"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Viewing Single Post From: Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses
Cicada Days
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👀 (credit to Kotorikun)
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So...

Thoughts, just for a moment. Memories. Friends had come to her like this before. This and that and problems that numbered ninety-nine. Their lashes often already dripping with nettle stings of their not-so teenage anguish. Asimah, Miss Perfect herself, had once with breath smelling of something fermented and eyes threatening to erupt. Irene's shoulder had been there, every single time. Shit was well built, solid. But everything else, not so much. She'd never held back the barrier. Tears had always come somehow, every single pixels worth of saline crumpling Irene's heart like the one-ply tissue paper it was. Irene had never been able to do anything. Words, actions, those things she loved so much and threw around carelessly like the schoolyard bully. They all, like. Uh. Failed her. Was this why she wasn't the strong one, wasn't the cool one, wasn't the senpai-de-jour?

Wasn't Abby?

Turns out she was just Irene.

Fuuuck.

"I know, yeah." If words failed, more of them sometimes worked, right? Probability. Roll the dice. Play the roulette. Other metaphors. "I can't imagine." Well Irene could, but it was all just stereotypes. Bullies and screamers and baby mama drama in high-def. What was she supposed to say to someone who knew the real thing? All the things she wasn't capable of saying, they were right there, gently shimmering the prettiest little trails down Abby's cheek. IMAX quality. "I mean, uh. If you want to talk about it." Irene's voice was mute, quietly unsteady. Which still meant loud and proud, but without the polyphonic vibrancy it normally carried. The others back then had all reacted badly when she'd looked like she was freaking out at the possibility of a definite conversation. She tried her hardest to not look unsettled.

Trying didn't equal success. As Abby well knew.
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Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses · Grounds