010. Sickness
She was sick. Sick, sick, sick. No wonder her mother didn't even want to look at her anymore. No wonder the eyes of the girls at school went cold when they saw her, and they spoke poison words about her behind cruel smiles, and perfectly manicured hands. No wonder the boys leered at her as they passed. She squared her shoulders and sneered at the looks. But when her mother screamed at her, and slapped her across the face, she kept her head down and ran to her cousin the first chance she got.
Many months later, when her mother had abandoned speaking to her completely, she met a delicate blond girl in the coffee shop down the street. She was dressed in an entirely washed out palette, and her fingers stood out, because they were covered in color from acrylic paints.
Larxene didn't say anything as she sat down across from her, at her table by the window. They were silent the entire time, and their only interaction was a small smile, when the girl got up and left. When she was clearing the table, she found a napkin that simply said:
Naminé's Cell #: 342-1823.
She pocketed it as she left.
Three phone calls, five plans, one walk in the park, two movies and a dinner later, found Larxene and Naminé in a lip lock in front of younger blond's door. The older of the two marveled in the comfortable feeling of something long over due.
Maybe, despite her mother's impending wrath, this was a sickness she could get used to.
Author Note: Guh, this one isn't happy either... Poor Lark, I give her such a hard time... But she wouldn't be the sarcastic, angry woman we all know and love if her experiences had been all rainbows and sunshine, right? Right? (Excuses, excuses...) Anyway, sorry to have reality intrude upon fantasy, I've a friend who live in fear of this reaction. Leave me a review and I'll try to make the one after next happier (I have resorted to bribery).