#scarletqueen

Music was everything to you. It was your reason for living. The only thing that brought you peace and happiness. The melodies ran through your blood, the lyrics filled your thoughts and the beat marked your heartbeat. All you wanted in the world was to be able to devote yourself entirely to music.

But life wasn't that easy. Not yours at least. 

If you weren't working as a waitress in the bar where you had been working for years, you were teaching piano lessons or walking dogs to earn a little extra money.

Before you were diagnosed with type 1 diabetes your life was much less chaotic. But since then, you couldn't afford a day off, because you needed the money to pay for the health insurance that provided you with the insulin you needed to survive. 

You tried to focus on the good things and your dreams. The owner of the bar where you worked, Billy, had let you and your band play a couple of songs every night on the small stage, which gave you some visibility and increased the number of customers. Even though you only sang covers, the people who heard you sing every night ended up falling in love with your voice. Or that's what your best friend told you whenever you finished and walked off the stage to continue your shift as a waitress.

“Give it up for Billy, the owner who apparently really meant it when he said only two songs. Oh, and please don't forget to tip your servers, 'cause, PS, we're also your servers.” You said to the crowd before getting out of the stage.

“Another great set.” Your friend, Jamie, said as he went back behind the counter.

“Yeah, amazing riff back there.” You told him as you reached your best friend.

With a smile on her face, your redhead best friend was about to give you another one of her compliments when something behind you caught her attention.

“Oh, look, it's your faves.” She pointed towards the door.

With a frown you turned on your heels and found a group of boys entering the bar with smiles on their faces. They looked like they were celebrating something.

“Oh, great. Marines.” You sighed as you took your little notebook. “Mild to medium harassment by nine, chaotic evil by ten.”

Charlie smiled back at you and whispered a little good luck as you started to walk towards the group. Just then, the face of one of the boys turned toward you and you recognized him in an instant.

“No way.” He said as he saw you. “Hey, stranger!”

“Frankie?” You looked at him surprised before running to wrap your arms around him in a hug.

He laughed as he lifted you off the ground.

“I missed you, you freak.” 

“I missed you too, rockstar.” He replied, placing you back on the ground.

“Oh my God. Look at the buzz.” You shook his absent hair. “No, I'm not okay with this at all.” You laughed as your best friend appeared by your side. “Uh, Charlie, Frankie. Frankie, Charlie.”

“Nice to meet you.” Frankie looked at her.

“Charlie, they're in The Loyal with me. Frankie, we grew up together, and I was his babysitter.” You explained.

“Okay. Okay. Don't say that in front of everybody.” Frankie looked at his group of friends with a glimpse of embarrassment in his eyes. You laughed.

“Cassie was just telling me how much she loves military boys.” Charlie teased as the three of you approached the marines.

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Mmm.” Frankie laughed. “Uh, these are the guys. We've two weeks 'til we ship out to Iraq.” 

“We're still in Iraq?” You frowned.

“Not out yet.”

“Another war that never ends.” You sighed. “In that case, what you guys wanna drink? First one's on the house.” You smiled towards the boys.

That's when you noticed the guys sitting at the table where Frankie had led you and Charlie. A tall dark-skinned guy, a young blond with a boyish face and finally the one who looked like the oldest of the group. Well formed back, not overly muscular but fit, light brown hair, close to the color of sand, freckles and green eyes focused on you.

“Thank you.”

“Hey! Tequila?” The blonde one said.

“Does he look old enough to drink tequila?” Charlie asked, looking back at you.

“Absolutely not.” You smiled.

“Double that.” The other guy said.

“Copy that.” You nodded before your eyes locked on the green-eyed guy.

“I'll have a Coke.” 

“Okay. My kinda guy.” You smiled, surprised by his request.

“Hell, yeah.” He smirked. “Could you throw in some lemon slices with that?”

“How about you pace yourself, bro?” You teased, smirking back at him.

“Whoa! She's into you, bro.” The guy by his side said as you walked toward the counter.

“No. Okay? Just no.” Frankie shook his head, gaining Dean’s attention. “It's not gonna happen, never. Just let it go, cheekbones.”

“What? You two?” He whispered.

“No, she's like an older sister to me.” Frankie quickly explained.

“Uh, she has a ‘no soldiers’ policy, sorry.” Charlie said.

“We're marines. What's that about?” The tall guy asked.

“Well, that means more of us for you then.” The blonde smiled back at her.

Charlie laughed at this.

“Tempting.” She replied. “Let me check with my girlfriend.”

Dean smiled at her answer. Something in him told him they could be good friends if they got to know each other. Something about the way Charlie carried herself felt a little too familiar to him.

Then again, it was you his attention was on. Charlie looked cool and like a very fun person, but you… You took his breath away. There was something in you that pulled him in like a magnet.

“Uh, three tequilas and a coke.” You announced placing the drinks on the table.

“So we're good enough to fight for your ass, but not enough to touch it?” Said the guy next to Dean, leaving the group in complete silence.

You looked up at him with disbelief.

“Excuse me?” You scoffed.

“Okay. I'll excuse you, this time.” He replied.

Seeing as no one else said something and tired of guys acting like they had the right to say those kind of things, you took a step back.

“I can't with this.” You scoffed once again as you gave Charlie your notebook before walking away from the table.

“Real smooth.”

“What the hell? Come on. Bro.”

“Let me see what I can do.” Dean said, walking past Frankie to go after you.

“Good luck, behave yourself. Don't do what he did.”

“Dude has a perfect track record.”

Dean ignored their comments as he reached you at the bar counter.

“Hey, I just wanted to apologize for our friend. He's a bit...” He scoffed, not exactly knowing how to describe him.

“Okay.” You clicked your tongue as a response while rolling your eyes in annoyance.

“Uh, I'm Dean, by the way. What's your name?” He reached out his hand.

Tired of his presence, you turned towards him with a cold stare.

“Your waitress slash bartender. Have a fun night, Dean.” You replied, bumping your shoulder with his as you walked past him. 

His group of marine friends laughed in the back, but you ignored them.

“You know, we're not all alike.” Dean said.

You rolled your eyes and looked back at him.

“Oh, really?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Yeah.”

“Because your friend is talking about his right to touch my ass. Which apparently, you also feel entitled to.” 

“Okay, we're just blowing off some steam. It's, uh... It's actually a pretty big night. Last night on leave. We ship off in a few weeks.” He explained.

“I get it, but, uh, not really an excuse for casual misogyny though.” You crossed your arms and tilted your head. “You're cute and everything, but...”

Dean could feel his chest tighten at your bold response, the sharpness in your words almost as if you were daring him to challenge you. He wasn’t sure why it caught his attention—maybe it was the way you held your ground, or the way your eyes glinted with defiance, but there was something about you that was... magnetic. He shook the thought away. This was nothing more than a few words exchanged. He didn’t have time to get distracted by you.

“Okay, all right. I, uh... I get this.” He laughed.

You frowned.

“What do you get?”

“You.”

“Yeah. Me?”

“Yeah, yeah. You're kind of predictable. I've... I've met your type before.”

Dean’s voice faltered slightly, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was trying to hold his ground or keep his distance. But as you leaned in, just a little bit closer, he couldn’t help but notice how you stood your ground—your body poised, confident. And damn, he was sure he wasn’t imagining it, but the air between you felt... thicker. He found himself subconsciously leaning in a little too, his hand instinctively shifting closer to you.

“Yeah. Oh. Do tell.” You took a step closer to him, not really playing much attention at the small space between your faces and bodies.

Dean noticed though, and he couldn’t help but take a quick and almost imperceptible glimpse of your lips before focusing on the colour of your eyes.

“Drive a Lexus that your parents paid for, but it's a hybrid, so it's okay.” He started, his heartbeat a little faster than usual, and he hoped you wouldn’t notice. “You... You probably tweet a lot about other people's rights, but when it comes down...”

You scoffed and took a step back before letting out a little chuckle.

“Sorry, it's just fascinating to me.” You looked at him with disbelief. “Do you have a PhD in mansplaining?”

“When it actually comes down to fighting for these rights, you don't wanna do anything, right?” He continued, ignoring your words. “'Cause guns are mean. You're a pacifist. I guess it's our job to go off and fight those battles for you, right? I bet you have a little peace-dove tattoo on your back to prove it.”

With a cynical smile on your lips, you moved closer to him once again. This time closer than before. So close that your breath hit his skin as you responded.

“On my ass, actually.” You smirked. “Which you can't touch, but you can kiss.”

“Nailed it.” Murmured one of the marines, and the sound of laughter echoed around the table as Dean stood there, at a loss for words.

“She's a pistol.” Another one whistled, clearly impressed by your quick wit.

You barely gave them a second glance, striding confidently to the other side of the counter where Charlie stood.

“Or they'll skip straight to chaotic evil.” You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes as you reached her.

Charlie grinned, the teasing glint still present in her eyes.

“You see the guy who looks like he’s 12 years old?” She pointed to the blonde guy, still sitting with Frankie. “He just told me I should reconsider my stance on men because if I marry him, I'd get incredible health insurance.”

You raised an eyebrow as you turned back toward the table. “Wow. Health insurance?” You let out a little laugh, clearly mocking the offer. “That’s some dirty talk right there. So hot.”

You both laughed together, the sound light but filled with the quiet, unspoken understanding that came with shared frustration 

“Where's that coming from?“ Charlie frowned when the annoying sound of quacking started to echo next to her.

“Oh, that’s my phone.” You explained. “Made it annoying to not ignore it.”

Charlie smiled with amusement as she handed your purse across the counter.

“Uh, hey, can you cover me for, like, five?”

Charlie looked back at you, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Yeah. You okay?”

You forced a small smile, trying to push past the tightening in your chest. “You know... just the usual.”

She nodded, not pushing you for more details. She could see the exhaustion in your eyes, the kind that only someone who knew you well would catch. She gave a quick nod as she turned to grab a napkin for someone else at the bar.

You walked out of the bar quickly, the cool night air hitting your face as you made your way toward your car.

As you got inside your car, silence surrounded you, leaving you in a strange loneliness far from the people inside the bar, oblivious to what for you had already become routine.

The beeping sound of your glucose monitor echoed in the quiet space, and you immediately felt your body tense, eyes darting to the screen. You read the numbers and, for a moment, you just stared at it, willing the numbers to be kinder today.

“Shit.” You muttered to yourself, cursing under your breath. You hated how the disease made you feel weak, vulnerable. You hated how it constantly reminded you that, no matter how strong you tried to be, your body would always be fighting against you.

As you prepared the insulin, your hands moved with practiced precision, but your mind was elsewhere—focusing on the frustration, the tightness in your chest that seemed to grow with every passing day. You couldn’t escape it, couldn’t push it aside. You were always thinking about it. Always adjusting, watching, waiting.

After you finished, you placed everything back into your bag, letting out a shaky breath. The needle was gone, but the weight of everything else—the isolation, the constant vigilance, the fear of what could happen if you didn’t get it right—remained. You didn’t have the luxury of forgetting.

You wiped your eyes quickly, hating the tears that had started to form, and glanced at your phone. It was a text from Charlie, just checking in. You let out a half-laugh as you texted back, telling her you were fine. She wouldn’t understand anyway. No one ever really did.

But you couldn’t stay in the car forever. You needed to go back. You had to go back. The bar was waiting. Charlie would be waiting. And so would he.

Dean.

You rolled your eyes at yourself, trying to shove the thought away. Now wasn’t the time to get distracted by him. You had enough to deal with. You had enough to think about. And he was a dumbass anyway, despite his good looks.

You stood at the pharmacy counter, your stomach in knots as the woman behind the counter typed away on her computer, her face impassive. The sound of the keys clicking was deafening to you in the quiet space. You shifted uneasily, checking the time. You still had a few hours before your shift started, but that wouldn’t matter if you didn’t get your insulin.

“Oh, it looks like I can’t refill your prescription for another four days.” The pharmacist said, glancing up at you with a forced smile.

Your heart sank. “Uh, okay.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but you could feel the panic creeping up your throat. “I... I can’t really wait four days.” You swallowed, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. “Look, I’m out of my long-acting and my short-acting insulin, and my reserve vial is basically gone, and it’s just... it’s really dangerous for me not to have this.”

“I mean, I can give you a refill of your prescription if you wanna do it out of pocket.”

You blinked, disbelief spreading across your face. 

"I don’t think you understand—"

“No, your insurance is not renewed, so I cannot refill it. If you want to do it out of pocket, we can do that.”

You clenched your fists, your knuckles white. Your chest tightened, and for a second, all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat. This wasn’t just inconvenient—it was dangerous. Your voice trembled as you spoke again. “And... how much is that?”

She didn’t respond right away, just clicked back at her keyboard, eyes darting between the screen and you. 

“Three hundred for the long-acting, two-twenty for the short-acting. So, a little over $500.” She looked up at you, her face flat and professional. “What do you want to do?”

Your vision blurred for a moment as the weight of the price hit you. You had maybe half that in your bank account—if you were lucky. There was no way you could afford that, not with your bills, the rent, and the cost of everything else you had to juggle just to survive.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, trying to steady your hands as you reached for your purse while a man on the line complained about you being too slow. 

“¿Qué pasa?” Your mother came to your side asking what was going on.

“Nada, mamá.” You looked back at her trying to make her think everything was all right when it really wasn’t. “Check out in the other line. This line already hates me.”

“Do you wanna step aside while…?”

“Can... you just give me a second?” You snapped at the pharmacist before taking a deep breath.

“¿Cariño, necesitas que lo pague yo?” 

“¿Quiere pagarlo de su bolsillo o esperar?” The pharmacist asked at the same moment your mother tried to help you pay the insulin.

“She speaks English too, thank you.” You looked at the pharmacist, annoyed. 

“You take my cash. I'll do credit.” Your mother took some bills out of her pocket, insisting on helping you despite your complaints.

“Ma!”

“Always health first.” She insisted before walking away.

You sighed a quick ‘thank you’ as you turned back to look at the pharmacist.

“Okay, that worked out.” The woman smiled. “Do you wanna fill this, hon?” She asked, but her smiled fell as she saw the money you had didn’t seem enough. “Oh. That is... Shoot.”

“I... I guess I’ll try to make it to Friday without it.” You said quietly, forcing a smile you didn’t feel as defeat washed over you. “Thanks. Go Big Pharma.”

You didn’t have the luxury of waiting four days, but you didn’t have much of a choice.

You turned to walk out, your feet dragging as you slipped outside of the pharmacy.

You didn’t tell your mother, though. You didn’t need her to feel worried or guilty about not being able to help you.

“You got a letter.” She announced as you reached the top of the stairs where the door to your apartment was.

“Mom, don't open that.” You told her already knowing what that letter was about. You really didn’t needed to think about your unplayed rent after the day you had just had.

“You didn't pay your rent?” She asked, already opening the letter.

You sighed, grabbing the broken doorknob from the flowerpot by your side to fit it onto your door so you could open it. 

“I said don't open that.”

“Your place is falling apart.” She complained following you inside the apartment. “How can you live like this?”

“Yeah, well, I'm busy, and the little details aren't really a priority for me.”

“You cannot not pay your rent.”

“Well, I'm paying. I'm just paying late.” You argued dropping your bag on the floor with defeat painted on your face. “I'm giving the landlord's daughter free piano lessons. They're not going to throw me out on the street.”

“Why don't you move back with me?” She looked at you with pity. “You can share my bedroom.”

“Ma!”

“Like when you were little.”

“No, I'm not 12.” You complained. “I can't go backwards.”

“Entonces tienes que tener un presupuesto.”

“Yes, but diabetes wasn't really in the budget, okay?” You cut her off.

She looked at you with an understanding, love, and concern look that only a mother could give.

For the fist time that day she seem to notice the exhaustion in your face, the slump in your shoulders, the heavy bags under your eyes. The weight of responsibility wearing you down.

“I'm so worried.” She said.

You nodded letting out a nervous laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” Her looked turned mad. “You're not taking this seriously. You could die at any moment.”

“Mom! I know.” You exclaimed, tired of hearing her complain about your own fears. “I'm fine. I'm doing everything right. I'm bartending, and delivering food, and playing gigs, and teaching piano on my spare time. And I'm constantly exhausted and running late, and I can't sleep because I have this medical debt that just grows like some mold in a basement. So, please, please just be kind to me.”

She took a deep breath, as she tried to calm herself.

“I know. I'm sorry.” Her voice broke as she grasped you in a hug. “I should be able to provide for you.”

“Mommy, I love you so much. I don't want you to worry.” You insisted, hugging her back. “You know me. I'm just on my own weird journey, and it's... it's a little bumpy, but… I love it.” You grabbed her by the shoulders, taking a step back to look at her in the eyes. “I'm sorry. I got this. Okay?”

With a quiet sob, she placed a hand on your cheek, caressing it with tenderness as she give you a sad but genuine smile.

“Okay.”

You weren’t okay. Not a all. You didn’t got anything. Your mother was right to worry. But you didn’t saw it until two nights later in the middle of the bar as you sang another cover with your band.

You were feeling fine, singing and playing music in the bar like you did every night. That’s when, suddenly, all of your energy dried out and you started to feel dizzy and nauseous. Your hands started shaking and the words of the song you were singing started to disappear out of your mind.

You knew what it was. You were having a low sugar episode, you needed insulin. 

Before that you had been trying to save the most of it. You tried to keep going without a shot even when the sugar in your blood came out a little low. But you had puss it to far.

The customers looked at you with confusion as you stepped out of the stage while your bandmates tried to keep playing. You dragged your feet towards the counter, where a fellow waiter, Benny, handed your purse over to you. 

Trying not to lose your balance, you walked to the bathroom. You threw up and almost passed out a couple of times while you prepare the insulin.

As the sugar in your blood begging to balance, the thoughts in your mind cleared up. You stood up, washed out your mouth, and looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment. You looked pale and worn out, and your hands were still shaking a little bit as you gripped the counter. 

The weight of the world felt on your shoulders as reality hit you. You couldn’t live like that. You simply wouldn’t survive, period.

That’s when a little stamp pasted on one corner of the mirror caught your eye. It was the Marine Corps emblem. 

You then remember Frankie and Dean, and the misogynistic comments some of their friends had made. But you remember something else too. You remembered how a guy had tried to hit on your friend Charlie by mentioning how good health insurance was for them and their spouses. 

If only you could marry one. 

Well, maybe you could.

Part 2 - Your Needs, My Needs

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