Title: Writing Your Tragedy

Author/Artist: Hanyo

Characters/Pairing: Mallory, Jessi, mentions of Kristy and Mary Anne

Fandom: The Baby-Sitters Club

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Mallory sat at her writing desk and her body shook in rage. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right how everything could've been going so well just to end up crashing into the walls of a bridge because Sleeping Beauty's prince had to get drunk at the fucking ballet studio's after party!

Warnings: Character death, first fic in this fandom, angst out the ass.

Notes: Future!Fic, so I'd say the girls are around their twenties in this. And the title is lifted from the Frou Frou song, 'Let Go'.

A car crash. A damned car crash.

Mallory sat at her writing desk and her body shook in rage. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right how everything could've been going so well just to end up crashing into the walls of a bridge because Sleeping Beauty's prince had to get drunk at the fucking ballet studio's after party!

The hot tears ran down Mallory's pale cheeks, landing on the blank paper in front of her. She was so stupid; she could've easily taken Jessi home with her! Why hadn't she? Mallory sobbed and hid her face in shame; Jessica Ramsey was dead and it was her fault.

Or at least, that's what she believed.

She ran a hand through her frizzy, bed-headed red hair and remembered the previous night; Jessi's Stamford ballet school production of The Sleeping Beauty had been a complete hit, or as Kristy had said, "It totally rocked!" She'd said it as if they were all back in junior high, back at SMS.

Jessi had landed the most recognizable role of the performance, Princess Aurora. Some random guy (what was his name again? George?) had gotten the role of Aurora's prince, and it was safe to say that Jessi had totally outshined him.

Mallory scowled, 'And he showed her up afterwards.' Angrily, she pounded her fists down onto her desk. After a moment, she sobbed again and tightened her robe around her body. Hell, she even began to slowly rock back and forth in her seat, in this scary, traumatized way. But of course, the phone rang and interrupted her mourning.

To be honest though, she wasn't really sure if she was angry or grateful.

Reaching for the corded piece of plastic, Mallory held the phone to her ear and croaked out, "Hello?" The voice on the other line was unmistakable; only Mary Anne Spier could cry the way that Mallory heard.

"Mal," Mary Anne cried, "Is it... is it really true? Did Jessi really get hurt?"

Mallory sniffled, "Yeah, it's true. But she's not hurt," she paused and heard Mary Anne's breath hitch in hope, "she's dead."

Mary Anne gasped though her tears, and then for Mallory the phone went silent. Mallory paused before she held the ugly telephone in front of her, and just stared at it. It was this odd, creamy, strawberry milk coloured contraption, and if it was going to disconnect at completely inappropriate times to disconnect, then it could go to hell!

Mallory stared at the wall ahead of her and gazed shakily at the paint she had chipped with the phone. One crack, two cracks, three cracks…

She looked down to her papers, the blank papers that always sat on her desk if she ever happened to come up with a new story and needed to write it down immediately. She contemplated the pieces of white for a moment, and then let her eyes flutter over to the maroon mug that held all sorts of pens and pencils inside that sat on the top left corner of her desk. She stared at the pens and pencils just as she had stared at her paper: intently, hesitantly, wonderingly. Suddenly, a look of determination washed over Mallory's face and she knew what to do. She swiped a blue fountain pen from the mug and started writing in her familiar, messy shorthand.

Mallory Pike's newest story, the headlines would say, is the story of a graceful ballerina who dances better than Pavlova did and who's ten times as beautiful and whose legacy lives on forever. Even in death.

Oh, she was sure that some people would find the story familiar, and she was sure that some would be puzzled at how this wouldn't be a children's I Can Read book, but to hell with them.

Soon, the entire world outside of Stoneybrook and Stamford would know about Jessi. Just as Jessi had wanted.