Disclaimer: I do not own Kim Possible or any related logos and characters, nor do I lay claim to the song "Girl With One Eye" by Florence + the Machine.
A/N: This story contains love between two women. Don't like, don't read. Also, the verb tense and perspective changes in this fiction are there for a reason. They are not accidental nor are they sloppy grammar. POV switches will be identified with line breaks.
Wither and Die
by Morphimal, aka MacElf
"Oh, watch your step!"
"Whu-HUH!" A hand grabbed my elbow, and in one yank spilled my iced chai tea all over my hand and into the purse at my wrist.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am. Let me help you clean that, please." And suddenly the same alto-tenor voice that had caused my problem had pulled out an embroidered hanky and was trying to wipe down my hand. Meanwhile, I had desperately clutched the art portfolio due in to my professor in eleven minutes to my unsoiled right ribcage.
"I really am so sorry," the voice continued sincerely. "I was trying to help and-"
"Well, I'd say that you failed, wouldn't you?" I snapped out of my shock, spinning my head to spit more venom at my would-be Good Samaritan. Only she was so close, and her eyes were so… deep.
"Yes, of course, I'm so sorry. It's just…" She trailed off. She stepped away, taking her cold hanky and warm touch with her. I took in the shadows of her face. Her cheeks curved smoothly, but her nose had an almost aristocratic hook to it. Her eyes were such a deep, deep brown they almost looked black. Her lips tipped up in a natural pout that made me just want to trace my brushes along them for hours. Her lips were moving, so I traced back up to her eyes and… the clock tower!
"Shit! I have to be at the Art Annex in six minutes!" I spun around to take off at a sprint only to have two very, very strong arms wrap around my waist and pull me back again.
"What are you doing? Did you not hear me? I'm going to be late!" I had dropped my tea cup at some point so I slapped at her with the damp purse.
"I've been trying to tell you-OW! They're doing work on the crosswalk he-ACK! THERE'S A FIVE INCH DROP RIGHT THERE!" Alright, that got my attention.
"I'm sorry," I said, twisting my head to meet her very close, very deep eyes. "What did you say?" She closed her eyes in relief, (or perhaps exasperation), and stepped towards the pavement.
"Look down." So I did. "They ripped out a five-inch-deep square this morning to lay down wiring for the new crossing lights." And there it was: a five-inch-by-two-foot-by-one-foot hole in the pavement. Oh, and look, so many signs pointing to the other crossing thirty feet down. Where was my head? The only time I got blinders that bad was when... Ah! My portfolio! I twirled to see the clock, and promptly slammed my head into the other girl's forehead. "Ouch!"
"Um, sorry. Could you put me down now? I need to see if I still have time to make it to the Art-" The chiming of the university clock tower cut off my words, and I sagged in defeat. If I'd just been paying attention…
I felt her release me to stand on my own, but she kept a hand on my shoulder as if she was afraid I might go the wrong away…again.
"Are you alright? I'm sorry if I've made you late for class." I wanted to laugh at her apology, but that would have been rude and more than slightly hysterical.
"No, not a class, and no, it isn't your fault. I had a portfolio due in to my Art 249 professor before he left his office at four. Now, I might as well dump this in the street." I waved around the medium-sized portfolio, making to throw it into the hole in the road when it was snatched from my hand.
"That would be littering, not to mention a great waste of your effort and time. Why not turn it in tomorrow? I'm sure your professor will give you an extension." I could tell from the drop of her jaw that my gaze was properly chilly.
"Because it was due in last Thursday, and this was my last chance extension." I walked from the road, back to the tea shop in the quad, and plopped down on the bench beneath my favorite tree. I didn't even check to see if the other girl had followed me. I tried to figure out where I had screwed up this perfect day, dragging my hands down my face until I smelled the dried tea on my left hand. The tea…I just had to stop for the fucking tea. Christ that stuff would be the death of me, if not my art career. I dropped my hands into my lap, smoothing my skirt down as the stranger's jean-clad legs brought her up beside me. She turned and joined me on the bench, silently passing over the sealed portfolio. Now that all the rush had passed, all I could think about was her eyes…and an answer I desperately needed.
"Why?" I looked up at the tree leaves to avoid her gaze, but I still noticed her start.
"Why? Why what?"
"Why fight so hard to keep a prissy, selfish little would-be artist from hurting herself? Especially after I started hitting you!" A bit of hysterical laughter escaped at the end, but I caught it back. I needed to hear her answer.
"Because… you're important." This time I sought her eyes instantly, gazing warily into brown luminescence.
"I'm 'important'? That's…really creepy. I mean, like, stalker creepy. How can I be important to you? We've never met before today! Have we?" The right corner of her lip quirked up, and I realized she was smiling. Smirking? Either way, it was the first happy expression I'd seen her make, and it seemed so…perfect…quirking up to just meet the shadow of her right eye.
"You're important because you were born. You're important because you are a person, and all people are important to someone, somewhere." She said it with the most sincerity I had ever heard ever, and it still sounded like a corny, artsy pickup line. I could tell she didn't mean it that way, though. She really believed in what she was saying. I was being drawn into those eyes again. I felt like I could wrap myself in their warmth and just be content. Then her eyes slid away from mine, her smirk dropped down into a pout, and I was cold. My legs felt chilly, as if ice rain was spilling from the sun-filled sky. "Um, miss-?"
"Marzanna," I supplied. Her eyebrows cocked at a funny angle, so I continued, "Marzanna Somnious. It's Slavic and a mouthful, I know, so most people just call me 'M'." I would have likely kept rambling, but one delicate finger rose to give me pause.
"Not to cut off pleasantries, Miss 'M', but your purse appears to be leaking." I followed the direction of her finger as it guided my focus down to where my purse was indeed dripping the remainder of my tea onto my skirt. Right where my legs had grown so chilly, a lovely little wet spot had spread. So I laughed. I waited for her to ask me if I had lost it, but instead heard her chuckling. Then we were both laughing, and the worst day of my college career brought something new and wonderful into my life. It brought me a hero; someone to fuss when I came too close to the cracks in the road; someone to inspire me for the rest of the semester until I passed with well-earned marks. Finally, I had someone who would give me a chance… without asking about my past.
Her name was Elizabeth. I called her 'Betsy' because I could. She was a junior working on a Criminal Justice degree, and I was a sophomore trying to do what I loved. We would stay up for days, goading each other into finishing our studies early so we could spend our free time on just us. I never understood her courses, though I did try to help her study. She became my model for prints that my professors adored as well as prints no one else will ever see. One in particular involved coaxing her into a gorgeous lace skirt and blouse. I literally had to pull the clothes on her; she had refused. I never imagined it could take forty-five minutes to put on two articles of clothing, but seeing her actually blush…and my hand was already under the skirt…
When we could breathe again, I murmured that I really needed to do the sketch before we ruined the clothes. She began fidgeting nervously, wishing softly for pants and a shirt made of real fabric. I kissed her, trailing my fingers up the inside of her thigh again and delighting in this strange role-reversal we had reached. She relaxed into position, and I walked backwards to my easel.
I said, "Don't worry, this isn't gonna hurt."
I never got around to turning that piece in to my professor.
In her defense, she had no way of preparing for what happened. In my defense, she never really asked. Not until it was too late. By then, winter was in full swing, and so was I. Happy to sad, starving to nauseated, awake for days without aid, then sleeping the same way. I had wanted to tell her. She finally started asking after I started a bonfire in our studio…with thousands of dollars of art supplies as kindling. By then, I just did not have the words.
She started pushing for me to get help. I started pushing her away. The weekend we were supposed to go to her parents, I told her I did not want to go ANYwhere. She could go alone if it was so damned important. I had pumpkin pie, damnit, I didn't need her. I sat at our counter and ate pie as she slammed out our door. Eventually I started crying into the pie, and then I fell asleep. I woke up around three in the morning and ran to bathroom to throw up. There, in the mirror, was vomit in my hair; just right above the ear. I had to get it out, so I found the shears and removed the problem. I flushed everything down the toilet and went back out to the main room. I started to call her name when I remembered that I was alone. I was alone because I made her leave. I started to cry again and tore apart the studio looking for some form of comfort. I found my way back to the pie, sat down and started to eat. Eat and cry and sleep. That was how Betsy found me. She must have cleaned me up, cleaned the house, even trimmed my hair straight. All the time, she let me sleep. She should have woken me up. It's her own fault, you see?
When I finally came around, I was facing the wall because that's how I slept on our futon. I felt the comfortable weight of Betsy sitting down behind me; heard her voice murmuring as if afraid to wake me. I guessed she was on the phone with her parents. But the voice on the other line came in way too loud and way too clear. And female.
She was young, not much older than Betsy I would guess. I only remember…pieces of what was said.
"I know this is hard for you, Elizabeth, but putting it off won't make things any easier." I had to fight the urge to retch. Elizabeth? What era did this bitch come from? And Betsy's reply was so…agitated. Not my Betsy.
"I am not putting anything off. I'm just waiting until she wakes up so I can talk to her about it; let her know what's happening."
"What if she doesn't wake up while you're here? What if you're out shopping or in class, and she gets up and sees-"
"Sees what? There's nothing for her to see!"
I knew it right then. I had guessed she was hiding something. I had been pushing her away for over a month, so I feared she might… But now I knew. Betsy was leaving me. Not only was she leaving, she had already found someone else. And she had that whore in our home!
I missed the rest of their conversation. I was too busy trying to stifle the screamingbuzzingNOISE in my head and the crackingcrunchingGRINDING of my heart.
How could she? She was supposed to protect me! I was supposed to be important! She had said I was important…
By the time the whore finally left, Betsy sounded so tired and broken. I at least had the sense to know I was in part to cause. If she didn't have to worry about me, she could be free to be with this new tramp. Suddenly suicide seemed so much easier than all the almost times…
"M? Honey, when did you wake up? M, can I get something for you?"
"mumblemumblebathroommumblemumble" Shuffle-step. Shuffle-step. Betsy sighed and turned to the fridge.
"Alright, just let me know if you need me, M. Please?"
Cabinets open and shut, drawers slide out and slam home. Betsy stops removing containers when a loud crash marks the removal of a drawer from its tracks.
"M? What are you looking for? M, what happened?" Stomping precedes a panicked blond with bloodshot eyes.
"Shears? Where are the shears? They were on the bathroom counter, where-"
"M, M! I put them away!" Blood-shot brown meets brown swimming in worry. "I put them up safe."
"Safe? You…put…safe… Is that…pie?" The change of topics did not spook Betsy so much as the change of tone.
"Yes, M. My mother made it for you. I told her how much you love pumpkin pie, and-"
"Is that…MY pie?" Betsy did a quick check. No broken glass, no silverware in view, no blunt or sharp objects. *If M flips, I can take of her. I can protect her from herself. She can't hurt herself here.*
Betsy always did fuss over the silliest things. I had always tried to get her to relax, but sometimes it just didn't work.
"Yes, M, she did make it for you. So, it is your pie. Would you like a slice now?"
I nodded, and she smiled. I waited for her to pull out a knife and pass me a fork. But she pulls out this…plastic spoon from a box and uses it to just…lift the pie from the plate! She smirked, in that gorgeous way that still makes me want to kiss her from the tip of her lip to the corner of her eye. "I told Mom how you like to eat it like it's a slice of pizza, so she went ahead and precut it." She passed me a paper plate and offered the spoon, not expecting me to take it. Was that when it broke? When I had that spoon in my hand, preparing to eat a pie made by the mother of a treacherous woman? No. It was much simpler than that. Much smaller.
She picked up a piece of pie to eat with me.
"Get your filthy fingers out of my pie!"
The one-way mirror kept Dr. Betty Director hidden from view in PineBreak Mental Health Hospital. Listening in silence, she gives no emotional response to the tale of heartbreak and illness spinning wildly out of control before anyone could help the young woman suffering from it. Inside her head, however, were a million swirling what-ifs that resurfaced every time she overviewed one of Marzanna's sessions.
"Dr. Director?" One of the psychiatrists interrupted Betty's reverie, though he would never know the anguish he'd kept her from reliving. "Ms. Somnious is responding on time to her afternoon meds and should be up for a little company."
The staff no longer gave her the spiel about 'upsetting the patient'. When it came to Marzanna, the only guarantee of a level mood is a level medication regimen. Still, an orderly was required to be in the room with them on the chance Marzanna needed extra sedation.
"Hello, M. I hear you've been sleeping well." The greeting was forced, but was the only one she could give. Betty walked up to her first love's wheelchair. She hated seeing M looking so broken, but the woman could barely speak under her meds, much less walk. Kneeling down by her left side, Betty loosened M's grip on the chair and slid a sponge onto her palm. "I know you can't stand painting with sponges, but they won't allow you anything else in here. I'm sorry." She reached out to run her fingers through the course, limp blond locks that once curled around her fingers so effortlessly. Betty stood slowly and leaned over to kiss the top of M's head. In a whisper, she says, "I still love you, you know. I always will. I'm sorry, so sorry. I just couldn't protect you from yourself."
Dr. Director stands to leave, moving with efficient steps to the door the doctor holds ready for her. A soft humming stops her. The doctor hears it as well and places a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"There's nothing new, Betty. Just the same old, nonsense rhyming. Now, come on. It's getting late, and we all deserve a little rest, right?" Betty nods, returning the doctor's kindly smile, and returns to the main lobby as they set Marzanna to bed for another night.
But it haunts Betsy. It always will. Because she knows it's her fault. She was supposed to protect me.
"I said, hey, girl with one eye
I'll cut your little heart out cause you made me cry
That's why you sleep with one eye open
That's the price you paid."