A/N: I decided to do this story because I read the premise of Sara Shepard's Emison fanfic, and I thought, I could do something like that! Or at least do an homage. In case you haven't read the Pretty Little Liars books, let me give you some key points: Alison and Courtney are twins. Alison tricked her parents into sending Courtney to a mental hospital. Their parents haven't told anyone Courtney exists. Courtney switches back with Ali and pretends to be her, Ali goes to the mental hospital as "Courtney." This fic is crossed with the show, though, because I'm imagining all of the liars as the TV actresses. They have the same relationship pairings as the show, too, and no one has died. Also, there is no A in this story, Alison isn't psychotic, and Emily has never been with other girls/isn't out yet. She's only dated Ben, like in the show. Ali/Courtney & Em haven't kissed. Ali/Courtney has flirted with Emily and is perhaps aware that Emily has a crush on her, but nothing has happened or been discussed.
Ultimately, just roll with it. Let me know what you think! I also took a different track with this opener. I've never written 2nd person, but I wanted to try it out. It's weird at first, but keep going, you'll get into it.
You are Alison DiLaurentis. You're blonde, blue eyed, and beautiful. You have all A's and you absolutely crush it in sports. You're everything everyone wants to be and, because of that, you're always surrounded by admirers. Of course you are. You're the It Girl of Rosewood Day middle school. People worship you, but people are also scared of you. They're scared because you make sure everyone knows how good you are at being you. You're the best. And you're the only one. You are up above and everyone else is down below. Your life is perfect, and let's face it, you are perfect, too.
But you're missing one thing, one thing that, without it, makes you a little less than perfect. One thing that represents everything you stand for. Your "A" ring, your signature mark. A is for Alison. A is for All Star. A is for Awe-inspiring. Your "A" ring is bright and shining, like you are, and without it, you are just that tiniest bit duller. It's gone missing and you need to find it.
So, there you are, crouched over the jewelry drawer you've pulled out of the vanity in your bathroom, throwing around every last ring, bangle, necklace, and makeup compact you can find but there's nothing there. There's no "A" ring. No prize at the bottom of the box. Where the fuck is it?
"Courtney, are you ready to go?" your mother asks, a hard look on her face.
"I'm not Courtney," you say back in your trademark, barbed tone. The type of tone that sends students scurrying away from you when they hear it in the hallways at school.
"You know that's not funny," she returns back, equally sharp. You finally look up at her, there's something off in her voice. She doesn't talk to you that way. You're her golden child, her most prized possession. You're her "A" ring.
But that's not how she's looking at you now. Her arms are crossed, her expression severe. Like she's just received the wrong order at a five star restaurant. She hasn't moved an inch from the doorway. It makes you afraid, but the only way you know how to deal with fear, is with anger. You narrow your eyes.
"I said I'm not Courtney. She's in her room or something," you growl back.
She glances at your hand, you know the one, you know what she's looking for. Your fear hikes higher. You unconsciously rub the spot where it should've been, looking at the faint pale outline on your skin. The only trace left that you ever wore your ring at all.
"I've lost it," you say, starting to feel a little panicked. Why is she looking at you that way? Like you're mud? "I'm looking for it right now."
But she's not convinced. She glances outside, you can both hear the sound of voices.
"No, Alison is outside talking to some of her friends."
"What?" you snap. You look out the bathroom window too. But you don't just see her standing there talking to four dorky girls. You see your prize. You see your "A" ring glinting in the sunlight, like a diamond. On her god damn finger.
"My ring," you say under your breath because you literally can't-fucking-believe it. "She took my ring."
Your dad chooses this price moment to enter the scene. Your mom shoots him a heavy look that you can't quite decipher. You're starting to feel outnumbered, though you're not sure why. These are your parents. They're on your side.
"She's saying she's Alison."
"I AM Alison," you say again, your voice higher than you'd like, betraying your fear.
He glances at your hand too. No ring. He sighs heavily, like you're such a burden, like, why don't you just do what we say?, like you're making this harder on yourself.
"It's time to go, Courtney," he says, taking a step toward you, making you realize how large he is and how small you are. You drop the drawer on the floor, taking a step backwards, realizing you're backed into a corner. Like a wild animal.
"I'm Alison!" you scream, as he grabs your arm roughly, like you're just a sack of flour in the shape of a middle school girl.
"Daddy, why won't you listen to me?" you continue to cry out as he hoists you down the stairs. You hate the way you sound. So shrill, so pleading, so not like Alison DiLaurentis.
But you can't help it. You're desperate. You're starting to get really frightened. Frightened like the worst nightmare you've ever had. Like you're drowning, naked in class, and all your teeth are falling out at the same time. But you're shocked too, almost frozen, unable to react at what's happening as you're thrust into the back seat of your dad's new Mercedes. Why don't they recognize you? Why don't they believe you? Don't they know you?
You can't speak normally, make a logical argument. All you can do is keep screaming it at the top of your lungs.
"I'M ALISON!"
All the way there, all the way to Radley. You scream until your voice is hoarse, scream like you thought if you screamed loud enough that it would finally get through to them.
But it doesn't. And you quickly learn that screaming is a rookie mistake. Screaming gets you sedated. When you're sedated, you lose days, sometimes weeks. You can barely talk, barely slur, "I'm Alison." But you keep trying anyway. They drug you up so much and for so long you can't remember who the president is, what year you were born. You look out your window at night, not even sure how you're awake, where you even are… oh right, your cell, and you see the sun, the ocean, pieces of broccoli dancing in the waves. You've never done drugs before, at least not like this, and it scares you. It makes you think maybe you are insane.
But you're not, god damn it. You're Alison. A is for Adamant. A is for Argue. But they strap you down, they call you a liar. They call you crazy. They say you have a history of violence. But, worst of all, they call you Courtney. They tell you over and over that you're not Alison, you are Courtney. You are Courtney. You hear it so much, you hear it in your sleep, like people beating you over the head with the letter C. Courtney. Courtney. Courtney. You are Courtney.
But you're not Courtney. So, they punish you. No, you mean, they "help" you. Their ways to "help" you are creative and varied. They put you in solitary. They take away your favorite things, your books. They take away your privacy by taking your door off its hinges. They make your wear signs that say, "I am a liar, do not believe me." They make you shower with a chaperone, not giving you a moment to yourself. They put leather masks on you, like you're a dog, not a human. All day, every day, they are always watching you. They think you are an instigator. And why wouldn't they? You are Courtney DiLaurentis, the problem child, the cracked egg. And you are. You quickly recruit people, create your very own Rosewood Day, though all its students are a little off kilter, a little askew. You use your army to enact petty torments. You revel in these small moments of revenge. But they always know it's you. They always find you and punish you.
After months and months and months of this, you realize, in a sickening kind of way, an inkling of what you put your sister through when you'd tricked her into Radley. You start to feel, maybe for the first time in your life, the sinking, breaking feeling of regret. You wish you'd never told your parents that Courtney had tried to kill you. In fact, you wished anything, every wish under the sun, every far out dashing hope, anything that would get you out of this place. You could see yourself, doped up on some drug with 18 letters, looking at yourself in your grimey bathroom mirror, a far cry from the one you'd been wrenched from, and you could see the light fading out of your eyes with each passing day. You didn't want to become Courtney.
You carve the words, KARMA IS A BITCH, into your notebook. You wish you could've written them in your blood. Or, better, in her blood.
When nothing changes after a year, you think, maybe you're going about this in the wrong way. You're a smart girl, right? You were once perfect, once bright and shining. You could solve this riddle. But you know what cost it would come at. The very thing you have refused to fork over, like an untameable, unbroken wild stallion, for thirteen whole months. But you swallow that particularly big, fat pill, and you become Courtney. Because you want friends again. Because you want to kiss and flirt with boys again. You miss the power you had over sane people. You want to shop and bike and play piano and wear different nail polishes. You want these things so badly that you play nice. You make best friends with former staff enemies. You smile so much your face aches from the exertion. In group therapy, you tell lost causes that they could change if they committed. That you believed in them. You don't, but you say it anyway. You are the most convincing anyone has ever seen. You are a ray of fucking sunshine. A is for Actress. A is for Academy Award. And it still takes a year.
And it's not easy. People say they understand commitment, dedication, but no one understands it like you do. Because you have a machine inside you that eats your hatred and anger and spits it out into compliments and sweetness. You're driven. When you think you can't do it any more, you imagine her, and that is all that it ever takes. You see her as clear as day in your mind. Two years that she has been Alison. Two years where she strutted down the halls, smiled at boys at your locker, wore your clothes, won your awards, impressed your parents.
The fury inside you burns brightly, but you try to channel it, channel it all into being Courtney. Even though you still hate yourself when you answer to that name. Sometimes you're even terrified that your acting is so all consuming, that you'll start to believe it, too. You wonder if this loss of self is really worth it. You wonder if you should've just said you were Alison until the day you died. That would teach them. But finally, with every last piece of your dignity stripped down and shredded, your captors, your enemies, your parents, they say you can go home.
But you're tricked again. You underestimate your enemy and it costs you everything. God, you're so fucking stupid. Courtney has gotten better at being Alison, maybe better than you ever were, and she easily picks a fight with you. You're not even home a day, and she already bests you. She handily presses your buttons. She gets you to lose it, to throw something at her. You yell at the top of your lungs, demanding that she tells everyone the truth about what she did to you. Your parents see everything. Delusions, they say. Relapse, they say. Back to the hospital with you, Courtney. Back to your 500 mg's of meds, back to "bed rest."
Defeat can't even begin to describe what you feel. It was like you'd climbed to the top of a mountain, a big one, a mother fucking Everest, just to fall all the way back down, hitting every single rock, shard, and icicle along the way. You lay there at the bottom, in the muck, looking up at the pinnacle. So far away, so impossible. Unattainable. You'll never get up there again.
It is a hard time after that. You give up. You count the blades of grass on a meadow that is visible through your window, thinking, that's how many days you have left in this place. That's how many days left here until you die here. Thousands and thousands. Thousands and thousands and thousands.
They start hiding sharp objects from you. You never tell anyone you're Alison any more. A is for Acceptance. A is for Actually Not Getting the Fuck Out of Here Ever. Your mom visits, but who cares? She betrayed you. She doesn't even know you. But she makes you take your GED. You do it because what the fuck else are you doing in this hellscape. And it's easy, breezy. She says you can take college classes, and you do, but she's always with you. Not that it matters. You've been broken. There's only one kind of escape you think of.
One night, you go up to the roof. This is your spot. You discovered it when you finally learned how to pick locks. You've always felt lucky that it was one of those old locks, not the annoying, magnetized locks that required a key card. Or you wonder if it was that way on purpose. If they wanted patients, like you, to be able to get up here and jump. Save them some money on the bottom line at the end of the year. Either way, you stand on the concrete edge. You wonder how large a gust it would take for you to fall. You wonder if you would fight it. At least you'd die outside of this god forsaken place. At least you'd die free.
But then you turn, alarmed. You're not sure what you heard. You're terrified it was someone opening the door. But it wasn't, it's still closed. Was it a crack? A rustling? You notice something is out of place. Something is different. There. A branch is leaning on the roof. A branch from a tall oak tree close to the building. It had not been there yesterday. But there had been a terrible spring storm last night, everyone had huddled under their sheets, scared as shit. And, now, there it is laid out for you. It's your Cast Away port-a-potty wall. It's your ladder. It's your gangway.
You're standing by it before you even know what you're doing, your hand on the bark. You can see a clear path from the branch to the tree to the ground. But what if it breaks? Fuck it. You don't give a shit at this point. You're on the ground before you realize it. Then, you're racing through the woods, your heart pumping, your breaths short. Fuck, you're out of shape. But who cares! You're free at last. You're a Holocaust victim, running away from the electric fence. You're an escaped death row prisoner, the only thing missing, your orange jump suit. You left with what you had on: dark pajama pants, a white v-neck, sneakers, and a black hoodie.
Before you know it, you're standing in front of Alison's house, your house. It could've been 60 or 600 miles, you have no idea how far you ran. It could've been the whole Oregon Trail but, poof, you're there. Looking over the canopied deck, you spot a chair that hadn't been there before. A new mat. Your rage flares, like a white hot stick of magnesium. What else have you missed? Only everything. Because Courtney is going to college soon. With your name. With your life. You might've stolen her middle school experience, but she's stolen your high school one. And, now, she was about to get away with stealing your entire fucking life. She is the last bus until morning. She is the last train heading out of the station. If you don't catch her now, you never will. No one will ever believe you. Four years has proven that. You'd be Courtney forever. C was for Crazy. C was for Cheater. C was for Cunt. No, that would not be the life for you. You weren't going to be left behind, forgotten. She doesn't get to destroy you and end up happily ever after. No fucking way.
Alison took a few unsteady steps towards the porch. A number of possibilities ran through her head. She could steal something of Courtney's, something that would allow her to switch back. Regain her rightful place. She could leave her a disturbing message, a nice little surprise to wake up to in the morning. She could look for secrets, something she could leverage against their parents to let her out of Radley. Or... Or she could kill her for what she'd done. Wasn't that fair? Wasn't that what Courtney deserved?
The thought sent a chill down her spine, though. She felt her hands shake, her teeth chatter, even though it wasn't cold. Not for her at least. Not after she'd run a thousand miles. No, they chattered because she was scared at the idea, her adrenaline spiking. She imagined her small, pale hands wrapping around her sister's sleeping form, and it was terrifying. But if she were gone, she could be Alison again. She could be Alison forever.
She glanced down at her hands. Could they do it? Could they commit murder? She saw her pajama pants behind them, though, and realized suddenly that she hadn't thought any of this through. What if someone saw her here, standing like a creep in the yard? What if the staff at Radley were looking for her now?
She looked out at the street, her ears perked. There were no sirens, no police brigade. But she was on a ticking clock, a timer. Whatever she was going to do, she had to act. She looked up again, contemplating her house in the dark, staring daggers at her sister's bedroom window, thinking about how she might get in, when she heard a quiet voice ring out in the night.
"Ali?" it asked questioningly.
She whipped around, terrified, her cerulean blue eyes landing on a tall figure in the shadows by the bushes.
"Sorry," it said again, "I didn't mean to scare you."
But the voice sounded soft, harmless enough. It didn't sound like someone who'd come to turn her in. Alison's shoulders untensed, she let out a relieved sigh, as the form emerged from the shadows. It was a girl. She was tall with an olive skin tone, black hair cascading past her shoulders, high cheek bones, dark, long eye lashes. She was gorgeous, to say the least.
"Hey," Alison said back uncertainly, not wanting to look weird, not wanting this random to suspect why she was there. Not that she ever would. No one in Rosewood had ever known she and Courtney were twins.
The girl crossed the yard over to Alison, giving her ample time to look her over, and she had no doubt that this girl was one of her sister's many followers. She was practically radiating unadulterated deference at Ali. Like if the clouds were to suddenly break in the overcast night sky and illuminate Ali in her own personal moonbeam. But something was familiar about her too. She thought that she might remember her from 8th grade, the last time she'd been Alison DiLaurentis. But she looked different then. Like a dork. Not as runway model-y. She also looked vaguely familiar from photographs, too, when Alison had come home that fateful weekend sophomore year. The sporty one. The one that looked at Courtney like the sun shined out of her ass. Emily. That was her name.
Shit, there were pictures of her all over Courtney's room. It made Alison nervous, tense again. Maybe she could trick a random friend, but a best friend? She didn't like her chances.
"Look, Emily, I really have to go-," she started awkwardly.
"No, Ali, wait," Emily said, grabbing her arm. Alison felt her fingers acutely, wrapped around her bicep. It stunned her, partially because of this stranger's proximity and partially because she couldn't remember the last time someone had touched her that wasn't trying to administer a shot or to tell her to calm down, with warning behind their eyes. This was different. Emily held her arm loosely, like she was overly concerned about hurting Alison.
"I have to get this off my chest before I lose my nerve," she explained, dropping Ali's arm, but maintaining their closeness.
Alison just stood there stiffly. Trapped. What was she supposed to do? Were Emily and Courtney in a fight? There was no way out of this, she'd have to pretend to be her.
"What is it?" Alison said cautiously, letting go of a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
"We're graduating soon, I know you know that-" Emily stammered. Ali lifted her eyebrows. Wow, her sister could even inspire fear in tall, tan goddesses.
"And I'm running out of days to find the words-there's 42 to be exact-before maybe we never see each other again, and it's been four years of keeping this all in," she said all in one long, rushed breath. She took a long pause, wringing her hands.
"Well?" Ali prompted. This Emily was really piquing her curiosity, which was making her become increasingly impatient.
"Well, the thing is, and this is hard to say. God, I feel like I'm going to throw up," Emily continued, becoming more and more spasmodic.
"You can tell me, Emily," Ali said, putting her hand on Emily's shoulder, trying to reassure her. Emily looked like she was in a grand amount of discomfort, like she was trying to pass a kidney stone or something, and, frankly, it looked painful.
"The thing is," she started again, her eyes glancing down at Ali's hand like it was in fact not helping, but making things worse. Jesus, what was the deal? Ali thought. Did Courtney whip this poor girl with branches? She's shaking.
"The thing IS," Emily tried to start once more, but stopped.
"Yes, Emily?" Ali prompted again.
"Well, Well-I-guess-what-I'm-trying-to-say-is-that-I'm-I'm-in-love-with-you," Emily said, but it all came out so quickly, it was almost unintelligible to Ali.
Alison arched her head slightly to the left, not quite sure what she'd heard. Or not quite sure that she heard something she wanted to hear. "What?"
"I'm in love with you, Ali," Emily said again, less quickly, more breathy. Damn, Ali thought. That's what I thought she'd said.
Alison dropped her hand from Emily's shoulder in the least awkward way she could. No wonder she acted weird when she'd touched her. She'd been wrong. Way wrong. So wrong. It wasn't fear causing Emily to act like a spaz, it was love. Love. From a girl. For her sister. It almost made her laugh, made her want to march up the stairs and ask Courtney what in the actual fuck. God, even girls wanted to be her AND wanted her. The bitch.
She also wanted to laugh maniacally, insanely, at how unfair the timing was. This would fucking happen to her on the one god damn night she escaped Radley. Was she being tested? Was her whole life some big joke? Her lips quirked slightly in a smirk. This didn't go unnoticed by Emily, but she couldn't help it. Forever was she being thrown from the frying pan into the fire.
"In love?" she asked again slowly, trying to mask her hateful irony, trying to buy time.
"Yeah," she said back, taking in another shaky breath.
Alison was about to ask if this was an "in love" like you have for Justin Bieber or an "in love" like you have for rocket fire red nail polish, but suddenly the front porch light switched on, casting light over them at the bottom of the steps. Panic stricken, Alison grabbed Emily by the arm, much less carefully than Emily had grabbed her earlier, and dragged her around the side of the house at breakneck speed. If that was Courtney, she was going to be in some deep shit.
"What are you doing?" Emily whispered, flustered.
"I'm not supposed to be here," she said back in a rush.
"What do you mean-" but Alison, not having time for twenty questions, pressed Emily up against the cool, white siding, and stopped her from saying another word with one finger pressed to her lips. Emily's eyes were wide, but she didn't say anything as they both listened to the front door creak open.
Removing her fingers from Emily's mouth, Alison peaked around the corner of the house. She heaved an incredible sigh of relief when she saw it was only Jason, looking around suspiciously. She hadn't seen him in a long time. He looked more muscular and lean. Just generally older.
"Good, it's only my dumb brother," she whispered, glancing back at Emily, who was just staring at her, confused as ever. "I'm supposed to be in my room. He's a huge narc."
Emily didn't say anything back. She just looked at Ali with her big, brown, trusting eyes. Ali watched her take her lip into her mouth, and was suddenly reminded again: This girl thinks I'm Courtney. This girl is in love with Courtney. I could use this.
Alison waited until Jason went back into the house before turning back to Courtney's love sick puppy.
"I'm really flattered by the way," she said, keeping her voice low. That had definitely been stupid to talk at full volume right in of the front door.
Emily shifted uncomfortably.
"Thank you for telling me, I know it was hard," she added, trying to amp up the sweetness, giving Emily the strongest dose of doe eyes she could muster. It had been awhile since she'd turned the charm on, and she hoped it still worked.
Emily smiled slightly. Ali took a pause. God, she couldn't believe she was about to do this. If she was caught, she was going to look like a total lunatic. No way out of it. Locked up for life. But if she wasn't caught, she could have everything she'd wanted these last four long years. It was a gambit, but this girl could be her wild card, her ace in the hole.
"But I do need time to process this," Alison finished. Emily looked crushed.
"I'm not saying there's not—not a chance for us," ugh, never in ten lifetimes did Alison think she'd be saying this to a girl, "But let's spend more time together, okay?" she continued, taking Emily's hand. Emily looked one hundred times brighter.
"I need your help with something," Ali whispered, looking around as if she was paranoid someone would hear. "A special project. No one else can know."
God, she sounded like her mother. Jessica always said that type of shit to Alison and Courtney when they were growing up. Everyone lived and breathed secrets in the DiLaurentis house.
"What is it, Ali?" Emily asked, but it might as well have been "I'd do anything for you." Her adoration was almost too much for Alison, maybe because it had been so long since anyone had looked at her like that. But she did secretly love how her name rolled off of Emily's tongue. Her real name.
"Meet me here tomorrow night. Right here," she said, pointing at the ground. "Same time. We'll get started then."
"And, Emily," she said, squeezing the brunette's hand tightly. "This is really important. Don't tell anyone, not a soul. Don't even talk to me about this tomorrow, okay? I'll just pretend I don't know what you're talking about."
"Okay," Emily nodded obediently, though still looking slightly confused.
Ali took a breath, steeling herself, and moved a little closer to Emily. "It's our secret, a big one," she said. She could practically feel Emily's breath on her face, Emily palm becoming slightly sweaty in her hand. "Can you keep it?"
"Yes, Ali," Emily said, her cheeks looking slightly red, even in the darkness. She was obviously affected by Alison's nearness.
"See you tomorrow," Alison said, and she turned trying not to walk too quickly around the back of the house. Once she was sure Emily couldn't see her, she broke out into a run through the woods behind the Hastings house. She had some shit to do before tomorrow.
Maybe life wasn't so bleak after all. Maybe she would get back to the top of her Everest.