Work Text:
Calla’s always felt just a little bit empty. She’s not sure if it’s the lack of memories, family, or something else. But some part of her has always just been. Missing. Cold.
Like someone reached into her chest and ripped out the bit that knows how to feel.
Then again. She knows that she doesn’t remember, but it feels like she should. Sometimes she ducks or stretches in a way that she doesn’t recognise, but her body does. Maybe that has something to do with it.
The cigarettes helped. So, maybe it wasn’t always the easiest to get her hands on them, especially since she was pretty sure she was underage- she wasn’t sure how old she was, but she was probably about to be a teenager?
Then she got into the kitchen. That helped. That, and the cigarettes. She liked cooking. Some part of her knew to cook. It filled the empty a little.
Then, one time, after she’d been cooking for more than a few months, there was someone else in her alleyway. A pretty lady, a bit older than Calla (if she had to guess), with distantly sad purple eyes, long brown hair, and pale skin. She had a flask.
Calla offered her a cigarette, and some of the chips she’d squirreled out of the kitchen.
They started talking. Every day, it became. In their alleyway.
She was called Lacey, and she worked next door.
No one else ever came to the alley. So, together they ate chips, smoked, Lacey drank, and they just talked.
Calla started to feel warm. Some part of her stayed just a little bit empty, but now the emptiness isn't so lonely and cold.
Now she wasn’t just Calla, because she was Calla with Lacey.