Thursday 28 February 2019
Monday 18 February 2019
5 Minute Fiction: The Other Foot
"There you go, Miss Morgendorffer," said the teacher as he handed over the form. "It'll only take a minute."
The rest of the class were already tackling the questionnaire with varying degrees of gusto and apathy. The whole of Lawndale High had to fulfill this stupid question sheet to prove that Tommy Sherman's death hadn't driven anyone suicidal, and anyone who got a bad score would be at risk and sent to immediate counseling and self-esteem classes. Like that could possibly help anyone, she thought, remembering the very start of her time at the school.
The test was pathetically easy. Four options to a question, ranked from best to worst. Pick all the first options and you'd be fine. Pick all the last and you'd be stuck with glitter and safety scissors for the rest of high school.
It took her less than ten seconds to finish filling out the form. Bored, she looked at the questions again, memorized her actual answers and then filled the score tally she drew in her exercise book.
She tallied the scores twice, just to make sure. The Becks Depression Inventory made it quite clear she wasn't just depressed, she was SEVERELY depressed and should immediately take her survey results to the nearest doctor and health professional and seek help. Mind you, the worst score - EXTREMELY depressed - suggested the exact same thing. In fact, even the best score - "these ups and downs are normal" - said that.
Casually she tore out the page from her exercise book, neatly folded it up and shoved in her schoolbag. As she'd thought at the start, a completely useless test that could only make things worse and have her pigeon-holed as a misery chick by a bunch of morons who'd only make her feel even more depressed in their hopes to fix her. She looked around the classroom, wondering how many of them would pass or fail the test. How many of them were even answering honestly or, like her, saying anything to get the stupid touchy-feely we-just-want-to-help-you-be-normal bullies off her back.
"You finished early," said her friend sitting on the desk beside her.
"You know me, Stacy," Quinn replied with a bright smile, "I've got nothing to be upset about."
***
Another day. Another date. It was one of the Jays. They'd all blurred into one single individual eager for her favor. Quinn wondered what would happened if she actually put out, let them get their oily hot hands on her body and did all the gross sex stuff that boys were hardwired to do even if they didn't want to knock you up for the good of the tribe. The thought sickened her, made her go rigid with fear even though she knew it wasn't actually evil or anything. Would the guys be interested her the moment they had their way with her? Would she be good at it? Would they come back for more?
And would that be all they came back for?
What else was there?
Quinn wanted to talk to Daria. No, she didn't want to talk, she NEEDED to talk. Daria was always honest and you didn't ask her a question unless you wanted an honest answer. She wondered how that Jane girl coped with it. She and Daria just seemed to sit around bitching about TV and life and yet... they seemed so safe and happy around each other, like nothing could hurt them if they were together. Quinn tried to think of someone in her life she could totally relax around.
Tried and failed. It didn't help that the Jay she was with was currently gazing at her with adoring eyes, saying how this was actually a fifth date and apparently that earned him a kiss. Yes, "earned". He'd got her presents, fawned over her, bought her dinner. Now she was meat for him. Of course she was, that's how she'd sold herself from the start.
Sold like a cheap Mississippi boat whore waving a fan, flirting with the gunslingers.
She would never be happy just sitting round with TV with this Jay. She'd never be completely comfortable with him. He was just paying her to get his rocks off as best he could given they were both underage kids. And she didn't have anyone she could talk to. Sandi would mock her for being a little virgin geek. Stacy would tell her what she thought Quinn wanted to hear. Tiffany might blink twice, if she was really excited.
It was like those moments she'd told Daria about, the moment of sudden clarity where Quinn realized how utterly empty and pointless her life was as she strutted around a tiny highschool in a one-horse town waffling on about fashions already out of date and boys that would never love them. What the hell was she doing? Who the hell did she think she was?
Someone without a future. Her grades weren't good. She had nothing but good looks and people skills to fall back on and even they faded eventually. Daria would be a writer, Jane a painter, and Quinn... would exist. Clinging like one of those sea-slug things to something important and popular until her grip faded and she slipped away into the dark.
"Quinn? Quinn?" the Jay asked, frowning at her. "Are you... are you crying?"
"Do you love me?" she asked in a small voice.
"Of course I do, Quinn!" the Jay vowed, leaning forward. "You're the coolest girl I've ever seen! I don't mind getting up in the mornings because I know I'll see you! You make me happy just by, like, being here!"
Quinn stared at him unseeingly. "I was some wine, please," she said quietly.
"Wine? Uh..." The Jay was obviously struggling to work out how to manage this.
He managed it, somehow. Quinn didn't care, she drank the wine that was poured. It was a red, tasting like bad fruit juice that left her throat hot for a moment. It was probably leaving a sediment on her tongue, turning it black. She had a thought of herself hanging from a noose, tongue hanging out, black. Could you get so drunk you'd want to kill yourself? Or rather, get so drunk you'd be able to kill yourself?
"So, Quinn," the Jay said, very deliberately not sipping from his own glass. "You like the wine?"
Quinn considered. She felt warm, comfy now. "It's got its plusses," she mused. "You know, Jay, I don't love you. I don't even like you that much. It's not that you're a jerk or you've done something wrong. I'm just like that."
The Jay looked hurt. "Oh. Uh, that's okay, Quinn..."
"No, it's not. I mean, why are you here, Jay? I'm not going to have sex with you. Even if I could. I don't like... being intimate with people. I hate being touched." She couldn't remember draining her glass, but she poured another and was quietly proud of how she didn't spill a drop. "I dunno why. Nothing bad ever happened to me. No one touched me or anything like that. Just I'm a freak, I guess. Just a stupid freak."
"I don't think you're stupid."
Quinn sniggered. "How would YOU know? Gawd, Jay, you're an idiot! You wasted all this money on a girl like me who wouldn't go to third base if I was nailed to a baseball player going a home run! Sheesh!" She choked down another glass, revising her hatred of the taste. It was like medicine, really. Tasted bad, did you good. "Yeah, you're not getting anything back, Jay. All the money's spent, all the gifts kept. You know, you should go after someone who deserves it."
"But... I think you deserve it, Quinn."
"Why? I treat you badly, I give you nothing, I never will give you anything... I mean, why do you care?"
The Jay looked panicked. He wanted an answer to give her, but he didn't have one.
"I've just spent five minutes insulting you and you're still talking to me? What does it take, huh? How can you be so smitten with someone like me? What's wrong with you?!" she shouted, louder than she meant to, but she didn't care. "Geez, how stupid are you all you can't see a bad deal when it's right in front of you!"
Quinn wasn't one hundred per cent what happened after that. She started throwing her salad at the Jay, a waiter turned up to ask if there was a problem, she'd yelled "What do you think?" and then stormed out of the restaurant and into the night. She was holding the wine bottle which was still half-full. Jay had started to follow her, calling her name, but he was gone now. She wasn't sure where she was.
She swigged from the wine bottle like it was an Ultra Cola, amazed at how good she felt. The air on her skin, the moonlight, the feel of her clothes. She suddenly wanted to laugh and skip happily, and then she realized she'd emptied the bottle. And also lost track of the bottle.
Guilt hit her. The Jay had probably paid a lot for that, something else she'd taken from him. All the effort of making wine from grapes and melting glass into bottles and how did it end up, thrown aside by a drunken 15-year-old slut everybody wanted but nobody needed. The good feelings were melting away and she couldn't cope with the rising darkness. Was this how Daria felt? No. Daria always had Jane. Who did Quinn have?
The whole school would bow and scrape and bend over backwards for her.
But not one of them, not one of them would be there for her when things got this bad.
"It's not fair," she found herself telling a lamppost. "Daria's the brain, the loser. How come she gets a friend and I don't? How come I never get any friends? What did I do that was so wrong?"
She was in a street she barely recognized. She had a half-formed desire to jump off make-out point and end it all, but also she needed to talk to Daria. She didn't know where Daria was. She knew Jane's house. She could go to Jane's house. Maybe Jane would help, like before... no, wait, Jane hated her. Daria hated her. Anyone smart enough to know her hated her, and good for them. She liked they weren't dumb like the Jays. She hoped they would be real happy when she was gone, she really did. They deserved to be happy. Such nice people, so clever, so kind and she made them all so miserable.
Quinn had been very proud that she had kept her footing all night, even in heels. Then one heel snapped, she couldn't find her balance and she fell onto her back with enough force to knock the air out of her lungs. She was empty, feeling grass against her neck. She couldn't find the strength to get back up again. She could lie here forever. They'd find her one day, maybe in the snow, so peaceful, and they'd all be finally free of her.
She realized she was moaning sadly and tried to stop. It was harder than it should have been.
"Juss leddit end," she thought and said. "Plea... juss leddit be ovva..."
Things were getting darker, and she welcomed it. The lights from the street lamps were being blocked out, almost like something was standing there, looming over her.
"Hey," said a calm, kind voice. "Are you okay down there? You look pretty bad."
Quinn's mouth was so dry her lips stuck to her teeth. "Leave me here," she said carefully. "I'm nothing. I'm no one."
"No you're not," said the voice, puzzled. "I know you. You're Daria's sister."
***
"Is that the time?"
"Time is an abstract concept, Daria. You're looking at an alarm clock."
Daria clambered off Jane's bed, yawning and stretching. "I should have known better than you to keep me on the straight and narrow with a Jaws film festival," she muttered.
"I found your snoring a comforting counterpoint to all the derrrr-dah-derrrr-dah-ing John Williamson provided."
"John Williams. John Williamson is an Australian guitarist who sings songs about owning sheds."
"How in the name of god's duodenum do you even KNOW that?"
"It's a story as long as it's tedious," said Daria yawning again. "I didn't even dream of unconvincing sharks hunting me. I feel that some part of my primordial innocence has forever been lost."
"Is that your way of saying you had a bladder spasm on my sheets?"
"No, but I'll keep that knowledge for the future..."
Daria fell silent, as she often did, as Trent appeared in the doorway to Jane's bedroom.
"Oh, hey Trent," said Daria, avoiding his gaze and her throat sounding like he had already left the room.
"Uh, Janey. Daria. I kind of need your help with something. It's kinda rough."
"I'm not shifting instruments from the Tank at this time of night, Trent," Jane replied.
"No, it's not that. It's a girl."
Daria was conveniently turned away so Trent couldn't see her blush.
"Monique?" asked Jane with a frown. "It takes an elephant tranquilizer to slow her down."
"It's not Monique. This girl was passed out on the grass outside, well, almost passed out."
"So you want a responsible adult to call the police and or ambulance to deal with her?" his sister guessed.
Trent stroked his goatee. "Not sure. We should ask Daria."
"Huh?" Curiosity beat embarrassment for a moment. "What's it got to do with me?"
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Pretty sure it's your sister."
***
Quinn lay on her side on a couch downstairs, having flopped into a basic recovery position. She was sobbing incoherently, barely conscious. Jane was checking the girl over - the only one of them comfortable checking over the young redhead, even though it meant braving Quinn's wretched breath. She seemed to have been gargling with rancid vinegar for the past six months and then eaten far too much garlic.
"Well?" asked Daria, sounding like she was very desperate to convince them she didn't give a damn.
"Doing better than your sister," Jane replied. "She's got a couple of scratches on her legs, but nothing serious or suspicious. Probably wandered through a rose bush further down the street. No bruises, her dress is intact as are her underwear. She's not been attacked or violated, but she seems to have tried to drink her own body-weight in alcohol."
Daria looked confused and vulnerable. "But... Quinn doesn't drink."
"Vine, zat is, ha-hah-ha," Jane cackled in a rubbish Dracula impression.
"Yeah, she doesn't drink wine. Or any alcohol. She swore she'd always stay sober back when she was eight years old and found out what a "beer belly" was." Daria's eyes narrowed. "Someone got her drunk."
"You think one of the boys she went out with couldn't roofie her like a proper gentleman?" Jane wondered.
"It's a possibility."
"I don't think so." It was the first time Trent had spoken. "If he was trying to get her wasted, why let her wander off? She wasn't running for her life, she just walked here and fell over. And she's so drunk right now, she couldn't do anything a guy wanted. Plus, she seemed real upset. Wanting stuff to be over."
Daria suddenly found it vitally important to get herself a glass of tap water.
"You think she did this to herself?" Jane asked her brother.
"She might have."
"Yeah, but she's not the sort, Trent. You heard Daria. She's teetotal and I've actually met her. She's got boys falling over themselves, literally, to be with her. She's one of the most popular kids at her school, she's in the Fashion Club. You think she has the brain space to even be remotely depressed."
Trent shrugged. "Sometimes the happiest ones are the saddest inside. She might have a smile on her face just to fool the public but in reality, it's quite a different subject."
"Thank you, Smokey Robinson," Jane retorted. "We know there's nothing sadder than the tears of a clown when there's no one around, but we're always grateful for a reminder."
"Just saying, Janey. How well do you REALLY know Daria's sister?"
"Not as well as Daria, fortunately. Even second-hand, the stories are downright terrifying."
Daria sipped the tepid water. She listened to everything, but said nothing.
On the couch, Quinn had finally fallen silent and slipped into unconsciousness.
"I need to use your phone."
Jane wordlessly waved to the duck-phone on the kitchen table. Daria picked it up and punched in a number. It was answered almost immediately by a frenzied, worried voice. "Quinn?"
"No, dad, but close. It's your other daughter."
"Daria? Sorry, kiddo, it's just..."
"I'm with Quinn. She's okay."
"You are? Helen, Daria's found Quinn!"
Daria's mother took the phone. "Daria, Quinn's been out past curfew for nearly a full hour now!"
"Not entirely by choice," Daria replied. "It seems some of her dinner was undercooked and she needed an urgent visit to the bathroom on the way home. Urgent enough to stop at Jane's place to use the facilities. Jane and me only just got here and found out."
"She's sick? Can I speak to her Daria?"
"Not at the moment," lied Daria calmly. "She's on the other phone line. The porcelain one. To God."
"Yes, yes, yes! I get the hint, Daria!"
"Those day-old prawn cocktails will get you the hint every time. Look, I'll stay the night at Jane's and bring your beloved offspring around in the morning. Tell dad to stay cool."
"I will. Oh, Daria, why didn't she phone?"
"I'll be sure to ask her once she's finished. See you tomorrow, mom."
"Yes, tomorrow, sweetie. And call if you need anything."
"I will," Daria replied and immediately hung up.
"Interesting interpretation of this evening's events," Jane observed. "Of course, it's not like Quinn's in a position to argue. So what do you think about Trent's theory that she was drowning her sorrows?"
"What does Quinn have to feel sorrowful about?" spat Daria angrily. "Did someone mix tartan and stripes?"
"Maybe a boy broke her heart?"
"More likely she broke his credit card. You have to remember, Jane, this isn't a normal human being. It's Quinn Morgendorffer, one of the last Untouchables. We can have no understanding of her woes."
Jane arched an eyebrow. "You really put the 'pah!' in 'empathy', don't you?"
"I guess I should focus on her happiness more. It's not like she doesn't have the entire town wrapped around her pinkie and at her beck and call every night. Poor Quinn."
"You don't mean that."
"No, she's pretty poor and pathetic right now. I should savor this opportunity."
"It loses it's appeal," yawned Jane. "Take it from me."
"You're just being fooled like tiny strawberry blonde Quinn looking vulnerable and helpless, even though you know she's full of..."
Quinn opened her mouth and over a litre of dark red vomit splattered, steaming, onto the carpet before she slumped back onto the couch, unconscious again.
"You totally jinxed that with your phone call," sighed Jane as she looked for paper towels.
Daria stood, arms folded, glaring down at her sister.
***
The first thing Quinn was aware of was that her bed was surprisingly uncomfortable.
The second thing she was aware of was that every atom bomb ever made was going off simultaneously inside her skull.
Her hands went to her temples and her mouth opened to scream and somehow this made everything WORSE.
Two cool, soft hands took her wrists and gently pulled her hands away from her head.
"What you are experiencing," said a solemn voice that might have been formed out of an avalanche of broken glass, "is called a hangover. It is caused as your brain recovers from intense intoxication and heavy alcohol consumption. Your metabolism has been caught with its pants down and until it catches up you will suffer from a variety of symptoms including headaches, nausea, sweating, fatigue, dry mouth and depression. You've already vomited everything you had for the last 24 hours but don't assume it's over yet."
Only one hellish being could be so matter-of-fact. "Daria?" whimpered Quinn, her skull shuddering with each syllable.
"The very same. Here, you're very dehydrated. Drink this."
Quinn opened her eyes for acid-tipped white light to scald her retina and she whimpered.
"Uh, Jane, can you close the curtains?"
"Nearly done with these sketches..."
"You're sketching me?" groaned Quinn, eyes screwed shut.
"I took a few polaroids for the family album, but I thought why waste an opportunity? I think this is going to be the centrepiece for my next exhibition. I'll call it The Youth of America, Blood Alochol Level 2000+..."
The horrible light dimmed with an equally horrible scraping of curtain rings in hell.
"Come on, Quinn," Daria's voice told her. "Drink."
Quinn cracked open her eyes. She was lying on a couch in a room she barely recognized. Jane was sitting on a chair nearby, sketching away in the gloom. Daria was offering her a glass of transparent oily liquid that was clearly lying about being good for her. Still, if it poisoned her it would at least end this torture...
It was cold and clean and Quinn gulped it down messily before Daria pulled the glass away. Too weak to protest, Quinn slumped against the bed. She felt hideous and bloated, and all her makeup seemed to have mingled with sweat until she was as greasy as a cheese fry. Her mouth was already dry again. "What happened?" she croaked.
"Well, the latest theory about the Big Bang is that, at first, there was nothing and then it exploded..."
"We were going to ask you that," Daria said, interrupting her friend.
"Me?" Quinn wondered. She tried to focus her memories but she dimly remembered school, then getting ready for a date with someone, then she was here. Wherever here was. "Where am I anyway?"
"Casa Lane," Jane said amiably. "You were dying to get in here last night."
"Why? Was I being chased by brain-eating zombies or something?"
"Nonsense, why would brain-eating zombies be interested in you?" scoffed Jane. "No, my brother found you half-unconscious in our front yard, completely drunk and begging for help. In return for getting you inside and soothing the fears of your terrified parents, you emptied your guts and created yet another mysterious red stain in my house."
Quinn blinked in amazement. "I don't get drunk," she said, bewildered.
"Before last night I would have agreed," said Daria, offering her the glass of water again. "So who was it who got you the probably-not-that-expensive bottle of house red you carried home in your stomach?"
A thought occurred of her ordering her date to get her wine, but Quinn quashed the thought right away. She wasn't sure what she wasn't remembering, but she knew she was better off ignorant. "I'm not sure."
"Were you on a date last night?"
"Probably," Quinn said, shrugging before new and fascinating sparks shot through her nerves. "Yes, yes, I was. Jeffy or Jamie and Jericho. One of them."
"And he got you drunk?"
"I..." Quinn closed her eyes and fought a rise of panic and nausea. "What would you do if I said 'yes'?"
"Give his name to mom and dad and take bets on which one got to him first and if anything would be left."
"Ooh, put me down for Jake ripping his throat out with his teeth at two to one!" Jane said excitedly.
"It wasn't him," Quinn said. "It... Look, it just wasn't him. He didn't do anything bad."
"You realize if you take responsibility for this, you won't be able to emotionally blackmail our parents?"
"It's true, all right?" Quinn snapped, angry enough to ignore the pain in her head. "Just leave it alone!"
"Oh then what happened?" Daria's voice sawed through her brain. "Because you were wandering the streets of Lawndale last night completely drunk. No one knew where you were or if you were all right. If you hadn't been discovered by the one decent guy in this town, you could be waking up with way more problems - if you wake up at all."
"Aw, Daria," said Jane. "Sweet."
"Shut up. Quinn, I mean it, that was stupid and you could have got yourself killed..."
"I'll try harder then next time, will I?" snarled Quinn. The hangover was no match for the sheer blood-rage filling her, the same anger she'd seen her dad show all the time. "I'll make sure I jump off a cliff before I sober up and won't come here to say goodbye first! Sorry to be such a bother, Daria!"
Daria stared at her. Her mouth was slightly open but nothing was said.
"Oh don't," Quinn laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare pretend you're upset, Daria! I will not put up with you lying any more! I deserve that much damned respect!" Disgusted, she tried to get off the couch despite her bones all seemed too brittle and weak to support her weight.
"What are you saying?" Daria said, stunned. "I... I don't want you to hurt yourself..."
"No, you want more than that!" Quinn spat, finally sitting upright. "You're only upset because I couldn't kill myself on the first try! I guess I'm just another disappointment to you, can't even do that right!"
"Quinn, what the hell are you saying?" Daria demanded. "I've never wanted you dead."
"No, you never wanted me born!" Quinn shouted, tears running down my face.
Daria felt her own anger return. "I'm not the one pretending to be an only child!"
"I'm not the one wishing I was!" Quinn shouted back. "I'm not the one always telling mom and dad they should get rid of me. I'm not the one who always insults everything I've ever said or done, all my friends, all my beliefs. I'm not the one who keeps photos of me as a little kid and writes insulting notes about how what a stupid whore I am! Or who has a photo of herself as a little girl trying to get her baby sister to fall down stairs and die, and writes underneath the photo about how much you wish you'd succeeded! You want to know why I tell people you're my cousin, Daria? Because that's better than a sister who's hated you since the day you were born, and wants you to fail and be miserable all the time!"
"Quinn," Daria said, and it was clear she didn't know what else to say. "I don't want you dead."
"You don't want me AT ALL! My whole life you treat me like a pet mom and dad keep that you don't want to play with! You said I was boring just because I couldn't read Shakespeare when I was three, because I talked to other kids, because whenever I played with you, you were mean to me! Fifteen years of being hated by my big sister, who tells me every chance she gets how stupid and fake and bimboish I am! Is that supposed to make me feel better? Is that the kind of thing you'd do to stop someone from trying to end it all!"
"Quinn... please..."
Quinn somehow got to her feet and tried to move. "I'm going! I get the hint! I thought for one stupid freaking moment I could find somewhere, someone who wanted me but Quinn's a moron, she's always wrong! No one here knows the real me except you and it'll never be enough!"
Jane put down her sketchpad. "Quinn, you're not thinking..."
"OF COURSE I'M NOT THINKING! I'M QUINN THE DUMB-ASS!"
"I was going to say 'thinking clearly'," Jane protested.
"Do you hate your little sister?" Quinn demanded, swaying on the spot.
"I am the little sister," said Jane with a shrug. "My big sisters dumped me here and ran off ages ago."
Quinn felt the last ebb of something drain out of her. "Well, then," she said quietly. "What's there left to say?"
She managed to put one step in front of the other until she found a door that opened out onto the front yard. She heard Daria and Jane yelling, but they could have been egging her on. She remembered the whole night before now, the terrible way she'd treated Jay, the strange peace of wanting to end it all, the realization there was nothing left.
She stumbled, legs giving way, but managed to keep stumbling forward like a drunken giraffe towards the road.
Cars were passing.
Quinn managed to throw herself off the pavement towards the road and to whatever mercy God still had for her.
***
"Call me feckless," said Jane as she and Daria carried Quinn back inside the house, "but this has already lost its spark."
Daria didn't reply.
Quinn was fine, more or less. She had tripped over the gutter and fallen face-down onto the hard asphalt of the road, getting nowhere near the traffic lanes and protected from either side by the Tank and Trent's equally-ramshackle private vehicle. Apart from some light grazes and the jagged indentations of the asphalt in her palms and cheek, Quinn was unharmed but the lurch and impact had left her unconscious once again.
"What am I going to tell mom and dad?" Daria wondered, gazing down at Quinn on the couch once again.
"Look for a fashionable toddler harness to stop her playing in traffic?" Jane shrugged. "I dunno. We Lanes tend to migrate to new climes to escape the rotten corruption within the human soul. Well, for that and the duty-free."
"You think she meant what she said?" asked Daria quietly.
"Are you looking for the truth or reassurance?"
"Is both an option?"
"No idea, amiga. I mean, she has woken up from the first and worst hangover of her life. She might not be firing on all cylinders and so, no, she didn't mean what she said. But it did sound true, didn't it?" Jane scratched the back of her neck. "I've seen that album of baby photos, including the one where little you tried to guide her to her death..."
"I was three. She wanted to go outside, I opened the door for her, because I could."
"And the three metre drop that would have killed Baby Quinn?"
"I didn't think of that at the time. I wasn't trying to kill her."
"I did have you picked as more of a pillow-smotherer, I admit. But hey, who cares what I think? Your sister is the one who thinks you hate and despise her."
"I'm allowed to hate and despise her. I'm her sister. And compared to how mom and her aunts behave, I am a picture of restraint and compassion."
"Pity she is ranking you on a completely different scale, huh?" mused Jane as she closed the front door.
"You know how much she's ruined my life, Jane. You've been there for some of it."
"Oh, darling, uncontested. And I've been there for some of you ruining her life."
"Like when? Apart from coming out as her sister, name one thing I've done to hurt her. I helped her over the mall, her intellectual phase, even edited that stupid movie to make her the next saint of Lawndale..."
"Guess she doesn't see it that way." Jane put on the kettle to make some tea. "They say you're supposed to treat others as you'd want them to treat you. How's that been going for you two? Was Little Daria the bestest big sis in the world making sure Lil Quinn was always safe and sound? Was Quinny-Bear always looking out for Daria-Pumpkin?"
"You're very judgmental for someone who barely sees their sisters once a year."
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder."
"I'd be really fond of Quinn if she was absent for a while."
"Wow, and Quinn somehow finds such words upsetting," Jane said, rolling her eyes. "Look, I'm not saying Princess Pore-Protector over there doesn't deserve a brutal kicking from the real world once in a while, but did you really think someone living with you twenty-four-seven wouldn't start to get a bit tired of being your verbal - if not physical - punching bag?"
Daria was still looking down at her sister. "She never said anything."
"Because you, of course, would immediately provide the warm and comforting shoulder to cry on? And your parents would definitely not take your side in some petty sibling rivalry." Jane managed to warble a perky voice. "Oh, mo-humm, Daria's calling me a microcephallic apostate again! Why does no one like me?"
"I swear, Jane... I never thought she hurt this much."
"No problems, amiga," Jane replied, bringing a cup for Daria. "Question is - what do you do now you know?"
Daria held her cup in both hands. The heat burnt her palms, but she ignored it. "I don't know," she admitted. "I never thought of myself as a bully before. I never thought of Quinn as someone who could be bullied either, come to that."
"I guess just going easy on her would be impossible, huh?"
"Maybe," Daria shrugged. "It's been so long, I'm not sure how else to relate to her."
"Do you wish you were an only child?"
"It doesn't matter what I wish. It's not going to happen. It's never going to happen."
"Oooh, spectacular evasion there from Morgendorffer," Jane said, narrating a non-existent football game. "But it's coming up to the final countdown and the question remains completely unanswered."
"I never wished her dead!" snapped Daria angrily. "I never wished she'd hurt herself! I never wished she'd feel so bad she'd want to die! I just wished I didn't have to deal with her crap, that's all!"
"Hey, you don't have to convince me," Jane shrugged. "I'm not the one who's trying to kill myself."
"Promise?"
"I'd cross my heart, but the scabs are still healing from my last attempt - whooh, what a giveaway, amirite?"
Daria's eyes felt hot as she remembered the gut twisting "oh-my-god-she-is-serious" feeling as Quinn flung herself in front of passing cars. Only the lingering drunkenness had saved her. When she was sober, would the next attempt succeed? When she was sober, would there even BE a next attempt?
"If you were me, Jane," asked Daria, "what would you do?"
"My brother."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Hopefully a spectacular and torrid love-making session would inspire something."
"Body-swapping incest?"
"Hey, it'd take Quinn's mind off the depression, wouldn't it?"
Daria didn't laugh.
Jane reached out and peeled the cup from her hands and put it on the table.
Together they sat in silence and waited for Quinn to wake up.
***
The sun was over the yard-arm and Daria was about to call her parents when Quinn woke up for the second time. She gave out a dry groan that sounded older than the girl making it and got off the couch. She blinked sleepily and looked around her, expression blank. "What time is it?" she mumbled, her mood impossible to get.
"It's lunch time, after the fish course but before the dessert," Jane replied, handing her a glass of water.
"Thanks," Quinn grunted, sipping the water.
Daria watched on, not knowing what - if anything - to say.
"How're you feeling now, oh sweet flower of youth?" asked Jane pleasantly.
"Dried-out and sore," the redhead replied. "Why do people drink that stuff?"
"It's a global corporate conspiracy to keep the working classes dependent on something that depresses and cheers them up at the same time and stops them from being able to ferment coordinated rebellion."
"Hmm. Guess so." Quinn drained the water from the glass. "I better be getting home. My parents'll be worried."
"They know where you are. Not just because of the tracking implant in your left butt cheek, but we rang them up, too."
"Oh. Thanks. And thanks for, you know, helping me out."
"Yeah, the red stain made a nice pointilistic pattern on the carpet. Next time, have some Mexican food too."
Quinn gave a tired little smile. "Not going to be a next time, I can promise you that."
"Oh. Well, in vino veritas doesn't appeal to everyone."
Quinn frowned. She recognized the phrase as Latin but didn't know what it meant. "Huh?" she asked.
Daria spoke for the first time. "There is only truth in wine," she said. "Basically, the only time anyone is ever really honest is once they've got completely hammered."
"Oh," said Quinn, nodding slightly - but not too much, because of all the molten boulders in her brain. "Yeah, I was a real bitch last night. Sorry for anything I, like, said or did or whatever."
"All is forgiven," Jane promised. "But now you're sober, we hold you responsible for everything."
"I get it." Quinn dusted down her dress and tried to smarten her hair before she carefully made her way to the door.
"I guess it was just temporary insanity and alcohol poisoning," Daria said quietly.
"Would you guess that if it didn't let you off the hook?" Jane wondered idly.
"Well why else would she act like it didn't happen?" Daria asked, knowing even as the words left her mouth what a stupid question it was. Admitting it happened would make it real. At the moment, everything Quinn had said could be passed off as drunken rambling and ignored. As long as Daria played along.
"If I were you, I'd make sure Quinn got home safely," Jane said.
"Good advice."
"Then I'd come back here and screw Trent so hard his eyes changed colour."
"Not-so-good advice."
"Meh, you can get some fun sex games out of a packet of contact lenses."
"How in the name of god's duodenum do you even KNOW that?"
Jane nodded in the direction of the front door as Quinn opened it and carefully left. "I'll let you know when you get back."
***
Quinn put one foot in front of the other, hand clamped over her forehead to shield her eyes from the hideous Saturday afternoon glare. She knew if she kept in this direction she would reach home eventually, but the horizon seemed to get no closer and her body seemed to be full of overcooked jellyfish swirling around.
"Quinn?" called Daria gently. "You should probably take a break. You're still dehydrated, so you'll overheat quicker."
Quinn let Daria guide her into the shade of a bus shelter and down onto the hard metal bench. Quinn felt totally exhausted and couldn't believe even for a second she could ever move or breathe normally again. A cool palm touched her forehead briefly and came away wet with perspiration.
"How..." said Quinn, choking down the urge to retch. "How much is this going to cost me?"
"Cost you?" Daria sounded like she was defusing a bomb when a light on it had started flashing.
"To keep mom and dad off my back."
"They think you had food poisoning from your date last night. That's what I told them. If I then said you'd been out trying to pickle your internal organs, they'd be angry with me lying as much as with you getting drunk. If you go down for this, I go down with you."
Quinn was unable to stop a foul-smelling belch escape her. "That was pretty dumb of you."
"We brains have to ration our stupidity very carefully, or we lose tenure," said Daria calmly. "It's the normal folk who have it easy. They can make all the stupid mistakes they want and everyone still loves them."
Quinn made a noise of acknowledgement but nothing else.
"You know mom and dad love you with the intensity of a thousand Radiohead albums, don't you? And that the hordes of Lawndale High troglodyes worship the ground you walk on? And the Fashion Club lives and dies on what you do?" Daria asked her, quite seriously. "Me? I've got Jane, Trent sort of, and... that's it. If something happened to me, I don't think the world would miss me, but they would. And you would be missed, Quinn."
"Not by anyone who matters."
"Name someone who matters. Millions of years ago, there was a single human being that mastered the art of fire and thus is responsible for all civilization. We don't know their name, but we know the name of a guy who pretended to jet-ski over a shark in a sitcom no one's ever given a damn about for over twenty years."
"Would you miss me, Daria?" asked Quinn quietly.
"Yes," she said without hesitation.
"Thank you. That's nice of you to say that."
"...you don't believe me, do you?" realized Daria, suddenly feeling very small.
"Come on," said Quinn brightly, struggling to bounce to her feet. "I've got to get home and tell mom and dad not to sue that restaurant I was that, plus I've got to explain to the Three Jays that I took some mad medication to deal with cramps or something icky like that so they won't feel all guilty, plus I need to warn the rest of the Fashion Club about the dangers of alcohol and throwing up over your best clothes - and those heels, they were totally defective, I can't believe Cashman's ever dares sell dangerous goods like that to precious clients..."
Still talking a mile a minute, Quinn unsteadily made her way back towards Schloss Morgendorffer.
Daria followed. Everything was back to normal.
For now.
The rest of the class were already tackling the questionnaire with varying degrees of gusto and apathy. The whole of Lawndale High had to fulfill this stupid question sheet to prove that Tommy Sherman's death hadn't driven anyone suicidal, and anyone who got a bad score would be at risk and sent to immediate counseling and self-esteem classes. Like that could possibly help anyone, she thought, remembering the very start of her time at the school.
The test was pathetically easy. Four options to a question, ranked from best to worst. Pick all the first options and you'd be fine. Pick all the last and you'd be stuck with glitter and safety scissors for the rest of high school.
It took her less than ten seconds to finish filling out the form. Bored, she looked at the questions again, memorized her actual answers and then filled the score tally she drew in her exercise book.
- I am no more worried about my health than usual.
- I am worried that I am looking old or unattractive.
- My appetite is not as good as it used to be.
- I have lost more than five pounds.
- I wake up 1-2 hours earlier than usual and find it hard to get back to sleep.
- I get tired more easily than I used to.
- I have to push myself very hard to do anything.
- I put off making decisions more than I used to.
- I don't enjoy things the way I used to.
- I am slightly more irritated now than usual.
- I am less interested in other people than I used to be.
- I have lost interest in sex completely.
- I used to be able to cry, but now I can't cry even though I want to.
- I am sad all the time and I can't snap out of it.
- I feel quite guilty most of the time.
- I expect to be punished.
- I feel I have nothing to look forward to.
- As I look back on my life, all I can see is a lot of failures.
- I am critical of myself for my weaknesses or mistakes.
- I am disgusted with myself.
- I have thoughts of killing myself, but I would not carry them out.
She tallied the scores twice, just to make sure. The Becks Depression Inventory made it quite clear she wasn't just depressed, she was SEVERELY depressed and should immediately take her survey results to the nearest doctor and health professional and seek help. Mind you, the worst score - EXTREMELY depressed - suggested the exact same thing. In fact, even the best score - "these ups and downs are normal" - said that.
Casually she tore out the page from her exercise book, neatly folded it up and shoved in her schoolbag. As she'd thought at the start, a completely useless test that could only make things worse and have her pigeon-holed as a misery chick by a bunch of morons who'd only make her feel even more depressed in their hopes to fix her. She looked around the classroom, wondering how many of them would pass or fail the test. How many of them were even answering honestly or, like her, saying anything to get the stupid touchy-feely we-just-want-to-help-you-be-normal bullies off her back.
"You finished early," said her friend sitting on the desk beside her.
"You know me, Stacy," Quinn replied with a bright smile, "I've got nothing to be upset about."
***
Another day. Another date. It was one of the Jays. They'd all blurred into one single individual eager for her favor. Quinn wondered what would happened if she actually put out, let them get their oily hot hands on her body and did all the gross sex stuff that boys were hardwired to do even if they didn't want to knock you up for the good of the tribe. The thought sickened her, made her go rigid with fear even though she knew it wasn't actually evil or anything. Would the guys be interested her the moment they had their way with her? Would she be good at it? Would they come back for more?
And would that be all they came back for?
What else was there?
Quinn wanted to talk to Daria. No, she didn't want to talk, she NEEDED to talk. Daria was always honest and you didn't ask her a question unless you wanted an honest answer. She wondered how that Jane girl coped with it. She and Daria just seemed to sit around bitching about TV and life and yet... they seemed so safe and happy around each other, like nothing could hurt them if they were together. Quinn tried to think of someone in her life she could totally relax around.
Tried and failed. It didn't help that the Jay she was with was currently gazing at her with adoring eyes, saying how this was actually a fifth date and apparently that earned him a kiss. Yes, "earned". He'd got her presents, fawned over her, bought her dinner. Now she was meat for him. Of course she was, that's how she'd sold herself from the start.
Sold like a cheap Mississippi boat whore waving a fan, flirting with the gunslingers.
She would never be happy just sitting round with TV with this Jay. She'd never be completely comfortable with him. He was just paying her to get his rocks off as best he could given they were both underage kids. And she didn't have anyone she could talk to. Sandi would mock her for being a little virgin geek. Stacy would tell her what she thought Quinn wanted to hear. Tiffany might blink twice, if she was really excited.
It was like those moments she'd told Daria about, the moment of sudden clarity where Quinn realized how utterly empty and pointless her life was as she strutted around a tiny highschool in a one-horse town waffling on about fashions already out of date and boys that would never love them. What the hell was she doing? Who the hell did she think she was?
Someone without a future. Her grades weren't good. She had nothing but good looks and people skills to fall back on and even they faded eventually. Daria would be a writer, Jane a painter, and Quinn... would exist. Clinging like one of those sea-slug things to something important and popular until her grip faded and she slipped away into the dark.
"Quinn? Quinn?" the Jay asked, frowning at her. "Are you... are you crying?"
"Do you love me?" she asked in a small voice.
"Of course I do, Quinn!" the Jay vowed, leaning forward. "You're the coolest girl I've ever seen! I don't mind getting up in the mornings because I know I'll see you! You make me happy just by, like, being here!"
Quinn stared at him unseeingly. "I was some wine, please," she said quietly.
"Wine? Uh..." The Jay was obviously struggling to work out how to manage this.
He managed it, somehow. Quinn didn't care, she drank the wine that was poured. It was a red, tasting like bad fruit juice that left her throat hot for a moment. It was probably leaving a sediment on her tongue, turning it black. She had a thought of herself hanging from a noose, tongue hanging out, black. Could you get so drunk you'd want to kill yourself? Or rather, get so drunk you'd be able to kill yourself?
"So, Quinn," the Jay said, very deliberately not sipping from his own glass. "You like the wine?"
Quinn considered. She felt warm, comfy now. "It's got its plusses," she mused. "You know, Jay, I don't love you. I don't even like you that much. It's not that you're a jerk or you've done something wrong. I'm just like that."
The Jay looked hurt. "Oh. Uh, that's okay, Quinn..."
"No, it's not. I mean, why are you here, Jay? I'm not going to have sex with you. Even if I could. I don't like... being intimate with people. I hate being touched." She couldn't remember draining her glass, but she poured another and was quietly proud of how she didn't spill a drop. "I dunno why. Nothing bad ever happened to me. No one touched me or anything like that. Just I'm a freak, I guess. Just a stupid freak."
"I don't think you're stupid."
Quinn sniggered. "How would YOU know? Gawd, Jay, you're an idiot! You wasted all this money on a girl like me who wouldn't go to third base if I was nailed to a baseball player going a home run! Sheesh!" She choked down another glass, revising her hatred of the taste. It was like medicine, really. Tasted bad, did you good. "Yeah, you're not getting anything back, Jay. All the money's spent, all the gifts kept. You know, you should go after someone who deserves it."
"But... I think you deserve it, Quinn."
"Why? I treat you badly, I give you nothing, I never will give you anything... I mean, why do you care?"
The Jay looked panicked. He wanted an answer to give her, but he didn't have one.
"I've just spent five minutes insulting you and you're still talking to me? What does it take, huh? How can you be so smitten with someone like me? What's wrong with you?!" she shouted, louder than she meant to, but she didn't care. "Geez, how stupid are you all you can't see a bad deal when it's right in front of you!"
Quinn wasn't one hundred per cent what happened after that. She started throwing her salad at the Jay, a waiter turned up to ask if there was a problem, she'd yelled "What do you think?" and then stormed out of the restaurant and into the night. She was holding the wine bottle which was still half-full. Jay had started to follow her, calling her name, but he was gone now. She wasn't sure where she was.
She swigged from the wine bottle like it was an Ultra Cola, amazed at how good she felt. The air on her skin, the moonlight, the feel of her clothes. She suddenly wanted to laugh and skip happily, and then she realized she'd emptied the bottle. And also lost track of the bottle.
Guilt hit her. The Jay had probably paid a lot for that, something else she'd taken from him. All the effort of making wine from grapes and melting glass into bottles and how did it end up, thrown aside by a drunken 15-year-old slut everybody wanted but nobody needed. The good feelings were melting away and she couldn't cope with the rising darkness. Was this how Daria felt? No. Daria always had Jane. Who did Quinn have?
The whole school would bow and scrape and bend over backwards for her.
But not one of them, not one of them would be there for her when things got this bad.
"It's not fair," she found herself telling a lamppost. "Daria's the brain, the loser. How come she gets a friend and I don't? How come I never get any friends? What did I do that was so wrong?"
She was in a street she barely recognized. She had a half-formed desire to jump off make-out point and end it all, but also she needed to talk to Daria. She didn't know where Daria was. She knew Jane's house. She could go to Jane's house. Maybe Jane would help, like before... no, wait, Jane hated her. Daria hated her. Anyone smart enough to know her hated her, and good for them. She liked they weren't dumb like the Jays. She hoped they would be real happy when she was gone, she really did. They deserved to be happy. Such nice people, so clever, so kind and she made them all so miserable.
Quinn had been very proud that she had kept her footing all night, even in heels. Then one heel snapped, she couldn't find her balance and she fell onto her back with enough force to knock the air out of her lungs. She was empty, feeling grass against her neck. She couldn't find the strength to get back up again. She could lie here forever. They'd find her one day, maybe in the snow, so peaceful, and they'd all be finally free of her.
She realized she was moaning sadly and tried to stop. It was harder than it should have been.
"Juss leddit end," she thought and said. "Plea... juss leddit be ovva..."
Things were getting darker, and she welcomed it. The lights from the street lamps were being blocked out, almost like something was standing there, looming over her.
"Hey," said a calm, kind voice. "Are you okay down there? You look pretty bad."
Quinn's mouth was so dry her lips stuck to her teeth. "Leave me here," she said carefully. "I'm nothing. I'm no one."
"No you're not," said the voice, puzzled. "I know you. You're Daria's sister."
***
"Is that the time?"
"Time is an abstract concept, Daria. You're looking at an alarm clock."
Daria clambered off Jane's bed, yawning and stretching. "I should have known better than you to keep me on the straight and narrow with a Jaws film festival," she muttered.
"I found your snoring a comforting counterpoint to all the derrrr-dah-derrrr-dah-ing John Williamson provided."
"John Williams. John Williamson is an Australian guitarist who sings songs about owning sheds."
"How in the name of god's duodenum do you even KNOW that?"
"It's a story as long as it's tedious," said Daria yawning again. "I didn't even dream of unconvincing sharks hunting me. I feel that some part of my primordial innocence has forever been lost."
"Is that your way of saying you had a bladder spasm on my sheets?"
"No, but I'll keep that knowledge for the future..."
Daria fell silent, as she often did, as Trent appeared in the doorway to Jane's bedroom.
"Oh, hey Trent," said Daria, avoiding his gaze and her throat sounding like he had already left the room.
"Uh, Janey. Daria. I kind of need your help with something. It's kinda rough."
"I'm not shifting instruments from the Tank at this time of night, Trent," Jane replied.
"No, it's not that. It's a girl."
Daria was conveniently turned away so Trent couldn't see her blush.
"Monique?" asked Jane with a frown. "It takes an elephant tranquilizer to slow her down."
"It's not Monique. This girl was passed out on the grass outside, well, almost passed out."
"So you want a responsible adult to call the police and or ambulance to deal with her?" his sister guessed.
Trent stroked his goatee. "Not sure. We should ask Daria."
"Huh?" Curiosity beat embarrassment for a moment. "What's it got to do with me?"
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Pretty sure it's your sister."
***
Quinn lay on her side on a couch downstairs, having flopped into a basic recovery position. She was sobbing incoherently, barely conscious. Jane was checking the girl over - the only one of them comfortable checking over the young redhead, even though it meant braving Quinn's wretched breath. She seemed to have been gargling with rancid vinegar for the past six months and then eaten far too much garlic.
"Well?" asked Daria, sounding like she was very desperate to convince them she didn't give a damn.
"Doing better than your sister," Jane replied. "She's got a couple of scratches on her legs, but nothing serious or suspicious. Probably wandered through a rose bush further down the street. No bruises, her dress is intact as are her underwear. She's not been attacked or violated, but she seems to have tried to drink her own body-weight in alcohol."
Daria looked confused and vulnerable. "But... Quinn doesn't drink."
"Vine, zat is, ha-hah-ha," Jane cackled in a rubbish Dracula impression.
"Yeah, she doesn't drink wine. Or any alcohol. She swore she'd always stay sober back when she was eight years old and found out what a "beer belly" was." Daria's eyes narrowed. "Someone got her drunk."
"You think one of the boys she went out with couldn't roofie her like a proper gentleman?" Jane wondered.
"It's a possibility."
"I don't think so." It was the first time Trent had spoken. "If he was trying to get her wasted, why let her wander off? She wasn't running for her life, she just walked here and fell over. And she's so drunk right now, she couldn't do anything a guy wanted. Plus, she seemed real upset. Wanting stuff to be over."
Daria suddenly found it vitally important to get herself a glass of tap water.
"You think she did this to herself?" Jane asked her brother.
"She might have."
"Yeah, but she's not the sort, Trent. You heard Daria. She's teetotal and I've actually met her. She's got boys falling over themselves, literally, to be with her. She's one of the most popular kids at her school, she's in the Fashion Club. You think she has the brain space to even be remotely depressed."
Trent shrugged. "Sometimes the happiest ones are the saddest inside. She might have a smile on her face just to fool the public but in reality, it's quite a different subject."
"Thank you, Smokey Robinson," Jane retorted. "We know there's nothing sadder than the tears of a clown when there's no one around, but we're always grateful for a reminder."
"Just saying, Janey. How well do you REALLY know Daria's sister?"
"Not as well as Daria, fortunately. Even second-hand, the stories are downright terrifying."
Daria sipped the tepid water. She listened to everything, but said nothing.
On the couch, Quinn had finally fallen silent and slipped into unconsciousness.
"I need to use your phone."
Jane wordlessly waved to the duck-phone on the kitchen table. Daria picked it up and punched in a number. It was answered almost immediately by a frenzied, worried voice. "Quinn?"
"No, dad, but close. It's your other daughter."
"Daria? Sorry, kiddo, it's just..."
"I'm with Quinn. She's okay."
"You are? Helen, Daria's found Quinn!"
Daria's mother took the phone. "Daria, Quinn's been out past curfew for nearly a full hour now!"
"Not entirely by choice," Daria replied. "It seems some of her dinner was undercooked and she needed an urgent visit to the bathroom on the way home. Urgent enough to stop at Jane's place to use the facilities. Jane and me only just got here and found out."
"She's sick? Can I speak to her Daria?"
"Not at the moment," lied Daria calmly. "She's on the other phone line. The porcelain one. To God."
"Yes, yes, yes! I get the hint, Daria!"
"Those day-old prawn cocktails will get you the hint every time. Look, I'll stay the night at Jane's and bring your beloved offspring around in the morning. Tell dad to stay cool."
"I will. Oh, Daria, why didn't she phone?"
"I'll be sure to ask her once she's finished. See you tomorrow, mom."
"Yes, tomorrow, sweetie. And call if you need anything."
"I will," Daria replied and immediately hung up.
"Interesting interpretation of this evening's events," Jane observed. "Of course, it's not like Quinn's in a position to argue. So what do you think about Trent's theory that she was drowning her sorrows?"
"What does Quinn have to feel sorrowful about?" spat Daria angrily. "Did someone mix tartan and stripes?"
"Maybe a boy broke her heart?"
"More likely she broke his credit card. You have to remember, Jane, this isn't a normal human being. It's Quinn Morgendorffer, one of the last Untouchables. We can have no understanding of her woes."
Jane arched an eyebrow. "You really put the 'pah!' in 'empathy', don't you?"
"I guess I should focus on her happiness more. It's not like she doesn't have the entire town wrapped around her pinkie and at her beck and call every night. Poor Quinn."
"You don't mean that."
"No, she's pretty poor and pathetic right now. I should savor this opportunity."
"It loses it's appeal," yawned Jane. "Take it from me."
"You're just being fooled like tiny strawberry blonde Quinn looking vulnerable and helpless, even though you know she's full of..."
Quinn opened her mouth and over a litre of dark red vomit splattered, steaming, onto the carpet before she slumped back onto the couch, unconscious again.
"You totally jinxed that with your phone call," sighed Jane as she looked for paper towels.
Daria stood, arms folded, glaring down at her sister.
***
The first thing Quinn was aware of was that her bed was surprisingly uncomfortable.
The second thing she was aware of was that every atom bomb ever made was going off simultaneously inside her skull.
Her hands went to her temples and her mouth opened to scream and somehow this made everything WORSE.
Two cool, soft hands took her wrists and gently pulled her hands away from her head.
"What you are experiencing," said a solemn voice that might have been formed out of an avalanche of broken glass, "is called a hangover. It is caused as your brain recovers from intense intoxication and heavy alcohol consumption. Your metabolism has been caught with its pants down and until it catches up you will suffer from a variety of symptoms including headaches, nausea, sweating, fatigue, dry mouth and depression. You've already vomited everything you had for the last 24 hours but don't assume it's over yet."
Only one hellish being could be so matter-of-fact. "Daria?" whimpered Quinn, her skull shuddering with each syllable.
"The very same. Here, you're very dehydrated. Drink this."
Quinn opened her eyes for acid-tipped white light to scald her retina and she whimpered.
"Uh, Jane, can you close the curtains?"
"Nearly done with these sketches..."
"You're sketching me?" groaned Quinn, eyes screwed shut.
"I took a few polaroids for the family album, but I thought why waste an opportunity? I think this is going to be the centrepiece for my next exhibition. I'll call it The Youth of America, Blood Alochol Level 2000+..."
The horrible light dimmed with an equally horrible scraping of curtain rings in hell.
"Come on, Quinn," Daria's voice told her. "Drink."
Quinn cracked open her eyes. She was lying on a couch in a room she barely recognized. Jane was sitting on a chair nearby, sketching away in the gloom. Daria was offering her a glass of transparent oily liquid that was clearly lying about being good for her. Still, if it poisoned her it would at least end this torture...
It was cold and clean and Quinn gulped it down messily before Daria pulled the glass away. Too weak to protest, Quinn slumped against the bed. She felt hideous and bloated, and all her makeup seemed to have mingled with sweat until she was as greasy as a cheese fry. Her mouth was already dry again. "What happened?" she croaked.
"Well, the latest theory about the Big Bang is that, at first, there was nothing and then it exploded..."
"We were going to ask you that," Daria said, interrupting her friend.
"Me?" Quinn wondered. She tried to focus her memories but she dimly remembered school, then getting ready for a date with someone, then she was here. Wherever here was. "Where am I anyway?"
"Casa Lane," Jane said amiably. "You were dying to get in here last night."
"Why? Was I being chased by brain-eating zombies or something?"
"Nonsense, why would brain-eating zombies be interested in you?" scoffed Jane. "No, my brother found you half-unconscious in our front yard, completely drunk and begging for help. In return for getting you inside and soothing the fears of your terrified parents, you emptied your guts and created yet another mysterious red stain in my house."
Quinn blinked in amazement. "I don't get drunk," she said, bewildered.
"Before last night I would have agreed," said Daria, offering her the glass of water again. "So who was it who got you the probably-not-that-expensive bottle of house red you carried home in your stomach?"
A thought occurred of her ordering her date to get her wine, but Quinn quashed the thought right away. She wasn't sure what she wasn't remembering, but she knew she was better off ignorant. "I'm not sure."
"Were you on a date last night?"
"Probably," Quinn said, shrugging before new and fascinating sparks shot through her nerves. "Yes, yes, I was. Jeffy or Jamie and Jericho. One of them."
"And he got you drunk?"
"I..." Quinn closed her eyes and fought a rise of panic and nausea. "What would you do if I said 'yes'?"
"Give his name to mom and dad and take bets on which one got to him first and if anything would be left."
"Ooh, put me down for Jake ripping his throat out with his teeth at two to one!" Jane said excitedly.
"It wasn't him," Quinn said. "It... Look, it just wasn't him. He didn't do anything bad."
"You realize if you take responsibility for this, you won't be able to emotionally blackmail our parents?"
"It's true, all right?" Quinn snapped, angry enough to ignore the pain in her head. "Just leave it alone!"
"Oh then what happened?" Daria's voice sawed through her brain. "Because you were wandering the streets of Lawndale last night completely drunk. No one knew where you were or if you were all right. If you hadn't been discovered by the one decent guy in this town, you could be waking up with way more problems - if you wake up at all."
"Aw, Daria," said Jane. "Sweet."
"Shut up. Quinn, I mean it, that was stupid and you could have got yourself killed..."
"I'll try harder then next time, will I?" snarled Quinn. The hangover was no match for the sheer blood-rage filling her, the same anger she'd seen her dad show all the time. "I'll make sure I jump off a cliff before I sober up and won't come here to say goodbye first! Sorry to be such a bother, Daria!"
Daria stared at her. Her mouth was slightly open but nothing was said.
"Oh don't," Quinn laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare pretend you're upset, Daria! I will not put up with you lying any more! I deserve that much damned respect!" Disgusted, she tried to get off the couch despite her bones all seemed too brittle and weak to support her weight.
"What are you saying?" Daria said, stunned. "I... I don't want you to hurt yourself..."
"No, you want more than that!" Quinn spat, finally sitting upright. "You're only upset because I couldn't kill myself on the first try! I guess I'm just another disappointment to you, can't even do that right!"
"Quinn, what the hell are you saying?" Daria demanded. "I've never wanted you dead."
"No, you never wanted me born!" Quinn shouted, tears running down my face.
Daria felt her own anger return. "I'm not the one pretending to be an only child!"
"I'm not the one wishing I was!" Quinn shouted back. "I'm not the one always telling mom and dad they should get rid of me. I'm not the one who always insults everything I've ever said or done, all my friends, all my beliefs. I'm not the one who keeps photos of me as a little kid and writes insulting notes about how what a stupid whore I am! Or who has a photo of herself as a little girl trying to get her baby sister to fall down stairs and die, and writes underneath the photo about how much you wish you'd succeeded! You want to know why I tell people you're my cousin, Daria? Because that's better than a sister who's hated you since the day you were born, and wants you to fail and be miserable all the time!"
"Quinn," Daria said, and it was clear she didn't know what else to say. "I don't want you dead."
"You don't want me AT ALL! My whole life you treat me like a pet mom and dad keep that you don't want to play with! You said I was boring just because I couldn't read Shakespeare when I was three, because I talked to other kids, because whenever I played with you, you were mean to me! Fifteen years of being hated by my big sister, who tells me every chance she gets how stupid and fake and bimboish I am! Is that supposed to make me feel better? Is that the kind of thing you'd do to stop someone from trying to end it all!"
"Quinn... please..."
Quinn somehow got to her feet and tried to move. "I'm going! I get the hint! I thought for one stupid freaking moment I could find somewhere, someone who wanted me but Quinn's a moron, she's always wrong! No one here knows the real me except you and it'll never be enough!"
Jane put down her sketchpad. "Quinn, you're not thinking..."
"OF COURSE I'M NOT THINKING! I'M QUINN THE DUMB-ASS!"
"I was going to say 'thinking clearly'," Jane protested.
"Do you hate your little sister?" Quinn demanded, swaying on the spot.
"I am the little sister," said Jane with a shrug. "My big sisters dumped me here and ran off ages ago."
Quinn felt the last ebb of something drain out of her. "Well, then," she said quietly. "What's there left to say?"
She managed to put one step in front of the other until she found a door that opened out onto the front yard. She heard Daria and Jane yelling, but they could have been egging her on. She remembered the whole night before now, the terrible way she'd treated Jay, the strange peace of wanting to end it all, the realization there was nothing left.
She stumbled, legs giving way, but managed to keep stumbling forward like a drunken giraffe towards the road.
Cars were passing.
Quinn managed to throw herself off the pavement towards the road and to whatever mercy God still had for her.
***
"Call me feckless," said Jane as she and Daria carried Quinn back inside the house, "but this has already lost its spark."
Daria didn't reply.
Quinn was fine, more or less. She had tripped over the gutter and fallen face-down onto the hard asphalt of the road, getting nowhere near the traffic lanes and protected from either side by the Tank and Trent's equally-ramshackle private vehicle. Apart from some light grazes and the jagged indentations of the asphalt in her palms and cheek, Quinn was unharmed but the lurch and impact had left her unconscious once again.
"What am I going to tell mom and dad?" Daria wondered, gazing down at Quinn on the couch once again.
"Look for a fashionable toddler harness to stop her playing in traffic?" Jane shrugged. "I dunno. We Lanes tend to migrate to new climes to escape the rotten corruption within the human soul. Well, for that and the duty-free."
"You think she meant what she said?" asked Daria quietly.
"Are you looking for the truth or reassurance?"
"Is both an option?"
"No idea, amiga. I mean, she has woken up from the first and worst hangover of her life. She might not be firing on all cylinders and so, no, she didn't mean what she said. But it did sound true, didn't it?" Jane scratched the back of her neck. "I've seen that album of baby photos, including the one where little you tried to guide her to her death..."
"I was three. She wanted to go outside, I opened the door for her, because I could."
"And the three metre drop that would have killed Baby Quinn?"
"I didn't think of that at the time. I wasn't trying to kill her."
"I did have you picked as more of a pillow-smotherer, I admit. But hey, who cares what I think? Your sister is the one who thinks you hate and despise her."
"I'm allowed to hate and despise her. I'm her sister. And compared to how mom and her aunts behave, I am a picture of restraint and compassion."
"Pity she is ranking you on a completely different scale, huh?" mused Jane as she closed the front door.
"You know how much she's ruined my life, Jane. You've been there for some of it."
"Oh, darling, uncontested. And I've been there for some of you ruining her life."
"Like when? Apart from coming out as her sister, name one thing I've done to hurt her. I helped her over the mall, her intellectual phase, even edited that stupid movie to make her the next saint of Lawndale..."
"Guess she doesn't see it that way." Jane put on the kettle to make some tea. "They say you're supposed to treat others as you'd want them to treat you. How's that been going for you two? Was Little Daria the bestest big sis in the world making sure Lil Quinn was always safe and sound? Was Quinny-Bear always looking out for Daria-Pumpkin?"
"You're very judgmental for someone who barely sees their sisters once a year."
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder."
"I'd be really fond of Quinn if she was absent for a while."
"Wow, and Quinn somehow finds such words upsetting," Jane said, rolling her eyes. "Look, I'm not saying Princess Pore-Protector over there doesn't deserve a brutal kicking from the real world once in a while, but did you really think someone living with you twenty-four-seven wouldn't start to get a bit tired of being your verbal - if not physical - punching bag?"
Daria was still looking down at her sister. "She never said anything."
"Because you, of course, would immediately provide the warm and comforting shoulder to cry on? And your parents would definitely not take your side in some petty sibling rivalry." Jane managed to warble a perky voice. "Oh, mo-humm, Daria's calling me a microcephallic apostate again! Why does no one like me?"
"I swear, Jane... I never thought she hurt this much."
"No problems, amiga," Jane replied, bringing a cup for Daria. "Question is - what do you do now you know?"
Daria held her cup in both hands. The heat burnt her palms, but she ignored it. "I don't know," she admitted. "I never thought of myself as a bully before. I never thought of Quinn as someone who could be bullied either, come to that."
"I guess just going easy on her would be impossible, huh?"
"Maybe," Daria shrugged. "It's been so long, I'm not sure how else to relate to her."
"Do you wish you were an only child?"
"It doesn't matter what I wish. It's not going to happen. It's never going to happen."
"Oooh, spectacular evasion there from Morgendorffer," Jane said, narrating a non-existent football game. "But it's coming up to the final countdown and the question remains completely unanswered."
"I never wished her dead!" snapped Daria angrily. "I never wished she'd hurt herself! I never wished she'd feel so bad she'd want to die! I just wished I didn't have to deal with her crap, that's all!"
"Hey, you don't have to convince me," Jane shrugged. "I'm not the one who's trying to kill myself."
"Promise?"
"I'd cross my heart, but the scabs are still healing from my last attempt - whooh, what a giveaway, amirite?"
Daria's eyes felt hot as she remembered the gut twisting "oh-my-god-she-is-serious" feeling as Quinn flung herself in front of passing cars. Only the lingering drunkenness had saved her. When she was sober, would the next attempt succeed? When she was sober, would there even BE a next attempt?
"If you were me, Jane," asked Daria, "what would you do?"
"My brother."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Hopefully a spectacular and torrid love-making session would inspire something."
"Body-swapping incest?"
"Hey, it'd take Quinn's mind off the depression, wouldn't it?"
Daria didn't laugh.
Jane reached out and peeled the cup from her hands and put it on the table.
Together they sat in silence and waited for Quinn to wake up.
***
The sun was over the yard-arm and Daria was about to call her parents when Quinn woke up for the second time. She gave out a dry groan that sounded older than the girl making it and got off the couch. She blinked sleepily and looked around her, expression blank. "What time is it?" she mumbled, her mood impossible to get.
"It's lunch time, after the fish course but before the dessert," Jane replied, handing her a glass of water.
"Thanks," Quinn grunted, sipping the water.
Daria watched on, not knowing what - if anything - to say.
"How're you feeling now, oh sweet flower of youth?" asked Jane pleasantly.
"Dried-out and sore," the redhead replied. "Why do people drink that stuff?"
"It's a global corporate conspiracy to keep the working classes dependent on something that depresses and cheers them up at the same time and stops them from being able to ferment coordinated rebellion."
"Hmm. Guess so." Quinn drained the water from the glass. "I better be getting home. My parents'll be worried."
"They know where you are. Not just because of the tracking implant in your left butt cheek, but we rang them up, too."
"Oh. Thanks. And thanks for, you know, helping me out."
"Yeah, the red stain made a nice pointilistic pattern on the carpet. Next time, have some Mexican food too."
Quinn gave a tired little smile. "Not going to be a next time, I can promise you that."
"Oh. Well, in vino veritas doesn't appeal to everyone."
Quinn frowned. She recognized the phrase as Latin but didn't know what it meant. "Huh?" she asked.
Daria spoke for the first time. "There is only truth in wine," she said. "Basically, the only time anyone is ever really honest is once they've got completely hammered."
"Oh," said Quinn, nodding slightly - but not too much, because of all the molten boulders in her brain. "Yeah, I was a real bitch last night. Sorry for anything I, like, said or did or whatever."
"All is forgiven," Jane promised. "But now you're sober, we hold you responsible for everything."
"I get it." Quinn dusted down her dress and tried to smarten her hair before she carefully made her way to the door.
"I guess it was just temporary insanity and alcohol poisoning," Daria said quietly.
"Would you guess that if it didn't let you off the hook?" Jane wondered idly.
"Well why else would she act like it didn't happen?" Daria asked, knowing even as the words left her mouth what a stupid question it was. Admitting it happened would make it real. At the moment, everything Quinn had said could be passed off as drunken rambling and ignored. As long as Daria played along.
"If I were you, I'd make sure Quinn got home safely," Jane said.
"Good advice."
"Then I'd come back here and screw Trent so hard his eyes changed colour."
"Not-so-good advice."
"Meh, you can get some fun sex games out of a packet of contact lenses."
"How in the name of god's duodenum do you even KNOW that?"
Jane nodded in the direction of the front door as Quinn opened it and carefully left. "I'll let you know when you get back."
***
Quinn put one foot in front of the other, hand clamped over her forehead to shield her eyes from the hideous Saturday afternoon glare. She knew if she kept in this direction she would reach home eventually, but the horizon seemed to get no closer and her body seemed to be full of overcooked jellyfish swirling around.
"Quinn?" called Daria gently. "You should probably take a break. You're still dehydrated, so you'll overheat quicker."
Quinn let Daria guide her into the shade of a bus shelter and down onto the hard metal bench. Quinn felt totally exhausted and couldn't believe even for a second she could ever move or breathe normally again. A cool palm touched her forehead briefly and came away wet with perspiration.
"How..." said Quinn, choking down the urge to retch. "How much is this going to cost me?"
"Cost you?" Daria sounded like she was defusing a bomb when a light on it had started flashing.
"To keep mom and dad off my back."
"They think you had food poisoning from your date last night. That's what I told them. If I then said you'd been out trying to pickle your internal organs, they'd be angry with me lying as much as with you getting drunk. If you go down for this, I go down with you."
Quinn was unable to stop a foul-smelling belch escape her. "That was pretty dumb of you."
"We brains have to ration our stupidity very carefully, or we lose tenure," said Daria calmly. "It's the normal folk who have it easy. They can make all the stupid mistakes they want and everyone still loves them."
Quinn made a noise of acknowledgement but nothing else.
"You know mom and dad love you with the intensity of a thousand Radiohead albums, don't you? And that the hordes of Lawndale High troglodyes worship the ground you walk on? And the Fashion Club lives and dies on what you do?" Daria asked her, quite seriously. "Me? I've got Jane, Trent sort of, and... that's it. If something happened to me, I don't think the world would miss me, but they would. And you would be missed, Quinn."
"Not by anyone who matters."
"Name someone who matters. Millions of years ago, there was a single human being that mastered the art of fire and thus is responsible for all civilization. We don't know their name, but we know the name of a guy who pretended to jet-ski over a shark in a sitcom no one's ever given a damn about for over twenty years."
"Would you miss me, Daria?" asked Quinn quietly.
"Yes," she said without hesitation.
"Thank you. That's nice of you to say that."
"...you don't believe me, do you?" realized Daria, suddenly feeling very small.
"Come on," said Quinn brightly, struggling to bounce to her feet. "I've got to get home and tell mom and dad not to sue that restaurant I was that, plus I've got to explain to the Three Jays that I took some mad medication to deal with cramps or something icky like that so they won't feel all guilty, plus I need to warn the rest of the Fashion Club about the dangers of alcohol and throwing up over your best clothes - and those heels, they were totally defective, I can't believe Cashman's ever dares sell dangerous goods like that to precious clients..."
Still talking a mile a minute, Quinn unsteadily made her way back towards Schloss Morgendorffer.
Daria followed. Everything was back to normal.
For now.
Thursday 7 February 2019
Tuesday 5 February 2019
5 Minute Fiction: Burning Ambition
(The true circumstances of how Sandi heard the song "Torch It Up" by Wire)
Sandi Griffin stopped punching her pillow. It wasn't fighting back nor screaming in pain, so punching it wasn't doing anything for her. In fact, if a pillow could look smug then this pummeled cushion was all but smirking at her. She punched it again for good luck and then picked it up and hurled it against the wall. It tumbled to the floor, sounding like someone tutting in disapproval at her outburst.
Sandi threw herself on the bed and imagined the sound of celery sticks snapping in two, which was very satisfying if you pretended they were the necks of your enemies. And Sandi had plenty of those ever since the disaster at the school dance. Getting away from Glenfield Middle School couldn't come soon enough, to get away from all that mockery and humiliation and the way they all gossiped that she had been forced to have plastic surgery because her own parents could look at her when she had braces without being copiously and violently sick.
Next year she'd start high school, but how would that be any better? Even if she managed to avoid all the losers from Glenfield, she was like a diver or something dropped at the deep end of a swimming pool. It would be tempting to just sink away, but then she'd have no escape from this non-stop pitched battle with her bratty brothers and being overlooked by whichever parent happened to be home that day.
But she was sick of swimming, too. Damn it, how many years of having to suck up to the right people, kowtow to the correct cliques? It sounded like hell, and she felt like she was at the bottom of an upside down pyramid, being ground into the dirt. She couldn't even ask for help because, as her mother had always told her, that was just telling the whole world how and where you were at your weakest.
God, even in her room she couldn't escape!
Sandi turned on her radio, hoping some random noise or whatever would just block out hell for the next five seconds. It was at the start of a song, but with a horrible noise like a whale song if that whale had a nose bleed. Rapid drums bashed in just the right way to give Sandi a headache. She reached forward and twisted the power dial, but there was a dull crunch (curiously very similar to that of snapping celery) and the dial came off in her hand.
The radio, out-smugging even the pillow at this stage, kept groaning the music at her.
In the house not home behind closed doors they hide their fakes between the floors
In the house not home under the bed stories are told and lies are spread
The house not the home is full of love, it's the hate which seeps in from above
I'm going to torch it! Torch it down!
I'm going to torch it! With you on the top!
The song seemed to taunt her - it sounded like the singer was circling around her, leaning in close to taunt her with a crazy grin and worst of all was enjoying her discomfort. Sandi grabbed the broken dial and tried to switch it off again, but the radio was stubbornly insisting on making her listen to the whole damn loser tune.
A song about a house she was stuck in, a place she hated and hated her back. A place that she could never be happy or in control. She had to burn it down and leave herself in charge. Wow, for such a dumb song that was clearly years old, it sure seemed, like relevant or whatever...
In the house not home, there are four blanks
Your ignorance was unusable, your thoughtlessness was not
Four blanks? Sandi Griffin and three other girls? Maybe at Lawndale High she could form a gang, a fresh start for her and three others who wouldn't dare question her. She could be the leader of the gang, no, wait, a club! There were all sorts of clubs and this time she wouldn't be part of it, she would be the ruler! She'd the best at it and no one else could do anything but follow her. The Sandi Griffin Club with Sandi Griffin as President for Life!
I'm going to torch it! I'm going to torch it!
I'm going to torch it with you on the top!
Sandi Griffin on the top, torching everything below... Yeah, that totally worked for her.
We sing our cheap despair as our secrets are sold!
The spirit's broken, I'm gonna torch you down!
The spirit is not broken, I'm gonna raise it up from the ground!
Innocence, hope of lost mysteries explained!
Sandi Griffin's Club for the Truly Fashionable. They would drag the next generation of this town into the proper styles and trends of the new century. She was never going to be behind on the latest fashions ever again, and she would always be ahead of the curve. Glenfield was the middle, but LH was the top and that's right where Sandi would be!
Me, me, me! Well, it's the hate, it leaks in from above!
It's the hate - it's full of love
I'm going to torch it! I'm going to torch it!
I'm going to torch it! With you on the top!
As if suddenly-unable to continue, Sandi's broken radio sparked and popped and fell silent with a lingering acrid stink of molten plastic. Sandi herself was startled at the sudden quiet, and realized she'd need a brand new - more expensive and more reliable - sound system for her room, which could also stand to be redecorated.
From now on she was going to wipe the smiles off her enemies, human or furniture, and she could sense the Griffin household was no longer so confident in its mockery of her.
Calm and relaxed, Sandi scooped up her pillow and lay down on her bed to contemplate her glorious future.
And, gently under her breath, she sang to herself:
"All me-me prayers! All me-me prayers!
All me-me prayers! All me-me prayers!
All me-me prayers! All me-me prayers!
A wailing wail of despair!"
And Sandi laughed.
Sandi Griffin stopped punching her pillow. It wasn't fighting back nor screaming in pain, so punching it wasn't doing anything for her. In fact, if a pillow could look smug then this pummeled cushion was all but smirking at her. She punched it again for good luck and then picked it up and hurled it against the wall. It tumbled to the floor, sounding like someone tutting in disapproval at her outburst.
Sandi threw herself on the bed and imagined the sound of celery sticks snapping in two, which was very satisfying if you pretended they were the necks of your enemies. And Sandi had plenty of those ever since the disaster at the school dance. Getting away from Glenfield Middle School couldn't come soon enough, to get away from all that mockery and humiliation and the way they all gossiped that she had been forced to have plastic surgery because her own parents could look at her when she had braces without being copiously and violently sick.
Next year she'd start high school, but how would that be any better? Even if she managed to avoid all the losers from Glenfield, she was like a diver or something dropped at the deep end of a swimming pool. It would be tempting to just sink away, but then she'd have no escape from this non-stop pitched battle with her bratty brothers and being overlooked by whichever parent happened to be home that day.
But she was sick of swimming, too. Damn it, how many years of having to suck up to the right people, kowtow to the correct cliques? It sounded like hell, and she felt like she was at the bottom of an upside down pyramid, being ground into the dirt. She couldn't even ask for help because, as her mother had always told her, that was just telling the whole world how and where you were at your weakest.
God, even in her room she couldn't escape!
Sandi turned on her radio, hoping some random noise or whatever would just block out hell for the next five seconds. It was at the start of a song, but with a horrible noise like a whale song if that whale had a nose bleed. Rapid drums bashed in just the right way to give Sandi a headache. She reached forward and twisted the power dial, but there was a dull crunch (curiously very similar to that of snapping celery) and the dial came off in her hand.
The radio, out-smugging even the pillow at this stage, kept groaning the music at her.
In the house not home behind closed doors they hide their fakes between the floors
In the house not home under the bed stories are told and lies are spread
The house not the home is full of love, it's the hate which seeps in from above
I'm going to torch it! Torch it down!
I'm going to torch it! With you on the top!
The song seemed to taunt her - it sounded like the singer was circling around her, leaning in close to taunt her with a crazy grin and worst of all was enjoying her discomfort. Sandi grabbed the broken dial and tried to switch it off again, but the radio was stubbornly insisting on making her listen to the whole damn loser tune.
A song about a house she was stuck in, a place she hated and hated her back. A place that she could never be happy or in control. She had to burn it down and leave herself in charge. Wow, for such a dumb song that was clearly years old, it sure seemed, like relevant or whatever...
In the house not home, there are four blanks
Your ignorance was unusable, your thoughtlessness was not
Four blanks? Sandi Griffin and three other girls? Maybe at Lawndale High she could form a gang, a fresh start for her and three others who wouldn't dare question her. She could be the leader of the gang, no, wait, a club! There were all sorts of clubs and this time she wouldn't be part of it, she would be the ruler! She'd the best at it and no one else could do anything but follow her. The Sandi Griffin Club with Sandi Griffin as President for Life!
I'm going to torch it! I'm going to torch it!
I'm going to torch it with you on the top!
Sandi Griffin on the top, torching everything below... Yeah, that totally worked for her.
We sing our cheap despair as our secrets are sold!
The spirit's broken, I'm gonna torch you down!
The spirit is not broken, I'm gonna raise it up from the ground!
Innocence, hope of lost mysteries explained!
Sandi Griffin's Club for the Truly Fashionable. They would drag the next generation of this town into the proper styles and trends of the new century. She was never going to be behind on the latest fashions ever again, and she would always be ahead of the curve. Glenfield was the middle, but LH was the top and that's right where Sandi would be!
Me, me, me! Well, it's the hate, it leaks in from above!
It's the hate - it's full of love
I'm going to torch it! I'm going to torch it!
I'm going to torch it! With you on the top!
As if suddenly-unable to continue, Sandi's broken radio sparked and popped and fell silent with a lingering acrid stink of molten plastic. Sandi herself was startled at the sudden quiet, and realized she'd need a brand new - more expensive and more reliable - sound system for her room, which could also stand to be redecorated.
From now on she was going to wipe the smiles off her enemies, human or furniture, and she could sense the Griffin household was no longer so confident in its mockery of her.
Calm and relaxed, Sandi scooped up her pillow and lay down on her bed to contemplate her glorious future.
And, gently under her breath, she sang to herself:
"All me-me prayers! All me-me prayers!
All me-me prayers! All me-me prayers!
All me-me prayers! All me-me prayers!
A wailing wail of despair!"
And Sandi laughed.
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