title: and the snakes started to sing
characters: mona, the main four, mike
summary: It's the boys you should run away screaming from.
a/n: it's more of an somewhat canon backstory of mona's character, the tv-show version one; it goes up until around mid-s4, from the spoilers that i've seen about it, but it doesn't have any major plot spoilers after s3. okay i can't write anymore i swear i have no inspiration whatsoever nanowrimo ate my soul i'm sorry rachel in advance this is short too sorry
warning: rated T for language, slight violence.
disclaimer: i don't own anything besides the story idea; the characters and everything else belong to ABC family.
dedication: this is for rachel (metaphors) in the a-team exchange.
prompts: mona-centric, "i like storms. they let me know that even the sky screams too.", fireflies, & acrylic paints
(also, sorry for spag errors. this is mostly in chronological order, as well.)
and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty
make thick my blood, stop up the access and passage to remorse,
that no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fell purpose
nor keep peace between, the effect and it
- macbeth, william shakespeare
Mona's mother is pretty in photographs—long blonde hair draped across delicate shoulders, honey-brown eyes a warning sign, and when she was younger, Mona had sworn that she could have smelled Elizabeth Arden perfume splayed across the photograph; there had been a genuine smile splayed across the woman's face, cherry red lipstick to accent pale as ivory cheeks—perfect, perfect, perfect.
Her father, on the other hand, was something of a traditionalist—all the way from India, he had come, to raise a family, to live in America (it was the dream, all those years ago, to live in the States) and to achieve success in the country of dreams. "I sacrificed my entire life to raise you," he tells her, day in and day out, "So don't go wasting all of my hard work on boys and nonsense. Study hard, get a good education, I'll find you a nice boy, and it'll all be settled."
The little girl curls turn into pigtails of oiled, thick hair; the bright eyes framed over by glasses and they darken through the years. She stares into the depths of a computer screen, and wonders if there's somebody out there—somebody who cares more about her than what she gets on her biology test or whether or not she shows up to school, and school is the worst, that's the truth.
School is of Alison's crew; Aria and Hanna and Emily and Spencer and their ruthless leader, the queen bitch, and as much as she tries, Mona will never be good enough for their friendship—it's just one of the common truths of life. Even though Alison constantly undermines them—Mona's watched from the sidelines for years, seen Alison making fun of Hanna's weight and Emily's sexuality and Aria's parents and Spencer's family, in general (you're a Hastings, yes, but you'll never be as good as Melissa), just jokes, snide little remarks.
The four girls laugh it off, unsure, hesitantly, but soon enough they're the perfect five once more—perfect, perfect, perfect.
She spends hours in front of a computer screen; the step-brother, a boy of seven years, younger and more annoying, parades into the house as though there hasn't been a moment where he didn't exist.
Mona stares up at her new step-mother—she is a cunning woman, flowing blonde hair and beady green eyes, traces of bright red lipstick smeared onto her cheek, one eyelash sticking out a wrong angle; imperfections seep out, and Mona decides that this is not okay. Perfection is of the utmost importance, of course, and she runs up to her room, heavy breaths and tears soaking onto her shirt from Fat Camp. How can I be popular? She types upon the laptop, her fingers a flying frenzy, dancing into the heart of the darkening flames.
Because of there's any question she wants the answer to, it's that one—popularity is something that is ingrained within her fingertips, flowing through her blood of molten iron and no stardust (stardust is for the dreamers, you see) and she thrives upon it to abolish her periods of lassitude. You can be polite by saying nice things, the automated computer types back.
Not polite, popular, she corrects; for a brief moment, Mona wishes that she could go back in time, change everything, perhaps be the center of attention, not the girl on the outskirts that nobody knew.
I am polite! is the computer's indignant reply, and Mona stares at the screen blankly for a moment before sitting on the edge of her seat, because this means something, this really means something, and it's more than she got from all of those Seventeen and Teen Vogue magazines which just tell her to be herself, but she knows the truth—being yourself gets you nowhere in life.
Perhaps, for college interviews at Ivy Leagues, that's what they tell you to do, but she's a boring, half-Indian, half-American girl, with no dreams and passion in life besides being popular, and that's not the type of personality that Ivy Leagues accept, so she'll change herself—she'll be polite and pretty and perfect, and in the stormy nights, she dreams of acceptance, anywhere and everywhere. And you're popular, aren't you?
No, I'm a human. You are too. Do you want to talk about Misha Collins in flowercrowns?
Acciaccaturas—that's what the girls are, Mona decides.
They're like an acciaccatura, an embellishing note written in smaller size; and after all, grace notes are often left out. She finds herself at Aria Montgomery's house—it's large and spacious and distinctively smells of ice and secrets (there's always that one family that nobody talks about) and she stands on the side, Flowers for Algernon held in one hand, a plate of Brie cheese in the other.
It's stale and smells distinctively of acryllic paints, but she inhales the blocks nonetheless; out of the corner of her eye, Mona can see the main five giggling in the corner; Hanna reaches a hand for an extra cookie, Allison slaps her wrist in a completely friendly manner, Spencer defends her friend, and Aria and Emily exchange looks of knowing. "This party blows," the voice drifts in, slightly cracking, something melodic. "Present company excluded, of course."
Mona offers Mike a brief smile, because unlike the other five girls, at least he's attempting to be nice to her, and he doesn't have to do that. "Mother's Day, then . . ." he trails off, words wafting into the atmosphere, harsh and unsavory.
"I don't have a mother. Or a stepmother. She died in May—cancer." Because, seriously, everybody seems to be dropping down like dominos these days, and there's barely anybody left who cares about the living; they're too preoccupied with their funerals and condolences. The words are cold from the number of times she's had to repeat them; fingers trembled as they were engraved onto funeral invitations, shaky hands typing them onto keyboards; and she thinks that everybody should know of this fact by now—Rosewood is a perfect, little town (nothing bad ever happens here).
He shrugs his shoulders, "She's better off wherever she is than in Roseville."
Mona's eyes narrow, "She's better off, dead, then?"
"Roseville isn't the best place, not for anybody." Mona nods at him, and wonders why she hasn't left already.
Her stepmother's funeral is on the same day as that of Allison DiLaurentis's—
Nobody bothers to remember to show up (no father, no step-brother, no alleged best friend Hanna), and Mona arrives, black robes and purple circles under eyes, ebony hair a shield from the rest of the world (except nobody's watching, nobody cares), alone. The man in the three-piece suit, preacher he calls himself—I call myself a model sometimes. Doesn't mean it's true—waits for hours before saying the words and then her stepmother's enclosed in a glass tomb beneath the ground.
There aren't any pies or boxes of homemade lasagna, not for weeks; sweet little Hanna with her bright blue eyes and silver hair is all apologetic, and Mona clings onto the only friend she's ever had with shaky hands and plunging fingernails, but her smiles grow flimsier and flimsier, skin stretched taut upon the surface and in the depths of stormy nights, Mona stands above her stepmother's grave, places a single white rose upon the tombstone, empty of engraving, and smiles.
Nobody will forget her again.
They start doing things.
Things referring to spending time with one another, something that doesn't go unnoticed by Mike's overprotective older sister. Time referring to walking with each other in the hallways, showing up at his lacrosse matches, going to the movies and doing couple-like things, but they're not a couple, not at all.
Him referring to Mike Montgomery, a completely average boy who Mona shouldn't have got herself involved with. "Mona, can I ask you something?" They're in the middle of the canteen; she can feel holes being stared into the back of her head; this is Mona, the not so pretty girl with fake eyelashes, something of a mannequin with malleable, marmoreal features.
"Yeah," she nods her head, staring into the distance of the school's canteen, and then her attention snaps back, because maybe her life will be something of a fairytale, maybe he'll ask her to be his girlfriend, maybe a miracle will happen.
"How do you get over someone? How do you move on?"
Fairytales are for the weak-hearted. "What do you mean?"
"I broke up with Kelsey because I can't stop thinking about Hanna." Mona had almost forgotten about Mike Montgomery's massive crush on the blond girl that she had once called her best friend—perhaps, Mona thinks, this is why Mike's friends with me in the first place, to be close to Hanna. But she thinks again and convinces herself that they were friends before she even associated with Hanna Marin, so maybe.
"I don't know how to get over someone." She shrugs her shoulders, "Maybe you never do."
It's been years since she donned two oily pigtails, but a computer-automated response system is still the best friend out there. It won't lie, it won't spill her secrets, it's wonderful—so is Hanna, but Hanna's preoccupied at the moment, always preoccupied. Really sorry, Mona, but the girls need me or sorry Mona, but I'm busy this weekend, maybe you could ask Kelsey to go shopping with you? or I already have plans with the girls or I have to go to a funeral is what Hanna always says, and Mona rolls her eyes, because seriously, how many funerals in Roseville are there?
A lot, apparently. Do I like him? She types in the keyboard, her mind drifting off into the depths of space, entangling with situations that are too complicated for her own knowing, but Mona doesn't really have friends to complicate her own life, so she has to do it herself.
Who's him? is the immediate response, monotone voice with a British accent. It isn't the worst friend she's ever had, to be honest.
Mike Montgomery, she types with reluctance. There's something wonderful of having a friend who can't judge whether or not a boy is completely out of your league in terms of dating purposes.
Is he the one who drowned?
That's another guy. Luke or Hermy or one of those names; Mona often forgets the names, they blend together on the tip of her tongue, into a cacophony, a symphony of screams: they are weak individuals that she once associated with, but that is in the past, and the past is but a collection of memories that are ready to fade, though engrained into backs of brains. What should I tell Mike?
What your name is, the computer replies back; Mona clenches her hand together, nonexistent perlicues, and her eyes flicker over the black mask and series of letters she had gotten from blocked sources in the mail. The A-Team, that's what it was called—some sort of Rosewood spy network that took the motto of an eye for an eye a little too far. She already predicted when the world would be blind, if the A-Team was able to carry out their primary purposes in life, which seemed quite likely with how far the network had spread already.
It's not as though he doesn't know I exist, Mona sighs; perhaps, she has more important things on her mind to do than complain and rant about her boy problems, but it's not as though there's anything else that takes up as much space in her brain. She dreams of perfect scenarios in which Mike gets over Hanna and moves on (preferably with her), and wakes up to the stinging reality.We're . . . friends. Should I tell him? Mike, I mean? Should I tell him that perhaps, I sort of like him, maybe potentially as more than friends?
Yes, you should. Stop bothering me and go do your homework.
Girls like hard-to-get boys, bad boys, even bad guys—it's a stereotype etched into the ages, into the bones of history that stack up one another, an ever-growing garden or stories, and it can't be true. Girls like hard-to-get girls; Mona's spent years being a nice girl, and nobody wants her. What happened to the fairytales, to the kind princesses with gentle hearts who fell in love at first sight?
There's nothing alluring about a murderer: the blood dripping down from their face, the battle scars inked onto their arms, the golden shining medals donned upon their uniform; there's nothing romantic about being in war. It's cold-blood killing; your commander, they tell you who the enemy is, and you are to shoot upon the enemy until they tell you to stop.
Do you know your enemy? Do you know if they're really the enemy? Maybe they're just a fisherman from the coast, given a spear in their hand, and forced to be drafted into their country's army—it's not fair.
This is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.
Rosewood is something carved out of dreams and nightmares, all twisted into one—a little town in America, nestled between lies and secrets; it's a town of murder and false allegations and gossips, about running and escaping, sometimes fighting back. Honestly, Mona thinks, mask of darkness imprinted upon her skin, the marks of the A-Team inked upon blanched skin, they deserve this. They should have left this town when they had the chance. She barks out a laugh to herself, I would have left this crazy town months ago; just packed up a bag, and gone to a better place, anywhere's better than here —" Stop dreaming," she tells herself.
This is not a fairytale. Mona is of curling ringlets of dark brown hair draped across her shoulders, honey-brown eyes that glimmer with honey, I told you so and such; the paparazzi surrounds her, snapping photographs as she steps into the orange vehicle (the Rosewood Police has never had much taste) and is taken away to the Preserve—to keep her in, they say the bars on her windows are for, but she knows better; it's to keep everybody else out.
She sits upon the bed of Radley, blank eyes—Hanna, bright colors all around her, begs her, "What did I do to deserve this? Why do you hate me so much?"
Mona looks back blankly, darkened eyes. Humans, she thinks. So full of emotion. They should really learn how to control themselves. She does not respond, and stares into the darkness and lets it consume her soul.
Emily Fields perches herself upon a mahogany chair opposite Mona, looks of suspicion floating around in wide blue eyes; Emily, perhaps, is the weakest link of them all: she is weak, she is something that could be tortured for sport. "What are you doing here?" Emily's voice is of an accustory tone, and Mona only plants a sugary sweet smile upon her face, because this is how most people talk to her nowadays.
At least it's better than them not talking to her at all, spitting words of venom that hit her face like acid rain. "It's springtime in the gorgeous town of Rosewood, which means iced vegan lattes, chic manicures in shimmering pastels and prom is coming up around the corner, oh my! But while everyone else is flipping through the racks at Saks in search of the perfect dress, Hanna, Spencer, Emily, and Aria are on a different kind of hunt: They're looking for A—"
"Shut up," is Emily's quiet reply. Then, after a moment, "How do we know that you're not A?"
Mona answers her with silence and the arbitrary blackness gallops in, the fireflies flickering out one by one, darker than before.
She hated her flawed self—imperfections tainted her face, and it wasn't perfect enough, she was never perfect enough. How do you deal with death?
Honestly, Mona thinks, I'll never actually have a friend who isn't a robot. She sighs, and types back, I don't. There are times where she paints on her sugary sweet smiles and bitchy remarks (a new version of Alison, perhaps), bright red dresses and ill-fitting heels, but Mona's sort of tired—she's tired of pretending that she's not alone, that she craves attention, that she craves anything but silent treatments.
Why do you consider me to be a robot? Did you tell Mike that you like him?
Mona jerks her head, honey brown eyes narrowing in suspicion, and then tilting them upward, confusion and then knowing; this robot was a much better friend than the ones she had. For starters, the robot didn't forget about things that she forgot about—Mike Montgomery. After the events that had splayed out in the past three years, he hadn't really crossed her mind more than once or twice.
The next time she sees Mike, he's with Aria at the poetry cafe—
"Don't talk to her," Mona can hear Aria muttering, and thinks that people will hold grudges forever and ever, but there has to be something else making the four girls abhor her, some underlying reason (nothing is ever as it seems in Rosewood), because they do still hate her—there's a flicker of fear in Hanna's bright blue eyes, something of distrust.
"I'll do what I like," Mike shrugs his sister off, walking towards Mona, hands in pockets. "Haven't seen you around lately."
"I've been in Radley." There's no point in trying to deny it—Rosewood is a town full of single mothers and unhappy families who have nothing better in their lives to do then gossip endlessly about those poor, unfortunate souls.
He's, perhaps, different—it's not as though there's some sort of undeniable physical attraction between the two of them, like chemistry in the movies and in the Disney fairytales, but Mona thinks that it's nice that there's somebody out there who doesn't tuck-and-roll every time she enters the room, and he's not too bad looking, and that's never a bad thing.
In an alternate world, perhaps they would have exchanged numbers, sent flirty text messages to one another, and right then and there, would be the blossoming of something old, something new, something borrowed, something—
This is not a fairytale: they are not weak, yet love is not for the faint of heart.
"He's different, Hanna."
"He's Aria's little brother—you have to imagine that she's not going to want somebody like you dating him. You're older than him, too." So were you when you dated him for what, three years? It's so much different because Mona, the monster, is somewhat interested—Mona's just sort of tired.
"I swear to God, Rosewood and their social customs; you're just one of them now, aren't you?" She doesn't take a pause for the question to be answered. "I'm not the girl that I used to be. I've changed."
"I trust you, Mona," Hanna smiles, kind blue eyes, but there's distrust in them too. Mona gets it; she doesn't expect for any of the girls to forgive her for a while, and knows that she'll have to earn their trust back over time, but for how long will she sit on the sidelines, watching them exchange biting remarks about the girl from Radley; it's back to the start, she realizes. Even without Ali, they're as close as ever—the fabulous five becomes the fabulous four.
Three, Mona thinks, it's the terrible three. Then, the terrible two. I'll have revenge, perhaps one day. "Thanks, Hanna—it's nice to hear it from you."
"Aria will forgive you, I promise." Hanna doesn't mention Spencer or Emily because they're the ones who hold lifelong grudges, Spencer more than Emily. "Just, just stay off her radar, okay? Basically, don't be seen around Mike. Just don't be in a relationship with Mike, if you can help it."
"I like him, Hanna." Because he's sweet and reminds her of a life that she could have lead, and she's attracted to all of the what-if's and dangerous possibilities in life, alluring and fatal as they seem to be. "I like him, and I'm not going to start ignoring him, if that's what you'll have me do."
"If you want for Aria to see that you've changed, if you want the girls to accept you, then you're going to have to show them—"
"God," she tilts her head back, eyes smiling and gleaming with danger. "God damn it, how many times do I have to say it? I'm not the girl that I used to be; I've been in Radley for the better half of a year. I'm better now." Shiny, brand-new; fabulous.
"Bullshit," Aria pipes up, sitting down next to Hanna, two of the original four members—Mona smiles to herself, because that was the root of her actions, them stealing her only friend away from her, but the roots have been dug up, cast aside, and thorns have grown out of free will. "I don't want you around my brother—you terrorized," she lowers her voice, leaning across the table, large eyes and raised eyebrows, "You psychologically tortured me and my best friends for the better half of senior year; I know you've said your apologies and you've paid your time in Radley but don't think for a moment that I'm not keeping my eye on you."
"That's great to know, Aria," Mona drawls out. "Now, if you don't mind, I have an appointment with the school's psychiatrist."
It all goes downhill from there (if that was possible), because they situate themselves in Rosewood—Rosewood is a town carved out of treachery and secrets, crimson lipstick biting into skin and bones; the crunch of bones under golden teeth is something of the crunch of baby teeth upon Cinnamon Toast Crunch, refreshing and savory, disappearing all too soon—and Mona should have left town at first light.
She savors the storms—they crash down upon her inked skin, and let her know that the omnipotent sky screams too.
Nepenthes come through causing others pain—for a moment, she is not alone, they are alone too. They will feel her pain; it has been something of three years since Radley, and she breathes in university with Mike like a fresh breath of air, a second chance at life; except, she chooses Hollis College: biggest mistake ever, because honestly, she could have done better.
If she hadn't been preoccupied with the A-Team and trying to stay alive, fighting flesh and bone to make it through the days and murky nights, Mona could have spent more time on extracurriculars and maintaining her GPA; she could have saved herself. Hollis College is where she dies.
(When I met you, you weren't a bully, you weren't a bad guy; when you really met me, I was a bitch. I didn't get better, you learn to live with it. I cried the day my father died, you stayed awake with me all night.
We have lost so many of our friends, our brothers, our sisters, our parents, to mother death. Do you remember the days when you were upset, and we just sat there, doing nothing, travelling out to the middle of nowhere? Now, age has caught up with us, you've grown tired, and I stopped laughing at your half-hearted jokes. You weren't there the day they sang "death to the madman" and I fell to my knees with a bleeding heart.
You weren't there when it mattered.)
These are the words that bleed through her glass-covered casket, and Mike inhales them through failing lungs and breathes in a new world.