"It's your fault," her father jeers at her, lethargic pounding footsteps echo in her ear, and the pungent smell of scotch wafts throughout her nostrils.
Caliginous spit mixes in with her face, and she is thrown against the wall — "You are worthless," father says, "You should have died instead of your mother!" There is a flicker of pain in her father's eye, but she does not feel the least bit apologetic.
The neighbouring twins, the formerly unsuspecting ones that once radiated abhorrence towards her, who have called the police countless times despite the police being increasingly more helpless than she was, tells her to leave and she just refuses, forcing the semblance of a grin to tighten the strings threatening themselves to spill from her lips anxiously.
There is no point in running away if the horrendous monsters are still chasing her, fear reigns throughout her, and it will either aid her or destroy her into oblivion; the next time her head is bashed into the steel yet crumbling mahogany staircase, blood mixing with dried cement, long-lasting stains, and it is all her fault that the house will never be bought.
They were doing one hell of a good job of maintaining the morbidity that was their façade; accountant father who graduated from a prestigious Ivy League, the owner of a splendid palace that was able to be seen from the mists; mother with a blonde chevelure and kind blue eyes to match her daughter's own, her phosphorous skin pale and elegant and unearthly whereas her mimicking daughter's was patchy and wounded — notwithstanding the fact that nobody knows she is not truly her mother, of course.
A troubled daughter, that is to constantly retreat upstairs, isolate herself in her bedroom and not draw attention to herself — she is a disappointment, she has always been a disappointment.
Her step-mother stands in the kitchen, chopping a freshly bought chocolate cake with a stainless steel knife - ponds of darkness trapped beneath her eyes, ghost-white pallor, fragments of hair dull and ruffled by an invisible hand, and she never does anything to help her.
—
The flames are getting brighter, and the rifle smolders in her fierce grasp with hot, sulfurous malevolence. She has ultimately committed the unthinkable of pure evil. She ventures forward with tremulous legs; the bonfire diffusing throughout the area bathes her in an oppressive, volcanic heat that draws a sour sweat to the surface of her skin. She tries to make sense of the scene, of the geyser of lifeblood as unapologetically red that spatters the ground between her. Blood, guts, and chocolate cake, sparkling like firelight embers.
The ashes rise in the crevices of her mind, and the gun is launched in one hand, the knife in another; she maintains control of the weapon, and feels a sick, sort of guilty pleasure when the waft of monoxide and poisonous gas is spread throughout the kitchen, the hallways, the fissures of everything. There is no admonishment, no anger, just quiet.
Although psychologically, she loved the adrenaline of knowing she finally made them all fall, descend, perish, and for once she has won the war, she is no longer forcibly frightened or scared, and at last, she is the one getting the last laugh.
author's note— Once again, this is centered around Pacifica Northwest, since I feel as if I can relate to her in certain aspects and viewpoints. Honestly, the want to write a short vignette about Gravity Falls to distract myself from my overbearing procrastination really worked against me here. Also, I had a fractional amount of trouble characterising Pacifica, but I really like how this turned out for me.