#cannot IMAGINE having a second hour of rampage like this tonight

[topflights]

still dodging rampage spoilers like theyre the fucking plague, but i gotta say, i have no idea why they did it tonight. seeing how late everything went just...why? why do this tonight? ive only ever been to two shows and BOTH shows had issues with everyone leaving after dynamite. which is understandable. you go in, watch dark elevation, watch dynamite (which arguably always has the more interesting booking and most of the storylines), and then still have an hour to go? so adding on a whole SECOND HOUR onto the pretaped THIRD SHOW you watch in a night is just too much. 

[iconic-ponytail]

there's always money in the banana stand

riverdale promptathon week 3: yellow + business

Even as the sun sets, even as the breeze blows, the hell furnace of July in Riverdale burns on. It’s triply as sweltering inside the tiny booth running three freezers, offloading heat to sustain the frozen merchandise inside. “How can it be so hot in there when we are supposed to be selling frozen bananas?” JB complains, at least twice a week.

She’s twelve. Complaint is her new first language. She complains about being left in Riverdale while Gladys went back to Toledo. She complains about living in a trailer park that usually does not have warm water. She complains about their father being imprisoned for covering up a gruesome murder. But most of all, she complains about working in the banana stand.

Child labor laws aside, Jughead can’t blame her for that one. He hates the damn banana stand, but it’s their best shot.

Gladys’ monthly check covers rent and utilities for the trailer. Everything else is on him, now. The idiot eighteen year old who decided to petition the court to be his sister’s legal guardian. Well, and his idiot mom who signed off on it. So he needs money, and the Jones family has never been particularly flush with cash, just trampled over by FP’s failed “business opportunities.”

Enter: the banana stand.

It’s not the fastest revenue stream, Jughead finds. But it’s got potential.

Initially, Dilton doesn’t let him sell during the Twilight Drive-In’s concession stand hours. Before or after the movie, sure, but no overlap. “I’m not worried about competition, Jones. It’s just too humiliating for me to watch you sweat through that horrible yellow polo you call ‘branding.’”

But when customers asked him more than twice a night when the banana stand would be open, Dilton caved.

It’s not like being open during the screening hours is a whole lot more preferable. He only just transferred from Southside to Riverdale High last spring; now he’s the rising senior who hands out phallic symbols from inside a giant phallic symbol. Not exactly a boon to his popularity.

Still, recently the money is enough to pay the internet bill and keep JB fed for dinner when she can’t go to the summer breakfast and lunch program at the local park district. It’s still not enough for him to eat particularly well, and the smell of hot dogs and slurp of his classmates’ slushies makes the heat feel like a minor inconvenience.

He eyes the tip jar, willing himself to wait on rampaging the concession stand until the beginning of the film roar dies down. It’s a double feature tonight, which means maybe he can score enough cash to cover those damn college application fees his counselor will start hounding him about week one of school.

Then he sees her—Betty Cooper. She’s laughing, watching Archie Andrews try to catch popcorn in his mouth, tossed by his paramour, Veronica Lodge. She pauses to sip from her slushie straw, her lips—which he’s watched argue against homophobic and racist comments in their advanced lit class, or pressed to the cheek of her other best friend, Kevin Keller. Which he’s imagined, doing slightly less savory things, though the mere thought of said imagining has his heart pounding wildly.

(Jughead’s been eating way too many fucking bananas. Someone needs to check his potassium levels.)

His absolutely pathetic gaze, once available three times a day in their shared classes where Jughead has still not managed to exert any confidence whatsoever regarding speech, eye contact, or general acknowledgement of Betty Cooper’s existence other than whatever drooling may or may not be happening, all of which he finds he has no control over… is all interrupted by the absolute polar opposite of Betty Cooper. Hiram Lodge zooms up to the banana stand on his segway, angling to a stop just before taking out the stand’s foundation.

“Still getting a hang of that, Mayor Lodge?”

Hiram grimaces. “Just checking that you’ve renewed your business permit, Jones.”

They do this once a week. It’s still the same permit.

“You know,” Hiram starts as Jughead rustles for the paperwork to make him go the fuck away, “I could find you an arrangement with a better banana supplier. For a discount. If you’re interested.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “I’m not interested in your GMO, black market bananas, Hiram.”

Hiram gives him a pointed look. Jughead rolls his eyes even harder. “Mayor Lodge.” He proffers the papers, Hiram waves them away. “I’ll take one chocolate peanut butter dip. With peanuts.”

Jughead kisses his teeth. “That will be $3.50.”

Hiram’s whole face goes serpentine. “Not between business partners, Jones. Put it on my tab.”

Jughead grits his teeth, handing the finished banana so aggressively he hopes that the chocolate splatters and stains Hiram’s $500 tie. It is only slightly worth it to watch Hiram struggle with navigating the segway one-handed, frozen banana in the other.

He muffles a chuckle before realizing he’s used the dead end of the chopped peanut topping, and exits the stand to update the order board hanging on the outside. It’s mostly an excuse to feel a ten degree drop in temperature, a sweet relief he might be able to extend by grabbing a hot dog before the intermission rush.

He’s crossing off peanuts from the topping list and spinning around when he hears a shriek and a sudden, cold slosh across his chest. The yellow polo drips with artificial blue slushie, but Jughead swallows his fucking hell when he sees that the shriek, gaping stare of horror, and stumble in question all belong to his very own blonde kryptonite.

“Oh my god. Oh my GOD, jesus, shit, I’m so sorry!”

Jughead is frozen while Betty grabs about half his napkin dispenser and starts pawing at his shirt in a vain attempt to right the giant sticky blue mess all over his chest.

Finally, Jughead swallows the golf ball in his throat and chokes out. “Honestly, it’s fine. That stand is a sauna. I needed that.”

Betty stops, both her blotting and her stream of apologizing (which includes a fair bit of cursing, and he is a little revolted with himself by how much this turns him on).

“It’s going to get very sticky, soon. Maybe I should buy a bottle of cold water?”

Jughead can’t help himself. “Oh, impromptu yellow t-shirt contest?”

Betty grins.

I did that.

“Do you have any employees who could bring you another shirt?”

Jughead shakes his head. “Just my sister. She’s playing video games at home. There’s no earthly way she’ll bring me a spare.”

Betty cocks her head. “I had a feeling you were more than the silent back row kind of guy.”

The fact that Betty Cooper has, at any point, considered what kind of guy he is triggers full-on nervous blathering. “I’m usually very tired at school. I have this little sister—but I’m kind of um, her guardian. So I’m doing this stupid banana stand thing because it’s like one of the three assets to our entire family name I guess? Anyway, it’s hard to engage with Haggly’s basic discussion questions at eight in the morning when you spent the whole night dreaming about wholesale banana margins.”

He’s essentially vomiting words, but Betty is still smiling.

“Anyway, I should crawl back into my fruit-shaped purgatory and let you go back to your friends.”

She’s biting her lip, hedging. “Honestly, they’re probably using the alone time to make out in the car, and I’d rather let them get all their sexual tension out so that I don’t have to feel it radiating off of them for the whole second half of the double feature.”

Jughead laughs and tamps down the impulse to offer her a frozen banana, because he cannot possibly say something like that without making it sound sexual.

“What are frozen banana profit margins like, anyway?” Betty asks, either genuinely interested or legitimately flirting with him. Jughead finds both potentials baffling.

Jughead hesitates, then ducks inside the stand, pulling out his spiral bound notebook. “I’m still kind of figuring it out. All my records are in here.”

Betty sidles up to the stand, taking up the whole window. They’re both leaning over the scribbled line items on college ruled paper; he can smell her shampoo. She takes the notebook, scanning thoroughly.

“Do you have a pencil?”

He hands her one and observes her going to work, writing out some algebraic formula and calculating quickly in her head. There is a calculator within his reach, but he thinks handing it to her might come off as an insult. (Jughead wouldn’t know; he assumes Betty is in an advanced math class. Jughead is not.)

After a few minutes of watching her devoted focus, thinking about her hands touching his pencil, thinking about her hands wrapped around his hand, or his—

“I don’t know how to tell this to you, Jug.”

The shortening of his name stops his heart for a jolt, and his response is embarrassingly delayed. “What is it?”

Betty winces but smiles through it, a combination she’s surely learned to use when delivering bad news. It’s well earned, it really does soften the blow.

“There’s no money in the banana stand. At least, not with these margins.”

Jughead finds himself less than devastated by this news, mostly because it makes a hell of a lot of sense. The messenger doesn’t hurt, either.

“But,” she interrupts. “I don’t know if you’ve nailed down your course load for senior year. But I’m taking AP Econ? This could be, um, a good project. Like, if you want to take the class. Or even if you don’t. Not that you’re like a project or… whatever. I’m just saying we could figure it out. Make lemonade out of… bananas.”

Betty Cooper is extremely cute when she stammers.

Jughead doesn’t know what to do, so he gives her an easy out. “I can’t like, hire you, if that wasn’t obvious by the whole… deficit spending or whatever the whole negative circled number at the bottom of the page really means.”

She flushes. “No, that would be highway robbery. I just thought there might be an… opportunity. For um, us. I mean, for you and I. I mean—” she clears her throat, as if it’s closing up. “An academic opportunity. Or, in your case, professional. Well, a betterment of your livelihood. Okay, um, shit, just… I should go!”

She turns away, her face the deepest scarlet he’s ever seen.

“Betty, wait.”

She pivots back, eyes down at the ground.

“How about I buy you a new slushie and you come back into the booth. Tell me everything I’m doing wrong for the rest of the night.”

Betty looks up, biting the corner of her smile. “Sounds like a deal.”

They shake on it.

[definitelyseven]

rebel (m)

summary: when you discover your whole life has been a lie, you go on a rebellious rampage including fooling around with your adopted brother

optional bias x reader 

one (m) | two (m) | three (m) |

“Yes Mom, I know.” he replied unhappily as his mom nagged him on the other line. “Yes, I’ll look after her for the next two weeks.” he turns to glare at you. He couldn’t believe you ran away from home and followed him and his friends across the world to Seoul. “You are in big trouble,” he says to you as he hung up the phone.

You rolled your eyes at him, “What is it big brother? Can’t handle your little sister misbehaving?” 

“I know you’re upset, but we did what we thought was right!” he explained.

“My whole life has been a lie! How could that possibly be right?” you shouted at him.

“It was difficult to explain at the time. You were a baby!” 

“Bull fucking shit! You don’t get to tell me what they did was right! I spent my whole life thinking you were my biological brother; they were my biological parents! Do you know how I felt? Do you-,” you paused, sighing. “I have a right to be mad!” you continued to shout. 

“I know, I know. You can be mad, be upset, but you can’t runaway without telling our parents,” he said calmly as he reached for your shoulders. “They’re worried about you. Everyone is worried about you.”

“And? How did they think I was going to respond?” 

“Okay fine! Punish us for lying to you! Punish me!” he said angrily before walking away from you. 

“Guys calm down!” Jackson comforted. “I know you’re both upset, but we’re here in Seoul. Let’s have fun and be happy,” he begged. 

You were still pissed at he and your parents, but Jackson was right. You flew all the way to Seoul to get away from your family. You had two weeks of freedom; two weeks to do whatever the hell you wanted. 

Your parents have never treated you differently from him or your other brother, never even hinted that you were different from them so it was hard for you to believe that you were adopted. You thought it was some kind of sick joke. 

You were always especially close to him. Ever since you were old enough to walk, you followed him around everywhere he went. Out of all the brothers and sisters you had, you were the closest with him. He protected you when kids at school were mean to you and fought all the boys that broke your heart. You loved him. 

The reason why you were so mad was because at some point in your life you realized your love for him was different from the love you felt for your other siblings. You hated seeing him with other girls and you hated all the girlfriends he ever brought home. The sick part was you started having dreams about him fucking you. You felt gross for thinking about your older brother like that. You thought you were sick and even tried to hurt yourself thinking that would solve your problem. This was why you were so mad because he knew. He knew you were not his biological sister and he didn’t tell you. 

“You are not wearing that out tonight,” he tells you as he scans your outfit. You rolled your eyes and sat down on the stool by the kitchen island. “I’m fucking serious, Y/N!”

“Make me,” you tell him. 

“Your boobs are falling out of your dress. I can see your ass!” he complained. 

“I’m not changing my outfit because of you. I didn’t spend 2 fucking hours looking this hot for nothing,” you retorted as you turned your back to him. 

The first part of the revenge was running away from home. The second part was ruining his vacation. 

You and his friends were pretty drunk at the club already. He watched you like a hawk as he simultaneously chugged down tequila shots. This made rebelling 10 times more fun. 

“Dance with me,” you whispered in your brother’s friend’s ear before pulling him onto the dance floor. You didn’t even give him the chance to object.

“Uh...Y/N,” he said in shock as you grind your hips against his crotch. You guided his arms to your waist as you rolled your hips backward. “Y/N, I don’t think your brother would like this,” he stutters. He says he doesn’t want to but his body says something else. His grip on your waist was tighter, rolling his hips in sync with yours. 

“Shh...don’t talk, just dance,” you moaned lightly. You felt his member poke against your ass. You could feel how hard he was. Your hands reached back, tangling your fingers in his hair. He always had hot friends; not one bad looking one. You ran your tongue against your teeth as you guided his hand across your chest.

“Fuck you’re so hot,” he blurts out as he squeezes your boobs. His hands trace up your thigh and up your skirt, inching closer and closer to your panties. 

“Not here,” you whispered, turning around to face him. You leaned in close to his lips, teasing him without actually kissing him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to yourself until there was no space left.

“What the fuck?!” you hear your brother shout, pulling you off his friend.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you complained as he dragged you outside the club. “Let go of me!” 

“Stop trying to sleep with my friends to get back at me!” he yelled as he forces you inside the cab. You scoffed, crossing your arms bitterly. 

You stormed out of the cab and ran back upstairs to the hotel suite. He quickly followed behind. The hotel suite wasn’t big; everyone had to share a room, and since you decided to tag along, the boys offered a room for you and your brother to share. You walked into your shared room and slammed it right behind you, not letting him in. 

“Y/N!” he shouts angrily. “Don’t fucking ignore me!” he continues to scream, entering your shared room. “You cannot sleep with my friends, Y/N!”

“I am about to get changed. Leave!” you demanded as you searched for your shirt. He rolls his eyes and walks over to your luggage to grab you an oversized t-shirt. He tosses it to you roughly. “I swear to God. Loosen up. They’re your friends. They’re not bad people.” 

“You done?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m decent.” he turns around to look at you, still pissed. 

“I know they’re not bad people, but I’d appreciate if you’d respect me enough not to fuck my friends. He had his hands up your skirt!” 

You rolled your eyes at him as you got into bed, “Would you prefer if I fucked a random stranger?”

“That’s not fucking funny!” he said changing into his pajamas. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say! Your friend is hot!” you confessed. 

“Funny how you were never interested in them until now,” he joked, sliding into bed with you. “You can’t go around fucking just anybody to get back at me,” he points out. “Y/N,” he calls for your attention. 

You turned to face him, “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Good girl,” he smiled, stroking your hair. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your body close to his. He leans down to give your forehead a kiss. “Go to bed, you drunk ass.”

All that alcohol should have helped you fallen asleep quickly, but it didn’t. You were horny and it didn’t help that he was right next to you. It wasn’t unusual for you and your brother to share the same bed. The both of you actually did it quite often which made it that much harder for you.

You tried to minimize your movements, afraid that it would be obvious to him about what you were thinking, what you were actually doing under the sheets. You had your back to him as you squeezed your thighs together for some friction. “Y/N, stop moving,” he whispered, holding your waist in place with his hand. His grip was hard which made you even more wet. You felt dirty, but you couldn’t stop. You scoot yourself backwards, closer to his chest. Your ass was pressed against his member and you could feel it slightly poke at you. You were sure he was turned on, so you moved your hips against his crotch slowly to test his reaction. “Y/N...” he let out, pulling your lower body close to his. He began moving his hips in sync with yours. You reached for his hands that was caressing your lower abdomen. You interlocked your fingers with his as you continued to grind against him. 

You could feel his dick harden against your ass. “Fuck...” you moaned, biting your lips. 

“This is wrong,” he whispered in your ear. It was, but you didn’t care anymore. You wanted this. You let go of his hand and reached under your shirt, removing your soaked panties. “Fuck...” he whispered again, seeing you remove your panties. He grazes his tongue against your ear, gently nibbling on your earlobe. 

“T-touch me...” you begged, slightly turning around to face him. In the corner of your eyes, you see him reach inside his pants, stroking his cock. “Touch me,” you begged again. He positions himself to your core. He brushes his tip up and down your entrance, barely pushing it in to tease you. You let out a soft moan. 

“Let me hear you baby,” he whispered in your ear. Fuck, that was much hotter than you had ever imagined. He reaches for your leg, lifting it up to spread them apart. He traces his fingers across your clit, slightly teasing it. 

“Fuck, please touch me...” you begged for the third time. 

“God, hearing you beg for me makes me so hard.” he enters his hard cock slowly into you. You’ve been waiting all these years for this moment. It felt ten thousand times better than you had ever imagine. You let out a loud moan, feeling your walls wrap around his thick cock. His pace quickened once he was balls deep into you. “You’re so wet baby,” he comments, rubbing your clit in circular motions. 

“Harder,” you tell him. “I want you to fuck me till I can’t walk.”

“Hmmm...” he hummed. “Dirty girl,” he hissed in your ears. Each thrust became rougher and harder as you continued to moan his name. You could feel the pit in your stomach grow. 

“Let me ride you,” you moaned, pushing him off you. You got on your knees as he laid on his back. His elbows propping him up to look at you with lust in his eyes. You smirked and removed your shirt in front of him. The first time being completely naked in front of your brother. You straddled him and gently lowered yourself onto him. He lets out a loud moan once you reached the base of his cock. 

“Fuck you’re so tight,” he groans, thrusting his hips and launching you forward. You held onto the headboard for support. “I can slip right into you cause you’re so wet,” he moans again, holding onto your ass and guiding your hips up and down his thick cock. You bounced on him roughly, feeling the tip of his cock hit your g-spot each time, and making you moan louder and louder. He sits up slightly and thrusts his hips in sync with you. He grabs your face, pulling your lips down to meet his and quickly shoving his tongue in your mouth. The pit in your stomach begins to grow as you grind your hips harder against his. Your clit rubbing against his pubic area, moaning at the overstimulation. “You like that baby,” he coos. “You like it when I fuck your tight little pussy,” he groans, tugging your hair.

“Y-yes,” you moaned, throwing your head back. “Fuck me harder,” you begged out of breath. 

“Get on all fours,” he demanded. You quickly get off him and got on all fours, sticking your ass up for him. He roughly forces himself inside you, pushing your head down into the pillow. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamnt of taking you on all fours? How many times I’ve dreamnt of you sucking me off?” You let out a stuttered moan, feeling a pleasurable pain in your pussy. All this time, he thought about fucking you too. The sound of your skin slapping against each other made your heart race. You stuck your ass further up, spreading your legs further apart for him to pound you harder. He reaches for your clit, simultaneously rubbing it as he thrust himself into you.  

“I’m close,” you moaned, biting onto the pillow. 

“Hold it in for me as long as you can baby,” he groans, rubbing your back. 

“I can’t,” you complained. You clenched your pussy around his cock trying to hold in your orgasm. 

“Shit...” he moans. “You’re driving me crazy, you know that?” he asked rhetorically. He lifts you up to your knees as he continues to drill behind you, all while he pinches your nipples and sucks on your neck. The pleasure from his cock pounding your sensitive pussy, his hand rubbing your clit and pinching your nipples drove you over the edge. You began to shake in his arms as you feel a wave of pleasure hit you. You threw your head back against his shoulder and moaned loudly. “Cum with me.” You came with him once you felt his hot seed paint your walls. It made you feel warm inside. 

The both of you were left breathless. He slowly slips out of you, his seed dripping down your naked thighs. You dropped onto the bed, legs still shaking from your orgasm. 

The both of you locked eyes. 

Within a split second of looking at you, his expression changes. He looked scared, like he regretted what he had just done. He quickly gets up off the bed and puts his pants back on. He doesn’t say anything to you, but walks outside your shared room.

Your brother sees his friend in the kitchen. “Hey, listen. I’m sorry for dancing with your sister.”

He takes a sip of his water and responds, “Don’t worry about it.”

[foxofthedesert]

Arrow FF | DinahSiren

My take on Laurel/Dinah post-Star City Slayer.  Does not follow canon because, let's face it, canon is shit.  Arrow writers/producers, especially Uncle Guggie and his crew of Green Arrow and Black Canary legacy manglers, the middle finger I'm holding up right now is for you.  Fuck you all.  Oliver Queen and Dinah Laurel Lance both deserved better.  Yes, I am bitter.  Sue me.

Click here to read/comment on this hot mess on AO3.

Dinah wakes with a startled gasp from a dreamless sleep.  Instantly popping up to a seated position from where she’d been laying on her back, she frantically surveys the inky darkness of her bedroom. Instincts firmly in the driver’s seat, her heart hammers a frenzied staccato rhythm against her sternum.  Upon finding no visible sources of danger in the immediate vicinity, she strains her ears to listen for further evidence of whatever something or someone had quite literally gone bump in the night.  Again when no signs of an intruder are evident, her panic-fueled hyper-awareness dissolves into pure frustration.  For the first time since the incident, she had been sleeping soundly without a trace of the pestering nightmares that play behind her eyes every time she succumbs to exhaustion.

Probably that damn alley cat again.  Growling irritably, she flops back down against her plush mattress, determined to salvage the night if at all possible.  Tomorrow morning, she will deal with the pesky stray that has been poking around her place the past few months.  Shouldn’t be too much trouble to set up a trap and then call the pound to deport the striped, four-legged annoyance from her premises.  

Thanking God for finally deciding to cut her a break, it doesn’t take long – perhaps a minute or two – before her eyelids begin to grow delightfully heavy again.  A weary smile stretching her lips, she wiggles happily against the mattress and digs her head into her pillow in anticipation of some long overdue rest.  She is just about under for the second time when she hears it again.

*Thump*

Her previous frustration returns with a gusto, and being already primed from the previous interruption rapidly accelerates into anger as she throws the covers aside and slides out of bed.  Operating on autopilot, she snatches her gun out of her nightstand and then pads barefoot through her room as quietly as possible so as to not scare the damn cat away before she can at least get off a shot.  She will gladly navigate the radioactive professional fallout of discharging her weapon in the middle of the night against a harmless, mangy furball if it means that she doesn’t have to do this again tomorrow.

Upon reaching the door, she toes on her slippers and steadies her gait. Her pulse thrums in her veins, overeager as she is to have a go at the malicious, runty little mongrel that keeps rooting through her trash and leaving bloated dead mice at her door.  But just as she grasps the door handle, she hears another sound that stops her cold – a distinctly human sound that emanates from just outside her front door.  

Alone in the dark, her throat tightens painfully as she is suddenly transported to another time and place, a warped repository of one man’s psychotic obsession with Oliver Queen in which she almost met an ignoble death.  All of its own accord, her free hand idly comes up to brush against the ugly scar marking where Stanley Dover gave her a grisly alternative grin.  Heart thudding manically in her chest, she brings her gun up to chest level at the door as she slowly and resolutely takes the final steps toward the thin threshold separating her from what may very well be her doom.  

Terrified though she may be, Dinah is equally stubborn and unwilling to let fear dictate her actions.

Once close enough to grasp the door handle, she risks peering through the curtains for a glimpse at the potential perp.  All she can make out through the glass and low light of the alleyway are abstract shadows and the vague shape of her neighbor’s lamp blazing through their unobstructed window.  Another thump just as she replaces the curtains scares her so badly she wrenches backward as her fingers tighten around the grip of her gun and her finger settles unsteadily over the trigger.  Steeling herself for an invasion, she braces against a second attempt on her life in as many months.  

All at once, time slows down to a torturous crawl.  Her pulse rings in her ears, deafening and maddening and distracting as sweat beads at her temples and dampens her palms.  The world narrows into a pinprick field of view, reduced down to the six feet between her and whatever boogeyman might be lurking just outside her home.  Nothing happens for the longest time.  Everything is silent save for the cacophonous drumming of her heartbeat against her rib cage and the slight metallic rattle of the gun in her tremulous hand.  The moment is so unbearably fraught with danger and laden with sickly fear that she feels like she is about to crawl out of her skin.

And then, when she least expects it, she hears something that makes her blood run cold for a completely different reason than before.

“Please, no!  Don’t.  Not her...please, no!”

The slurred, delirious, plaintive pleas are uttered loudly enough that Dinah can hear them distinctly.  Instantly her terror subsides only to be replaced with a coil of dread that turns her stomach sour.  

As a cop who has been involved in her fair share of fatal shoot outs and witnessed the aftermath of senseless tragedy, she recognizes the sound of a human heart breaking.  She relaxes, if only somewhat marginally.  If anything whoever is currently outside her door more resembles a wounded animal uttering pathetic death whines than an ax murderer on the prowl or a thief surveying a mark or a miscreant hoodlum skulking about for some innocent soul to terrorize.  

Still, she can’t help but conjure up scenarios as to what she may encounter just outside.  Once when she was a beat cop, she was the unlucky first responder to a fatal domestic rampage and had to forcibly drag a mother half-mad with grief from the bodies of her young daughter and the mentally unstable partner that killed the girl and herself right in front of the poor woman.  If anything like that awaits her tonight, she would really rather stay inside.  Introducing herself to a reality which might shatter what’s left of her already fractured psyche does not seem like a wise course of action at present.

A heartbeat later, she hears the noise that woke her again followed by a strangled cry, neither of which she can ignore if wants to retain any semblance of her pride.  Cowering behind her front door may be the smart choice, but is not one she would ordinarily make.  Dinah has always been a fighter, has always confronted her demons head on rather than let them dictate her actions.  It’s the only way she knows how to cope, and she’s not about to go changing now just because some psychopath almost halfway cut her head off.

Screwing up her courage, she quickly throws the door open and immediately swings right toward the street the alleyway empties into.  Expecting to be greeted by some gruesome scene out of a horror movie, she is instead surprised to find nothing but the empty alleyway between her building and the neighboring complex.    Her brows furrow until deeply ridged as she peers down the length of the alley toward the street, gun aimed as she assesses her situation as trained by the US Government.  Poorly lit by the handful of ancient outdoor lights bolted in to the building’s exterior, she can’t make out every detail, but she can certainly see enough to recognize there is no evidence of anyone or anything having been in the vicinity.  The absence of such evidence naturally leads her to question her sanity.

Had she imagined it all?  Was she really still so spooked by what Stanley Dover did to her that she is overreacting to the most minuscule of stimuli?  Or could it be that she is still caught in the grips of some bizarre, hyper-realistic dream?  To find out, she pinches her hand as hard as she can and winces upon learning that she is indeed awake.  

Seeing as she is not imagining things and that she had most definitely heard an unarguably human voice, she settles in against the door frame with her gun steadied and aimed in the direction of the alley inlet. After drawing in a steadying breath, she waits.  

Just when she is about to give up and turn back inside, a tormented moan from behind reassures her that she is not going crazy after all while also startling her so badly she literally jumps.  Startled out of her wits, Dinah whirls around with her gun raised only to discover the lanky form of a woman sprawled on the ground less than five feet away.  Like a disoriented boot straight out of high school, she had forgotten to clear her nine o’clock – an unforgivable mistake that could so easily have gotten her killed.  

Berating herself for the uncharacteristic misstep, Dinah steps toward the inert form to investigate.  With her back pressed against the brick siding and her head turned so that Dinah cannot see it, it is impossible to make a positive identification, not that she requires one to know who this is.  The black boots, dark jeans, black leather jacket, mile long legs and curtain of golden hair are a dead giveaway.  

Dinah gasps as recognition dawns.  “Laurel?”  

Receiving no response from her breathy query, she carefully shuffles over and gingerly crouches next to the currently comatose District Attorney of Star City.  A quick tuck of honey blonde hair behind an ear sporting a plethora of piercings confirms that her nocturnal visitor is none other than Laurel Lance in the flesh.  

Of all the people to find in such at state at this hour, Laurel would have been the last on Dinah’s list.  

Whatever mysterious reason behind her presence, Dinah has only ever seen the woman as rumpled and anguished in the days following Quentin Lance’s death.  A pang of sympathy stirs her heart like it always does when she thinks of Laurel’s numerous losses.  

What Dinah knows of Laurel’s past is stocked by a gallery of ghosts stretching all the way back to before she was forming permanent memories, from her mother who died when she was still a baby to her Oliver whose premature demise was the impetus for her having uprooted from her Star City in a futile bid to obtain a fresh start.  Each death left behind a brand new section of scar tissue that accumulated until eventually engulfing the entirety of her heart.  Not long after, Black Siren was born.  

Having experienced the bitter draught of loss herself, Dinah has often wondered how the woman did not go completely bonkers after burying in the span of thirty-two years a total of three parents, an unborn baby sister, two foster siblings before she graduated high school, four close college buddies in a single day, a surrogate father, and the love of her life and then on top of all that was turned into a metahuman by a freakish explosion only to be captured and experimented on for number of years before a homicidal maniac finally set her free.  Had Dinah been subjected to half of those traumas, she thinks she might have been damaged enough to lose the will to live and soon thereafter swallowed a bottle full of sleeping pills or the barrel of the closest firearm she could get her hands on.  

Not Laurel, though, she thinks as she slowly and lightly smooths her fingers through the soft hair at Laurel’s temple.  She is unbreakable.  Indomitable.  A warrior.  A survivor through and through.  A headstrong, feisty, relentless boss bitch who would fight her way through hell just to spit in the devil’s face.

That thought turns Dinah’s expression into one of tender fondness as a smile curls her lips.  Quietly she studies features so fine and elegant and lovely that were carved as if solely to grace the covers of fashion magazines.  Caught up in her languid perusal, she soon finds herself slipping from the adrenaline rush of a life or death situation straight into the waiting arms of a helpless and hopeless crush that has developed over the past few months.  

Had someone told her a year ago that she would feel this way about Laurel or that she would be slowly introduced to a different side of the prickly blonde that was kind, considerate, sweet, hilarious, and devastatingly charming, she would have laughed that fool to scorn. And yet over the past several weeks she has discovered all of the above to be true.  And more.  

Since returning from DC, Laurel has almost daily visited Dinah bearing gifts of lunch, or coffee from their favorite joint between the station and courthouse, or dinner and a corny movie they would watch while eating on the couch like old friends.  At first Laurel’s persistence was beyond annoying, but as the days rolled into a weeks Dinah began to look forward to her frequent drop-ins.  The incrementally unguarded version of Laurel she has become acquainted with over this period is every bit as complicated as could have predicted.  She is entertaining but moody; her sarcasm is as boundless as her productive energy; she has a thirst for knowledge that is only rivaled by her passion for martial arts; she is a rabid fan of the Seattle Seahawks who yells at players, coaches, and referees and throws popcorn at the TV while they watch games together; she has an attention to detail that impresses the hell out of Dinah when it isn’t being used against her; and most importantly she is the unique brand of friend Dinah never knew she so desperately needed.  

This new dynamic they were building, peculiar as it seems considering their messy history, has been one of the few bright spots of Dinah’s short convalescence and subsequent readjustment to life after a highly traumatic injury.  Whether at work slaving over reports or lounging at home being a total potato, Laurel turning up unannounced is always the highlight of her day.  None of her other friends ever made her feel as appreciated and understood as Laurel does or ever made her laugh until her belly ached like Laurel does when she launches into one of her comical – and lengthy – diatribes about Super Bowl XL being rigged in favor of the hated Pittsburgh Steelers. Not even Vinny, as much as she loved him and painful though it is to admit, could warm her up from the inside out like Laurel’s honey-smooth voice does when it wraps so melodically around her name.

Honestly, that last realization was like a slap her in the face that woke her up to how rapidly evolving their relationship was.  In less than six weeks, they have gone from respectful acquaintances to friends to something...more.  And scary as the breakneck tempo of that progression is, Dinah has been sorely tempted of late to throw caution to the wind in an effort to define just what that something more is.  The sole impediment to taking that plunge is her own fear of what might happen if either or both of them screw it up.    

Still idly toying with silken strands of golden hair, Dinah is too wrapped up in her own musings to notice that Laurel is beginning to stir.  A prolonged groan at last alerts her to the change, and she breaks out of her own thoughts just time to watch Laurel’s face scrunch up in complaint over her awkward position.

“God. What the hell…?” Laurel slurs as her eyes begin to flutter open. They immediately widen when she realizes what happened.  “Shit.  I fell asleep.”

Dinah cocks her head in amusement.  “That you did.  Not in the most comfortable spot, either.”

Laurel has the grace to blush at the heavy subtext applied to Dinah’s comment.  They are both aware she has a perfectly luxurious bed back at her apartment she could have crawled into instead of passing out on the cold, hard asphalt.  

“I can explain...”

“Not here,” Dinah interrupts, then pushes off her haunches to stand. Once upright, she offers Laurel her hand.  “Come on.  Let’s go inside.  There’s no sense in you staying out here the rest of the night and it’s too late for you to go home.”

Taking the hand, Laurel allows Dinah to help her to her feet.  “If you’re sure,” she replies, brushing loose gravel off the seat of her extremely tight jeans, an action that draws Dinah’s gaze southward to a shapely rump her hands suddenly and inexplicably itch to explore.  “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

Hastily averting her eyes from Laurel’s ass lest she get caught letching, Dinah crosses her arms over her chest and funnels her embarrassment into faux irritation.  “Probably should have thought about that before falling asleep outside my door.  You were having a nightmare or something.  Your thrashing against the side of the house woke me up.”

Laurel winces apologetically.  “Sorry.”

Swiftly deflating in the face of Laurel’s chagrin, Dinah shrugs neutrally. “It’s fine.  No big deal.”  The falsehood slips free so easily it causes her to wonder when it became acceptable behavior for her to lie to make Laurel feel better.  Probably about the same time you developed this silly little crush. Frustration mounting at her inability to curtail these surging feelings, she turns wordlessly to the door then starts back inside.  When she senses Laurel hesitate to follow, she pauses in the doorway and sighs dramatically.  “Oh, for God’s sake, woman.  Don’t be difficult. It’s too cold and late for me to deal with your stubborn ass. Just come in already before I actually get upset.”  When Laurel obeys, duly chastised, Dinah leads her into the living room where she plops down onto her couch before patting the cushion next to her. “Sit.”  

This time Laurel does at Dinah says without argument.  “I’m really am sorry I woke you,” she tells Dinah a bit later once they are both settled in and getting warmed up under a couple of fluffy throw blankets, Dinah beneath her well-worn red one while Laurel wraps herself in the one sporting the Seahawks logo that she brought over for their recently ritualistic Sunday afternoon football watching.  Wearing a guilty expression, her shoulders draw in tight. “I didn’t mean to.  Or to fall asleep like that.  Guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“Never mind that,” Dinah replies with a wave of the hand she’d left uncovered.  “I’m more interested what you’re doing here in the first place.  In the middle of the night.  Halfway across town from your apartment.”

The blush Laurel answers with betrays how humiliated she is at being caught in such a state.  Dinah is a bit perturbed at the thought that zips through her brain right then that Laurel has the perhaps the most adorable blush she’s ever seen and ought to wear it more often.  It is followed by a brief internal freak out seeing as now is so not the time for her crush to once again take charge of her brain.

Sadly, having noticed her staring, Laurel then begins to worry her bottom lip, causing Dinah’s eyes to instinctively flick downward. Mesmerized by the motion, she marvels at how full and pretty and symmetrical Laurel’s lips are, and wonders for a split second whether they feel and taste as soft and delicious as they appear. Unbidden, Dinah’s heart rate begins to accelerate as her chest and neck rapidly start to flush.  

A second later, the biological basis behind her strong reaction becomes glaringly apparent: that this is no simple crush.  Oh, God. Oh, God.  Stop it right now.  I’m not ready for this.  Hell, I’m not even sure this is real or if it’s just me assigning false meaning to how grateful I am to have her in my life.  I mean, I haven’t felt that way for a woman since college.  And this is not just any woman.  This is Laurel Fucking Lance!!!

And yet as it ever is when Laurel’s beauty bewitches her, the proof is all too evident.  From her throbbing pulse to the pool of warmth spreading from her chest into her lower belly, it is becoming increasingly clear that the experimental phase she went through like many other a normal university aged female may not have been a phase after all.  

Since Alanna Chambler, she has indulged a few minor crushes, but that’s all she thought they were.  Innocent crushes.  Simple admiration for the human aesthetic that any sane individual would objectively appreciate, of which Laurel is a preeminent example.  

Could it be possible that she was wrong to assume that’s all it was? That there was something deeper at play behind her noticing how stupidly pretty some girls like Laurel are?  Something she refused to acknowledge way back when because the fallout from her breakup with Alanna was an unmitigated disaster that may have scared her straight, so to speak?  The possibility is intriguing.  And terrifying.

So as not to scare the hell out of Laurel, or make a scene that will mortify her for weeks, Dinah quickly clears her throat and schools her features.    

“That’s fair, I guess,” says Laurel after a tense moment of them staring at one another with muddled degrees of curiosity, apprehension, and awkwardness.  “I won’t bore you with a sob story as to the reasons, but I don’t sleep much normally, and since I heard what happened to you even less.”  Pausing a beat, her eyes take on a liquid quality that causes a tight lump to form in Dinah’s throat. “I wasn’t here when you needed me.  Instead, I was across the country at a stupid conference I could have easily ducked out of if I really wanted.  While I was listening to some decrepit old hag prattle endlessly about how arcane certain statute of limitations rules are, you were bleeding out in a psychopath’s basement.  Had it not been for Curtis, you would be dead.  And that...haunts me.”  A shaky breath later, she adds, “I should have been here and I wasn’t and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for that.”

How long has she been holding this in?  And why hasn’t she told me until now when she’s had plenty of opportunity?  Dinah wonders, and for unknown reasons is suddenly compelled to reaches out for Laurel’s trembling hand.  She experiences a foreign but intense relief when her gesture is not immediately spurned.  

“Oh, Laurel...”

“I know it’s bizarre and inexplicable and idiotic to blame myself for something totally out of my control,” Laurel interrupts, clearly frustrated with herself for a variety of reasons Dinah can probably guess at with a modest degree of accuracy.  “Lately I find myself being idiotic about a lot of shit and taking way too much interest in things I shouldn’t.  Like, I can’t stop mother-henning Felicity over her pregnancy.  And I’ve been irrationally obsessing over what happened to you, and that is just not like me.  I don’t know why I’m so...”  

Trailing off with an anxious sigh, she runs a shaky hand through her long blonde tresses.  “Look, I don’t really understand what the hell is going on myself.  As for why I’m here tonight?  I just...the thought of you being back home after what that fucking piece of shit did to you was hard enough when Ollie was arranging an around the clock protection detail.  Now that the detail is off, I should be relieved.  But I’m not.  I tossed and turned all night last night. Same thing tonight.  I couldn’t stop running ridiculous scenarios my head.  Like what if that sicko bastard somehow managed to get out? I mean, he did it once, albeit with Oliver’s help.  Stands to reason he could do it again if the circumstances were right. Slabside security leaves a lot to be desired, you know, so that is not out of the realm of feasibility.  I...”  she sighs, scrubs a hand wearily over her face, and seems to crumple inwards as if the pressure she has been laboring under lately has finally exceeding her limit.  “Believe me, I wish I had an acceptable answer for you beyond me being totally irrational.  I just don’t.”

Stunned by that outpouring, and more than a little touched, Dinah stares at an increasingly uncomfortable Laurel, who fidgets with every passing second as she was scrutinized.  A moment later she groans in dismay. “God.  You think I’ve gone nuts, don’t you?”

That snaps Dinah out of her stupor.  Brow crinkling, she shakes her head fervently.  “No.  Not at all.  Just...I’m surprised is all.  I mean, given our history I wasn’t expecting you to ever care about my well-being as anything more than an occasional co-conspirator in one of Felicity’s schemes, let alone become friends like we have recently.  Forgive me if I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around you caring so much that you are actually losing sleep over me.”

Though Laurel does chuckle a bit at the mention of their shared tendency to enable Felicity’s fiercely adventurous spirit, the lighthearted moment passes all too quickly as a second rosy blush colors her cheeks.  Averting her gaze to study the backs of her hands, she shrugs, unsuccessfully attempting nonchalance.  

“Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time I’ve lost sleep over you. When we first met, you were the only person who didn’t look at me like everybody else on this Earth did, as if I was a tool to be used or some twisted, sickening cosmic joke being played upon them because of the face I wear and the body I inhabit.  In your eyes, I was only ever just me because you had never met her, and I really liked how that felt even if you didn’t like me very much.  Also, you gave as good as you got, which was a nice change of pace from your comrades, who always held back when they fought me, though I’m sure they’d insist otherwise.  And maybe it’s just my imagination running wild, but I’ve always felt there has was a strangely exciting spark between us.  Maybe that’s why, quite against my will, I found myself respecting you.”  Worrying her hands together, she smiles ruefully.  “I used to lie awake for hours replaying our interactions on a loop in my head, you know?  For lack of a better term I was...” she flails her arms a little here, “fascinated with you.  Still am.  Although I can see how you wouldn’t know any of that considering my stunted ability to express myself with my words instead of my fists.”

Ignoring for a moment how she had no idea Laurel felt this way, and how special knowing she does makes her feel, Dinah nudges Laurel’s shoulder with hers, sporting a playful smirk.  “Which you’re getting better at, by the way.  I was really proud of you for not decking Rene yesterday when he implied you were secretly pleased about what happened to me.  That I lost my Canary Cry.  I know you wanted to.”

To be frank, Dinah did, too.  Rene was perfectly aware the subject was a sore one for her.  Literally and figuratively.  Her throat still aches like a bitch from all the repair work doctors had to do to shore up Curtis’s emergency field cauterization.  Learning that the damage to her vocal chords will likely prevent her from every being able to use her meta ability was the pouring of proverbial salt upon the still gaping wound.  There have been so many times she’s saved lives or prevented catastrophe with her Cry.  It’s become part of who she is.  That she’ll never get to experience it again has left her with an ever-present ache she can’t help but compare to having lost a limb.  

What’s worse, she’ll never be able to sing again, either, at least not at full tilt for more than a few seconds.  Even at moderate volumes, it will likely be uncomfortable and unsustainable, not to mention that she might never be able to pitch correctly again.  Although she doesn’t have the greatest voice in the world, some of her fondest memories of her childhood involve her mother singing her to sleep, and they are so precious to her that she has fantasized often about doing the same for her own children.  Now, if by some miracle she finds love again and marries, she might never get to realize that dream.  Those compounding losses are so unfair, so frustrating, so enraging, and so very depressing that even minor dwelling upon them eventually leads to tears.

Rene should have known better than to use them as a weapon against Laurel. Not only does he know how deeply she disapproves of his continually shitty attitude toward the reforming Black Siren but he should at minimum respect her enough to never indulge his issues with Laurel at her expense.  Sometimes his tactless cruelty leads her to wonder why she still calls him a friend when for Dinah’s sake Laurel is nearly always more cordial to him than he is to her – at least at first. Those two can’t be in a room for more than five minutes without their acerbic sniping turning into clenched fists and flared nostrils.

Laurel frowns deeply at the reminder of that unpleasant encounter.  “Wasn’t easy.  I can’t believe he had the gall to suggest I gave a shit about me being the only one who can do that now.  Maybe a year ago, that would mean something to me.  But now?  If I could, I would give my ability to you.  You deserve it so much more than I do after all I’ve done.  In retrospect I can see that it’s brought me nothing but grief and regret.”

The haunted quality of Laurel’s eyes tells Dinah she is regressing into the vast vault of horrible memories that are stored inside that brilliant mind.  Memories of all the lives, innocent and otherwise, she took using her Cry.  Of the years she refuses to elaborate upon in which she was regularly experimented upon in a government facility solely because she was one of the most powerful metahumans alive on an Earth that openly persecuted them.  Of the day she got that ability, doubtless experiencing something unimaginable.  

Sometimes when Dinah thinks about how she screamed in anguish as Sonus shot Vinny right in front of her, she inadvertently draws parallels to how Laurel received her gift. None of the scenarios she has conjured up offer any comfort to a conscience riddled by guilt over her having refused to sympathize with her fellow metahuman when they first met.  Who knows, maybe if she’d tried, Laurel might have responded to her overtures seeing as they have common ground upon which to stand.  Unlikely as that outcome would have been, she still should have tried. They have the exact same ability – granted Laurel’s is far stronger and her control of it significantly more advanced; how the hell does she do that thing where she blows a kiss and emits a sonic wave strong enough to knock a grown man on his ass? – which means that their origin point has to be eerily similar. If nothing else that alone would have provided the basis to form a tentative rapport.  

But Dinah hadn’t extended the proverbial olive branch, nary even a twig at that, leaving her to wonder what happened to transform Laurel into the infamous Black Siren.  Had she lost someone she loved dearly on that fateful day as well?  Was she involved in an accident that subjected her to unbearable pain?  Or was something far worse occuring, something so horrific as to produce the sort of shrill banshee wail Black Siren became famous for?

The latter possibility never fails to send a shiver of revulsion down Dinah’s spine.  If...that….did happen to Laurel as she was being bombarded by dark matter, she isn’t sure she wants to ever hear about it.  The mere ambient suggestion of Laurel enduring something so vile is sufficient to make her sick at her stomach, never mind being regaled with the visceral details. Thankfully Laurel seems equally as determined to not talk about that day, which is an arrangement Dinah is more than happy to keep for the foreseeable future.

Whatever went down to give Laurel her ability, there is no arguing that it is the sole factor to which her presence on Earth-1 can be attributed. It was for her meta ability alone that Zolomon rescued her, recruited her into his employ, and then transported her here to facilitate his evil schemes, and as rocky as the road has been between then and now for Laurel, Dinah cannot say she’s sorry that any of it happened. The very idea of not having Laurel in her life just seems so...wrong.           

“Not always, it hasn’t,” she replies, unfurling from her blanket so she can take Laurel’s hand.  The gesture produces the intended effect of drawing Laurel away from the self-imposed hell that is her memories.  Smiling gently, she adds, “I get why you might feel that way, but try and remember that if nothing else, it’s the reason you’re not still locked up in that hellhole Zoom sprung you from on your Earth.  And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. With me.”

“You are?” Laurel asks, looking slightly awed at Dinah’s optimistic perspective.

“I am.  Doubly so actually.”  As she responds, Dinah reassuringly rubs her thumb along the back of Laurel’s hand.  “You may have scared the hell out of me, but I’m really glad you’re here tonight, too.”

Something happens to Laurel’s face then that Dinah has only ever heard about from Felicity.  Blinking against the tears gathering, her lips curl up slightly and then pause a split second before spreading further into a soft smile that teases her incredible dimples, causes her eyes to shine and makes her entire being glow as if she is illuminated by an internal light that is unveiled at just enough wattage to convey how touched she is.  What makes it even better – or worse depending upon the perspective – is that Laurel’s expression is screaming at Dinah that she would like very much to throw caution to the wind, lean in and close the short distance between their bodies until they are breathing each other’s air, and then plunge straight off the deep end to consummate the budding attraction that has been building between them until the tension has grown unbearable.

Not for the first time of late, Dinah feels a very familiar tug at her heartstrings.  There aren’t any other smiles in the world that can do to her what Laurel’s does.  And like this, with so much raw emotion behind it?  Ordinarily it is difficult for her to deny Laurel anything when confronted by one of those gorgeous smiles, but this is just taking it too far.  There’s isn’t much she wouldn’t do right now if Laurel asked, even risk their fragile friendship to find out if those lips of hers taste as yummy as they look.  

Amazing as this feeling is, she is not all prepared to give in.  Not yet anyway, ‘cause once she does, she knows it’s all over.  There won’t be any going back for her as she is not the type to cautiously wade in to a relationship, preferring instead to dive headfirst into the deep end, and she gets the same impression from Laurel.    

Clearing her throat breaks the moment, and Dinah is a little sad and quite a bit relieved to see Laurel’s demeanor abruptly shift back into safer waters.  “And hey,” she says, hoping to assuage the tint of hurt in Laurel’s eyes, “since we’re being honest with each other, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to admit I was a little bit scared when I crawled into bed knowing I didn’t have the crutch of a protection detail camped outside my place.  First time that’s happened since I was stupid ten year old who thought she was the bravest girl in the world only to discover she wasn’t by a long shot after she watched Nightmare on Elm Street before bed.”

Laurel’s nose crinkles at the last part of the confession.  “Oof. If that is the same thing as it was on my Earth, not a wise decision.”

Dinah chuckles wryly, in full agreement.  “It certainly was not. Thankfully my Dad was a total softy for his little girl.  He was so wrapped around my finger he stayed with me every night after until the fear abated.”

“Well,” Laurel nibbles her lip quickly, her expression going soft again, “I don’t know many sane people who would describe me as a softy, and you are far from a little girl.  But there is perhaps a tiny chance that I may be slightly wrapped around your finger as well.  Meaning if you want or need, I would be willing to, uh...you know.”  She gestures lamely, blushing yet again.  

Overwhelmed, Dinah’s eyes shimmer with gratitude at being privileged with a glimpse of the real Laurel.  She figured out a while ago that Black Siren is merely a coat of armor Laurel wrapped herself in to protect her from a world she became convinced – and understandably so – was out to get her.  Every now and then, when she’s relaxed and in good spirits, the Laurel that once existed before being repeatedly traumatized and abused until transforming into a writhing black ball of hatred makes an appearance.  Every time that happens, Dinah finds herself thinking the same thing she is right now, that she would like to spend a lot more time with this woman.  A whole lot more.  Because this is someone Dinah can feel unashamed about caring for.  Someone she would not object being openly attracted to.  Someone she might, if she was willing to peer closely enough into her wonderfully traitorous heart, already be falling for.

“Are you offering to stay the night to keep me safe, Ms. Lance?” she asks, hoping the answer is yes.

“I...I, uh, guess so.”  Laurel’s initial spluttering is so cute, Dinah has to refrain from squealing like a pathetic, love-struck teenage. Sadly Laurel recovers her composure quickly.  “I mean, yes, Captain Drake.  I am.”

Rather than fold like a cheap card, Dinah decides to attempt subtlety. “Hmm.”  Eyes narrowed, she taps her chin contemplatively.  “Well, you’re right that I’m not a little girl anymore.  But...” she draws out the vowel to really sell it that is totally not a hairsbreadth away from begging Laurel to stay over and cuddle up behind her and hold her tight all night long, “I would be lying if I said I would mind the company.”

Looking cautiously hopeful, Laurel quirks her head over to one side as she is so apt to do.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then.  I’ll stay.”

“Great!” Figuring it is way too soon for her to give in to the surprisingly powerful urge to invite Laurel into her bed, even if it is for innocent purposes, Dinah switches gears.  “So...when I found you outside, you appeared to be having a bad dream.  Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”  The answer is expected.  However, when Dinah starts to argue the case for sharing being healthy, Laurel shakes her head and physically draws herself up straighter as if gathering her courage. “But you know what?  Maybe I should.  If for no other reason than to honor the spirit of honesty we have going here.”

“Who knows, it might help,” Dinah says, hoping to encourage Laurel to trust her with whatever had caused her so much distress.  “And I promise I won’t judge.”

As if preparing for battle, Laurel takes a deep bolstering breath and then exhales slowly before returning her focus to Dinah.  “So, I’d just ask that you be patient with me.  Okay?  ‘Cause I’ve never told anyone this before.”  

Dinah quickly her extends her agreement, not daring to do otherwise in her interest to learn more about this endlessly fascinating woman. Especially something that no one else knows.  As unexpected as all of this is tonight, what is happening right now is of an importance that Dinah truly appreciates.  Felicity has been the only person Laurel confided in up to this point.  Being included in that exceedingly tight circle is a privilege she is not about to pass up.  

“I was dreaming about someone.  Someone important to me.  Someone I lost back in Central City.  I’m sure you figured out a long time ago that I lived there back on my Earth due to me being a meta.”  Dinah nods in the affirmative, recalling that her mental dossier on this Laurel Lance includes a stint residing in Dinah’s old hometown and that it was there she received her meta powers.  “What you don’t know, nor does anyone else still living to my knowledge, is that while I was there I was not as...unattached...as I have led those who have inquired to believe.”  She grimaces.  “Quentin once quizzed me about my life back there, and for the most part I was honest.  Not about this, though.  This I kept to myself because it hurts too much to even think about most days.”  

Swallowing thickly, Laurel briefly averts her gaze and when she turns it back up, there are tears born of tumultuous, raw emotion in her eyes.  “I told him once that I never really held a real job before.  And that was true in a sense.  I don’t really consider what I did in Central City a real job.” She smiles ruefully, her gaze turning wistful almost.  “I actually used to be the staff singer at this little jazz club in the Lower West side.  Place called Reno’s.  Ever go there?”

“Yes,” Dinah replies, her voice rough with surprise and a bit of her own emotional response.  

Reno’s was her and Vinny’s favorite bar back when they were embedded deep cover with Sonus’ organization.  They’d go there every Friday night to decompress after an excruciating week of living a lie in the most hostile work environment imaginable.  

Jazz has always been Dinah’s go-to coping mechanism for stress, and Reno’s was the hottest spot in which to bask in the smoothest tones and most sultry melodies the genre had to offer.  Their musicians were the best in the city, all self-taught virtuosos, and their singers skillful and soulful enough to rival Ella or Billie at their pinnacle.  For Laurel to have been regularly employed there speaks to how talented she is.  As far as Dinah is aware, the Reno’s here never had a staff singer during her tenure with the CCPD.

“Ours never had a staff singer, though,” she adds.  “Reno liked to keep things fresh.  He had a stable of singers that rotated through on a monthly basis.”

“It was the same back on my Earth,” Laurel says, fondness dripping through her tone.  “When I first started there, I had auditioned like everyone else and expected to be part of the rotation.  Which I was for the first couple of months.  My gigs started selling out by the third.  Reno liked to say my voice and presence were good enough to get me on any stage but my dimples were what conquered hearts and made fans empty their wallets.  ‘I’m tellin’ ya, girl, those things coulda made Paris turn away from Helen,’ he’d croon as he counted the cash in the till with a gleam in his eye.”  On queue those very dimples peek out through an intensifying smile, proving old Reno’s point.  

Those things really ought to be illegal, Dinah thinks.  Or reserved for me alone.  The possessive nature of that thought makes her flush with as equal measures of shame and excitement.

“Anyway,” Laurel goes on, unaware of Dinah’s internal conflict, “I only say that because that’s where I met her.”

Dinah’s brows disappear into her hairline.  “Her?”

“Does it really surprise you to discover I’m bisexual?” Laurel asks, lips teasing to one side.  “A, This is 2019.  B, I’m a Lance, so it’s basically codified in my DNA.  And C, I’ve been flirting with you pretty much non stop since the moment we met.”

Dinah splutters a moment at that, her mind rewinding manically and then playing through all of their early interactions.  In retrospect, it is easy to see that Laurel was, indeed, flirtatious virtually every time they interacted.  It was only after Vinny’s death that they turned vicious, and even then she thinks their unusual attraction probably exacerbated the meteoric descent toward outright hatred. Thin line and all that.

“When you put it that way, I guess it shouldn’t,” she says after recovering from the initial shock of Laurel so open admitting to her flirting.

“To be fair, I suppose I should give you the benefit of the doubt since your Laurel was not brave enough to admit she was every bit as bi as her sister.  Before her death, she may have still been hung up on Ollie but she was also nursing quite the crush on Felicity.”  At Dinah’s dumbfounded expression, Laurel chuckles.  “It’s true, by the way.  I read her journals and shit – you know, to study up before officially replacing her at a professional capacity.  Quentin gave them to me to boost my chances of a successful transition. Apparently bisexuality runs in the family.  Shocker.  An uncle on my Dad’s side swung both ways as does my Mom, who dated a lady in grad school right before she met my dad.  If your Laurel’s information is reliable, which I assume it is what with her having been such a veritable bastion of virtue and honesty, we share that background.”

“Wow.” Flabbergasted, that is all Dinah says for several seconds before the reference to Sara catches up with her.  “Speaking of Sara, does she know about any of this?  I imagine she’d be really interested to learn something about her sister she might not have known about.”

Settling back against the cushions, Laurel crosses her legs and hums affirmatively.  “I told her last time she visited.  I think it helped us bond to know I was more like her than her Laurel, who hid from her sexuality instead of embracing it.  Not that I’m casting stones here.  She had her reasons for remaining in the closet, one of which was our distinct preference for men.  Turns out our taste in women is very...specific.”  

Laurel pronounces that last word very deliberately and stares at Dinah pointedly as if to elaborate on precisely what type of woman she finds attractive.  She doesn’t want to think too long or hard about the ramifications if that statement is true.  If she does, she might connect the nebulous dots to form a somewhat disturbing picture, one that might reveal if she’d met Earth-1 Laurel while she was still alive they would have gravitated toward one another the same way she has with this one and might even have eventually lead to a romantic entanglement that would have resulted in radical changes to the way their lives unfolded.  That right there is a can of worms Dinah would prefer stayed permanently sealed lest she lose her damn mind.  

“Actually, I’m the same.  I think.  Maybe,” she answers Laurel after recovering from the brief mental trip Laurel’s innuendo took her on.  She scratches the back of her head, a mite nervous all of the sudden.  “I’m not really sure.  I’ve always been strongly attracted to men, but I did date a girl in college.  I just...” she sighs, “when it ended, I wrote it off as an experiment because the breakup was bitter and ugly and I never wanted to go through that again.  Now, I’m starting to rethink that assessment as a bit premature.”

Laurel sits up straight, at full attention.  “Oh, really?  That is quite intriguing!”  For a moment she looks like she wants to launch into an in-depth interrogation only to think better of it at the last second.  “But as much as I’d love to pursue this line of conversation further, we’re getting dangerously off topic.”

Dinah sighs in relief and takes the proffered out.  Things were getting way too serious way too fast for her liking.  Ready as she is to admit she is attracted to Laurel, she is not ready to act on it.  Yet.

“Agreed. By all means, please continue...”

After smoothing her hands down her jeans, Laurel launches back into her tale.  “As I was saying, I met her at Reno’s.  She was a fairly regular customer, but she didn’t catch one of my gigs until I was on staff because her work schedule didn’t line up.  That night, she approached me after the show and introduced herself.  Asked me on a date right then and there.  I couldn’t say no.  I was instantly smitten.  Being around her felt so right, as if a long lost part of me finally slid into place.  That, and she was...” Laurel draws in a breath, eyes sliding shut, “a force of nature, magnetic, witty, driven, intense, drop dead gorgeous, and so full of life and light that she illuminated everyone who came into contact with.  Like a star that burned impossibly bright and drowned out all the others with her brilliance.  We went on a date that very weekend.  And another three days later.  Pretty soon we were seeing each other every other day.”  

Pausing, her expression grows dreamy, whimsical almost, as if the memories have transported her to a time and place she might actually have been happy.  A time before her life was shattered all over again, leaving her destitute and bitter, a woman spiraling out of control on her way to the bottom where Black Siren was eagerly waiting with arms wide open.

“God, Dinah.  I fell in love so fast that I didn’t even realize until I was already neck deep.  She made me forget how broken I was.  Made me want to live again.  Made me want things I had given up on, like getting married and having babies and buying a house in the suburbs and adopting a dog and the whole nine yards.  I hadn’t wanted any of those things since Ollie died.  Sometimes I think I may have even loved her more than I did him, which was scary as hell but a relief at the same time because she understood me like no one else ever has. She not only practiced a saintly level of patience with me but she embraced me for who I was and never once asked me to be somebody I wasn’t.  No one other than my father ever loved me so wholly and selflessly.  So how could have said anything but yes when she asked me to marry her a year later?  It was a no brainer, really.  Best choice I ever made.  And the worst.”

Dinah feels awful for the surge of irrational jealousy that overtakes her at hearing some other woman besides her was the first to make Laurel feel that way.  Hating herself for even entertaining such a notion, she quickly masters herself and focuses on the information being given to her, just like she was taught to while training to become a detective.  From how Laurel’s brief description practically gushed with praise, she can tell this woman was special.

“She sounds amazing,” Dinah says, trying her best to be a supportive friend.

Laurel’s wistful smile signals her confirmation.  “She was.  Every single day, she made me laugh and smile and never once made me feel like I was defective or like I didn’t deserve her.  She showered me with so much love I honestly felt like I was about to drown sometimes. And when I got panicky about that and would take off for a few days to sort through my baggage, she would always be waiting for me back home when I came to my senses.  She was kind and passionate and strong, and while we were together, she wasn’t just my lover and my best friend and my emotional rock.  She was my everything.”

Lips beginning to quiver, a solitary tear slips down Laurel’s cheek as she ducks her head and tries to rein in her emotions that are clearly getting away from her.

“What happened to her?”  Dinah coaxes gently, sensing a tragedy at the end of the story yet needing to know, even if she feels guilty about it putting Laurel through such an emotional ringer just to satisfy her fully invested curiosity.

When Laurel starts up the tale again, her tone is detached, as if she’s had to separate herself from the memory in order to recall it without breaking down.  Dinah feels like a heel for having cause it, and yet at the same time listens with rapt attention.

“The night the particle accelerator at S.T.A.R. Labs exploded, I got home early from work.  That night was our anniversary, so Reno let me duck out right after my set ‘cause I wanted to surprise her and, like virtually everybody else that met her, he had a huge soft spot with her name written all over it.  On the way home, I picked up dinner from our favorite place and stopped to pick up candles and roses and chocolates at this kitschy little shop that catered to couples in the mood for romance.  I was setting up the table when I got the call.” Catching Dinah’s gaze, Laurel smiles with a dark wryness that intensifies her guilt.  “Just my luck, as I was being told my fiancee was shot to death on the job, I got hit with a wave of dark matter that turned my manic screaming into a superpower.”

“Jesus, Laurel.  That’s awful.  I’m so sorry.”  

There isn’t much more Dinah can think to say about a horrible tale that frankly has her on the verge of crying herself.  So they had both lost someone that night.  Dinah a lover and Laurel a fiancee.  With so little time to process this revelation, she can’t figure out which of them had it worse.  

At first blush, it would seem logical to believe Laurel was better off having not witnessed her fiancee’s death.  Dinah is not so sure that line of logic holds water, though, when she would not even be tempted to trade places.  As bad as it was to watch Vinny die, twice, at least she was with him; at least they were able to say their silent goodbyes through eye contact that communicated the undying devotion for one another that resided within their hearts; at least she had the closure of being with him in his final seconds, offering what strength she could as her love for him poured out in waves of tears and mewling sobs.  

Laurel came home just like she did every other day, excited to share an anniversary with the woman she loved only to receive a phone call no one wants to get.  She never got to say goodbye, never got to say I love you one last time, and had to hear from someone else how the person she was prepared to commit the rest of her life to died doing her job.  Many may see that as preferable to being there when it happened, but not Dinah.  To her, Laurel’s was by far the worse fate.

Just as she is about to brave inquiring how it happened, something else occurs to her about the way Laurel worded a particular phrase.  Like a search dog having picked up a scent, she follows the trail with blind determination.  

Arms crossing defensively over her chest, she tilts away from Laurel and spears the blonde with a sharp glare.  “Wait a sec.  She was killed on the job?  What exactly did she do?”

Confused, Laurel’s brows furrow.  “Uh...she was an undercover cop with the CCPD.”

Dinah nearly launches out of her seat at that shocking tidbit of info.  There weren’t a lot of women working undercover with the CCPD during that time and most of them she knew personally.   “Are you serious? What was her name?”  Looking conflicted and pained, Laurel refuses to answer, which piques Dinah’s curiosity.  Other than the obvious, she gets the feeling there is something about this woman’s identity causing Laurel to cling so doggedly to secrecy.  The only reason she can think of is that Laurel wishes to spare her feelings.  But why? The answer resonates so suddenly and heavily through her bones that she gasps aloud.  “Laurel, did you know me?  I mean, the Earth-2 version of me?”  Still no answer.  “Laurel?”

Stubbornly shaking her head, Laurel launches off the couch, arms wrapping around herself as she begins to pace.  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.  I know I said I’d tell you, but I can’t do this anymore.  It’s too painful.  Losing her almost killed me.”

I know how that feels, Dinah thinks.  And just then something truly terrible then occurs to her that radically turns the conversation away from another even more startling revelation that might well have altered her entire perception of Laurel Lance had it been allowed to surface.  It doesn’t, though, because Dinah loses her grip on that thread as a surge of fury courses through her veins.  

“Why did you lie to me?” she demands, thoughts spiraling back to not-so-distant past, to a visit from Laurel at her office at CCPD that contained an apology that served as the catalyst for their current, far more healthy relationship.

Frowning deepening into a scowl, Laurel stops pacing and glowers at her. “Excuse me?”

“You said once that you could only imagine how I felt when you killed Vinny.”  Dinah stands now, accusation as present in her tone as it is her posture.  “If what you just told me is true, then you know exactly how I felt.  Were you just playing me back then to gain my sympathy?”

The unexpected course change punctuated by that harsh accusation sends Laurel reeling back a step.  “What?  No!  I meant what I said. What happened to me was not the same as what I did to you.”

“I fail to see how,” Dinah shoots back obstinately, her anger having usurped all other concerns.  Like an unforgivably stupid sap, she had fallen for the line and let Laurel into her life and into her heart on false pretenses. 

Under attack, Laurel digs in her heels.  Those intense green eyes flash with indignation.  “Well, you should.  My fiancee was killed by a heartless monster.”

“And Vinny wasn’t?”  Dinah almost apologizes the second the barb leaves her mouth.  Almost.  She probably would have if the petty part of her was not fully in control and currently enjoying watching Laurel blanch as if stricken.

“Okay, wow.  That hurt, even if I deserved it,” Laurel replies in little more than a whisper.  Her posture radiates unadulterated hurt. “But I swear to you, Dinah, my apology was genuine.  I did not want to kill him.”

That is the last thing Dinah wants to hear right now.  Not when she is incensed by the sting of betrayal.  And to think she had almost convinced herself she was over Vinny’s death.  The worst part is she doesn’t know who to be more angry with right now for the deception, Laurel or herself.  Unwilling to accept any blame for one of the most traumatic moments of her life, only one target remains at which she can direct her ire.

“Then why did you?  Huh?!” she asks, aggressively stepping into Laurel’s personal space.  Way in the dark recesses of her mind, she knows this conversation has been a long time coming and their mutual avoidance of it is what led to this disastrous breakdown of what was otherwise a very pleasant – and enlightening – conversation.  Too bad she doesn’t care about that right now.  All that matters in the moment is getting answers to questions that have been eating away at her for far too long.  

“Why, Laurel?” she presses.  “You say you didn’t want to.  You say you’re sorry.  If that’s true, give me an actual answer that isn’t some lame bullshit excuse to cover your sorry ass.”  No reply.  “Answer me, dammit!  You owe me that much!” Frustratingly, Laurel continues to remain mute, which essentially pushes Dinah over the edge.  Laughing bitterly, her entire frame vibrating with barely restrained rage, she clenches her hands into fists at her sides.  “God, you’re such a lying cowa -”

“I didn’t have a choice!  Okay?  I didn’t!”  Laurel’s explosive interruption shocks Dinah into stunned silence.  Taut as a rope pulled between two diesel trucks, she listens to the explanation that follows. “When Cayden told me not to make him doubt my loyalty that night, it wasn’t an idle threat.  He could have killed me on the spot with little to no warning.  He had that power over me and we both knew it.  So I did what I always do.  I chose myself.  I chose to live.  I’m not proud of it, but there it is.”  

Pausing, visibly distraught, Laurel wraps her arms around herself as if in a desperate bid to keep from falling apart.  She has never looked more vulnerable, more fragile, more unsure of herself and frightened of Dinah and close to utterly unraveling.  The sight affects Dinah more than she would have liked, and she soon finds her anger uncoiling as Laurel grows increasingly emotional.

“I didn’t want to kill Vinny, Dinah.  I liked him.  Respected him, even,” Laurel goes on, expression matching her tone, both begging for Dinah to understand and to not hate her.  Loathe as she is to admit it, Dinah is convinced that she is being honest.  “He was the only person in that rag tag group of miscreants and degenerates that treated me like a human being with value.  I guess it’s because he was the only one of us with a halfway functioning conscience.” Curling in on herself, Laurel takes a shuddering breath.  “Just a second ago you were about to call me a coward.  Well, you’re right. I am.  I am worthless coward and a horrible person who will always choose herself and nothing I do or say will ever change that.”

Silence descends over them in the wake of an admission that rings to Dinah as patently false.  Laurel has proven so many times over the past six months that she is anything but a coward incapable of meaningful change.  Her most vocal detractors grudgingly admit she is a fair if not aggressive District Attorney, she has not once hurt an innocent during her extracurricular excursions to seek justice for her slain father, and she has even made friends who would be very upset with Dinah right now for causing her so much distress.  Hell, Dinah is one of those friends, or thought she was anyway before tonight cast shade upon that assumption.  If she was Laurel’s friend would she been so quick to accuse Laurel of such an underhanded tactic as using Vinny’s death to manipulate her?

Shame cascades in waves through Dinah’s chest, drowning out every last stronghold of animosity bitterly clinging to the surface of her heart.  It wouldn’t take a detective to figure out how badly she just hurt Laurel, what with Laurel wearing her pain the same way a relentlessly browbeaten prisoner might heavy shackles. Unfortunately, Dinah’s pride gets in the way of her issuing the apology dangling off the tip of her tongue.  With neither willing to speak, the silence that stretches on until they have both wallowed in miserable, awkward discomfort for so long that it doesn’t appear there is any salvaging what was once such a promising conversation.  

Laurel is the one to break the stalemate when she sighs in defeat. Shoulders slumping, she glances toward the door then says, “I should go.  Before I do, I have to tell you again how sorry I am.  I am so sorry, Dinah.  So very fucking sorry.  There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I was as brave as you.  That I would have done the right thing.  If I had, Vinny would still be here, you’d be happy, and Cayden would have killed me, meaning at long last my miserable existence would be over.  I know that means nothing to you right now, but I hope some day it might.  I’ll let myself out.”

Still stunted beyond the ability to respond, Dinah can only watch as Laurel rushes out the door and disappears into the night.  Once the ability to function returns some minutes later, she shuffles over to the couch on shaky limbs, collapses heavily onto the welcoming cushions, and sits there numbly until the tears finally arrive.  Besieged by so many emotions she cannot hope to begin sorting them out, she cries and cries until it feels like she has permanently exhausted the ability of her tear ducts to function.  

Emotionally spent, she lays there wrapped up in her blanket and stares blankly at the wall, willing the oblivion of sleep to abduct her away from the sight seared into her imagination of the deceptively delicate flower that is Laurel Lance blooming right before her eyes only to immediately wilt under an onslaught of insensitive recrimination Dinah can scarcely believe came from her.  Like a switch was flipped when her brain made that connection to Vinny, she had launched into attack mode and proceeded to mindlessly obliterate the remarkable progress she and Laurel had made tonight.  For a while there she had felt so encouraged over the direction they were heading that she allowed herself to be swept away on wings of hope.  What a fool she’d been!  Now, only barren emptiness remains where once there was a verdant field lush with promise, and she has no one but herself to blame for the dramatic and pervasive wasting.  

With no tears left to cry and nowhere to hide from her guilt and shame, Dinah remains motionless upon couch until long after the sun has once again arisen in the East.  Those hours are some of the most lonely and wretched of her life.

[sparkesink]

Chapter 9:

Hot & Ready

(Shifting Through Loose Written Thoughts:

A Story Started,

Never Finished,

So Many Years Ago.)

 No.

….No.

Fuck.

No.

Fucking Bullshit.

Blah, Blah, Blah.

Fucking TJ, 

Goddamn Fucking Literature Nazi.

“Too Fucking Vulgar.”

You Know What Is To Fucking Vulgar?

Worrying About Your Fucking Vulgarity…

That’s What’s Fucking Vulgar.

She’s Been Putting This Chapter Off For So Fucking Long.

(It’s A Bunch Of Bullshit, Rather…)

Laughing On The Fucking Floor For This Fucking Shit.

I Wonder Why I Pulled The Lucky Strings And Got Handed This Shit Story.

(That Fucker Wasn’t Even Fucking Cute,)

I Was Just So Goddamn Desperate For Someone To Love Me,

(I Didn’t Even Give A Shit Who It Was.)

 Doesn’t Help When It’s Your Greatest Desire…

You Know, 

The Whole, “Prince Charming”, Fracture;

(That’s Victoria’s Bit.)

 I Almost Lost Odin For Her…

Woulda Been A Shame;

(The Emerald Eyes Have Such A Significant Part In This Glorious Game.)

I’m Sure He Loves Her,

(He Did Make It Through Me.)

 Very Well Then,

I Suppose I Oughta Quit Stalling.

(The Audience Has Been Stagnant, Long Enough.)

 Now If I Were A Story,

Oh Where,

Oh Where, Would I Be?

Maybe Tucked Behind That Old Writing Tree?

No, No,

(That’s TJ’s Tale…)

Between The Pillows Of The Old Wooden Bed,

Littered With Cheap Tequila,

(Eternally Stained) 

Within A Children’s, Spider-Man Sippy-Cup.

I’ve Waited So Long, And Now All I Can Think…

“How In The Fuck Am I Going To Fucking Get Drunk Tonight?” 

 I Suppose I Should Match Up The Timelines,

(You Know, The Lyrical Bullshit TJ Was Attempting to Write About Me.)

The Stupid Fucking,

“My First Cannabis Experience,”

(Her Goddamn, Favorite Story To Tell.)

She Makes Me Sound Like Such A Fucking Prick.

So Fucking Dull,

Like, My Friendly Neighbor…

Trying To Explain To Young Children The Dangers Of…

REEFER MADNESS!!!!

(Ahem…)

 I Was Uninformed That When You Are That Fucking High,

It Is Not In One’s Best Interest To Attempt To Inform Your Parents;

(You Have Arrived Home Safely.) 

SINCE I Was The Incredible Child I Was, 

I Walked In My Front Door… 

Thought To Myself, 

"Well… I Am A Wee Late…They Are Probably Worried About Me. 

I Shall Persist To Inform Them Of My Arrival…

Build Brownie Points.” 

 Realizing The Faults Within My Logic, 

Decided,

(Within Sufficient Time,)

Against Informing, 

(The Origin Of My Existence,) 

Of My Arrival: 

Stumbling,

Raiding My Kitchen, 

45 minutes Time. 

Eating,

Until I Ceased To Move, 

Passing Out, 

Waking Up The Next Morning, 

Mom Making Breakfast,

Feeling More Accomplished Than A Horny 20 Year Old Getting Laid,

(Without The Help Of Alcohol, At A Party.)

 This Is What Should Have Happened…

This Is What Actually Happened: 

 Walking Through The Door, 

Hyperventilating,

(Laughing My Ass Off…) 

Over Literally, 

Nothing.

 I Think To Myself, 

"Well, I Am But A Wee Late…

(They Are, Probably, Worried About Me;) 

I Shall Tell Them Of My Arrival With Haste! 

(Solely To Build Brownie Points.") 

 Galloping Amongst The Formal Living-room…

Such A Radiant Gazelle I Should Be, 

Proceeding With:

An Astounding Performance Of James Bond… 

Spinning,

Rolling,

Downward The Parental Stairs…

Tumbling,

(Within Their Bedroom.)

 Now,

You Must Understand,

The Mother Had Gone Bat-shit, 

(Decided A Fourth Baby Was Great.)

Ten Months Prior: 

The ‘Rentals Cruised During Hurricane Wilma,

(Smack-dab In The Center Of Their Trip.) 

Sitting Within A Hotel Basement, 

Three Days,

Tenth Story Room,

Thrown Across The City…

(Impossibly Of Thinking Logically.) 

 "Let's Have A Baby," 

(At This Point,)

Sounded Such: 

"WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE!" 

Nine Months Past, 

Very Much Alive…

(And So, A Baby Sister.)

 Creeping Through Their Room,

(Clinging To These Exponential Chuckles,)

Slipping Beneath My Lips,

Playing The Roll Of Such Secret Spy,

(As Explained Before;)

Parentals’…Not Amused… 

(Not In The Slightest…) 

Been The Only Half Hour Of Sleep, 

Within The Past Month…

My Brilliant Ideas….   

(Surely: Not The Brightest.)

 Turning The Light,

Walking Aside A Side Of Their Berth, 

"HELLO,

(Emphasis On The Oh…)

JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW…. 

I'M HOME.”

(Again, More Emphasis On The Oh,

Oh,

Oh,)

 Mom Rolled Over,

(Stealing A Glance;

In Distinction To My Father.)

A Second To Look Within Each-other, (Gaining Reassurance Directed Towards My Intoxication.)

 A Very Long Pause, 

(To Me, A Fucking Century,)

My Father, 

(Finally,)

Clearing His Throat, 

(As To Prepare Speech,) 

"I Was Gonna Go To Class, 

Until I Got High, 

Until I Got High, 

Until I Got High,

(Major Emphasis On The Eye:) 

BAH DA DA DA DA DA.” 

-Shout Out To Afroman, 

(You Dah Bomb-diggity)-

 The Events Followed Are Rather,

(Fuzzy,)

Responsible To Ten Years,

Copious Alcohol, 

“Drug” Consumption, 

Assisted In Aging,

Stress,

Anxiety,

(What Have You.)

 Speaking Though, 

I Recall A Very Long,

“Heart-to-heart,”

Between My Father And I…

(Mostly About My Future Employment, 7/11, My Whole Life. 

Sat Me Down To Watch The Movie,

'The Secret'. 

A Whole Mess Of Universe,

“Stoner-talk”;

Mostly, I Could Not Follow.

(The Cat Licking Itself Is Far To Distracting.) 

Long Story Short, 

As I Awoke, 

I Was Not Greeted…

Hot Breakfast,

Lovingly Prepared For My Wake. 

 Instead:

A Bedroom Door Removed, 

A Computer Missing From Upon My Desk, 

A Phone With Service Cut, 

A Six-month Prison Sentence Within My Bedroom. 

(Lot Of Good That Ever Did, LoL.)

 Oddly,

My Demeanor Changed Drastically Through Maturity. 

The Kind Of “Girl,” I Am Currently? 

Untamed.

Know Anything About Astrology? 

I Am A Cancerian With Boisterous Leo Traits. 

Possessing Terrible Cancerian Qualities,

Wrapped Within Leo Magic… 

(Though,

Thinking About It,

That “Magic” Was Only A Face.)

 Leo: Such Craze To Live Within Spotlight. 

Pigheaded,

Adventurous,

Spontaneous…Etc.

 My “True” Astrological Sign:

Cancer,

Cancerian…

(Trust Me, I Know.) 

The Only Cancerian Traits I Posses Currently:

Easily Hurt, 

Come Off EXTREMELY Strong When I Have Chemistry With Someone, 

Need Constant Attention, 

(Of Course, Affection.) 

We Are Hopeless, Romantics…

Bound Endless To Our Soul Partner, 

(Loving Unconditionally.) 

 Adolescence:

Recluse,

Complete Homebody, 

(To The Core;) 

Shy And Quite Cannot Begin To Describe My Demeanor. 

I Felt More Comfortable Flirting Through A Screened Filter. 

Not Only Permanently Home Bound, 

Shy…Intimidated Rather,

I Don’t Human Well. 

 MySpace was my dating sanctuary. 

I Was Fucking JadeJuggernaut,  

(From MySpace,) 

As Far As Everyone Else Was Concerned: 

I Was The Shit. 

 As An Adolescent,

I Became Accustom To The World Of Superficiality, 

(Rather Quickly.) 

I Many Prospects Held Attention For Me Through Social Flirting, 

Only To Flee Once Meeting Me.

Honestly, I Was Never A Terrible Looking Girl. 

I Put On Weight Easily,

(Thank You, Hypothyroidism). 

 In Grade Nine, 

My Average Weight:

Somewhere Around 165 lbs. 

(I Had Trouble Playing 'The League' I Attempted To Fish From.)

(Always The Orchid, 

Basking Within That Dimmed Moonlight.) 

Now, I Was Just A Young Girl, 

This Was The First Time I Had Realized…

Everyone Was Staring At Me. 

They Were Not Awing, 

Nor Talking Highly Of Me; 

More Like Gawking, 

Making Fun. 

 You Start To Realize How Ugly You Are,

(As Claimed By Society.) 

Those Underwear Models,

The “Beautiful” Women,

The One’s You Idolize,

(From This Day,)

Branded Upon Every Fragment Within Your Skull. 

 That Image, 

(Their Image,) 

Becomes The Only, 

(Acceptable,)

Image For Yourself; 

You Isolate Your Life, 

Revolving Solely Towards Ultimate Perfection. 

 Sometimes,

The Most Beautiful Things In Life Are Found Within The Most Curious Places; 

This Is Not One Of Those Things. 

Your Obsession Controls Your Every Move. 

This Is Not Something Beautiful,

(Found In A Remote Location;) 

This Is Hideous…

It Will Control Your Entire Life For Over Ten Years.

 At Fourteen-Years Young,

I Had Been Stood Up More Often Than I Can Remember:

That Is…Until I Met Peter. 

We Started Talking, Casually. 

(To Be Honest, He Was Never Really My Type.)

 He Was More…

A Boy I Talked To Once-In-A-While,

(When He Was Online, 

And I Was Bored…

Regardless,)

I Ended Up Giving Him My Number. 

 The First Time I Spoke To Peter,

I Was In The Shower, 

(Naturally, Ended Up Leading To Inappropriate, Sexual, Innuendos.)

We Were Polar Opposites, 

Floating Along, 

(In The Same Situational Boat Of Life.) 

Both Having Had One 'Relationship,' 

(Before We Met.) 

 JR,

(My Internet Boyfriend Of A Year,)

'JR' From New York, 

Was,

(In All Reality,) 

A Girl From My School,

(Or, At least, I Believe So.)

 Peter’s Online Relationship: 

Some Girl From His School, 

(Blew Him Off Every Chance She Got.) 

Due To This,

The First Time We Made Plans To Meet,

He Was On The Edge,

(Thinking I Would Blow Him Off,

Such As This “Past” Girl.

 I Was Fourty-Five Minutes Late. 

Remember The Six-Month Prison Sentence? 

This Event Just So Happened To Be Right In The Middle…

Imagine,

(The Fight Being Had, 

Attempting To Convince My Parents To Take Me,

(To Meet This Boy.)

Talking A Hormonal,

(Recently Pregnant, Mother…

With A Crying Newborn Into Escorting You Anywhere,

(Especially Given The Fact:

Your Dumb Ass Came Home More High Than Snoop Dog On April 20th.)

 We Walk Into The Theatre, 

Yes,

I Said We… 

Would You Like To Know Why I Say We? 

(Of Fucking Course You Do…)

You Wouldn't Be Reading This Bullshit:

(Now Would You?) 

I Say, “WE,” Due To: 

The First Time Peter Saw Me, 

(In Person,)

You Want To Know What Came With Me?

My Best Friend At The Time, 

Both My Younger Siblings, 

Topped With A Mother On A Rampage. 

 (Damn Kid, 

Should Have Known At This Moment…) 

Best Course Of Action: 

Run Far,

Far,

Away.

 This Is What Should Have Happened. 

Instead,

He Comes Over To My Side, 

Proceeds Attempt To Introduce Himself:

My Mother,

Pulling Cash From The ATM. 

 They Say First Impressions Are Key To Meeting Anyone New…

The First Impression Of My Mom? 

"SO YOUR THE REASON I GOT PULLED OUT OF BED AND HAD TO PUT A SCREAMING BABY IN THE CAR. JUST LOVELY!" 

 Followed By, 

(Extremely Aggressive,)

Transfer Of Money From Her Possession,

(To Mine.)

Storming Out, 

Would Put A Sorority, Bitch,

(On Her Period,) 

To Shame. 

 In Case You Failed to,

“Pick Up On It,”

She Stormed Out… 

Alone.

That’s right, 

Our First Date Included: 

Both My Younger Siblings,

(As Well As My Tag-A-Long, Friend.) 

 Remember…

That Thing I Said… 

About Needing To Appear Badass,

(In Order To Compensate For My Awkwardness?) 

 This Awkward Moment,

Followed By Us Sitting,

(More Awkwardly Than Before,)

In A Movie,

Next To Each Other, 

(Dealing With My Ten-Year-Old Brother,

 Eight-Year-Old Sister,) 

Running Around Us, 

(Obnoxiously.)

 (This Boy Was Never Talking To Me Again.)

 To My Surprise, 

The Following Weeks Consisted Of: 

Texting, 

Calling Each Night, 

Spending Time Together,

(Whenever The Opportunity Arose.) 

Looking Back On It, 

This Relationship Was Destined For An Apocalyptic End, 

(Before It Even Began.) 

 I Had Introduced Him To My Only Other Girlfriend, 

(Besides That One Who Joined Our First Date,) 

I Accused Him Of Thinking She Was More Attractive Than I,

“She Was Nice,” 

That’s All It Took. 

What Type Of Insane, 

(Insecure,) 

Bitch Does That? 

 Remember, 

(The Introduction,) 

A Mention Of Lessons,

It Is Only Through Experience,

One May Obtain The Knowledge Of A More Great,

(Stable,) 

Way Of Being. 

 He Was Understanding,

Thirty Minutes, 

(Post Jealous Rampage,) 

I Officially Was Diving,

(Head First,)

Into An Attempt At Love.

…And So It Began.

  This Attempt At Love,

(Peter, And Myself,)

The Classic “First Girlfriend, First Boyfriend,” 

Each Other’s First Kiss,

(Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit,) 

I Suppose, 

I Couldn’t Discover My Full, 

(Awesome,) 

Potential, 

(Until After-The-Fact.) 

 Though, 

I Was Young,

(Naïve,) 

I Found Myself Head-Over-Heals, 

(In Love,) 

With This, Boy. 

I Had Wished To Give Him Everything Of Mine:

 (Considering My True ‘First’ Kiss, 

Stolen,

Sometime Before I Had Met Him.) 

 I Was Thirteen, 

I Was To Stay-The-Night With A Long Time,

Family Friend,

(Kim.) 

A Weekly Ritual, Rather. 

 This Night, 

(Unlike The Rest,) 

Deciding To Steal Her Parent’s Alcohol,

(Be Naughty While They Slept.) 

Kim Had An Older Cousin Staying With Them, 

Age Twenty-Three.

He Came Out, 

Mid-Night;

Jumped In The Hot Tub With Us. 

 This Was The First,

(Only,)

Time I Would Have Ever Encountered This Man; 

I Could Not Tell You His Name, 

I Was A Child, 

He Was A Grown Man. 

 I Remember Lying,

(In Their Guest Bedroom,) 

Him,

Draped Upon Me;

Kim Laughing, 

(Telling Jokes From The Edge Of The Bed.) 

He Removed My Shirt,

Continued To Kiss My Neck,

(And Back,) 

Repeatedly,

(As I Lie There…

Listening To Kim Ramble On,

(Regarding Some Peer In Her Middle School Class.)

 My Bra Straps 

(The Next To Be Unfastened,) 

Followed:

A Continuous Battle,

(This Strange Man With Myself,) 

Fastening, 

Unfastening. 

 I Became Frustrated, 

I Told Him To Stop Undressing Me… 

Leading Kim To Begin Jumping Up, 

Screaming, 

“LET’S PLAY TRUTH OR DARE!” 

 Some Of These Dares,

An Innocent Game,

(Thirteen-year-old Innocence:)

Eating Dog Food, 

Dancing, Ridiculously, 

Our Favorite Song,

In Our Underwear, 

(That Sort Of Nonsense.) 

 The Final Memory Of This Evening,

A Dare:

She Had Assigned To Her Cousin, 

“I Dare You To Make Out With Jade.” 

He Threw Himself Atop Me,

Began To Demandingly Kiss, 

(Forcefully, Fondle,)

Roughly Thirty Seconds…

I Nervously Giggled,

Pushed Him Away From Me. 

 “I Dare Jade To Give Me A Blow Job,” 

I Ran To The Bathroom, 

Vomited Profusely, 

Woke Up The Following Morning In Kim’s Bed.

 This Story Has Never Found It’s Way From My Mouth,

(Until This Very Day,) 

It Made It Rather Difficult To Look Peter In The Eye,

Pronouncing Him, 

“My First And Only,” 

For Over Four Years. 

 I Remember Attending My Summer Theatre Camp Session,

(The Morning Following That Night.)

I Remember My Instructor Telling Us That He Was Twenty-Three Years Old,

(Class Introductions.)

I Remember The Guilt I Felt,

How I Wanted To Crawl Out Of My Skin,

With Every Thought Of My Instructor,

Trying To Touch Me.

Attempting To Process The Age Difference,

With An Association To This New Class Instructor…

 I Let Him Violate Me,

This Cousin Of My Friend:

I Chose To Drink,

Underage,

That Night.

I Giggled, 

As If It Was Okay,

(While My Mind Desired Violence.)

I Tried To Tell Him To Stop,

I Failed To Relate The Message.

 I Should Have Left.

I Should Have Called My Parents.

I Should Have Walked Away From The Situation.

Started A Fucking Riot, 

Raged And Swung!

I Didn’t. 

I Let It Happen.

I Allowed Myself To Be The Victim.

 I Spent Years Attempting To Figure,

Why Sex Felt So Wrong, 

(Throughout My Young Adulthood.)

Through Consenting Occasions,

My Mind Would Snap…

My Skin Would Begin To Crawl…

My Light Began To Dim,

A Little Girl, 

Began To Sob.

 I Was Peter’s First Kiss, 

Obvious Upon, 

(Eventually,)

Locking Lips With This Lanky, 

Tall, 

Large Lipped, Boy. 

 At The Beginning,

It Was Bound,

Someone’s Something,

(Would Be In Or On,)

Something, 

Of The Other’s Body. 

 The First Time, 

(I Actually Had ‘Sex’,)

Was Not When I Lost My Virginity. 

 Peter, 

For Some Reason Or Other, 

Refused To Lose His Virginity To Me. 

No Matter How Many Attempts I Would Make,

He Would Respond, 

Same Answer, 

“I Want It To Be Special.” 

 God Knows Why,

I Chose The One Boy, 

(Who Didn’t Want To Fuck Anything And Everything,

Just To Say He Had Sex,) 

He Just Would Not Let Me Take His V-card From Him. 

 He Didn’t Seem To Have A Problem Laying Me On The Floor,

Your Hand On My Back,

Holding Me Down,

Sodomizing Me As I Cried; 

Manipulating Words,

(Constantly Spewing Out Of Your Mouth) 

Babbling On As My Pants Were Removed. 

 I Told Him I Didn’t Want To Again…

And Again…

I Was Never Aggressive Towards Him, 

(Until Later In The Relationship.) 

He Did As He Pleased To Me, 

(Sexually,) 

Whether I Wanted To, 

Or Not. 

 I Walked Back Into My House,

That First Day You Held Me Down,

I Felt That Same Sick Guilt As Before: 

Disgusting, 

Used, 

As If My Innocence Had Been Taken From Me. 

 I Believe,

Excusing Your Actions,

(As I Had Convinced Myself,)

You Had Ownership Of My Body,

(Payment For An Attempt At Love,)

As If My Wishes Didn’t Matter,

It Was Just “Okay”.

 We Were Dating. 

I Didn’t Realize How Fucked Up That State Of Mind Is,

(Until Just Recently,) 

Actually,

(Tell You The Truth,) 

I Am Ashamed,

Believing It To Be “Right,” 

(In The First Place.)

 I, Suppose This Was Not A One-Way Road,

In Fact, 

Our Virginities Sacrificed Through Twisted Trickery,

(Of My Own.) 

Soft Ambiance, 

Reno911 Playing As Background, 

I Informed Him His Sodomy, 

Was In Fact Intercourse: 

Romance At It’s Finest.

 I Want To Remember The Reasons I Loved You,

I Just Can’t Think Of Any.

I Want To Say I Wasn’t Hurt,

(When You Had Me Pick Out Her Birthday Card.)

I Can’t Remember,

If I Loved You,

Or The Idea Of Falling In Love,

(Instead.)

I Am Not A Stupid, 

(Naïve,) 

Girl:

There Would Have Had To Have Been Reason,

(I Fell Madly In Love With You.)

 I Will Never Regret The Lessons,

And The Growth You Gave Me, 

Through The “Young Love”,

We May Have Had,

(With One-An-Other.) 

 The Human Mind Seems To Grasp,

The Darkest Of Memories, 

More So Than Of Those That Light The Way; 

Harder To Recover The Heartfelt Days,

The Ones Covered In Orange And Yellow Leaves,

(Those Falls’ We Shared Throughout The Years.) 

 I Believe Our Biggest Conflict,

Was That Of A Superficial Kind;

A Very Conservative White Collar,

Trying To Tame A Tie-dye Dress.

 While Shopping In Wal-Mart,

One Fine Afternoon,

My Crazy Spontaneity Leaped,

Grabbing Peter By The Chest. 

We Started A Waltz,

In The Middle Of Checkout Number Five. 

This Did Not Last,

He Was Not Amused,

My Lack Of Suitable Public Action,

“For The Love Of God,

Please Keep Her Subdued.”

 Personality Battles,

The Leading Cause, 

(To Our Official Brake Up.) 

I Ended Our Relationship, 

January 1, 2011, 

(Continued To Share My Bed.) 

 It Was Not Until Valentine’s Day, 

A Month And A Half Past, 

I Officially Kicked Him Out Of My Bedroom,

A Four Year Waste. 

Though We No Longer Shared A Bed, 

We Still Lived Under The Same Roof,

(Took The Same Classes.) 

Environmental Science Lab,

We Were Required To Attend A Field Trip, 

(One Of The Dams, 

About Forty-Five Minutes From Campus.) 

 This Was A Class Activity,

We Rode The Bus All The Way Out There,

Walked Around With Our Thumbs Up Our Own Asses.

The Tour Guide Babbled On For Hours,

The Same Boring Dam Shit,

(We All Learned In Kindergarten.) 

 I Have The Attention Span Of A Five-Year-Old, 

Guess Where Jade Was While Everyone Else Was Pretending To Give A Shit? 

Walking Down The Car Rails, 

(Participating In Her Own Balancing Act,) 

Singing,

(At The Top Of Her Lungs.) 

 Again, 

Peter Was Not Thrilled,

(My Adolescent Actions.) 

Proclaimed,

“I Was Embarrassing Him, 

Knock It Off!” 

 Peter Had A Curfew,

 (Adolescent In The World Of Him,

And I,

Before The Studies,

(And The Parties,)

Before The Cheat,

(And Lies.)

Ten P.M. 

Until Eight-een, 

(It Finally Moved To Midnight,) 

 My Free-Spirited Family, 

Curfews Were Something Of Non-Fiction:

A Folk-lore To Scare High School Girls. 

(Their Daddies Found Them,

In The Back Seat Of His 98’ KIA Spectra.) 

 Thirty To Forty-five Minutes Past, 

A Tapping At My Window. 

Tap,

Tap,

Tapping On My Second Story Window, 

A Normal Person,

Ignored it. 

 “Look Outside,” 

The Text That Arrived On My Phone,

Three Minutes Past. 

There Was Peter, 

Blanket Laid Upon My Lawn. 

 We Lay Upon The Starlit Cover,

Speaking Of Life,

The Future,

The Dream… 

(He Had It All Figured Out.) 

 The Universe Had Finally All Come Together,

(In Our Heads,) 

Every Dream, 

(Aspiration,) 

Could All Come True. 

 We Were In Love Under The Stars,  (That Night.)

My Seventeenth Year,

I Was Going To Walk Down The Isle To You,

(Live Happily-Ever-After.) 

(Not What Happened, 

As You Can Sea,

(The Fun Has Just Begun.) 

Peter Was A Grade Older Than Me,

In High School, 

Towards His Senior Year… 

A Conclusion: 

You See, 

He Decided,

Join Football,

The Summer Before,

Peter Started Bulking Up,

(Using Steroids,)

What A Bore. 

 I Was The “Pudgy Adolescent”,

A Grade Behind,

Working Towards Early Graduation. 

One Conclusion,

Determined In My Life: 

I Need To “Get Hot,” 

(So I Could Keep Him Around,) 

Come August Of 2009, 

Forty lbs. Lighter,

Moving Into A Dorm,

(I Wasn’t Prepared For.)

University of Idaho,

(Go Vandals…)

I Rolled A Fucking Spare.

 You Must Understand,

A Couple Of Things, 

(About Me,) 

In The Form Of My Greatest Pet Peeve. 

 When You Walk Into A Room, 

And Realize, 

You’re Running Through Everyone’s Mind.

Either A: 

Being Looked At As “The Stupid, Slut,” 

(By Those Who Drip Immense Envy,

 From Every Orifice Of Their Body…

Or B: You’ve Become A Piece Of Meat,

(Placed Within The Center Of Vultures.) 

 They Can’t Explain, 

(Why You Are Wonderful,) 

They Tend To Degrade You, 

To Fit You Within Their Perfect,

Cookie Cutter, 

(Model,) 

Of A Human Being. 

 Those Who Desire Simplicity, 

(Those Fabulously Plain,) 

Those Who Never Stand Out, 

(Who Can Never Be ‘More’,) 

Those Who Search For Outlets, 

Religion, 

God, 

Abstinence, 

‘Purity’, 

Do So To Give Justification, 

(For Mediocrity.) 

 If You Have Wronged Those Around You, 

(If You Have Inflicted Pain,)

Do Not Worry One Bit, 

(You’re A Good Person,

You’re No One To Blame.)

You Have Chosen To Be ‘Ratified’,

(By Said Outlet.) 

 You May See Me On The Party Circuit, 

I’m The Pretty Little Blonde,

(Sitting In The Window.) 

I’ll Act All Cutesy,

To Attract The Hottest,

(Dumb,) 

Assholes Of The Lot,

Allowing Me To Use Them, 

(Don’t Worry, You’ll Figure Out The Plot.)

 I’m The Ditsy, 

Stupid, 

Pretty,

Little, 

Blonde…

(Everyone Likes To Assume I Am.)

 I Got My High School Diploma, 

(Ripe Ole’ Age Of Sixteen,) 

I’ve Been Drunk At U Of I,

Fucking Wasted…

Creating Havoc, 

(Every Night.) 

Three Years How? 

And Yet NO ONE FUCKING BELIEVES ME,

WHEN I SAY IM A GODDAMN HONORS STUDENT NOW. 

 Dean’s Listed For Two, 

(Three Honor’s Societies,) 

Rarely Go To Class, 

And Yet… 

I’m Kicking College’s Ass.

  Who Fucking Does That?

Sitting In My Honors Classes,

Hung Over As Balls, 

(Barely Awake,) 

Everyone Fucking Looks At Me…

“She Must Be In The Wrong Place.” 

 No Bitch, 

I Don’t Look Like The Female Version Of Elmer Fudd…

(Get Shit Housed Every Night,) 

I Did Not Arrive Here VIA Fluke. 

IMMA GODDAMN GENIUS BIOTCH,

(GET OFF MY BACK.) 

 Now I’ve Ranted, 

(And Raged,) 

On Everyone’s Ignorant Idiocy,

I’ll Get Back To The Important Issues At Matter.

 Peter Was A Pathological Liar. 

One Time: 

He Lied About Taking Down His Christmas Lights, 

(With His Dad,) 

He “Wanted To Play Video Games”, 

Instead Of Hangout With Me, 

He “Didn’t Have The ‘Heart’ To Tell Me The Truth”…

Would You Rather LARP? 

Or Masturbate On A Cracker? 

Staring At Your Warlock Mange, 

Instead Of Fucking Your Girlfriend? 

 I Would Have Preferred The Later,

(Give Me A Little Credit Here.) 

What Kind Of Psychotic Bitch Do You Think I Am? 

 I May Not Be Something, 

Of ‘The Step-ford Wives,” 

I Sure As Hell Am Not Going,

(Hannibal Lector,) 

Eating Flesh Off Knives.

 Peter Would Try To Go Behind My Back, 

(With Other Girls,) 

You Bet Your Ass, 

I Had Eyes Where Ever He Was At. 

 When You Know An Abundance Of People, 

You Can Sit On Your Bed, 

Getting Reports, 

(From People He Had Never Met Before.) 

 This, 

(My Friends,) 

The Reason I Died Single; 

Not Even Batman Could Two-time My Ass, 

(Without Me Knowing It.) 

 Long Story Short, 

Peter Made Me Crazy. 

Slap A Pretty,

White, 

Vest On Me: 

Lock It Up, 

(In A Padded, 

White, 

Room…)

PSYCHOTIC BITCH. 

 Looking Back On It Now, 

I Completely Understand, 

(Why He Did, 

What He Did.) 

Whatever Fucked Up Justification You Can Get Out Of That,

(Sort Of Understand…) 

Why You Would Fuck The Mammoth, 

Sloth? 

Love Child? 

(From The Fourth Floor, 

That Night After Halloween.) 

 They Say, 

“Karma Is A Bitch.” 

We Partied On Halloween,

That Year…

I Walked Upstairs, 

(Finding A Bathroom,) 

Literally Pushing People Out Of My Way,

(Just To Move.) 

Place Was Packed, 

Kegs Were Afloat. 

 I Could Not Explain, 

(The Details Of The Whole Ordeal,) 

I Remember Walking Into The Bathroom,

Being Welcomed By A Half-Naked Vampire, 

Passed Out On The Bathroom Floor. 

 I Have Been Taken Advantage Of, 

(More Often Than I Like To Admit.)

 I Once Cried, 

(In My Pillow,) 

While My Boyfriend Just,

“Went At It.” 

Telling Him Constantly, 

“I Wasn’t In The Mood…”

(Didn’t Even Notice My Tears,

When He Wiped My Side Of His Cum…

(Or The Entire Way Through.) 

Woken Up,

(Asking Same Boyfriend,)

“Why Am I So Messy?” 

The Response: 

“I Just Had Sex With You.” 

(Weren’t You Such A Peach?) 

 I Had Just Gotten Use To It. 

(I Suppose It Was One Of Those Things,) 

I Thought, 

“He Is My Boyfriend, 

I Guess It Is No Big Deal.” 

 So Help Me God, 

I Was Not Going To Let This Passed Out Girl, 

Be Hurt,

(In Any Way.) 

I Stayed By Her Side,

(Until Her Friends Were Found,) 

Luckily, 

She Was A Friend Of The Current Tenant, 

(Got Her In A Room So She Was Safe.) 

 I Remember Thinking; 

“Karma Has My Back For A While!” 

 To Beg Him To Stay The Night With You, 

(Just This Once,) 

To Hear Him Refuse,

No Matter How Hard You Mourn,

You Feel Inadequate. 

 Two Days Past, 

Peter,

Sitting In My Dorm Room,

(On My Computer,) 

I Walked Through The Hallway,

From Girl’s Public Shower,

Into My Bedroom.

Being A Mindless Drones In Today’s Society;

The First Order Of Business Post Shower, 

(Check The Mobile Device.)

 Those Fortunate Enough,

(To Never Experience Heartbreak,) 

You Have My Greatest Envy, 

(You Have My Greatest Pity.) 

 Envy: 

Obvious Reasons Of Pain, 

Sorrow So Great, 

(You Tend To Lose Yourself.) 

I Can No Longer Say, 

“I Have Never Lost Someone Close To Me,” 

(Someone I Loved Greatly.) 

 The Day My Heart Shattered, 

I Died, 

I Took A Hand Full Of Pills,

To The Bottom Of The Ocean.

(Experienced All Her Stages Of Grief.) 

 I Could Not Breathe, 

I Could Not Eat, 

I Could Not Sleep. 

 I Watched My Entire World,

Rot, 

Turn To Ash, 

(In Front Of My Feet.) 

 Most People Would Assume Figuratively,

(I Literally Felt My Soul, 

Disintegrate.) 

 You Have My Pity: 

You Will Never See The World,

(As I Do Now.) 

Though Dark And Corrupt, 

The Innocence Naively, 

(Brainwashed,) 

From The Day We Are Born: 

Is Not,

(Will Never Be,) 

Real. 

 Those Who Are Never Hurt, 

Will Believe This To Be, 

“This Is A Fallacy.” 

 Listen, 

I Do Not, 

Cannot, 

Verbally Say, 

Any Of This;

(Due To A Lack Of Trust.) 

Trust For Anyone, 

(To Care.) 

Anyone, 

(With My Heart,) 

An Unfathomable Concept. 

 It Must Be Written, 

(Someone Has To Know:) 

My Story, 

(And Understand.) 

I Was Raped, 

(My Innocence Stolen From Me,) 

I Was Forced To See, 

All Twenty-five, 

Different, 

Angles… 

(Of A Girl Not Much Different,

You See?)

The “Love Of My Life’s Computer, 

(Three Separate Times,) 

 The One To Think I Was Beautiful Before,

(I Lost Weight,) 

Looked Me In The Eye,

(To Say How Ugly,

Stupid,

He Saw Me.) 

I Finally Accepted My Heartbreak; 

Fell Madly “In Love”,

(With My Best Friend,) 

We’ll Call Him, 

Paul.

 When You Are A Child, 

You Learn Discipline. 

You Find,

“What Is Good?”, 

And “What Is Evil?”; 

(In Fear,)

Your Father Chasing You Through The House, 

A spanking, 

(From, 

“The Belt,” 

Awaiting, 

(For Disobeying.) 

 You Become Adolescent. 

You Fall In Love. 

 This Love Promises You His Future, 

His Heart, 

His Hand, 

His Life. 

 This First Love Goes To College With You. 

(You Are Excited For Independence:

Life As A Collegiate,

An Adult,

(With This Boy.) 

 This Is Where The Evil You Never Actually Grasped,

(As A Child,) 

Starts To Show It’s Face. 

 He Starts To Leave Your Room, 

Earlier, 

And Earlier, 

Every Night That Pass. 

 He Will Refuse To Stay The Night With You,

(During The Week Days,) 

He Will Not Come To Your Room,

(Till’ Late On Weekends.) 

 His Phone Will Always Be,

‘Dead’:

(He Will Lose His Fucking Mind,

When You Search Through It. )

 You Will Lie In His Bed,

(After Forgiving Him;) 

You Will Stare At The Ceiling,

(Unable To Fall Asleep.) 

 Something Comes Over You, 

(You Cannot Remember Having Control, 

Over Your Own Body.)

You Remember The Events, 

(Clear As Day.) 

 Sitting Straight Up, 

You Will Grab A Notebook, 

(Lying On The Floor;) 

Your Hand Is Moving,

(In The Dark,)

But You Won’t Remember,

(What It Was, 

You Couldn’t say.) 

 He Will Wake Up, 

Ask,

“Are You Okay?”

You Respond By Throwing, 

(The Notebook Across The Room,) 

Lay Back Down. 

 He Will Walk Over Toward The Object,

(In Flight,) 

Turns On The Light, 

(Reads,) 

Tears The Paper Out, 

Throws It Away, 

(Your Delirious, 

Masterpiece.) 

 You Hear Nothing, 

(Hysterical Laughing,) 

You Must Realize: 

You Are Making This Terrible Noise; 

You Will Snap Out,

(Of This Possession,)��

Referring To Yourself,

(In Third Person.) 

 He Will Go To Bed; 

You Will Draw,

Music In Your Ears,

“Just Make The Thoughts Go Away!” 

 You Finally Pass Out,

(When The Sun Comes Up.) 

You Never Actually Find Out, 

(What Your Body Decided To Scribble.) 

He Will Tell You, 

“You Have Some Serious Demons, 

Need Not To Hate Yourself,” 

(So Much,) 

“None Of This Is Your Fault Baby, 

Stop Hating Yourself For Stupid Mistakes, 

(I Made)”.

 You Ever Realize, 

How Much You Really Do Hate Yourself? 

People Try To Play Off The ‘Cool’ Persona, 

(They Have ‘Never’ Looked In The Mirror, 

Been Disgusted With Whom They Had Become.) 

Physical Disgust,

(Eleven Years Self Harm, 

To The Inside Of Myself,) 

Or Flat Out Disgust, 

(Of Someone,

You Had Become.) 

 I Am No Longer,

(Solely,) 

Disgusted With Myself Physically,

(For The Heart Break Has Made Me Vengeful.) 

 I Have Done Things, 

(No One Would Want To Admit.)

This Is Not The Same Girl, 

(I Was A Year And A Half Ago.)

 That Girl Would Have Never Crossed,

(The Lines I Have Allowed Myself To Play Jump-Rope With; 

I Broke His Heart,

One Week, 

We Were Separated.

I Fell In Love:

He Taunts Me, 

(Every Time I See His Face.)