a/n- This drabble is for Lauren (Splattered Teardrops), emerging from the exchange in "The Writer's Lounge: Clique Edition" forum. (And thanks, Hannah, for beta-ing!) Enjoy. xD
warnings- This has some language. Just sayin'. And it's angst. -sighs-
disclaimer- Disclaimed.
prompts- Sour Patch Kids, pillow pets, Easy A, and "reality called: asked for you too."
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She'd always be insecure. He was something like a salvation for her, a boy placed in her world to soothe her into her demise.
To say that she enjoyed him would be an understatement.
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She was the girl boys were too scared to call out for, the one that gossiping girls hid from, the one with the elusive mind that no one could ever figure out.
Derrick Harrington was the only one that tried.
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She was just weed and rugged scars and inky, lazy blackness. He was simple, being a jock, full of goofy, empty smiles and pained caramel eyes and no hope of ever getting out of the town he'd been conceived in.
They were both haunted in their own strange way, really.
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Finding each other wasn't hard; she was full of oblivion, insomnia numbing her being, and he was the one with the perfectly-proportioned bruises that she stroked and pressed on for the joy of his deep grunts.
She was always interested in him for a deeper, yet shallow thing, because-she-Massie-was a bad girl; she desired sex and booze and emptiness; the absence of love was her unbridled ecstasy.
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They were never innocent; bad, mean, cruel things were yelled at each other, mostly Massie to Derrick, because he knew there wasn't a chance it would effect her anyway; it made her fair cheeks flush, and her eyes glow and dance until he had to grab her and attempt to bash away the insanity.
She slumbered in front of the tv, watching infomercials and cuddling with her ragged pillow pets, (an obsession he would never understand) until her hand would loosen on his, and her eyelash-ridden face would relax and become a porcelain angel. His arm was covered in crimson marks from her agony, and the streaks of her self-torture were slashed across her wrists.
At night, when he knew her to be asleep, he would stare deep into her face, and burn it into himself; he would take her marred hands and lay a string of kisses on them all the way to the shoulder, until she shifted, and he was forced to stop in fear of her promiscuous intentions.
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She would gaze and rewind over and over again the Sour Patch Kids slogan, because it drew her in like nothing else ever could; he would always be in turmoil when he would awaken to the eerie, prepubescent whisper of, "First they're sour; then they're sweet"; he would blink the sleep out of his eyes and watch the tears slip down her face, and her hands curl together until slices appeared in her palms. Her lips would bleed dots of fiery red, and she would tell him, in her sardonic way, to lick it away.
He never knew how to handle her at those times.
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She would always find an excuse to kiss him, and push him away when he would softly murmur her name in her ear. She found it fucking ridiculous that he would whisper her name, when she wanted him to show her how horny he really was.
They would scream at each other for hours about nothing, until she would run her hand through her loose, brown hair in conclusion and demand for him to make it better. He would play the movie Easy A, because she thought that she could almost relate to the witty, attractive lead (though he'd never seen a resemblance) and that made her feel important.
It kept him almost sane- that movie; she would always lay her head on his shoulder and never blink, just stare- and after she awakened from her Emma Stone fixation, she would tell him that she loved him, and that he could never leave her, because she would become unhealthy, and he didn't want that for her, did he?
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They watched sitcoms when dawn arose; she always said that the best time to laugh was in the morning because you didn't have any idea on why you were doing it anyway; she would giggle in his ear and kiss his neck, until he was squirming. Her sickeningly favorite line was always reality called: asked for you too; he swore that every time she repeated it, she was staring at him, cleansing him of the good in his life and replacing it with her ebony darkness that he could never resist.
His heart would hurt when she laughed, because it was never real. Nothing about her was really ever reality.
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She told him that he was like grass, and it infuriated her. She would chop, cut, pluck, seduce, and attempt a fuck at it, but he would always grow and find the light. She called herself an evergreen, because she found them to be haughty kinda like Marie Antoinette; no one could ever resist gazing at them, and pondering on why their leaves never fell and how they could remain so beautiful.
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She was his enigmatic girl that he would chase, because she was the only thing that could make him feel good and act out and embrace his sins and cowering victim counterpart.
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She read poetry in the night, with the alabaster lamp shining a dull glow across her ivory skin and yellow eyes and red-tinted tresses; her eyes would always bounce and water with pleasure, and he would realize that it would be one of the only times when he didn't really have to comfort her.
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She referred to him as a too nice, innocent, but quite fuckable person; he thought that to be the undeniable truth. She knew only obscenities around him, it seemed. He was tired of "fuck," and refrained from cursing just to make her angry. It made him happy for her to be furious, because those were the times when she was alive and screeching into his arms, and not trying to fuck him.
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He'd realized that something was wrong with him for loving someone like her, hardly a person, more of a shell with only sins to define her.
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She was never strong; she had come to know that a long time ago, when pulling away had seemed impossible. She needed away from him, because she saw the destruction thundering through him, and she knew that she'd caused it.
Black had never been her favorite color really. She had always preferred red.
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"My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane."
-Robert Frost
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a/n: Ahem. I hope you liked that, Laur. I know it was extremely angst-y (and horrible), but it's just what came to me. And just ask, if the end confuses you (it's really quite simple). I hope everyone else liked it as well. Reviews? (*don't favorite without reviewing, por favor.*)
-Livvy