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"Don't you look pathetic."
A mirrorball reflects off the cheap, plastic crown she wears. There is a dripping derision from that tongue, which can oft be found spinning gold for a blinded audience, while manicured fingernails rob the common man of his wits.
Everything about her fits the artificialness of those gems, with their pinks and reds and purples dotting the false metal.
"Fuck off, C."
Marie takes a drag of their cigarette, undone tie dangling from their neck over the balcony ledge. There's a hand-made banner tied at both ends, spelling out "prom night" in capital letters. Some poor art student did that, lured in by Cece's natural persuasion. It'll end up thrown out with the rest of the decorations. Or desecrated, if the already spiked punch bowl was any indication of how the night would conclude.
High heels click against the flooring, and the cheer captain sits on the guardrail—back to the crowd below, who are dancing to some pop song which had just started playing through the speakers.
"Defeat is an ugly look on you, love."
It's no secret what prom night means—the end. No point in dismantling shit anymore, not when she's already won. The two sit in a drawn-out silence, neither fools, and neither sure of how to continue.
"Aren't you the stubborn one?"
"You know it, tyrant."
They wink, part of the ash from their cigarette dropping onto the floors of the decorated gym underneath. No one pays any mind to the two figures conversing. In this moment, Cece learns invisibility, and Marie welcomes the only home they've ever had.
"I meant that literally, idiot. I, um, miss it, or whatever."
Something akin to bashfulness makes its way onto her face—averted eyes, gnawed lips, crossed arms.
"Don't grow soft on me, princess, you're hotter pissed off."
"Well, good news for you, then." That's when palm meets skin, and from the contact blooms an inferno. "This isn't you, 'Rie. You look like some kicked puppy. I can't have someone like that as my rival."
Marie knows—all they have ever known are words—the promise in that, of continuation, of brutality, of vengeance.
It is a rush of fabric, as they bite soft lips that eagerly hunger for smoke. The prom queen tastes like vanilla, and a hint of liquor.
Then, she tips over.
A crowd catches the two, and they are both alive—more than either have been all night.
Her dress is slightly creased, lipgloss smeared, and hair more loose and frayed. It's the prettiest Cece has ever looked, if anyone were to ask Marie—this imperfection of a marble statue. That's something worth worshiping.
"Dance with me?"
"Beg."
The journalist is dragged onto the dance floor and made to waltz anyway. Neither of them pay any mind to the other students, despite the clear whispers and looks. The two stare each other down, a thinly veiled threat exchanged in their gazes.
"Promise you'll keep trying to take me down?"
This isn't love. It's always been about power.
"Whatever you want, my queen."
It's then that Marie feels their wrist gripped, and before they know it they're running—forcibly—at the cheer captain's insistence. Only then does the banner set ablaze, making contact with the unstamped out cigarette, having finally tipped over.
The panic is instant, loud enough to overpower the blaring music. A fire alarm starts beeping, and all Cece does is laugh.
It's sick, and it's her come to life. This is the wickedness Marie has wanted to capture all four years of high school, and they take a thousand photos in their mind of her face.
When the two stop, the building can only be made out through black smoke.
"Let's go for a drive, like how we used to."
She does not know how to ask, and the journalist can't be made to say no in this moment. They don't have a car, and never would, but the cheer captain did—pockets loaded and soul too spoiled her entire life.
"Where to?"
"Doesn't matter."
It never did, when they were together. There is no ending, just the chase for something only the other can provide—a sense of air in the lungs, and a fire sparked in the chest cavity where hearts used to be.