A/N: I was in a pretty weird mood when I though of the premise of this fic. I was considering how love changes people, especially heartbreak, and decided to take it to extremes. Prepare for a lot of angst, a load of flashbacks and references that won't be explained for a long time yet. It's gonna be a hell of a ride.
Rated T for language and drinking/smoking. Probably verges on M, and will probably change rating depending on the course that is taken later.
Bonnibel Grabb wasn't usually one for philosophising but something about the ashen ghost trickling from her lips made her think. Thinking existentially, that is, not the usual systematic train of thought she usually employed.
Memories. They were enough of an enigma when considered in the scientific sense. But by any terms, why was it that the briefest of moments stuck in your head whilst infinteissimal holes of time slipped away like sand? Why was it that certain words could never be wiped away by the work of months? Why could a single encounter affect your body, mind, heart, soul?
One month had transcended into eighteen, eighteen had transcended into ammonia and cigarettes. She lifted the tobacco to her lips and took a long haul. Everything she'd ever known- carcinogens, monoxide, addiction- was blown away with the smoke on her breath. It was a relaxant. It was a moment of calm in a day of stress.
She ran a hand through her bubblegum pink hair, relaxed the knot in her shoulders, and leant against the fire escape. Her blue eyes flitted across the neon studded cityscape. Any other day, she'd be out there, partying and cheering with the rest of them. But she wasn't one to believe in hair of the dog treatment and the weight in her skull needed no extra 'help', even late into the day as it was.
Perhaps, in retrospect, the smoke was a bad idea. But the cigarette found her fingers, her lips, her head, and she took another long drag. Honestly, she had no idea what she was doing. Her science brain kicked in for a moment- this was the psychological result of an unfulfilled affection, coupled with a suppressed ego and the burden of teenage hormonal activity. And the science part of her was discarded as she realised the true answer.
Marceline Abadeer, and a month with her, transcending into eighteen more. She wondered how that time had affected her. She was probably out right that moment, swallowing down shots like they were liquid air. Hell, she'd still be doing it even if she had the craziest hangover.
Bonnibel wasn't quite that level yet. Despite her bubblegum head, she was still a scientist. She still believed in discipline and self control and logic, even if she sometimes twisted her ideals to fit the spur of the moment. But right now, there was no moment to be spurred. There was just a balcony and loneliness and the thought of school to come.
She really needed a shower.
The yellow mini drew up to the cabin, acrid gas spurting from the exhaust, the tires squealing through the mud. Inside the vehicle, Bonnibel winced. No matter how many times she had told her uncle that the car was simply too old, that the axis had practically derailed and that there were more efficient ways of getting around, he refused to part with it. It was stylish, he claimed. It brought back memories, he told her.
She had decided not to tell him how embarrassing it was to drive around in it.
It was important to set an example now. Through years of study and excellence, she had finally secured a place in the Overachievers Occupational Organisation. Or Ooo, as most people called it. Though the simple wooden building did not boast of much, the statistics proved it the best way to get a head start in life. Only a select elite were chosen to take part, and employers and universities went crazy over it. With all her dreams of a career in science, this was perfect for Bonnibel.
But seeing it for herself, she suddenly had second thoughts, "Do you think…?"
"Whatever you're about to say, don't.
"No, right now, I could be… I don't know… I mean it's summer vacation, I should-"
Her uncle turned to face her, "You worked hard for this, Bonnibel. There isn't time for reconsideration."
"Yeah, I suppose," she sighed, turning back to the window. She didn't know why she even bothered. Her uncle was puckered up and sour, like a lemon. There was no way she could back out with him around.
It wasn't the course itself that frightened her, but the people. She had spent her whole life being 'the intelligent one'. She didn't want that taken away from her by the future minister of education and others of that ilk
"Well, aren't you going to get out?
Her blue eyes studied the door handle, then the dashboard, as if weighing up her choices. Finally, she looked him in the eye, "If I call, you'll answer, right?"
"Don't be so bloody needy. But yes. I suppose it's my job."
"And there'll be ice cream in the fridge when I get back?"
His smirk contorted his sallow face into a caricature, "Get out already."
Fingers resting on the handle, she smiled back, "I love you too, uncle," and pressing lightly on the door so that it didn't groan against her weight, she stepped onto the damp ground. There was a loud squeak as she opened the boot of the car and she made a face. Hopefully it was not loud enough for anyone inside to hear.
Behind her, tires ground against the dirt, considerably quieter than her own flavescent vehicle. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, she took her luggage from the car- two hold-alls and a small blue backpack.
The newcomer, however, did not try to be inconspicuous. The passenger door slammed shut with a jarring smash, and the angry footsteps did not need the voice rising above them to convey any extra emotion, "Fuck you, dad. Fuck you, and fuck every single fucking thing you have ever done to fuck me over."
As she listened in, she shut the boot as quietly as she possibly could
"What? I swear too much? You think I'm swearing at you for no reason, dad?"
Bonnibel pushed her russet hair from her eyes and looked at her companion. Opposite to her in the makeshift lot was another girl with hair as dark as her skin was pale. She held a phone to her ear, and opened the taxi doors in a considerable display of her temper
"Hell, I wanted to spend summer playing crappy video games and snorting crack cocaine… Of course I'm fucking kidding. I'm just antagonising you now, for fuck's sake," she emphasised the expletive with the crash of the car boot, and instantly recoiled, raising a limp hand to her mouth, "Oh god fucking damnit... no, dad, I… ugh. Whatever. Bye.
Bonnibel decided this was a good time to get inside, before the stranger redirected her anger elsewhere. So she picked up her bags, waved goodbye at her uncle through the windows and made her way up the path. When she reaced the door, she briefly glanced back. The girl's phone dangled from her hand as she stared sullenly down at her possessions. After a moment, she gave an audible sigh and stretched out. She looked up at the trees. Just blinked. Shut her eyes. Took a breath.
The yellow mini spluttered away. Brought back to life by the noise, she jerked around and found Bonnibel staring.
"And fuck you too."
She watched the glass slowly fog up until her reflection was little more than a mirage, an illusion created by the scattering droplets. Her skin, barely visible against the white tile, was hardly there. Somehow, the lack of proof in her existence, her tangibility, it comforted her. Eighteen months ago, she had been fixated on making a mark. She had once strived to be the centre of attention. She had strived to be big. But now, Marceline Abadeer knew that there was no greater comfort than nothingness.
Cold water trickled down her back and she lifted her face to meet its kisses. The beads of moisture clung to her lashes and sealed her eyes shut. She breathed deep and turned over. A few faltering notes were coaxed from her mouth, "You're a walking heartbreak..." she didn't like the way her voice sounded- maybe it was the lack of practise or perhaps the syllables grew heavy with the moisture in the air, but it wasn't the same, "Don't give a damn 'bout no one else…"
The note fell an octave and she frowned at her failure. With a mixture of disappointment and reluctance, she closed the faucet. Blindly, water dripping down her face, she fumbled for her towel, found it, hugged it around her flesh. She wiped her feet on the mat and stepped onto the cold stone floor. She should've brought her slippers, she thought, as a chill ran through her.
As she squeezed a tear of toothpaste from its tube, she thought of other things. That paper due in tomorrow: she'd completed it to the best of her standards, hadn't she? Nothing more could be said about the lingering Neolithic traditions continued by modern artificers, could there? There was little enough to say on the subject as it was. It was only a theory she'd cooked up one tired night, since she had needed an original thesis. Nothing was more original than absolute bullshit; Marceline knew that from experience.
She spat her mouthful of foam down the drain and washed out her mouth with a swig of water. The mirrored cabinet above her head was pulled upon- she noticed the condensation was clearing- and a bottle of Clearasil was produced. She gently rubbed it in to her cheeks, before rinsing her face with water. A yawn escaped her. She was getting tired.
But as she shut the cabinet, she found herself again. A girl with a pointed face and small nose stared back at her. Her lips were parted and her eyebrows arched, making her look permanently confused, lost even. Chestnut eyes, almost red, faint shadows rimming them, pulling them in. Her hair had evened out to her shoulder blades- because they were so sharp they might've been- and formed dark curtains that blotted out the rest of the universe. Hanging from her ears were two acid crosses and these were the only signposts that she was once not as mellow as she appeared.
She had become someone Peebs would be proud of.
And as the thought crossed her mind, that little, lost girl in the mirror smiled.