Chapter Text
You wake up as if hungover. You cannot be hungover because you never touch alcohol, but you do get the same effect from what you do do. You normally sleep every couple or few days, and you have never been spotted without an expresso. You are Rose Lalonde, genius. You are Rose Lalonde, teenage runaway. You are Rose Lalonde and every day in your skin reminds you more and more of a Road Runner cartoon.
Run coyote run, try coyote try, super-genius, super-failure, try to obtain what you can't have.
You are Rose Lalonde and you are alone.
You are Rose Lalonde and you have become your mother in your wretched cycle. You are Rose Lalonde and you're so worthless when you could've been so much. You are Rose Lalonde and you regret everything. You are Rose Lalonde and you saved the world. You are Rose Lalonde and you hate everything anyways;
because you
are Rose Lalonde,
and all your friends,
are dead.
The thoughts swim in your head like koi in a pond, the prefix "You are Rose Lalonde" resonating in your skull. Lucid as hell with pain in every joint, you run off to work at 14:00 hours. You are no longer a college student, yet you live like a frat boy in frosh week.
Every afternoon you wake up and guzzle a pot of coffee, only to run off and work long hours on tech, moving things and fixing things all day to help a firm. Not construction, no, but a Best Buy nearby, you work short but very frequent shifts to afford your living.
After the job, you just high tail to the nearest bar or whichever you feel like. You have no moods, in legitimate thought. The bars are determined by the day. Sunday is St. Anne's, small bar, quiet, self-managed by the bartender nice gal, poor choices. Monday is the Salamander, the lighting inside is dim even though there's a huge dancefloor, always crowded. Tuesday is the day you head to m00D, a strip club, both genders, crowded, both genders. Wednesday you drive out to the nearest Hilton, get laid or at least tease a few men. Thursday is Hemingways, small bar, loyal crowd. Friday is Victorious, sports bar, lots of people, lots of beer. Saturday you track down the nearest rave and drive out there, strobe lights and all the coke you can buy.
You change who you are every day of the week. You are a chameleon, or more accurately, a cuttlefish in these waters. Sunday you are the regular business casual of your mother, Monday you dress like Kes$ha with your face adorned with glowing decals, Tuesday is the day for clubwear in a slinky red thing, Wednesday is dressing up, Thursday is dressing down, weird arts clothes here only, Friday is time for the New England Patriots jersey and Saturday is where you dress up in neon clothes with bracelets all up onto your upper arm with stuffed animals all over your back and eyeliner all over your face.
You never drink at these bars. You just go there and act like you are drunk. You hallucinate sometimes, so smashed ceramics litter your apartment. You are angry sometimes which only contributes to the count. It's so disgusting, sometimes. You've spent your life trying to be your own person, but in the end you're your mother and you can't form relationships because no one would understand you.
You are Rose Lalonde. Who the fuck are you compared to who the fuck you think you are?
Nights like this are very opening, bitter and cold. You leave the windows open to the fire escapes and let the wind blow in the sour air from traffic, pollution and cigarettes. You'd just lay on your bed, everything drooping and limp but eyes frozen wide open despite the horrible dark circles underneath them. You'd be hopped up on some stimulant, coffee, expresso, pot, 5-hour energy, one of those horrid energy drinks, even Coke on a rare occasion. Sometimes, there'd be other things, a bong, needles, just things litter the ground. Only old pictures, broken glass, and used tissues having no staying power. Eventually you would crash and pass out from this routine.
It's not one of those days.
It's worse.
You don't remember what went on last night, just blurry memories of needles, heroin and other drugs. The dots up your arms becoming ladybugs and flying away. The area around you melted, your wallet was light and so was your head. Spinning lights, twisted stars, tripping on the sidewalks and waltzing on the streets, singing your own demented tunes.
But here is green and solid. Emerald city, all that jazz. You can't feel your face or legs or self, but your eyes work, they function fine, what you see is green, all green.
Vines drape the walls, and plants shower the walls, woven among posters and various articles of clothing. Are you looking at the ceiling, floor or wall?
Everything blurs together and stays like that.
A dark hand grabs your arm. You're too blitzed to resist. It encircles your whole arm, you note hazily, damn you've gotten thin.
And then nothing at all.
Bliss, agony, nothing.