#epactivity

She remembered how it had all began. It was a Tuesday, of all days, and a sunny one at that. Nothing interesting ever happened on Tuesdays, at least not in the books she occasionally occupied her time with, and suggesting a fictional character go on an adventure on a day without rain was almost heresy. She wasn't doing anything other than her usual afternoon ritual of hanging around her dad's boxing club, watching the fights absentmindedly and talking to the boxers who weren't currently in the ring about anything and everything  from tea parties to murder trials. If she, by some miracle, was clairvoyant, she certainly would've have picked November 10th, 2009 as the precise date when her life started to crumble, but as it was she wasn't,  and the moment continued to shock her to this day.

"Mory," One of the loudest, a large, beefy man by the alias of Meatcleaver had asked her after a long day of practicing in the ring. "Be a dear and go get us the good stuff, will ya?" And of course, like the dutiful girl she once was, she knew immediately what he meant. He feet lead her to the familiar cabinet, and slightly trembling hands reached for the familiar orange pill bottles. She read the label absentmindedly, noting that this time the prescription read "Morphine" as opposed to last week's which she couldn't even pronounce. Clutching the small object like a lifeline, she crossed the room and placed the small bottle on the table nearest to the men, whose groans of dull pain immediately died in their throats upon seeing the object. They attacked it eagerly, shoving pills in their mouths and swallowing, and ritual completed, Morgan turned to leave. At least, until one called after her, something that had never happened before.

"Hey, Morg, why don't you try some?" 

She turned to face him, stiffening slightly at the nickname which she'd never particularly liked. The girl crossed her arms over her chest anxiously, watching as the remaining men watched the one who'd called out with a mixture of irritation and approval. She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really now? And give me one good reason I'd do that," She managed, thinking she'd trapped him. But she hadn't, and he only laughed at her reluctance.

"Takes the edge off." He goaded pleadingly. " C'mon, Mory, don't you have enough stress as is?" He added after a moment's pause, meeting the girl's eyes. His were already glazed over and distant, which sent a shiver down her spine. Not exactly a shiver of fear, either a shiver of-

anticipation.

Wordlessly, she made her way back to the table, and snatched the drug from his outstretched hands, but not ingesting just yet. "And my dad, yeah?" She asked, seeking an outlet, any outlet, to save herself from the allure of the medication. This wasn't a good question to ask, because the table erupted in laughter. She didn't understand, at first, but reality hit hard. Her father, the man she'd idolized all of her pre-adolescent life, was a substance abuser. And she'd been blind to notice.

Rage filled her, and she popped the small white pill into her mouth. It rested on her tongue  for a few seconds, and unintentionally her heart skipped a few beats. They were staring at her, all of them were, and her entire body trembled under the harsh feeling of her eyes, regretting her rash decision. Words flashed through her mind; harsh, dark words by the likes of addiction and rehab and o.d, finally being replaced by a much more abstract and threatening feeling: a deep, unshakable fear of the lack of control

But they all still stared, a few clearing their throats, the laughing jeers dying down as they began to feel steadily more uncomfortable with her uncertainty, and the fears evaporated. What was she afraid of? It was just a pill. Something the size of a dime, resting in her mouth, couldn't have that serious of an impact...could it? And besides, it wasn't like she'd become addicted to the substance. Addicts were people she'd seen in movies, strange old men with haunted looks in their eyes and pockets full of dust, not thirteen-year-old girls who sang in the choir and whose pottery was in an art show just two months previous. She had nothing to fear....right?

She must've hesitated too long, for the group exchanged glances. "You...you don't have to do this, Mory." One spoke up after a hesitant pause. Morgan recognized him as one of the few who'd played dolls with her when she was small and occasionally long after she had supposedly given them up. If anything, this fueled her desire to show them. Show them up, prove to them all that she wasn't Little Mory-Irene, Bonecrusher's baby girl and princess of the boxing club. She was Morgan, nearly fourteen years old, black belt in Aikido and resident raiser of hell. And she was tired of being coddled, being overly nurtured, overly-protected. She got so much damn protection she could scream.

"Don't be stupid," She chided, the words coming out much more sharply than she'd intended, words slightly slurred by the pill still resting in her mouth. Saying a quick Hail Mary and not failing to notice the irony, the girl took a deep breath.

M.O: Whose idea was it to come here, again?

M.S: Probably mine. You couldn't think of coming here if you tried.

M.O: Thought so. This place's weird as fuck, Mory. It fits you.

M.S: Well fuck you too, Matty. 

M.O: Don't be a smartass. You know I'm kidding. It's..kind of nice.

M.S: It kind of has a weird beauty, yeah? The way it's all broken and dying. Kind of reminds me of people around here. 

M.O:You ever think about leaving this place behind? Running away and cutting all the bullshit?