Friday, April 29, 2011

Fuck Everything

Do you know what I was doing a year ago?

I was ready to graduate high school. They told us our lives would begin and we would take the world by storm. We'd be successful and talented and brilliant. Angel was still sweet and not fucking insane. I was ready to take on the world with Rose right there at my side, and Violet on the other.

Now they're both gone. Aunt Michelle is dead and Rose is worse than dead and Vi is miles and miles away. She's moved on from Chicago and is somewhere around Kentucky. I can't even know exactly where.

The reading of the will was this morning, and I was outed as receiving even more inheritance than Aunt Michelle told me. The place in Ocean City, the fund for its upkeep and the taxes on it. But also a sizable trust fund that looks like it was started just before I was born. It doesn't have any legal stipulations -- I can use it for whatever I wish, according to the law -- but one note in her will said: "To assist in furthering her education and enlightenment."

I was right. Angel did exactly what I knew she would. They called me down not long ago and said they needed to have a serious talk with me about something. I've been sipping at my little hip flask of whiskey since noon; I didn't have the will to refuse.

Sure enough, thhey tried to get me to give it up. Not just part of it, either. They wanted me to give up everything. Well, I say they -- really, it was that near-eldritch cunt using my father as a mouthpiece. I won't bother writing down the exact conversation. They pretended it was for my own good. I'm too young, they said, to be ready for this responsibility.

I was fully ready to sit it out the exact way I have for my entire life: Keep my mouth shut, don't make any sudden movements. Pretend I'm a little porcelain doll. I was ready to let it slide off. But then, she spoke up, and she said:

"Quite frankly, it was a less-than-intelligent move on Michelle's part to leave it to you --"

The little porcelain doll in me shattered.

"Why is that, Angel?" I said. I looked up from my hands on my lap at them. "Is it because I'm so stupid and naive, or she was plotting something and using me? Because obviously, when a woman does something, it's usually specifically to make things more difficult for you, isn't it?"

"Excuse me--"

"I've been excusing you for way too goddamn long."

I lost my cool, and I don't give a shit. Eventually, the argument rose from the table and we stood, and I said things I've been wanting to say for a long, long time. I'm sure she did as well -- no one has ever spoken to me the way she did, so blatantly belligerent and hurtful. Right in front of my father, she called me every name under the sun, from a lazy and ungrateful daughter to a criminal slut.

She's certainly one to talk.

After the argument, I stormed up the stairs and found something that was, naturally, exactly what I needed in this shit.

A note. Sitting prettily on my pillow and addressed to Little fucking Mouse.

It was simple enough to not even warrant a picture:

"i'm ever so sorry about Michelle's tragic demise. i hope that you find solace in her gifts.

Practical Cat"

You know what? No

He doesn't fucking get to say her name. He doesn't even get to know she exists. Ever.

I'm fucking tired of this. I'm tired of feeling like I need to watch my back. I'm tired of not even feeling safe at home. I'm tired of hearing the house make noises at night and wondering if maybe, just maybe, it's Angel, finally gone crazy and killing the whole family. I'm tired of those sorts of things that keep me up at night. I'm tired of my room being messy because I don't ever want to leave it if I don't have to. I'm tired of fucking Zeke and how he's so fucking stupid and won't listen to me. I'm tired of not being able to tell anyone about what's happening to me. I'm tired of drinking until I can't feel because I don't dream when I pass out and the hangover is better than those goddamn nightmares and that goddamn feeling. I'm tired of my voice getting scratchy because I'm smoking too much.

I'm tired of feeling helpless.

So I'm fucking done. I know he's got his eye on me. He's probably watching right now. I haven't seen his boss in a while, but damned if I don't know he's still tailing me. I can turn this. I can use it. I have a gun, and I have pepper spray, and if he gets past those I can kick the fucker in the head.

This can't wait. I'm getting my jacket now.

I'm going to find Practical Cat. I'm going to call him out.

And I'm gonna kill the bastard.


  1. What? No. Like hell you are. What you're going to do is put the booze down and sleep this off. We don't need another dead runner on our hands right now.

  2. I honestly feel bad for ya. Must suck, but I know I might sound stupid, but do what I do, and it usually helps. Just think of the bright side. It may seem like there's none, but you still have a loving family (aside from your bitch step-mom, seriously, that bitch needs some serious meds), your friend Violet is still alive, YOUR still alive, and there are people out there supporting you, rooting you on. Anyways, I'm just blabbering, and making myself sound dumb, so stay safe. I'm rooting for ya.

  3. Fuck you, Zeke.

    That's all I am to you, isn't it? Some Runner. Just like all the other stupid kids. If something happens to me, oh well, it was just another Runner dead.

    I'm not a stupid kid. I'm a grown-ass woman, and I don't have to fucking listen to some crazy bastard.

  4. Oh, don't pull the fucking card with me. I'm the adult here, I'm the cop, and you're the child in this equation. Just another runner, yeah, I'm sure Ava'd like to hear that about Reach, wouldn't she?

    You want me to stop treating you like a child? Stop acting like one every time something doesn't go your way. Stop acting like you're experienced for this when you have no idea what the fuck you're getting yourself into. You are nowhere near prepared to be taking this guy on.

    THINK, kid. For Christ's sakes, what does it take to get it through your thick head?


    First of all, you're not my goddamn father, although you're just like him. You can't just say you care and convince yourself you're a good fucking person because you occasionally pat me on the head like every other idiot who comes your way and then ignore me when it's not useful to you.

    Because I don't matter until I actually do something, do I? Not until there's a risk of blood on your hands. God forbid somebody not listen to the almighty Zeke Strahm.

    How does it feel, Zeke? At least I fucking acknowledged you. What do you do? Ignore anyone who even suggests that what you might be doing isn't a good idea, and then when something goes wrong and you get hurt, you stand back and say, "What happened?! Maybe that wasn't such a good idea!"

    And so much for a cop. Yeah, Sherlock Fucking Holmes you are. Prick.

  6. Difference is I can take care of myself. You can't.

    If you're pissed because I was doing my fucking job and seeing if maybe there was something down in that building that would keep us all alive, cry me a river. Thanks for the concern, but don't throw that bullshit at me as though I was going to for a second consider not going down there.

    As for the not mattering part, fuck you. I'm trying to keep you lot alive. So sue me if I don't get attached. Fucking sue me. But don't act like I don't give a rat's ass when I'm exploring a basement to try to find OUR way out of this mess. EVERYONE. I don't fucking play favorites.

    You're not me. You're not old enough, you're not experience enough. Stop trying to fucking impress me. Now go to your room, put the flask down, write your god damn angst fics and go to bed.

  7. You don't play favorites, huh? You don't get attached?

    Well then, whatever way it goes, this shouldn't matter too much to you.

    Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a cat to put down.

  8. You get yourself killed, swear to Christ, I'm going to be pissed.

    Just get back in one piece, god damn it.

  9. I'll be fine.

    After all, it would be terribly rude to give you a second dead bitch to cry over.

  10. ...

    Fuck you. You want to die? Not my problem.

  11. I'm probably too late, but Celie? Think like a reporter. Practical Cat is human. You kill him, you're a murderer. But you are a reporter--you have other ways to destroy a person. Information is your best weapon; find him. Stalk him. Make him fear. Catch him in wrongdoing and turn him in to the cops. He is mortal, he is limited, and he is catchable.

    I know I haven't been here long, but please, please, Celie. Don't throw away your aunt's gifts so quickly.


  12. Dear, stop acting rashly. You wanna kill the guy? I can't really stop you, but PLAN FIRST. If you find him and just attack him head-on, he probably will be the one to kill someone and that someone will be you.

    And we don't want that.

  13. Celeste, please. Don't do anything rash. I don't want to lose a friend to anybody or anything.


  14. Celie. Zeke.

    Shut the fuck up, both of you. Bickering in the comments of a blog? Jesus, you're both fucking children.

    Celie. Are you SUICIDAL? HMM? Oh yeah, sure, you've got a gun now, but do you KNOW how agile PC is? He calls himself after a Cat and god knows what kind of Proxy he is.

    Zeke. What the sweet merciful fuckery, man? Are you as dense as you sound? Is that even fucking possible?

    Here's a tip, Zee. Next time your love interest is distressed and about to do something stupid, don't fucking insult her. If she dies, I'm holding you personally responsible.

  15. You know what? I now agree wholeheartedly with Ava.

    Shut up. Stop. And think. You know what's a good way to get killed? Being impulsive and angry.

    Ava and Ash are right. You don't know what Cat can do. You're a journalist. If you're going to go up against him, find out first. And plan. Otherwise? Sit down. And calm yourself.

    ~ Branwen