Chapter Text
"I can't believe you would do that. I'm...accustomed to hearing bad things about you, but I thought I could change you."
Every single part of your body trembles independently from the others. The tips of your fingers twitch and your legs struggle to do their job, your mind grappling feebly with your motor skills. Your defensive posture is useless, a force of habit. You know she's not going to hit you any more. She's past the point of hitting you, and all she has left are words.
"But you're a liar, my daughter is a liar. A liar and a criminal." Her voice wavers and she begins to wail into her sleeve again, mascara running and staining her perfectly ironed white overcoat. "Where did I go wrong in raising you? What did I do to deserve this?"
You want to lie and fix everything, to twist her around again, to bend her to your will and personal benefit. But it's not going to work this time. She disarms you verbally again, and everything feels and sounds so wrong and out of place, because you know she's right.
"Mum, I-"
"You're not my daughter any more. So don't talk to me like I'm your mother."
Her voice is strong and dripping with anger. When she speaks, every single bone in your body feels like candle wax, so brittle, so soft, so easily broken. And you think that because you know she's going to break you, but only because you broke her. There is absolutely nothing that you can do. Whatever part of you thinks that it's a good idea to smash your mother's ornate vase seizes control of your arms and hands, and you grab the thing and throw it to the ground with a scream.
"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, Vriska?" She screams back at you, and she looks for all the world like she's going to explode, her thin blonde hair disheveled, her eyes swollen, her face red. You only see this as more of a reason to retaliate, and you kick over the small table that the vase was on, smashing a mirror in the process.
"Get out of my house!" Your mother yells right into your face, her breath hot and her voice cracking from its own sheer volume. "Get the fuck out of my house!"
You want to punch her, but you know it won't do you any good. You're wrong, and she's right, but you refuse to accept it. You know very well that you are not her daughter anymore.
You make sure to pack your crowbar in your suitcase.