The house is quiet as she shuts the front door, rooms lost in shadow as she walks through the foyer and into the kitchen.
She knows every curve of this place, has learned how to move about in the darkness - where the table corner juts out and how to slide to the left to avoid a bruise, where to stop as she nears the counter and not slam her foot into anything hard.
She can find the handle to the refrigerator, knows to pull on it quick to actually lessen the sound it will make.

And there, bathed in a white light, Spencer's stares into the cool interior.
Just stares and stares.
Until she notices twin points of heat along her face, cutting a path all their own and getting chilled by the time they reach her chin - from hot to cold, from alive to dead.
And Spencer squeezes her eyes shut tightly, squeezes them so much that pressure builds and colors leap forth under the eye-lids, squeezes those eyes shut until they ache.

But there is an ache even deeper.
There is a wound, left to fester so long ago, and she can never seem to staunch the flow of blood... Spencer just feels her existence drifting away, bit by bit, day after day.

"Two in the morning is way past your curfew."

And the mask comes back down oh so swiftly when the over-head light pops on, as if tears never fell and as if scars were just recollections - not real, not present - and Spencer doesn't reply to her mother's voice behind her. She reaches in and grabs the carton of orange juice, pouring herself a full glass and lazily drinking it down.

"I hope you know that this will mean you are not only grounded for the remainder of the weekend, but all during the week as well."

Spencer sets the glass down in the sink and finally turns around, smiling placidly and crossing her arms, mimicking her mother's pose from the entrance-way.
Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Apathetic, but only so far - they care too much, they hurt each other too much... Everything about them is too much, that's why her father sticks to his study and why her brother keeps his nose clean.
No one wants to be caught up in this, expect mother and daughter.

"And you'll also be joining us at church later today, no matter how tired you are... Am I making myself clear?"

And Spencer grits her teeth. And Spencer digs her nails, subtly, into her palms. And, within her bones, Spencer seethes.
But then she thinks of her night, thinks of the boy she let inside her - who she let fuck her the only place left untouched - and she thinks of the girl that laid beneath her, who stripped her down and made her come so intensely that she felt like passing out...

Spencer thinks of this and it calms her down.
It gives her the upper-hand in this hidden war. It gives her ammunition, the kind that can kill without actually taking a life.

"Crystal clear, Paula."

And Spencer brushes by her mother, takes her time going up the stairs and to her bedroom.
And Spencer doesn't clean up, doesn't wipe away the dried sweat or the vague stickiness on the inside of her thighs - she leaves it all there, ready to wear it to mass right along with her dress, ready to milk this night for all it is worth as she sits in the pew and listens to bigotry disguised as love.

Ready to ruin her mother with it.

Not caring that it is ruining herself as well.

/ /

TBC