Work Text:
There’s still an old soccer ball in the back of Scary’s closet somewhere. It’s buried with cleats and shin guards and athletic shorts collecting dust behind old sweaters. It’s probably even a little deflated at this point. But it’s still there. Of course, there’s a piece of Scary that wanted to take a scissor to it the minute Terry moved in, and that part still reared its head whenever she saw him watching the stupid game. Unfortunately, though, there’s an even bigger part of her that can’t fucking do it. A bigger part of her remembers the thrill of scoring a goal, of being good at something and having someone pat you on the back for it. There’s a part of her that remembers how her mom would come to her games when she was younger and cheer the loudest. There’s a part of her that warms when she sees the smile the game brings to Link’s face and the matching ones Taylor and Normal offer in return. And there’s even a part of her that sees a future in which she acquiesces to Terry with a small smile and they go kick it around in the backyard. So there’s a soccer ball collecting dust in the back of Scary’s closet, what fucking of it?
And that would be the end of it, it really would, if she wasn’t standing alone in the back room of some gross restaurant, dull pain in her hip still, and staring blankly at the spot Terry had just disappeared from. That might’ve been the last time she had a chance to say anything to him, but instead, she let him fucking go. Who knows what she would’ve, could’ve, should’ve said. She didn’t. She didn’t and maybe that was the end and she should be happy, right? Terry could be gone forever and now everything will go back to the way it was, just her and her mom. Yeah, yeah this is good.
Scary makes her way back out to where the boys are and brushes them off when they try to check up on her. She doesn’t say a word to the three of them on the way home, and simply nods to them when she gets out of the car. She knows it’s not their fault, knows that they were trying, but she can’t help resenting the fact that they didn’t know she was the right one immediately. She’s not a pussy and she’d never spill her guts that easily. At the fact that they’d think she would be scared and worried for Terry? Ha, laughable. She’s tough, and a bitch, and doesn’t give a shit about anyone, especially her dumbass stepdad, and her best friends should know that. Whatever, the whole point is that she doesn’t need them so who cares what they think.
So yeah, maybe she’s a little mean when she slams the car door on them, but they deserve it a little bit. When she gets in through the door her mom offers her a smile and she scowls right back. The action sends a small pang through her chest and makes her think that things were supposed to go back to the way they were when Terry was gone, but this isn’t how they were. The thought is bitter and so she disregards it and stomps up to her room to sulk like she usually does.
It’s not until she starts getting ready for the night that everything really hits her. When she’s brushing her teeth her shirt rides up to show the small scar left over from where Link healed her. The sight causes a burning behind her eyes and a lump in her throat. She spits out the toothpaste and shakes her head to get rid of it, but it doesn’t leave. She doesn’t cry because she’s not sad, she’s fucking pissed. She doesn’t even know what she’s pissed about, but it sets her jaw and burns even hotter behind her eyes.
When she makes it back to her room, she catches a glimpse of that old soccer ball in the back of her closet. The sight once again conjures images of her and Terry playing together, but instead of only being slightly embarrassing, this time the thought only adds kindling to the flames of her anger. She clutches her knife in her pocket as she imagines that possible future disappearing, just as Terry did, and before she can even think about it, she feels the rush of air on her face as it escapes the puncture in the ball made by her own knife. She cuts into it further until the ball is fully cut open and then she abandons the knife and rips it clean in half with her own bare hands. Just for good measure, she grabs one of the cleats and smashes it as hard as she can against the wall of the closet. It doesn’t do any damage, of course, so she just keeps slamming it, taking all her anger out on the poor shoe. What the fuck is she angry about? She should be happy, she should be celebrating, and she should be back to normal. Should be, should be, should be, who fucking cares about should be right now. All Scary knows is that she’s furious and at this point, there are hot tears running down her cheeks and sobs escaping her mouth, and honestly, it’s a miracle her mother hasn’t said anything about all this noise yet.
Eventually Scary tires herself out and throws the cleat and the remains of the soccer ball back into the closet. She shuts it, turns off the light, and just collapses into the bed. Her tears are dry and tacky all across her skin but she can’t be bothered to wipe them off. She just lays there, staring at the ceiling and just thinking of all the should’ve, would’ve, could’ve.