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dinner; age 7 - cw: drug/alcohol abuse, neglect, brief reference to child abuse - HEADCANON
You’re small and young, and you’re hungry for dinner, but you’re alone in the house with your mother who’s passed out on the couch. You have a big family - a slew of older brothers, and an aunt and a cousin who are living with you right now - but they're all out and you don't know when they're coming back, because nobody remembered to tell you.
You know from experience that trying to wake your mother won't do any good. She's not dead - you've checked - but she'd been drinking with your oldest brother before he'd gone out, and had continued after he'd left. You're not worried. This happens sometimes - a lot of the time, really, but you know it could be worse because you know a girl at school whose mother hits her when she gets drunk. Your mom never does that. You're lucky.
She's stretched out on the couch, taking up all the space, so you grab her feet and pull her to the side, making room. Then you pour yourself a big bowl of Frosted Flakes, grab a can of Mountain Dew, and sit down on the couch next to her, switching on the TV. You turn up the volume louder than usual - loud enough that, if she were awake, she'd tell you to knock it off and turn it down. Maybe it'll wake her up in time to have a dessert with you - your seventh birthday was last week, and there's still a little bit of leftover ice cream cake in the fridge.
You feel a little sad, and you feel a little lonely. But it's nothing you're not used to.
saved; age 20 - CANON
lawyer scene
cross; age 23 - CANON
SOMETHING WITH PORNSTACHE BEING HORRIBLE
caged; age 23 - cw: prison psych wards - CANON
sedatives; age 23 - cw: prison psych wards - CANON
A door clangs shut heavily somewhere in the distance, and you startle awake, woozy and confused. You're in a small, bare room, lying on a cot. Your wrists feel raw and chafed, and when you try to lift one, you realize why - you're strapped down tight at the hands and at the ankles, loose enough for you to thrash around but not loose enough for it to matter. Fear rushes through you. You let out a whine, desperate and frustrated, as you tug at your bindings - wordless cries, whimpered nos, pleas to God.
The door opens and a man in a white coat walks in. His face looks familiar as it swims in front of you. He'd done your intake, you think - asking questions and then refusing to listen to your answers. He looks down at you dispassionately. "Another five milligrams of Diazepam for Doggett." You stare in horror, shaking your head.
"I don't need any more; I don't need 'em. Hey--" Your voice slurs, a little; you're only just starting to come round from the first dose they'd given you. But that's how they do things down here - when they think you're crazy, they keep your docile and sleepy and confused, and they never let you out. Nobody comes back from psych.
A nurse sits down on the bed next to you and starts preparing a syringe. You thrash more, but she ignores you; you appeal to God out loud ("Jesus, where are you when I need you"), and she ignores that, too. She rolls your sleeve up, and your breath grows shallow and panicky; you don't want this. "Please," you plead, a last-ditch effort to save yourself. "I'm not crazy, I swear."
She's unmoved, unsympathetic, and just a little short of contemptuous. She looks at the syringe, and your arm; she doesn't look at your face. They never do. "If you weren't crazy," she says, "you wouldn't have to work so hard to convince everyone you're sane." You give your restraints one last jerk as she pulls the needle out of you, but it already feels harder. You don't know if that's your imagination, or if the medication really does work that fast. The bed creaks as she shifts and stands, done with her job and ready to move on to the next inmate.
She leaves. You drift.
lifeline; age 23 - CANON
She sits across the card table from you, all blonde and doe-eyed and innocent-looking, with her hair brushed nicely and her khaki prison uniform straight and neat. You want to explain, and you think you might want to make things work with her, but you still feel a wave of scorn tinged with jealousy. People take one look at her and they fall all over themselves to help her, because they think she's different and better. They think she doesn't belong here. She's so smart, she's so sweet, she's so pretty, she deserves extra privileges and special consideration. And she just soaks it in, smiling nicely and accepting it without question, because she thinks she deserves it too.
And right now, like always, she's just not getting it.
"You made the Almighty God into a joke," you say, "and a joke ain't nothing to me. A joke didn't write me letters up in here, and a joke didn't give me hope so I could do my time and maybe make something of it." She doesn't say anything. She just stares, and you don't think it's a good stare. You frown at her, a little incredulous. "What do you believe in?"
"Well..." She's reluctant; she doesn't want to be here. She's looking down on you right now, and judging - you're almost sure of it. "I've always thought that agnostic was sort of a cop-out, but, um-- you know, if I had to label it, I'd say that I'm a secular humanist. Which is not to say that I'm not spiritual--"
"You're not religious, okay," you interrupt. "Just stop." You've never heard these fancy terms of hers before - 'agnostic', 'secular humanist' - and you're positive she's only using them to show off, to underscore the wide gulf between the two of you. "Stop. Do you believe in Hussein Obama? Electric cars, and Shakespeare books, and do you go out to eat to restaurants? I don't have any of that, okay. All I have is Him." You point skyward, to where you hope He's watching.
You hope He's pleased, because right now you mostly want to spit in her face, the way she's been spitting in yours for months just by existing.
razor; age 23 - cw: blood, intimidation, threats of violence - CANON
The blonde doe-eyed woman stands in the shower stall in front of you, naked and doing her best to cover herself up with her hands. "Okay," she says. "Let me dry off and we can talk about this."
But you're past that point now. You take the toothbrush out of your pocket, the razor end hidden in your palm. "I don't want to talk."
"I am not going to let you intimidate me, Tiffany." She's lying - you know it, and she knows it, and Leanne (standing guard behind you) knows it. She is intimidated, and she's scared, and it's all because she knows that you're righteous and she's a smug, evil sinner. So you're not bothered by her words. You're even a little amused. You're angry, but it's not the sudden, uncontrollable kind of anger that bubbles up in you and makes you do things you regret. Your anger right now is steady and contained, and it's justified, and you're using it to do God's will instead of allowing it to use you. She's no innocent. You can do whatever you want to her, because God has given you permission - and more than that, he's given you instructions.
"What do I want?" You rock back on your heels, finally breaking eye contact to look up at the ceiling thoughtfully, as if you're trying to think of an answer (you're not, you already have one). "Hm. I want you to feel the same pain on your body as you have made me feel in my heart."
You show her the razor, finally. The terrified, disbelieving look on her face is so, so satisfying.
"I know," you say, almost conversationally. "It's not much. But it's sharp. It's sharp. Look, do you wanna see?" You grin, more to yourself than to her, and hold out your palm, fingers spread wide. The shallow cut you make down the center stings, but you don't care, because you think seeing it and knowing what's coming hurts her more. And then, because you're on a roll, you impulsively spring forward and smear the blood all over her upper chest. It feels like a properly Biblical thing to do. She just takes it, too surprised and horrified to fight you off or run, and if it were anyone else you'd feel sorry.
But suddenly Angie (guarding the door) whistles, just like you'd agreed she would if a guard came by. You draw back, but keep the razor held up, low enough that it can't be seen over the wall of the stall. "I guess next time I gotta get more creative," you say, leaning in and whispering. "But that's okay. I got some other ideas." You grin again as the guard calls your name from the doorway, and you turn to go. You're not upset that you failed this time, because that just means that you get to do it again, and again, and again, enough to make her regret all the disrespectful things she's said and all the stuck-up things you imagine she's thought.
And then you'll smite her, once and for all.
angel; age 23 - CANON
going after Piper
rally; age 24 - BARGE CANON
Your heartbeat thrums loudly in your ears as you storm away from Steph's cabin, anger and frustration boiling inside of you. If this were a year ago, it would have bubbled over into something out of control and violent by now, and there's a part of you that wishes it still would - a part of you that misses the release and satisfaction (no matter how temporary, no matter how hollow) that comes from lashing out.
When you reach your own cabin and, you mean to head for your bedroom, but find yourself veering to the right instead - going for the door that's shut tight most of the time, the second bedroom that visitors rarely get to see. You stop in front of it, hand on the knob for a few long seconds before you open it.
You use Lourdes's room as a spare bedroom, in a pinch - if somebody is spending the night for some reason, you give them your own bed, and sleep in here instead. But by and large, you leave it untouched. Everything is as Lourdes had left it, just in case she ever shows back up again (because you'd promised never to give up on her, and moving on and accepting her as lost forever would be giving up). The biggest difference is the package on the bed, carefully chosen and wrapped last Christmas. You'll add another gift to the pile in June, on her birthday.
You stand like that in the doorway for who knows how long.
You’re small and young, and you’re hungry for dinner, but you’re alone in the house with your mother who’s passed out on the couch. You have a big family - a slew of older brothers, and an aunt and a cousin who are living with you right now - but they're all out and you don't know when they're coming back, because nobody remembered to tell you.
You know from experience that trying to wake your mother won't do any good. She's not dead - you've checked - but she'd been drinking with your oldest brother before he'd gone out, and had continued after he'd left. You're not worried. This happens sometimes - a lot of the time, really, but you know it could be worse because you know a girl at school whose mother hits her when she gets drunk. Your mom never does that. You're lucky.
She's stretched out on the couch, taking up all the space, so you grab her feet and pull her to the side, making room. Then you pour yourself a big bowl of Frosted Flakes, grab a can of Mountain Dew, and sit down on the couch next to her, switching on the TV. You turn up the volume louder than usual - loud enough that, if she were awake, she'd tell you to knock it off and turn it down. Maybe it'll wake her up in time to have a dessert with you - your seventh birthday was last week, and there's still a little bit of leftover ice cream cake in the fridge.
You feel a little sad, and you feel a little lonely. But it's nothing you're not used to.
saved; age 20 - CANON
lawyer scene
cross; age 23 - CANON
SOMETHING WITH PORNSTACHE BEING HORRIBLE
caged; age 23 - cw: prison psych wards - CANON
sedatives; age 23 - cw: prison psych wards - CANON
A door clangs shut heavily somewhere in the distance, and you startle awake, woozy and confused. You're in a small, bare room, lying on a cot. Your wrists feel raw and chafed, and when you try to lift one, you realize why - you're strapped down tight at the hands and at the ankles, loose enough for you to thrash around but not loose enough for it to matter. Fear rushes through you. You let out a whine, desperate and frustrated, as you tug at your bindings - wordless cries, whimpered nos, pleas to God.
The door opens and a man in a white coat walks in. His face looks familiar as it swims in front of you. He'd done your intake, you think - asking questions and then refusing to listen to your answers. He looks down at you dispassionately. "Another five milligrams of Diazepam for Doggett." You stare in horror, shaking your head.
"I don't need any more; I don't need 'em. Hey--" Your voice slurs, a little; you're only just starting to come round from the first dose they'd given you. But that's how they do things down here - when they think you're crazy, they keep your docile and sleepy and confused, and they never let you out. Nobody comes back from psych.
A nurse sits down on the bed next to you and starts preparing a syringe. You thrash more, but she ignores you; you appeal to God out loud ("Jesus, where are you when I need you"), and she ignores that, too. She rolls your sleeve up, and your breath grows shallow and panicky; you don't want this. "Please," you plead, a last-ditch effort to save yourself. "I'm not crazy, I swear."
She's unmoved, unsympathetic, and just a little short of contemptuous. She looks at the syringe, and your arm; she doesn't look at your face. They never do. "If you weren't crazy," she says, "you wouldn't have to work so hard to convince everyone you're sane." You give your restraints one last jerk as she pulls the needle out of you, but it already feels harder. You don't know if that's your imagination, or if the medication really does work that fast. The bed creaks as she shifts and stands, done with her job and ready to move on to the next inmate.
She leaves. You drift.
lifeline; age 23 - CANON
She sits across the card table from you, all blonde and doe-eyed and innocent-looking, with her hair brushed nicely and her khaki prison uniform straight and neat. You want to explain, and you think you might want to make things work with her, but you still feel a wave of scorn tinged with jealousy. People take one look at her and they fall all over themselves to help her, because they think she's different and better. They think she doesn't belong here. She's so smart, she's so sweet, she's so pretty, she deserves extra privileges and special consideration. And she just soaks it in, smiling nicely and accepting it without question, because she thinks she deserves it too.
And right now, like always, she's just not getting it.
"You made the Almighty God into a joke," you say, "and a joke ain't nothing to me. A joke didn't write me letters up in here, and a joke didn't give me hope so I could do my time and maybe make something of it." She doesn't say anything. She just stares, and you don't think it's a good stare. You frown at her, a little incredulous. "What do you believe in?"
"Well..." She's reluctant; she doesn't want to be here. She's looking down on you right now, and judging - you're almost sure of it. "I've always thought that agnostic was sort of a cop-out, but, um-- you know, if I had to label it, I'd say that I'm a secular humanist. Which is not to say that I'm not spiritual--"
"You're not religious, okay," you interrupt. "Just stop." You've never heard these fancy terms of hers before - 'agnostic', 'secular humanist' - and you're positive she's only using them to show off, to underscore the wide gulf between the two of you. "Stop. Do you believe in Hussein Obama? Electric cars, and Shakespeare books, and do you go out to eat to restaurants? I don't have any of that, okay. All I have is Him." You point skyward, to where you hope He's watching.
You hope He's pleased, because right now you mostly want to spit in her face, the way she's been spitting in yours for months just by existing.
razor; age 23 - cw: blood, intimidation, threats of violence - CANON
The blonde doe-eyed woman stands in the shower stall in front of you, naked and doing her best to cover herself up with her hands. "Okay," she says. "Let me dry off and we can talk about this."
But you're past that point now. You take the toothbrush out of your pocket, the razor end hidden in your palm. "I don't want to talk."
"I am not going to let you intimidate me, Tiffany." She's lying - you know it, and she knows it, and Leanne (standing guard behind you) knows it. She is intimidated, and she's scared, and it's all because she knows that you're righteous and she's a smug, evil sinner. So you're not bothered by her words. You're even a little amused. You're angry, but it's not the sudden, uncontrollable kind of anger that bubbles up in you and makes you do things you regret. Your anger right now is steady and contained, and it's justified, and you're using it to do God's will instead of allowing it to use you. She's no innocent. You can do whatever you want to her, because God has given you permission - and more than that, he's given you instructions.
"What do I want?" You rock back on your heels, finally breaking eye contact to look up at the ceiling thoughtfully, as if you're trying to think of an answer (you're not, you already have one). "Hm. I want you to feel the same pain on your body as you have made me feel in my heart."
You show her the razor, finally. The terrified, disbelieving look on her face is so, so satisfying.
"I know," you say, almost conversationally. "It's not much. But it's sharp. It's sharp. Look, do you wanna see?" You grin, more to yourself than to her, and hold out your palm, fingers spread wide. The shallow cut you make down the center stings, but you don't care, because you think seeing it and knowing what's coming hurts her more. And then, because you're on a roll, you impulsively spring forward and smear the blood all over her upper chest. It feels like a properly Biblical thing to do. She just takes it, too surprised and horrified to fight you off or run, and if it were anyone else you'd feel sorry.
But suddenly Angie (guarding the door) whistles, just like you'd agreed she would if a guard came by. You draw back, but keep the razor held up, low enough that it can't be seen over the wall of the stall. "I guess next time I gotta get more creative," you say, leaning in and whispering. "But that's okay. I got some other ideas." You grin again as the guard calls your name from the doorway, and you turn to go. You're not upset that you failed this time, because that just means that you get to do it again, and again, and again, enough to make her regret all the disrespectful things she's said and all the stuck-up things you imagine she's thought.
And then you'll smite her, once and for all.
angel; age 23 - CANON
going after Piper
rally; age 24 - BARGE CANON
Your heartbeat thrums loudly in your ears as you storm away from Steph's cabin, anger and frustration boiling inside of you. If this were a year ago, it would have bubbled over into something out of control and violent by now, and there's a part of you that wishes it still would - a part of you that misses the release and satisfaction (no matter how temporary, no matter how hollow) that comes from lashing out.
When you reach your own cabin and, you mean to head for your bedroom, but find yourself veering to the right instead - going for the door that's shut tight most of the time, the second bedroom that visitors rarely get to see. You stop in front of it, hand on the knob for a few long seconds before you open it.
You use Lourdes's room as a spare bedroom, in a pinch - if somebody is spending the night for some reason, you give them your own bed, and sleep in here instead. But by and large, you leave it untouched. Everything is as Lourdes had left it, just in case she ever shows back up again (because you'd promised never to give up on her, and moving on and accepting her as lost forever would be giving up). The biggest difference is the package on the bed, carefully chosen and wrapped last Christmas. You'll add another gift to the pile in June, on her birthday.
You stand like that in the doorway for who knows how long.
