* 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 / 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡.

HER INDEPENDENCE WAS DIFFERENT than his. Not selective and unkind, with attentive eyes and cutthroat anger — but lonely. Hers was more self centered, less vindictive and more judgemental. It was lonely at the top, she would remind herself. You’ll be lonely your whole life. And so: she made friends, she loved and cared for people, she tried her best to be liked. But most of it, aside from a those select few with love and care, was hollow. She had always been tired, she had always been sad: but she had been glowing externally. Now, she was dull. She was EMPTY. “ Yeah, you can get ASS, and I can get ... ” Probably not to finish that sentence. Eyes flick over to him, and she almost offers a flask, solidarity in solitude. But then she remembers he’s being a dick, and takes another long swig herself. “ I’m not sick, no. Come here to cough on me, or just be a laugh riot ? ”

SHE LAUGHS. Not meanly, not towards Dani, but perhaps towards herself. The sun didn’t shine anywhere near Sylvia anymore, least of all ... “ I’m drunk because it’s better than being sober, ” She says, and though it sounds like she’s joking ... the answer is surprisingly candid. She feels better like this — she feels better DETACHED. “ And let me tell you, if you told me fucking .... three weeks ago ? That you thought ... ” She smiles, but it’s absent. “ ... the sun shone out of my ass ?  I would have taken the compliment. But now. ” Another swig of the flask the carries with her and eyes cloud. “ But now. ” She repeats. 

SHE FEELS LIKE MAKING A MESS. Sylvia has never been a destructive person — not even to herself, up until recently. But now, something angry sat in her center, like it was waiting for an opportunity to fuck something up. Like if she passed on the suffering, the weight would be less on her shoulders. She didn’t want to hurt other people, not really; she just wanted to hurt less. “ I don’t even know what the fuck is going on, ” Eyes were bloodshot, and tired, and her feet dragged on the ground. She’d left the wake early, walking down the streets of dead end suburbia until she fell asleep on – of all places, a bench. Not really where Sylvia ever thought she would be. 

SYLVIA JUMPS BACK — thankfully back smacking against the pole of the railing and not a single step to the left, giving her a leap down the staircase. His words twist her face, contorting drunken complacency to something angrier, more distraught — but eyes don’t change. There’s no fire in them. She looks sad, and lost, and ... almost scared.  “ Fuck you, ” She repeats, like it’s word of the week and she has to pick a quota. Arm jerks away from his in a delayed reaction, and she mumbles through another rant, gripping tightly onto the railing. “ So I’m God then. My own. And I could just — ... ” Bottle clanks to the ground absently, leftover liquor spilling onto the carpet. “ Maybe I want to punish myself. Huh ? Didn’t — didn’t think of that ? ” She doesn’t notice that her eyes are pooling with tears. God, she thinks she’s gonna be sick. “ Maybe I just want more to drink.  Or ... or  maybe — maybe I want to get hurt. Maybe I want to die. ” Words are raw and painful and she doesn’t know she’s saying them until a sob chokes out of her throat, messy and angry and childlike. 

USUALLY, SHE LIKED LAYTON. Usually, she could handle the half-cutting comments, the wit bounced back and forth in debate both friendly and academic. She liked it, she thrived on it. Usually. But what exactly about any of what was happening was usual ?  “ Eat shit, Castillo. ” She mumbled through another swig. She was lonely out here, and maybe if she was half as drunk or half as depressed, she would have been thankful. But she’s all the way, so it’s different.  “ Like — like you’re ... ” Speak, Sylvia. Fight through the fog. “ Like you’re so much better. You’re high. You reek. ” 

SHE WAS DRUNK. This was, of course, the usual course of action for the time spent since the twenty-first of August. Since the world ended — bottles clinked and people laughed, though fear struck their hearts — she was good then. The world was changing, and she was scared: but it was merely temporary. And then ... Benjamin Walley. Even before accusations and mud-slinging, news of his death had caused her to heave over porceailin toilet seats, tears blurring her eyes for someone she barely new. That was — perhaps, the moment it became real. It was not a fantasy, or a vacation from the stressors of life. It was HELL, and they’d created a new ring. Then of course, she’d fallen. Not in the same was as Ben ... but truthfully, it might as well have been. Sylvia Preston was dead. At least, the real Sylvia. The one with a bright smile and shiny hair and a 4.0 GPA. Now what was left was a husk. So when the door opens, and eyes reddened from tears crack open from her spot on the bed, she groans. Her head is pounding, and the vodka bottle on the floor next to her bed is a good indicator of why. She’s dressed for the wake already, a non-verbal answer to Esme’s question ... but dress is wrinkled, and she reeks of alcohol. Already. “ Mhm. I’m just — ” She sits up, eyes still half cracked. “ What time is it ? ”

SHE DIDN’T WANT TO BE HERE. She didn’t want to be anywhere, but here especially, at the wake of Benjamin Walley. She wanted to be in her bed — passed out or close to it, not wallowing in her own guilt and horror and shame. The shame was the worst part: of watching as the fabric of her life, so carefully and artfully stitched together, was torn to shreds. She was so ashamed to exist — so ashamed to be Sylvia Preston. For once fractured, for once, imperfect. And forever more: BROKEN. “ Doesn’t matter, does it ? ”   She says, which is a perfect way of showing she isn’t. Eyes are glassy, and they don’t quite focus correctly.   “ I wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t anyway. ”

Sometimes he looked at her and thought, Gosh, I wonder what’s underneath all that anger, all that hard glossy armor ? Maybe there’s just an innocent, wounded little girl in there who wants to come out and play and be loved and get happy. But now he wondered if maybe that little girl was long gone, or if she’d ever been there at all. What was under all that armor, all that anger ? More anger, and more armor. Anger and armor, all the way down ...

𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐋𝐘  𝐈𝐒  𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆, and it only increases when she jerks away from him, bringing the bottle with her. Her head is pounding, everything is blurry — she feels like she’s going to hurl any second. But in all honesty: it feels so much better than being sober. Physical pain, being out of control ... for someone that’s spent so much of her life trying to be in it, release is as ironic as it is theraputic.   ❛  Fuck you,  ❜  She mumbles, and it sounds like a REVELATION. Oh yeah, I don’t like him.  ❛  Why are you — why are you asking me about my fucking RELIGION, Dylan? I think god is a fucking pussy. If he wasn’t, he’d be smi— smit ...  ❜ She stumbles backwards, teetering dangerously close to the top of the staircase leading back downstairs.  ❛  .... Smite me right now. So yeah.  ❜   If it’s to Dylan or god, not even Sylvia is certain.  ❛  Fuck you. I’m not even TIRED.  ❜       

𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒  𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘  𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃  𝐓𝐎  𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄  𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 look at the girl before the flask is brought to her lips again — she’d switched back and forth all night, little metal container and actual, physical bottle ... depending entirely on how much she wanted to humiliate herself.   ❛  No one cared about who the FUCK knew him when I — when I ...  ❜  Words trail off, as if she can’t quite tell what she wants to say in drunken haze.   ❛  No one ever gives a fuck. It’s — it’s this stupid fucking pack mentality. No one thought Jamie was this ... this — irredemably evil piece of shit before he said he killed Ben. On accident. No one thought I was a killer until they accused me. Like the fucking Witch Trials or something — and, and no one thought Benjamin Walley was ANYTHING until he was a corpse.  ❜   Words are cruel, and the corner of her mouth is curled into a snarl, but FUCK IT. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying. Another sip. 

𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄. But that was then — and now was different. Now, she didn’t care — or she wasn’t careful. She wasn’t wholly lucid, she didn’t really comprehend the damage that she could leave — she’d been to careful in whatever past their was to be aware of her effect. Cruel words, unkind thoughts ... they were tiny, to her, especially with lips around a bottle and eyes ringed with lack of sleep. Though she might look a wreck — the girl next to her looks sadder, more despondent. And so: she offers her first ... semi kind words of the night.    ❛  You feeling okay  ? ❜  A beat.  ❛  You look fucking miserable.  ❜  ( @frvnkics  )

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐀𝐒,  𝐈𝐓  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓. Whatever this wake was, whatever this new world they found themselves in — it was wholly, definitively, and entirely bullshit. GOD, how she hated it. Hated life, hated everyone, hated herself. It wasn’t boiling, angry, lava-like distaste burning underneath. It was cold, and it was lonely — she wanted no one near her. She wanted to be nothing and nowhere. Bullshit. And that’s why she’s outside the wake now, sitting on a curb, black fabric only skimming skinned knees. She’d run home, breathless — luckily only a block from her house — not wanting to make a scene in front of everyone else, and fallen twice. She’d thrown up on the front lawn, then again in the toilet once she’d reached the bathroom. But now — she was back, bottle of vodka held tightly in her hand, lifted back to her lips once more. Perhaps it’s a moment of kindness as she sees figure walking past, perhaps she’s too far gone to remember she’s supposed to hate him. ❛  Hey  ! DYLAN  ! Fucking ... mazel tov, right  !  ❜  Bottle is lifted into the air, beckoning him.  ( @ofcarmichaels​ )

𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐓  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃. Perhaps it was wrong of her — to crave release in that way, to think of someone lying cold and lifeless in the woods, and wish that they could trade places. Not out of empathy — but out of empty. Out of seeing how life drained from Ben had a profound effect on the town, and she can’t help but think: she wouldn’t have. At least not now, with silence and anger and abrasiveness replacing bright smiles and handed out pamphlets, and everything Sylvia had always wanted to be. WHO WOULD REMEMBER HER ?  Who would ponder her loss, who would cry ?  Numbers were limited, she was sure, and part of her almost thinks it’s what she thinks she deserves, to be there instead of Ben, more than what she wants: if she was so easily broken, how could she defend being whole in the first place ?  She wished it was her instead. And so when Minnie speaks to her, she can’t help it: she can’t help but raise her voice an octave, inappropriate for such a setting — but she doesn’t notice, not with vodka on an empty stomach and a heart cracked beyond repair.  ❛  Yeah — yeah, Minnie, of course that’s what I’m thinking about. Me. Me, I’m gonna sit here, and make someone dying all about how I feel. Because we’re all so cool and emotionless like you, Minnie. I’m — I’m — I’m not even doing anything to you.  ❜  Words are chopped up into stammers, and slurred, and she can’t even think before she speaks.  ❛  It’s a fucking wake, don’t be a cunt to try and get over it. I don’t — I don’t even get why people like you. Or, or — or why you’re on the fucking council. You’re a bitch.  ❜  Maybe a little much for minimal words Minnie has said to her, but she doesn’t notice or care. 

𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒  𝐀𝐑𝐄  𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐘  𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓, and it’s unclear if that’s just how she is now, or if that’s the alcohol talking. She’d shown up drunk, she’d been sitting by the limited supply offered to them. More refreshment than tool, though no one could tell her that. Vodka and whiskey, and — her head is so foggy, and if there wasn’t the clarity of sadness, her entire mind would be a blur. She can’t help but scoff as the question is asked, gentle tone clearly intended as politeness.   ❛ Why the FUCK do you think I’m drinking  ?  ❜  It’s mean and it’s angry and he doesn’t deserve it — but then again, why does she have to suffer if she can’t expel it ?   ❛  Because I’m gonna try and host a toga party  ? Because I’m looking forward to a sick game of beer pong, standing on a table and taking my top off  ?  ❜  She didn’t like who she was anymore. How she could feel cruelty slipping off her tongue, how she could feel the gears turning in her mind, trying to harm instead of help. HAD SHE EVER BEEN AS GOOD AS SHE’D WANTED TO BE  ?