k.

el and nancy's experiences of girlhood being dichotomised in season one kills me. el looks at the pretty girl and the pretty pink bedroom and this life she's crafted that she parades in pictures and she craves it, so deeply, that she spends the whole season wearing nancy's old dress, this hyper-feminine pink thing, peter pan collars and frills. it sits on her so jarringly, resolutely at odds with her shaved head and death stare and face permanently stained with dirt and blood and tears, and mike's crumpled blue jacket doesn't match, doesn't fit, and she looks so small, but she wants to be the girl in the picture. she wants back the innocence that she never got to have, scrounges off the scraps of nancy's girlhood where she can find it, while nancy loses it at the exact same time. she loses her virginity and her childhood best friend and she ties her hair back and learns to shoot a gun and she learns, through the pain and violence, that her life as a small-town good girl behind a picket fence was lost with everything else that went that day, died with barb. she's a slut and a monster hunter and a woman at sixteen and now she's looking at the girl in the picture and craving her life too. she left her girlhood by the poolside, torn and bloodied and ripped fresh from her chest, and el picks it up, dusts it off, and wears it like armour.