Thirteen
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There are nine stripes on his arm and twelve stripes on hers. He counts them while she's sleeping, brushes his fingers up and down each solid black line, kissing her scars along the way. She doesn't wake, and he lies there until dawn, when the buttery light of the sun seeps in through the curtains and her starry eyes flutter open. He gives her twelve kisses and she gives him nine. It is a game they play each morning, and he longs for the day when he can give her thirteen.
.
He is just a kid when he comes to camp, and it is just a kid who finds him, curled up and alone, clutching the bottle of Kool-Aid he'd stolen from his mother's purse before the monster had ripped her to shreds.
"I'm Gwen," comes the whisper and when he looks at her, her smile is small and sad.
"Dakota," he whispers back, and takes her outstretched hand. He offers her the Kool-Aid and she takes a slow sip, her lips staining red like they're lathered with strawberry jam.
.
It's funny, because afterwards, he can never get that picture out of his head. Gwendolyn with her lips painted red like the merlot his mother used to drink each night before stumbling to bed and leaving the kitchen light burning.
.
"Since when did Dakota become a boy's name?" she asks one day, sharpening her dagger and blinking long lashes at him.
"Since forever," he replies, sipping his Kool-Aid and wiping stain from his lips.
"I don't believe you, Miss Dakota."
He smiles. "You should, Gwendolyn." He ducks as she throws the knife at him. He knows she hates her full name, but he finds it the prettiest word in the world.
.
He's pressed down against the hard-packed clay, listening to her whisper "yield, Dakota, yield." Her lips are so close and he can smell her blood and sweat.
And then he doesn't know what he's doing but he's lifting his mouth to hers and all he can taste is red.
.
They're watching a movie and their hands are tentatively clasped. He hasn't at all been paying attention to the screen, too wound up with Gwen on one side, smelling like vanilla perfume, and his bottle of Kool-Aid on the other.
She inches slightly closer and suddenly neither of them is watching the movie.
Then they're kissing and the line "down with the bloody red queen" is spoken to an otherwise-occupied audience.
.
So maybe it's the end of the world but all he cares about is her. He dropped his Kool-Aid hours ago amid the reeking mass of bodies by the edge of the field and he doesn't even miss it.
His voice is hoarse when he calls her name. "Gwen! Gwen!"
It seems like forever until he spots her ragged Converse peeking out from beneath a stone slab. Sobs shake his body as he reaches for her and pulls her close, burying his face into her hair and wishing they were anywhere but here.
"Take it easy, Miss Dakota," her voice murmurs feebly, and it's with a choked sob of laughter that he meshes his lips with hers, tasting smoke and ash and strawberry jam.
.
There are ten stripes on his arm and thirteen on hers. Her neck is broken and twisted but if he half-closes his eyes, she could be sleeping.
When he pulls his hands away they are dripping with her blood.
When he gives her a kiss her lips are cold.
.
That night and all the nights after his only company is a bottle of merlot that is empty by the time his eyes drift shut.
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Author's Note: This started out as a cracky one-shot entitled 'Miss Dakota, Or, Since When Did Dakota Become a Boy's Name?' and then morphed…into this. I don't know why I write such terrible angst. It just makes me really weepy. Anyway. Please review, tell me what you think. xx