Written for the LiveJournal community dncontest.

Title: Her New Truth
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Merrie Kenwood (Wedy), Mr. & Mrs. Kenwood. (Vague mentions of Wedy's friends and her sister.)
Warnings: A different take on teenage!Wedy? And I named the members of the Kenwood household and inserted a sister that may or may not have existed.
Word Count: 3,329
Author's Note: This isn't how I usually write, but I made an exception for Wedy. Kind of an odd, perhaps confusing, format because I was trying to make this introspective. That's why there may be erratic tense changes.

"—the hell is your problem?"

"My problem is you!"

At fifteen, Merrie Kenwood felt herself tremble as she heard her parents engage in yet another argument downstairs. She bit her lip and continued to type away at her essay on The Scarlet Pimpernel, intentionally making her fingers hit the keys with more force than was needed in a haphazard attempt to block out the heated quarrel.

Her parents' arguments were becoming almost routine now, so she shouldn't have felt so helpless—shouldn't have felt so scared. It wasn't like her father was going to hit her mother, right? Merrie blocked out the thought by clearing her throat loudly and humming a little tune. No, he would never hurt her. He would yell, sure, but he loved her mother with all his heart. That was how parents were supposed to be: happy and in love.

And there was no way that her mother would try to overdose on Advil again. There wouldn't be a repeat of last time when she and her father had been forced to take the saliva-covered pills out of her mother's mouth by sheer use of their hands. She couldn't help but remember how her father had stormed out of the house once her mother had regained consciousness by making his disgustingly predictable statement of "I need to get some air." He had left Merrie sobbing on the kitchen floor, beating her hands against the floor tiles until her palms were red and numb with the effort.

It was her mother who had stopped her, who had told her—no, promised her that she would never try anything so stupid again. And Merrie had believed her, and she still believed her.

So there was no need for her to feel frightened. Her parents were civilized human beings: her father was a distinguished business tycoon, and her mother worked part-time at the library. They were intelligent people, and most importantly, they were people that loved each other.

Right?

--

Merrie managed to block out the violent shouts and swears long enough to finish her essay. As she clicked the PRINT button a few seconds later, she heard the piercing sound that only glass could make as it shattered. Her heart skipped a beat, palms sweaty, legs wobbly as she ran out of her room and headed down the stairs.

It was probably just an accident. They love each other. They care for each other.

She stopped at the last step and peered into the living room to see the vase her father had bought her mother for their anniversary shattered on the floor, red roses strewn carelessly amongst the water and shards of glass.

"Damn it, Vivian! What do you want from me?!" her father demanded, hazel eyes dark and fierce with anger. Merrie unwillingly trembled again and gripped the banister painfully, her thoughts racing.

Please, God, please, please, please don't let him hurt mom.

"I don't want anything from you," her mother replied evenly. "I never will again."

Merrie's lip quivered and she gasped, realizing just what her mother was saying. No, mom, no you can't. You can't do this to me. You can't… She closed her eyes and began praying fervently, silently reciting every prayer that she had ever learned in her head.

"What do you mean?" she heard her father ask with a slightly hesitant edge in his voice.

"I mean I'm leaving, Derek," her mother stated, only to confirm Merrie's worst fears. When her father tried to say something— probably something stop her— she merely shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but it's over. I can't take this."

There was an unsettling pause. Then her father sneered, expression easing from shock into twisted amusement. "You're lying."

Her mother tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear and stared at him. Merrie was startled to find her light blue eyes looking more disappointed than angry. "I don't care what you think anymore," came her simple, straightforward reply, before she grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

"Mom! No!"

Merrie found herself running towards her mother and childishly clinging to her waist once she got there. Her mother put her arms around her and Merrie buried herself in the warmth of her motherly embrace.

"You can't go," she said, hot tears stinging her eyes. "You have to stay. Dad will try and work out things. Won't you?" Her last question was directed at her father; he didn't respond, but simply looked at her with a cold expression, as if to say, It's hopeless, before turning on his heel and heading upstairs with total nonchalance.

Merrie glared and silently cursed after him.

"I'll call you every day if I have to, Merrie," her mother said, gently stroking her pale blond hair and bringing her back to the matter at hand.

"That's not good enough!" Merrie cried. "You have to…" Her voice broke and the sobs that she had been keeping in so resolutely escaped. She felt stupid and immature, hating herself for resorting to tears to try and solve her problems.

But despite everything, maybe—just maybe, this would be enough to get her mother to listen.

Or maybe she was just being a hypocrite.

Her mother sighed, softly. "Merrie…"

"T-Take me with you!" she choked out between sobs. "I don't… I don't want to stay here! Not without you!"

Her mother didn't respond immediately, but she did tighten her arms around her—more a comforting motion than anything else.

"My darling Merrie, I want you to listen to me," her mother began in a whisper, perhaps to prevent her father from overhearing. "I'm leaving your father, but I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to move in with your Aunt Lylene, and once things are settled, I'll come and get you. I would take you with me, but I don't want to put you in any danger. The most I'll be away is for a couple of days, but please, don't tell your father."

Relief washed over Merrie like cool water on a hot summer's day. Of course her mother wouldn't leave her. She shouldn't have even considered that in the first place. She would come back for her. And then everything would be like it used to be—no, it would be happier, much happier without her father. Her sobs gradually came to an end, and after hiccupping a few times, she gathered up enough self-possession to speak.

"Okay…" was all she managed to say, and despite herself, it sounded uncertain.

Whether her mother noticed or not, she didn't say, but instead said, "That's my girl," in that sweet motherly voice of hers. She pulled back and kissed her forehead. "I love you, Merrie. You know that."

Merrie nodded, plastering a small smile onto her face for her mother's benefit. "I know. I love you, too."

She watched as her mother opened the door and walked past her into the frigid air that lay on the other side, the lingering scent of her vanilla perfume offering Merrie some degree of comfort as the door shut behind her.

Merrie had no idea that would be the last time she would ever see her mother.

The news of her mother's death came the next day, right when she was about to present her essay for The Scarlet Pimpernel in Literature class. She was called over the intercom into the principal's office, and had went in half-expecting to see her mother standing there with her arms outstretched, wearing that comforting smile of hers.

But that turned out to be nothing more than a childish fairytale when instead she was told that her mother's body and car had been found submerged in a river about five miles south of where they lived. They hadn't given her any more details, and she hadn't needed them. Merrie could tell from the way the principal and police officers fidgeted and avoided eye contact with her that her mother hadn't been forced off the road by some unnamed assailant, that she hadn't been murdered:

She had committed suicide.

It was plain and simple, written over all of their faces, and it was because of that she broke down crying again. And again she felt helpless and stupid, and again she felt like dying right then and there because everything her mother had told her had been a lie—she had never loved her. Any mother who truly loved her daughter would never commit suicide. Merrie had almost tried rationalizing it by remembering that her mother had said, "I would take you with me, but I don't want to put you in any danger," but in the end even that was useless and she knew it. It had probably just been a cleverly crafted excuse by her mother to leave a potential victim behind and keep her conscience clean.

As she was driven home by the police officers, Merrie cursed herself for ever having trusted a woman as wretched as her mother in the first plcace. How could she have been so naïve and believed that her mother would actually come back for her? She should have known that her mother was going off to kill herself; the signs had been right there—the unusual calmness in her voice, the way she had carried herself in a you-can't-beat-me-this-time sort of manner. How could she have possibly overlooked the fact that that same woman had tried overdosing on Advil once before?

How could I have been such a fool?

Her father returned home that evening at 6:00 PM like he always did. They hadn't talked at all the night before, and judging by his distant expression and his infuriatingly leisure pace as he removed his jacket and scarf, he didn't seem particularly anxious to start a conversation with her at the moment either. But when he finally did peer into the living room at her, he remarked in the most indifferent voice possible, "You can't blame me for her suicide."

Merrie stared at him, at a complete loss for words. She had never been very close to her father, but this was the breaking point of what relationship they had built over the years. She gripped the edge of the couch so tightly that her hand shook, that the whiteness of her knuckles showed.

"Your shit was the reason why she killed herself," she spat fiercely. "She may not have been right in the head, but you pushed her off the edge. Why did you have to keep criticizing her? Why didn't you love her? "

Her father looked genuinely surprised at that. It took him three flustered attempts just to get his words out. "So you're going to blame me, Merrie? You're going to blame your own father?"

"You're no father of mine," she stated firmly, "and that woman was not my mother." It was her new truth and she was going to stick by it. Never again would she fall prey to such childish naïveté. Never again would she let herself be manipulated so tactlessly by her so called "loved ones."

Never again would she cry.

--

And when Merrie attended her mother's funeral, she made a point in not shedding a single tear—even as her family and friends wept around her.

The years that followed resulted in huge changes for Merrie Kenwood.

Merrie had never considered herself to have "sex appeal"; she had always been plain, never one for make-up or jewelry, but that changed drastically once her mother passed away. After rummaging through some of her mother's old possessions (the ones her father couldn't sell and make a profit out of), Merrie found a pair of old sunglasses. They were nothing special: black with slightly angular lenses and a black plastic frame, but she liked them nevertheless—and plus, they looked good on her—so she decided to wear them. And did so ever since.

Her wardrobe was also swept clean of all her old T-shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans. She had talked her father into letting her spend the summer at her sister Kathryn's house. Kathryn, who happened to be a fashion designer, had helped her restock her wardrobe with chic form-fitting blouses, equally snug leather pants, and the occasional miniskirt or two. Kathryn had even volunteered to give her a haircut and teach her how to apply make up; it was an offer that Merrie had most graciously accepted.

By the time she arrived home, Merrie looked like a completely different young woman. Even her father had seemed mildly surprised at her layered hair and red lipstick, but whether he approved of the change or not, he didn't say.

Merrie marked Junior year as her new beginning. Most people—including her friends and teachers—didn't recognize her as she casually strolled down the hall, heedless of the bells and announcements overhead. After countless attempts to engage her in their daily conversations, Merrie's friends eventually gave up talking to her all together. Merrie didn't mind; she preferred the laid back company of boys anyway. Although she denied it at first, Merrie did find all the attention she got from the boys amusing—so amusing, in fact, that she decided to be bold and openly flirt back.

In a matter of time Merrie's grades began slipping also; once a straight A student, her grades went from B's to C's and lower from then on. But Merrie couldn't say that she cared in all honesty: schoolwork was far too rigid and tedious for her liking, and she marveled at the fact that she had once even given a flying crap.

Now most of her attention was spent on computers and technology. She had always harbored an odd interest in computers, and it only grew as she got older. Merrie found herself spending hours fiddling and toying with her personal computer, sometimes neglecting even sleep to try and figure a problem out. She would intentionally infect the computer with viruses, malware, and other abnormalities just so she could find a way to combat them all. After months of work and slow progress, Merrie created a virtually indestructible firewall to resist them all.

She felt it was her biggest success to date.

Merrie wasn't surprised when she began getting sent to the principal's office more and more frequently because of her "risqué outfits" and "blatantly disrespectful" attitude. She actually found all the enraged lecturing entertaining, especially on one fateful occasion when her father had been called in and told by the principal that if she didn't "shape up," she could face suspension and potential expulsion.

That evening her father had threatened to throw out her computer if she didn't make some effort to change herself. The next day Merrie coolly responded by breaking into their own household security system, creating a new password, and locking him out of the house while she spent the night at her friend's apartment.

Her father never threatened her again.

But Merrie decided to avoid any other needless confrontations with her father by doing the bare minimum of her schoolwork and maintaining at least a C average. Her father seemed pleased, and although she used that term loosely, at least he didn't seem any more inquisitive about her private life than he had been before. He had no idea that she had taken security system breaching to an entirely new level and had broken into his bank account and used his money to buy herself a motorcycle when her eighteenth birthday rolled around.

Merrie stashed the bike at her boyfriend's house to avoid any possible complications. And when her boyfriend had asked her how she could possibly afford one, she had told him, "I can't, but my father can," to which he had replied, "Jeez, Mer, you're like a professional thief now."

A professional thief.

She had smiled at that.

Her father had found out about the motorcycle and her renegade security break-ins about four months after she had turned eighteen.

Like many things, it didn't come as much of a surprise for Merrie. She had been expecting it about a week after she had bought her motorcycle, so the fact that she had gotten away with it for this long was a stroke of luck.

"Merrie Kenwood, how dare you?!" was how the lecture had began. And as always, she listened with mild interest, closing her eyes behind the cover of her sunglasses as she tried to pretend her father's howls of rage were music instead.

Merrie only blinked awake when she heard her father say, "You're just as stupid as that mother of yours was! Your rebellious attitude is going to cost me my job! I should have gotten rid of you years ago."

And that, she knew without a doubt, was the end. There was no way that she was going to take such garbage from a man who barely qualified as a guardian. And now that she wasn't a minor anymore, why the hell was she sticking around anyway?

So with that Merrie had stormed into her room, threw her clothes and make-up into a couple of suitcases, and then made for the door without saying a single word to the man who was more than likely silently fuming and death glaring at her from behind.

"I'll be going through that computer of yours," he stated decisively.

Merrie stopped, a foot away from the door, and neglected to turn around. "Do whatever you want with it," she replied flatly. All her most important information was stored in the laptop at her boyfriend's house anyway.

"And I'll be calling the police, too. Consider yourself a fugitive now."

"You never were good at threats, were you?"

There was a long pause before he finally said, "You'll be sorry, Merrie."

She cast him a curt look over her shoulder, scarlet lips twisting into a smile that mirrored and mocked the one she had seen him wear so often.

"It's Wedy now, Derek."

Roughly twelve years later, she finds herself on her motorcycle in America. Her short-cropped pale blonde hair flutters freely in the wind, and her red lips are pursed behind the safety of her helmet. She accelerates on the barren freeway, sure that she can handle 80 miles per hour on a night as clear and cloudless as this.

And that is when she feels it: a sharp pain in her chest, followed by a sudden tightness. Startled blue eyes widen behind sunglasses. A heart attack? She gasps once, softly. Tries to gasp for air. Can't. Tightness has turned into an all-out constriction. Her grip on the handlebars falters. She feels herself veer off to the right of the freeway, heading for the foreboding waters below…

But she manages to muster up the last bit of her strength and force herself straight. Won't allow herself to go over the freeway and drown like that woman. Hits the pole of a sign that reads SPEED LIMIT 65. Hears a cat meow in alarm. Sees it jump out of the way using her hazed eyesight. Motorcycle explodes in flames. Chest tightens even more. Watches as the flames lick at her porcelain skin. Feels like she's inside an oven. No. A furnace. Glad that she can't breathe because otherwise she'd have to smell the stank of her burning flesh. Mind races. Wonders how she could have gotten into such an accident. She's an expert rider.

She's a professional thief.

Body goes numb. She's one with the fire. Her flesh is probably charred by now. Is she just a heap of bones? The last remnants of her thoughts piece together. Loosely. Disconnectedly. Hears a faraway voice say, "You'll be sorry, Merrie." Was this what he meant? Doesn't matter. Won't give him the satisfaction of winning. Won't cry. Forces whatever skin that is still intact on her face to twitch and turn upwards. The tightness in her chest fades. She neglects to breathe. She doesn't feel the need to anymore.

Merrie Kenwood dies with a smile on her face.