Sometimes, she really hated her life. She supposed everyone did at times, but she'd be lying if she said she was at all happy with the way her life had turned out.
She adored her housemates, of course… Most of the time. After all, they were an odd bunch and a lot to deal with.
Ma was…. Well, Ma was Ma. She didn't really know how else to describe her. It was , undeniably, rather unfortunate to technically still be living with her mother.
Rose was sweet, but stupid. She often had to remind herself that it wasn't Rose's fault and that she really wasn't trying to be stupid. But sometimes she just felt like she would scream if she had to hear one more God-forsaken St. Olaf story…
And then there was Blanche: Blanche Hollingsworth Deveraux. Blanche was her best friend, without a doubt. But… She was also one of the reasons she really hated her life sometimes. Blanche and her many boyfriends… They made her life hell.
She plagued her dreams, Blanche and the little noises she made all night. It was all she could hear at night. The worst part was that it was all she wanted to hear. Those little noises that Blanche made were music to her ears. They made her blood race and her whole body pound in a way that Stan never could have hoped to. And if she were really honest, she'd have to admit to herself how badly she wished that she were the one making those glorious little noises escape the southern belle's lips.
Sometimes, when the latest guy was a real jerk, Blanche would storm into her room and curl up next to her, crying as she sought comfort. And she'd feel the hot tears splash against her skin and just want to throttle the jerk that did this to the belle. But she'd stay herself because her anger and rage wouldn't help Blanche feel any better.
So she'd just hold her, running her fingers through Blanche's short hair as she cooed words of comfort and told her how much those idiots didn't deserve a woman as gorgeous and perfect as she. And Blanche would nod against her, agreeing--reluctantly, at first-- that she was too good for the latest loser. But "to make her feel better," she would continue to compliment her. She'd tell her how stunning and gorgeous and beautiful and sexy and young. And really, those were the times that made it all worth it, getting to compliment Blanche without it being weird that she was pouring all these compliments in her direction. Then she could almost pretend that Blanche knew and felt the same way. Blanche would press her trim, little frame against her own as she wept about her rotten boyfriend and how he didn't appreciate her.
Sometimes--rarely, almost never, but she could vividly remember each and every time that it did happen-- Blanche would scoot even closer, burying her face against her breasts, and say "Dorothy, you're the only one who understands me." And she would hug the southern belle closer, whispering that she'd always be there for her.
And she'd mean it, even if she had to endure all those other days and all the little things that made her hate her life. Cause living with her mother, hearing St. Olaf stories, and the belle's haunting her dreams and every waking moment…. None of it ever compared to the nights when Blanche would creep into her room and slip under the covers next to her. Nothing ever could.