I'm woken up at what the red digital-clock in the distance declares is 4:30 am. When I'm roused, I blearily blink my eyes and groggily lift my head from the pillow. Slight spots of red blot the fabric and I furtively touch at where my temple is with another groan. Someone's shaking me. I grunt that they should fuck off, as soon as possible.

"Arise, impossible creature." In the barely-morning light, her voice is more sultry than humanly possible. Or it could be my extreme yearning for sex and the quality of her tone. It makes me immediately uncomfortable in my Aerosmith t-shirt and pajama bottoms that bear tiny, artful purple llamas.

"Whaddya mean ah wake up?" I grumble unintelligibly. It takes me a minute to realize how truly stupid I sound.

"We need to go shopping, Harvey."

"Fuck'uhself."

I roll over, yank the pillow over my head and let out a low, continuous moan of discomfort. She strips of my sanity and my security. The sheets are ripped away, and I'm left cold and defenseless. Her grip (see: vice) yanks the pillow from me and there I am, in a pitiful heap, groaning for peace.

"You have thorough suicidal tendencies. If you think I'm leaving you here in solitude you're mad." I moan again. How badly I just want some time to myself, how very badly...I hate that everyone keeps me on perpetual watch. Just remove all pointy objects! That usually works out. "You don't even have to change, just get out of bed."

(Fifteen excruciating minutes later)

"There. I-I'm here. Happy?" I'm an extremely unpleasant person in the morning. The clock glares 4:53 at me. I can't help but blurt, "Why the fuck are we shopping at 5 in the morning?"

"We're super-villains. Super-villains do not simply purchase things in broad daylight with millions of civilians milling about who may potentially recognize them."

Potentially recognize them? I blink sleepily at her, and squint until she becomes a mass of obnoxious red. I'm still clutching Mister Snuggles (By now, his name is a distant recollection after a jab to the head) and staring through her over the rims of my glasses. What I think is her mouth opens again.

"Super-villains who, I may add, have their pregnant selves potentially recognized."

I would roll my eyes if I were focusing. I'm convinced, though, and when I make no move forward with my iPod securely in my pocket she finally takes my hand and pulls me forward. It's warm and soft and she throws her jacket (which is quite big on me) around my shoulders, explaining that I am likely far more susceptible to cold than she is. It smells like her, I notice, much to my own embarrassment. Like safety and carnations.

"You own a pink Cadillac…"

She's shameless as my life is long.

"Leave Rosebud alone."

It's my turn, now. My eyebrow shoots straight up, "You own a pink Cadillac convertible named Rosebud. Aren't you embarrassed?"

She shakes her head and (bad-ass style, of course) hops into the driver's seat, patting the passenger's side with a casual glance. My throat does that thing again where it tightens up, and I find myself thankful that my cigarettes and shiny zippo lighter are in the pocket of these pajamas. In awhile, I will badly need all the courage I can muster. I dry-heave half a swallow and my shaking fingers pull open the door .When I hop in the seat, I press myself against the window like a terrified cat as far from her as I can.

"So desperately awkward," She chirps, and we're serenaded by the King as her CD player drones to life. Heartbreak Hotel begins, and she turns a smug smirk my way, but says nothing as she backs out of the concealed driveway.

I do not move.

(An undetermined amount of time later, as Ivy's car-clock has been beeping 9:00 for a good 10 minutes or so)

In my fluffy, chocolate-brown slippers and entirely unacceptable sleep-wear, I trudge into Wal-mart with the Amazon Queen at my side. She's surveying the empty aisles like a raptor. I see no employees around. Her head swivels expertly side to side. She is a seasoned professional at this game, is what I most assume.

I suck my thumb discreetly behind her, just so she doesn't notice. My chest feels knotted, tight. I'm looking around frightfully and realizing that it's been a solid week or so since I've been out of the confines of a domestic residence. The familiar weight in my stomach returns at full force; I remember how frightened I am of public situations. She doesn't look back at me just yet, only picks up a box of Cheez-its and examines the back. I have the urge to be conversational; to open my mouth and tell her I like white cheddar or that under the fluorescent Wal-mart lights she has the softest crimson halo.

I do neither of those things. I stand there, frozen in place to the dirty, white tiles. My eyes are wide, and I only gape. I can't even propel myself forward.

"It's helpful if, when seeking out things to purchase, my housemate hints toward her own enjoyments and dislikes."

I feel like an asthmatic. I'm halfway to hyperventilating.

She wants me to talk.

I react in the most comprehensive way possible.

"I n-need a cigarette."

And I rush outside faster than humanly possible. The only problem is, when I turn the hall, it's not outside I get to. A door clicks open, someone pulls me inside and in the dank, resounding, steel-smelling darkness a hot hand presses against my mouth and someone's whiskey-ridden breath hisses, "Oh, bad, baaaaad girly."

My back hits a wall, both figuratively and literally, and my pupils expand and contract frantically in the dark. I rattle against his grip, but it's completely worthless. His palm digs into my face, and his other hand pushes my chest so hard that the door forces against the hinges and my heart throws itself in a desperate dance against my ribcage. I squint, but see nothing.

It's so dark.

"Naughty little Harv-uh-ee."