vioverbenas
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"How the hell you gonna follow me around like a dog all these years and call me pathetic!? You got no other friends, Zanka. You're like a fuckin' charity case to me, ya know that? So stop thinkin' that you're special." She spat, crushing a can in her hand and tossing it to the ground while inching closer.
Zanka's tongue felt like mush inside her mouth, pasty and dissolved. She gripped the loops of her jeans, palms sweaty and fingers twitching. Even when they were younger, the truth was there. Nobody said it aloud but they all knew that Jabber was Zanka's only friend. They messed around in class and met up after school and snuck around with fingers pushed up to their lips at night to shush themselves as they crept out Jabber's front door to scurry to a park or gas station.
Jabber was the only person that Zanka was able to let loose around. She didn't worry about being polite or overthinking every sentence that left her mouth, it just flowed freely, carried like soft wind. She felt sick. Her stomach was in knots and her legs grew weak. How could she say that, sober or not, shout it even, in front of a crowd of people?
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"Then right when it starts, it's over. Maybe I should have picked one of the other cleaners." Jabber's dejected voice babbled, her extended claws grazing cracked soil. The absent complaints pealed and rang through Zanka's poison-riddled consciousness. The veins in her sclera bulged and a choked laugh tumbled from her lips. Her fantasy splayed out in front of her, firecrackers of white and golden light accompanied by the humming satisfaction of finally landing a worthwhile hit.
In this hallucination, Jabber does not jolt back up after a myriad of desperate swings from Lovely Assistaff, she crumples under the weight, and that ridiculously giddy smile, sooner or later, curves into something that looks as humiliated as Zanka currently feels reflecting on the murky memory of the fight. She can't stand her.