapped, stomping over just short of me, “That’s what you’re on about!? You think I’m some kinda pathetic, jealous loser?!”

“I’unno, you sure are acting like one! Over nothing! This is not a big deal!”

“I am not a loser, and I’ll never be a loser, because guess what? You’re right,” you dismissively backed off, strolling back to the sink to lounge against it, still reeking of barely-reined-in rage. “It’s not a big deal. You think I’m worried? No one’s ever even come close to stealing the crown from me. The gamers love a shiny new toy now n’ then, but they love me more. They’ll get bored and come back to me before the week is out.”

“You said that last week.”

Your eyes took on a threatening glint. “Yeah, so?”

I scoffed, “So, you gonna say it next week, too? I hate to be the one to spell it out for ya, buddy, but, those gamers? Odds are? They ain’t comin’ back.”

You paused, and there was something in your eyes that I hated. Well, not that I hated you for looking that way. I hated that I put that look there. There was a hint of this wretched sort of disbelief in them. They were angry, they were indignant, but they couldn’t believe I would say something like that. They couldn’t believe I would think something like that.

I hated that look. But I still felt I was in the right to say it. At the time.

You were too thrown to counter right away, so I continued. “The sooner you get that through your head, the better. You keep waitin’ for something that just ain’t gonna happen, you’ll only get more n’ more miserable.”

The shock in your eyes burned away into something far more hostile. You fired back sharply, with so much venom in your voice, “Right. Uh-huh. And is that what happened to you?”

It was my turn to be caught off-guard. I was expecting you to push back, of course. But when I caught a glimpse of where the argument was headed, my insides just twisted and boiled. I was angry. I wanted to finish you off before you could get into my head. I just… wasn’t ready to go down that road with you, down to things that could only be used to cause me pain, even if you weren’t wasted and pissed off. I needed to defend myself. That’s just the way it felt.

I know you were doing the exact same thing.

I stood, frozen solid, glaring daggers at you, just waiting for anything useful to come into my head. “No,” I began sloppily spinning lies, “but it could’ve. I got wise to it real quick once I realized that it doesn’t freakin’ matter.”

You wheezed a short, spiteful laugh, downed the rest of your drink, and tossed the bottle unceremoniously onto the counter. “‘Got wise,’” you spat, “what a joke. I bet the punchline is that you think you know what this feels like.”

It took me a second, but I decided to bite. “Yeah, T. No freakin’ crit, I do.”

“No,” you growled, slapped your palm back against the counter, and pushed yourself towards me. You imposed into my space, leaning in close, but I refused to budge. “You don’t. An Easter Egg couldn’t possibly get this. I’m the Good Guy.”

You knew how often I heard stuff like that. The steaming rainbows of crap I’ve gone through for who I am. And still, you went there. I know you were just angry, and I know, like me, you tend to say things you don’t mean when that happens. But damn if I didn’t feel betrayed. And damn if it was not about to get worse.

I prompted you quietly, “What’s that got to do with it?”

“So,” you hissed, “you don’t know what it’s like to have the gamers love you since the moment you were plugged in.”

Yeah. With that one sentence, you hurt me in ways I’d always feared you would.

My gut reaction, my first reflex, was to hurt you back. I can say and do some really terrible things when I’m hurt. I realize that more and more as I look back on all I’ve done in this story. But I think right around here is the worst of it. You struck deep enough to break out the ugliest part of me. So I struck back with the intent to cut even deeper.

“No!” I shouted, actually startling you a bit. “No, I don’t! And neither do you! The gamers DON’T LOVE YOU! They never HAVE!”

I’ll never forget the look on your face when I said that.

I continued, “They don’t love ANYBODY! They only like you ‘til they get BORED, and then they DITCH you! You wanna tell me that’s LOVE?! You wanna tell me that’s anything I should WANT?! Why do YOU want it?! Why do you let them HURT YOU like this?! A gamer’s love is worth nothing! It’s not real! Why can’t you GET that?!”

You couldn’t retort. Not right away. You were just reeling for a second. Your drunken self staggered back a step and wavered a bit while you stared at me with a look I wish I could wipe from my memory.

Then that look was gone.

“Oh,” you nodded, straightening up and stepping back on your heels. “Oh, okay. I get it. I hear ya loud n’ clear, baby. You think just ‘cause the gamers never loved YOU, that means they can’t love anyone, right?”

You sort of already said that. Hearing you say it plainly hurt way more. Then, just when I thought you couldn’t cut any deeper, you sliced me down to the bone.

“You know not everyone’s coded equal, don’t you?” you began. “Look, sweetheart, I’m sorry to say you’re the only walkin’, talkin’ Easter Egg in this joint, but that’s the thing. You’re one of a kind. You can't act like the way the gamers see you is how they see anyone else. You keep sayin’ it doesn’t matter if the gamers love you or not, and you’re right! It doesn’t! It matters if they love the Good Guys! That love’s everything! Our very games depend on it! Litwak’s not gonna unplug a game just ‘cause the gamers aren’t in love with the cute little surprise that probably won’t be seen anyway, so what’s the point? Don’t tell me that gamers can’t love anyone just ‘cause they’re not wasting their love on you!”

...Yeah.

You sure did say that.

That shook me. Literally. I tensed up and felt myself quaking all over. I didn’t know what I was feeling -- it was some sick, haphazard attempt at anger, but it hurt so bad. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break everything. I just wanted to turn over the entire trailer, throw you out on the grass, spit in your face, and leave you to rot with the misery that I knew you couldn’t handle alone.

But that would be a surrender, wouldn’t it?

So, I limited myself to screaming.

I stuttered, lagged, gripped onto my hair and actually tore out a sizable clump of it. “You-- YOU--” I shouted, moving in close to you, “You IGNORANT, STUBBORN, CONCEITED, steaming heap of GARBAGE! Will you just LISTEN TO ME, for ONCE IN YOUR LIFE?!”

“I AM LISTENING,” you snarled right back, “All I hear is some RAVING LUNATIC making a complete ASS of herself, talkin’ about crap she doesn’t understand!”

“I’m not an ASS! You’re just TOO STUPID to realize I’m TRYING TO HELP YOU! Help you stop WALLOWING in your own DENIAL and realize THEY’RE-- NOT-- COMING-- BACK!!”

“YES!” you advanced with enough force to make me begin to stagger backwards. “THEY ARE!”

“No, they’re NOT, TURBO! Even if SOME of them do--”

“ALL! OF THEM! WILL COME BACK! ROADBLASTERS IS JUST SOME RUSTY BOX OF SCRAP METAL -- I’M THE TOP DOG! I’M KING OF THIS ARCADE! THEY CAN’T LEAVE ME!”

“So what if they DID?! Why do you NEED THEM?!”

“I DON’T! I DON’T NEED ANYONE!”

“You JUST SAID you do!”

“Not ME! My GAME! My GAME needs them!”

“Your GAME?! You think-- YOU--” I seethed, “You’re so-- I can’t freakin’ STAND you! Why do you have to be KING OF EVERYTHING?! Isn’t there ANYTHING more important to you than your EGO?!”

“Oh, you think--” you pointed a shaky finger, “you think this is just about my PRIDE?!”

“Yeah! I do! Literally NOTHING else is at stake, here!”

“EVERYTHING!” your hands curled into claws, “EVERYTHING IS AT STAKE! Aren’t you LISTENING?! My GAME is at stake!”

“Oh, for the love of-- You’re not getting UNPLUGGED! Maybe it’s hard to see from your pedestal way up above our tiny world down here, but being second best DOESN’T get your game killed!”

“Doesn’t it?” your voice dropped suddenly, into nearly a whisper, and your eyes went as wide as saucers. A clipped, strained laugh slipped out of you. “Doesn’t it, though?”

I had no idea what you were going on about, but your sudden shift disturbed me a bit. I just furrowed my brow and stared at you, at a loss, waiting for you to make sense.

You continued, speaking very quickly, “One day, a game’s at the very top. Everyone loves it. It’s Litwak’s favorite. Gamers crowd around and laugh and fight over who’s next, just for a chance to play. No one could ever picture the arcade without it. And then the very next day, this newer, shinier hunk of machinery--”

You threw an arm out, as if gesturing to it, and your voice began to quake. “This usurper with ‘better graphics’ and ‘better music’ and freakin’ guns on cars just waltzes right in and yanks the crown right off the king’s head. Then what? I’ll tell you what. The crowds, the laughter, the fighting over a turn? Gone. Now it’s just a couple gamers at a time. Time passes, now its one gamer at a time. Soon, hardly any come at all. Some other even newer game takes the crown from the usurper, and by then, even that game is old news, so what does that make the very first king?”

Uneasy volume crackled into your voice. There was a distinct note of urgency. You were just stressing yourself out the more you spoke. But, still, you continued, without allowing a breath for me to step in.

“Nothing. It makes him nothing. He’s not old news. He’s no news at all. Litwak finds a new favorite. Gamers don’t even glance at him. They don’t even LOOK. He just drives in the same Dev-forsaken circle all day ‘til his cabinet’s so covered in dust, no one even RECOGNIZES it anymore. Then-- Then when that day comes, when Litwak needs space for some new, exciting idiot cabinet, no one even CARES when he-- when he finally--”

You crumpled into yourself a bit. You plainly shook, like you were about to burst. I knew what I was looking at. I never thought I’d see it in you, but I knew what it was. I knew what it’s like. How it feels.

Truth be told, I realized that watching you break down... felt like looking in a mirror. That’s when I really figured out just why I’d come back into your trailer in the first place.

I won’t say that I wasn’t at least a little nervous. But I also knew it could never be as scary to anyone else as it is to you. I’m sure plenty of sprites would have told me to run, but I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. And if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t have hurt you either. So, like hell was I going to leave. I resolved with iron-clad stubbornness to stay. I backed up against the front door and tried to dial myself back from the hurt and rage I’d been in seconds ago. I had to keep calm and keep still. As long as you knew where I was, I knew you would steer clear.

And I watched uselessly as you had a good ol’ fashioned Mavis-style meltdown.

“WHEN HE FINALLY UNPLUGS THE DAMN THING!!”

You whirled around and slammed your fist against the fridge. Magnets clattered to the floor.

“BAM! GONE! WHEELED OUT THE FRONT DOOR INTO NOTHING!”

You whipped open the fridge door and slammed it back with enough force to send things falling and clattering together inside.

Blindly, drunkenly, with no rhyme or reason, you paced the small space, stumbling into things and attacking them in frustration. It was the first time I’d seen someone else freak out the way I do. I’ll admit that it wasn’t fun to watch. I did freeze up with more anxiety than I thought I would. Not over what you might do, but over what I should have done. I felt like I should have known what to do, since I had so much experience in this field. But I didn’t. I had no idea how to react or respond, let alone help. I barely know how to handle it when I break down myself, and I know that when I’m in a blind rage, I definitely don’t want help. So how could I help you?

My first, feeble attempt took the form of me just saying, “Hey-- Hey-- Turbo-- C’mon, cool it--!”

You carried on, not even hearing me, “SEE-- YOU DON’T GET IT! YOU COULD NEVER GET IT! YOU DON’T KNOW THE PRESSURE! I HAVE TO KEEP MY GAME ALIVE! THE SECOND I STOP FIGHTING TO STAY ON TOP, I’VE ALREADY LOST! MY GAME’S GONE -- I’M GONE!”

You tore a cabinet door off its hinges.

“I’M GONE IF I GO DOWN WITH THE SHIP! I’M GONE IF GO GAMELESS AND WASTE AWAY! IS THAT NOTHING?! ISN’T THAT A BIG DEAL?! AM I BEING STUPID?!”

You swiped a stack of plates to the floor -- it was loud, but they didn’t break. Plastic.

Not to say you were faultless, but guilt just writhed around in my gut. I was the one who upset you enough to make you break down like that. I know how much it sucks, and I hate that I was the one to trigger it in you. Like I said, I turned an ugly situation uglier. My drunken, upset, hideously miserable brain just couldn’t quite fathom why I did it. I knew why I really came back in. I just wished I hadn’t taken so long to figure it out, and that I hadn’t set us both back so freakin’ far before I did. I’m really quite adept at making huge, huge messes, but cleaning them up escapes me, even when I’m sober. So, completely inebriated, unable to just stand by any longer, I made a mistake.

I tried to move closer while you weren’t even looking.

“I’D BE HISTORY! NO-- NO, I’D BE MYTH! N-NO -- EVEN MYTHS ARE REMEMBERED! HISTORY, LEGENDS, MYTHS -- ONLY WINNERS END UP THERE! WHO’S GONNA REMEMBER A LOSER?! I WON’T BE A LOSER! I WON’T!”

You swept your arm across the counter, throwing all the empty bottles from a long night of drinking everywhere, and those that fell did actually break. A couple didn’t quite make it to the floor. Shaking hard, your hand just barely managed to grab one, and you turned your back to me. For a second, your voice jumped into a sort of sing-songy wheeze.

“Hey, remember that game, Turbo-Time? Huh? What’s that? Turbo? Never heard of him. Doesn’t ring a bell. Who’s Turbo? Huh?”

I moved a little bit closer, trying to side-step the broken glass on the floor. I was way too far from my starting point. You couldn’t have known, in the state you were in. You weren't even facing me. I knew that. Why did I move? Why did I sneak? Why didn’t I say anything?

You went eerily quiet for a minute, quivering over the sink, holding your head with one hand, like your mind was going to fall out. Then, whatever was holding you back snapped.

“WHO’S TURBO?!”

Without a glance, you whipped around and threw the glass bottle with all your enraged might. You didn’t know I was there. You thought you were aiming away.

All the same, you threw it right at me.

It didn’t hit, not directly. I dodged just in time to avoid a broken nose, shredded face, and probably a concussion, but I didn’t go unscathed. The bottle exploded on the wall behind me, and a hefty shard ricocheted and slapped me hard across my right cheek, slicing a long gash as it went.

I didn’t yelp. You didn’t notice. But that pain triggered something awful.

The lines between memories and buff hallucinations began to blur and intertwine. A memory I never wanted to see again suddenly began cutting into the one that was playing. My vision glitched. My ears popped with static. My heart started going absolutely nuts. The pain on my cheek multiplied as I felt jagged metal scratch score marks all over my face. My head began to split, my legs felt clamped in traps that squeezed tighter and tighter, and the clothes on my chest ripped into strings as letters started to carve deep into my skin. I heard barking, and I heard shouting. I don’t think I’d ever felt that scale of panic hit me so quickly. It took me right to the brink of total hysteria.

But, just like that, it was all sucked away from me. In a staggering shift, the grip of your hands and sound of your voice snapped me out of it.

You had grabbed onto my shoulders. My head fizzled and ached and my heart burned as my mind tried to settle back into the main memory. I stared at you blankly. I had my hand pressed to my cheek, so you didn’t see the cut. You just looked at me with these wide eyes, and… I’d never seen fear like that in your face before.

“WHO’S TURBO?!” you demanded, as the cold realization washed over me that you weren’t yelling at me anymore. “Who’s-- Who’s Turbo?!”

You were really asking.

Not just asking, but begging for an answer. Your face was desperate, and your tone was pleading, but I still had no idea what to say. Or what to do. I’d never been faced with an emotion like that before, and, honestly, you almost… sort of looked like a stranger. I’d never formally met that side of you before. There was nothing I could think to do but stare back at you, dumbfounded, and try to keep my footing while we teetered together.

I managed to barely breathe, “T… What...?”

“Who’s Turbo?” you asked again, your voice breaking down, your eyes searching mine like they’d lost something in them. Your grip on my shoulders urgently tightened a bit. “Who am I to them? Who am I to the arcade? Who am I to you--?!” you squeezed painfully tight for half a second, but after that, your grip loosened. “...If I’m not a winner? What if I lose everything?”

I couldn’t speak.

“Say I won’t…” you insisted. “Mavis, say I won’t. Say they’ll come back.”

I couldn’t.

“Wh--...” your eyes squinted at the edges with this… awful, fearful pain. You hissed pleadingly, “Say something!”

I wanted to. I wanted to say whatever it was that you needed to hear. I wanted to say even one single word. But what could I have said that would undo the damage I’d done? I’ll keep saying it, but this was beyond anything resembling my realm of expertise. I was useless. I’m still pretty ashamed of that, to this day.

Just then, you let up a bit. Eyes wide, staring right through me, you straightened up slowly and rubbed my shoulders where you’d been squeezing. “No,” you breathed. “No, it’s okay. You don’t have to. ‘Cause I know they will. I’ll get ‘em back on my own.”

You backed off from me, stumbling on a bit of glass (thankfully, your shoes were on) before you made it back to the sink. You turned away from me and braced yourself against the counter, trying to catch your breath. For a minute, I thought you were going to puke right into the sink, so I looked away. I pulled my hand from my cheek wound to assess the damage, and saw a familiar sight that threw little glitches in my vision and sharp pain into my head.

White glove. Red streak.

In all those trips, this was what I’d been remembering.

At the time of seeing it, though, my only clear thought was that it was bleeding way too much to hide, and I was not looking forward to whatever drama it would add to the situation. There was enough already.

And it just kept getting better.

I heard wind begin to whistle in your throat. You tried to keep talking, but your breath was coming too rapidly. Your sentences were cut into jagged pieces.

“It’s fine-- It’s fine-- I’ll get ‘em back somehow-- I always do-- I always do-- They won’t leave-- They won’t-- I’ll win ‘em back-- somehow--” your breathing grew so sharp, it rattled your whole body, “but-- how-- they won’t-- they won’t even-- even look at me-- I’m right-- right behind them-- and they-- they-- they won’t-- even LOOK-- how can I-- get ‘em back-- if they WON’T LOOK-- LOOK AT ME?!”

Dread pooled in my stomach. In every other situation, with every other sprite, with any emotion even a fraction of what you were throwing at me, I’d have been clear out the door, on the other side of the arcade, acting like it never happened.

But, no.

You’re always the Dev-damned exception.

So, I tried to do… something. I put my hands out a bit and slid closer. “T, it’s okay. It’s-- Just breathe. You gotta breathe.”

You crumpled against the counter, and half-wheezed, “They-- I’m-- I can’t--...”

And your knees buckled. I envisioned you fainting right back onto the minefield of broken glass you’d created.

So, finally, finally, I really did something.

Before you could fall, I jumped to your rescue and managed to catch you under your arms. I think, in the heat of the moment, I forgot how heavy you were, and how drunk I was. I fell too. Not on the glass, though, thankfully. I managed to turn us around enough for me to stumble back hard against the fridge and slide to the floor, with your weight pinning me back. You made feeble attempts to struggle away, but you were losing strength fast. You were hyperventilating so hard, you couldn’t talk anymore. You just stared straight ahead, your hands slipping and squeezing my legs on either side of you.

I’d saved you from the glass. But I was still lost. I was so, so lost, and way too drunk. I knew you would faint if I didn’t manage to help you. So, what did I do?

I started panicking too. ‘Cause that helps.

“Okay,” I said, my own breathing coming too short. “Okay. Okay. Stop. You need to stop. This is really bad.”

Amazingly, telling you to stop didn’t work.

So, out of deep-rooted reflex, I told you louder. “Stop,” I insisted, “stop, stop, stop--” and I started yelling, “STOP IT, STOP IT! YOU’RE GONNA PASS OUT!!”

Even more amazingly, that made it worse. Bits of your voice rode out on your rapid breaths, but there were no words. Just distress. I think you were trying to sound angry, but you just sounded terrified. And I felt like I’d just kicked you while you were down. Like an asshole.

But, right at that point, something else took over. I realized that this was one of those problems I couldn’t solve by yelling (I hate those). I had to calm down if I was ever going to help you. I’m not even exactly an expert at calming myself down, but I’d wager that I knew more than you did. So, I just thought… I’d do what I had to, and make you do it with me.

I took a deep breath, put my hands on your chest and my head next to yours. “Okay,” I told you quietly, but definitely urgently, “okay, it’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe. Take deep breaths. Deep breaths.”

You didn’t.

“T… T, come on,” I said, embarrassingly close to tears. “Listen to me. Please. You’re okay. You can do this. You’re gonna be okay -- just breathe-- just breathe--” I needed to take my own advice. I buried my face in your shoulder and tried to slow my breathing against the fabric, and then it hit me. I snatched my hat off my head and brought it over your mouth and nose. Your heels scraped against the floor and you tried fruitlessly to pry me off, but I wouldn’t budge. I was a little afraid of smothering you by mistake, honestly, but thankfully, that didn’t happen.

I told you, “Just-- shut up for a second-- Just trust me, okay? I promise it’ll help, but just-- just breathe. Deep breaths…” I thought for a second as I tried to steady myself. “Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe with me, I’ve got this. It’s okay.”

I inhaled, “In…” waited, and exhaled, “...out.”

It took a moment, but you surrendered. I felt your jumping chest try to rise and fall as I instructed, and it was working. The moment you realized it was, your hand flew up to mine, the one holding my hat to your face. I expected you to tear it off, to insist that you could take it from there, but you didn’t. If anything, you pushed it on tighter. Apparently, you didn’t want me to let go. I didn’t try to.

Eventually, I didn’t have to say anything. You just followed the slow rhythm of my chest pushing up against your back. And finally, we reached steady breathing together. For a while, that��s all we did. We rode that fragile, awkward silence after a screaming fight, probably the worst one we’d ever had.

“Okay,” I sighed again, and hung my head back against the fridge. “Okay. It’s okay.”

As we began to relax, our grips against the hat on your face let up. Your fingers were still laced over the back of my hand as you brought it down slowly and tiredly, but when I felt my hat slip from my fingers and into your lap, suddenly, you stopped. You paused, and looked closely at my palm. My stomach dropped. The blood. Of course you saw the blood.

It took a minute of staring, but once it clicked, you twisted your head back to look at me, looking… alarmed, I guess. Even more so once you saw the weeping gash on my cheek. I tried to avoid your gaze. I didn’t want it to be a big deal.

“Was…” you muttered, the pieces falling together. “Was that me?”

“...Well, I didn’t do this,” I muttered back, “but whatever, y’know. It’s just a little cut. Who cares?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched as I leaned as far away as I could. I saw your hand rise to the side of your face I’d been pushing my own against, and your fingers came back slick with my blood that had been smeared there.

You were silent. And then something about that silence went cold. You let go of my hand. You hung your head.

And you said bitterly, “Get out.”

I replied slowly, “...What?”

“Get out of here, Mavis. Go.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you here,” you growled.

My insides burned a little bit, but I pushed back without hesitation. “No.”

“You heard me -- I said get out!” you snapped and leaned forward, away from me, but didn’t look back. “Take a freakin’ hint, sweetheart! I got nothin’ for you here anymore! It’s over! Now, beat it, and don’t come back!”

Man.

I didn’t enjoy that.

It seemed like, in a single evening, you were making it your goal to check off every possible thing I’d always been afraid you would say to me. You just kept digging deeper into bleeding cuts, hitting harder on broken bones.

But, lucky for me, I’ve got a lot of HP. And for the second time that night, I found myself looking in a mirror. I wasn’t about to fall for my own tricks.

“No,” I insisted again, my voice shakier than I intended, although a lot of that must have been anger. “No. Screw you. I ain't leaving.”

You tried to shoot a sharp look over your shoulder, but I could tell you didn’t want to look at me. “Why?!”

“Because I know what you’re doing!”

“Throwing you out on your ass?! Yeah! What was your first clue?!”

You moved to stand, to leave me sitting there on the floor, alone, but I hooked my arms around you again and trapped you back against me. You fought, but I could tell your heart wasn’t in it.

“Let go of me!”

“No!” I snapped, “Stop it! Shut up! Don’t bullcrit me -- I know you don’t want me to go!”

“Have you been listening?!”

“Yeah! ‘I hear ya loud n’ clear, baby.’ You screwed up, big time! You didn't want me to see all that, and hell, I didn't want to see it either! But now you think I’m gonna ditch you over it! So you’re trying to leave me before I leave you! I know! Don’t try to pull that move on me -- I invented that move, okay?! Just stop!”

You went quiet. But you didn’t relax. You were tensed as if you would try to jump up the second I let go.

After a breath, I continued a bit softer, “You really think I’m gonna leave you? Just like that?”

You countered, your voice just burning with pain, “Well, I never thought that THEY’D leave me, either, and look how that’s turned out! So, why don’t you save us a lot of time and trouble, and just--”

“NO.”

You stopped dead. I squeezed you like a vice, definitely enough to ache at least a bit. I’d never been so offended in my life.

“No,” I said severely, “no, don’t you dare lump me in with them. Ever. I’m not one of them. I’m not just one of your adoring fans. I’m not gonna just suddenly get bored of you and replace you with some other racer. And I’m not gonna run away just because you freaked out. I’m not scared of this--” I half-lied, “--and I’m not scared of whatever else you don’t want me to see. I know why you don’t want me to. I know. Trust me. But I don’t care. It’s not gonna make me ditch you. So cut the crap. You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

You said nothing.

I felt you give up, let yourself sink back against me again, your whole body shaking. You brought your palm up to your face and didn't lower it. Some of the thickest, heaviest misery I'd ever seen in another sprite emanated from you.

I hate how I could hardly stand to be close to you, right then and there.

I broke the silence and continued softly, more from exhaustion than gentleness, “I'm not leaving. Keep trying to push me away if you want. Be mean. I'll be mean back. But I won't back down, no matter how hard you make it for me to stay. Because, believe me, you're making it really hard. But it doesn't matter. You can't shake me, now.”

You still said nothing.

I decided the fight was over. It was time to carry on like it never happened, as per usual. I'd had enough emotional toil for the day. For a whole month, probably.

“Okay,” I told you slowly, “I’m gonna get up now. I need to deal with my cheek. But I'm not going anywhere near that door. I'm just gonna patch myself up and go the cuss to sleep.”

You leaned forward and freed me from your weight. I got up on unsteady legs and headed to the bathroom. The moment I turned on the light, your voice stopped me from going in.

“Mav.”

I paused and braced myself on the doorframe. Looking back, I saw you still sitting against the fridge where I'd left you, your face hidden in the crook of your elbow draped on your bent knee. You asked me a question in a voice so drowned and low, it almost didn’t sound like you.

“Why'd you come back in at all?”

I didn't want to answer. Of course I didn't. But I also… kind of did.

I looked into the bathroom, and locked eyes with myself in the mirror. There was no glow in my pupils. Just big, beautiful blue eyes, flowy brown hair, and rosy, sun kissed cheeks. One of which was streaked with an open, bleeding wound that looked so much worse than it actually was.

Unlike me.

Maybe it was just my morose, drunk brain talking, but it struck me right then how unassuming I was. How no one would expect me to be capable of what I am. There's so much bad in me. So much more than you'd ever see on the surface. That's never bothered me too much. I'm not the protagonist or the antagonist or even an NPC. I can be whatever I want. And I can't honestly say I have any desire to be good for the arcade.

But in that moment, it shook me just how badly I wanted to be good for you.

Keeping eye contact with myself, I carefully confessed.

“The first time the gamers did this to me… I was alone. I guess I came back in because… I just didn't want you to be.”

I stepped in and closed the door.

#fanfiction #fanfic #wreck it ralph #turbo #make it mavis #original character #homesick

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