playing with matches
Writing madly all night; flowers in the attic oneshot, inspired by the song Braille by Regina Spektor (you'll find the lyrics as each section heading)
Author:
autumn_scarlet
Word Count: 2787
Rating: PG-13 Sexual References (nothing too graphic)
Pairings: Prodominatly Cathy/Chris, but also Cathy/Paul, Cathy/Bart and Cathy/Julian
Summary: Cathy's loves and Cathy's losses on her quest to really find herself within the series; I wanted to tell the story a different way. Julian comes before Paul, because that's how I see it really; he was her attic shadow.
i. she was lying on the floor, counting stretchmarks.
Dance to the beating of your aching heart.
It dances around her in delicious whispers, as he stands, all blue eyes and blonde hair in the shadows, tears slowly running down his cheeks as she spins her web tighter and tighter around his aching heart. But blue eyes and blonde hair all became dark, dark, dark, and not his - stranger features, and he slips away into the nothingness, because really, all she wanted to do was escape him.
But the door was locked.
She falls to the floor, panting, as the music finally begins to wind down. She stretches out on that old, worn mattress, with hundreds of secrets hidden in it’s rusty springs. Cathy, he begins, and she silences him with a single look. I know, she whispers, but looks away, before he could break her a hundred times more with his blue, blue eyes.
She feels his sigh ruffle their paper flowers, and she closes her eyes, and stifles a cry as his footsteps leave her, alone, in this attic prison, disguised as their heaven.
Damn you mamma, damn you.
The minutes ticked by like hours, and she still lies there, silent, the sweat from her pirouette’s still lacing her skin - like arsenic on sugar coated doughnuts, when he comes back up the stairs, his eyes are deep, dark, with something she did not yet understand.
I love you.
She shakes her head, Chris, no - don’t, it can’t be. He sighs, and shakes her slightly, his eyes burning into hers, as he leans closer, closer, closer, and places his lips roughly to hers. There is nobody else now, he threatens, and she cries, cries, cries in his arms.
One tear for daddy, he stretched mamma so thin.
One tear for Cory, who’s stretching won’t begin.
One tear for Carrie, whose stretches mark her skin.
One tear for Chris, who’s stretching to keep her in.
But mostly, she’s crying for stretch marks unseen that scratch, and strangle at her heart. They suffocate her here, in the dark, and she cries, cries, cries to get out.
But the door is locked.
ii. he hadn't been a virgin and he hadn't been a god so she names the baby elvis
to make up for the royalty he lacked
When they danced, she orbited around him, her eyes never leaving him. Her, the deep, secret princess of a thousand different tales, each a little different, each a little more heartbreaking, a little more lost, a little more gone. He, the dark, black shadow prince of her attic, because he was hers, all hers, and now, now, she could almost make out his features.
The first time she let him have her she didn’t let him see the tears well up in her eyes as they reached that highest musical note together, she looked away, but not before he saw the pleading in his eyes. And after all, he had loved her, wanted her, for all these years; surely she could want him too.
The next time he came at her, she cried, cried, cried, because this prince, this God was nothing, nothing at all like he had been when he danced, danced, danced into her life, and God, God she regretted it now.
He does not come to her the third time, but her to him, as he lies still, broken in that hospital bed. She sobs lightly, as he refuses to see what’s in front of him, because really, the roles had just reversed.
She had wanted to get out once.
(but the door was locked)
But now she sees, she loves him, loves him ever so dearly, but it his he that wants to get out now.
And that door - he kicks it down, and runs, runs, runs away from her.
That third time is the last time she cries for him, and as she lays, screaming on a hospital bed, not so different from that one he left behind, she finds the first, standing there, crying for her, as another, poor, dreadful child enters this world, kicking and screaming, the way daddy would have liked to have left.
Julian Janus Marquet, she murmurs to those shining faces around her - My Jory.
iii. she was listening to the sound of heavens shaking thinking about puddles, puddles and mistakes
It rained that first night - the first of many, with him. She began it all quite alone, curled up in a ball on her bed, humming softly to herself, a distant memory of Oh Susannah, with a single tear, slowly slinking its way down her soft, porcelain (her Dresden doll) cheek. Chris and Carrie were both at school, and she was here, alone, Henny asleep at her television, and Paul, off, off, off and away, dreaming of his sweet Julia as he laced up stitches on some young women’s back.
The drops fell by the thousand upon his roof, their roof, and she sighs softly, musically - the only way she knows how, and closes her eyes, drifting back to days when she was young, and innocent, and she still had a mother who cared.
(but the door was locked)
In the not so distant past, she had loved the rain, the soft sound of it’s patters on the so-close rooftop had kept her awake, and when she danced, danced, danced on those attic floors, the rain splattered around her, and for once the attic was truly alive - alive with the glorious scent the rain sprung up around her.
She had loved the rain once, but now, now it only brought memories. Memories she wished she could forget.
And as she stole into the door of her benefactor, father, love, she searched desperately until she met his eyes, his soft, sad eyes, for he too had loved the sound of rain once, she could tell. And now? Now it only brought pain. She sighed softly in his arms, as she longed to take away that pain - that feeling of drowning, drowning, drowning in puddles of mistakes. Ever so softly she kissed him; gentle kisses across his face until he responded, more forceful, more experienced, as he carried her softly to his bed.
She knew she loved him as she woke up in his arms, his older face smiling peacefully over at her, it was not wrong. She loved him, but mostly, she loved how together, together they could hop, skip and jump over all the mistakes they had made - the rain had washed them away.
iv. now it's turpentine and patches now it's cold, cold campbell's from the can they were just two jerks playing with matches ‘cause that's all they knew how to play
She tumbled over stepping-stones in her attempts to escape them - the first and the third (the second was staring up at her always, in the eyes of her baby boy). Tumbled, tumbled, tumbled into the arms of Virginia - into the arms of debt, of loneliness, of life.
With bright blue eyes, and a too-large head she would stare up at her - Carrie, accusing her, wanting to go back, and hastily she would shove her baby boy - her Jory, into her arms, and she would sigh, and smile, and all would be forgotten. Forgotten until the next letter came - until the next time the phone rang.
I want to go back, she murmured one night. Cathy, Paul needs us - needs you. Please, let us go back. And God, God she wanted to go, back, back, back into their arms.
(but the door was locked)
She shakes her head and looks away from her not so childlike eyes, from her all too familiar face. No Carrie, she whispers, it has to be this way. She just nods, glumly, and walks away, her head heavy - but that is nothing on her heart.
When she whispers of Cory in that all too familiar hospital bed, it breaks her shattered heart into a thousand tinier pieces, and she cries, cries, cries, because she was so beautiful, and you weren’t ready to say goodbye to this one too.
But in the end, she have too.
Chris finds her arms, and she cries into his shoulder, he sighs softly, It’s just us two now. Let’s not play games anymore Cathy, please, let’s end this.
That’s what I’m trying to do, she murmurs.
Don’t, he pleads, but she shakes her head. Chris, this is all I know how to do.
He nods and looks away, as if he already knew the answer, and she sighs, soon, soon everything will be okay again. He nods again, and takes her head in his hands, staring at her hard, forcing her to take notice.
But God damn it Cathy, don’t you dare get burned.
v. elvis never could carry a tune she thought about this irony as she stared back at the moon
She smiled seductively at him over the dinner table that first night - positioned so he could see just enough, but not too much to spoil dessert. He looked at her longingly, and she smiled, smiled, smiled, cause in the end, this was her game to play, and she would win, win, win.
She laughs at all his jokes, and touches him softly on his arm while she talks, and does it all just right, just like mamma did, all those years ago.
He is brutal when he takes her.
She gasps in pain, feeling tears trickle down her cheek as he has his way, then slips from her side without another word. She doesn’t sleep well that night, and when Jory comes to her side to see what the matter is, she takes him softly in her arms, and puts that fake smile on her face - the one she’d mastered over the years, and really, he wouldn’t tell the difference.
He is softer when she understands - he plays this game too, but he is older, wiser, and knows the tricks she does not. She sighs softly in his arms, and he whispers I love you’s into her hair, and maybe, maybe, she thinks, I haven’t lost at all.
She tries that door on the night of her big finale.
(but the door is locked)
Only this time, this time she’s not scared to go back in. She opens the door and steps timidly inside, a thousand yesteryears at her feet, and she sighs, and cries, because in here there were four, not three, not two.
She steals from the room, but leaves the door unlocked, as she comes to face her creator in the eyes. She smiles politely, and plays her part, and the mother, mamma, mamma, mamma, she’s as white as they had once been, and she rejoices in it all; drinks it up.
But the matches burn quickly, and she chokes on the fumes as she calls to him, and he turns, races back inside. Oh, how she cries, cries, cries then, because again, again, again, again mamma wins, and takes him - Bart, with her.
She could play this game.
But her mother was the master.
vi. she was tracing the years with her fingers on her skin saying why don't i begin again
She is older now, as she stares at her reflection in the mirror, tears stringing down her face, for today, today her second husband was to be buried. Today, today another love fell down, down, down into the ground.
She held his hand - her Christopher’s that day, as soft words whispered on the wind. April just can’t marry with September, she murmurs, and almost chuckles at the thought. Oh, but it did.
They stand alone now, the two Dresden dolls, old, and alone, but with each other, and she sees now, that that’s really all she needed. Not two, or three, or five, but oh, she longed for four. She smiles softly at him, Christopher… It’s all right, he offers back, It’s okay, I know.
I love you, my lady Cath-er-ine, I always have, just as you have always loved me. I was patient, and it is time, so come, come ballerina, dance for me, one last time.
She nods slowly, and they drift away to that other world, where it was just they two, with their children; not blonde, but dark now; not Cory, not Carrie, but Jory and Bart, and she smiles down on them.
There are days however, when she wishes to go back, back, back to two, or to three, or even five.
(but the door is shut)
She knows it has to be that way.
So she dances, dances, dances around the loving arms of her brother, (lover, lover, lover) and he smiles up at her, that same, sad, attic smile, and she knows, knows, knows that everything is alright, because it is just them two, as it has always been.
And with him, everything is always all right,
vii. after all i’m still a jerk, playing with matches, it’s just he isn’t here to play along anymore.
When Christopher died, she died too.
Not her body, not her mind - she was still Cathy (but never Cath-er-ine) and she could still light those damned fires, but she got burnt a lot easier these days. She was still Cathy, but she refused to dance, because he, her Christopher, her gallant knight, he was not there to watch her anymore. And it was only ever he she danced for.
The first night, she didn’t sleep. It rained, hard, heavy drops upon her window, and really, it was just puddles, puddles and mistakes all over again - and there was nobody left to clean up the mess. Only her, the one left of four, to wallow in the memories of second, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, locked away, and left to play.
It is only now that she realises how magical those days were; the prime of her life, if there was such a time.
She smiles softly into her pillow - oh Christopher, do not worry, I will not cry for you, hundreds, thousands of tears I’ve shed over the years, for you, me, our twins too, millions of tears I’ve shed, but not now. Now I know, you’ve reached that garden, and everything will be all right.
I’ll be there soon.
(but the door was shut)
And so she made a garden of her own - a paper flowered heaven, up, up, up, high in the attic, where she belonged. And she danced, danced, danced among the purple, and red, and squishy orange blobs, amongst the warning signs from yesterday, because soon, soon, soon she would be home.
She falls to the ground before long, her hair now drenched with sweat, and as she lies there, she thinks back, back, back on her life; on her first, her second, her third, fourth and fifth, and it is only here that she realises, as though it had been written in Braille upon her skin for years and years and years, but only now could she read it, she is Catherine Doll, and she is Christopher Doll.
Somewhere, behind locked doors and strict rules they become one, but now he was gone, gone, gone, and she was left behind to mop up all her puddles alone.
I loved you first, here, amongst the paper flowers - the flowers in the attic, the petals on the wind, I loved you Christopher Doll, and now you are gone, I am only half here.
Wait for me.
~~~
They found her the next morning, laying in a bed of paper flowers, upon her face a hidden smile, as she looked out the window. She was gone, and they cried, cried, cried for her.
If she was there to see, she would be glad to know that somewhere along the line, she could touch them too, in her haste to find herself. But she was not there, she was dancing, dancing, dancing with her Christopher in their paper heaven; their paper attic, as those old faces looked on smiling.
She was buried next to him, amongst the Sheffield plot, where they both new they didn’t belong. But it was too late to argue, because in her life she’d been many things; A Dollanganger, a Sheffield, A Marquet, A Winslow’s lover, a mother, a sister, a friend, and a fiend. (but never a Foxworth)
And all along she had been him, and he had been her.
Because they were always just two jerks, playing with matches, in a world, that was too, too big for them, when their fire blazed of paper flowers, in an attic world called home.
And now, now, at the end of it all, that door swung open.
Author:
autumn_scarlet
Word Count: 2787
Rating: PG-13 Sexual References (nothing too graphic)
Pairings: Prodominatly Cathy/Chris, but also Cathy/Paul, Cathy/Bart and Cathy/Julian
Summary: Cathy's loves and Cathy's losses on her quest to really find herself within the series; I wanted to tell the story a different way. Julian comes before Paul, because that's how I see it really; he was her attic shadow.
i. she was lying on the floor, counting stretchmarks.
Dance to the beating of your aching heart.
It dances around her in delicious whispers, as he stands, all blue eyes and blonde hair in the shadows, tears slowly running down his cheeks as she spins her web tighter and tighter around his aching heart. But blue eyes and blonde hair all became dark, dark, dark, and not his - stranger features, and he slips away into the nothingness, because really, all she wanted to do was escape him.
But the door was locked.
She falls to the floor, panting, as the music finally begins to wind down. She stretches out on that old, worn mattress, with hundreds of secrets hidden in it’s rusty springs. Cathy, he begins, and she silences him with a single look. I know, she whispers, but looks away, before he could break her a hundred times more with his blue, blue eyes.
She feels his sigh ruffle their paper flowers, and she closes her eyes, and stifles a cry as his footsteps leave her, alone, in this attic prison, disguised as their heaven.
Damn you mamma, damn you.
The minutes ticked by like hours, and she still lies there, silent, the sweat from her pirouette’s still lacing her skin - like arsenic on sugar coated doughnuts, when he comes back up the stairs, his eyes are deep, dark, with something she did not yet understand.
I love you.
She shakes her head, Chris, no - don’t, it can’t be. He sighs, and shakes her slightly, his eyes burning into hers, as he leans closer, closer, closer, and places his lips roughly to hers. There is nobody else now, he threatens, and she cries, cries, cries in his arms.
One tear for daddy, he stretched mamma so thin.
One tear for Cory, who’s stretching won’t begin.
One tear for Carrie, whose stretches mark her skin.
One tear for Chris, who’s stretching to keep her in.
But mostly, she’s crying for stretch marks unseen that scratch, and strangle at her heart. They suffocate her here, in the dark, and she cries, cries, cries to get out.
But the door is locked.
ii. he hadn't been a virgin and he hadn't been a god so she names the baby elvis
to make up for the royalty he lacked
When they danced, she orbited around him, her eyes never leaving him. Her, the deep, secret princess of a thousand different tales, each a little different, each a little more heartbreaking, a little more lost, a little more gone. He, the dark, black shadow prince of her attic, because he was hers, all hers, and now, now, she could almost make out his features.
The first time she let him have her she didn’t let him see the tears well up in her eyes as they reached that highest musical note together, she looked away, but not before he saw the pleading in his eyes. And after all, he had loved her, wanted her, for all these years; surely she could want him too.
The next time he came at her, she cried, cried, cried, because this prince, this God was nothing, nothing at all like he had been when he danced, danced, danced into her life, and God, God she regretted it now.
He does not come to her the third time, but her to him, as he lies still, broken in that hospital bed. She sobs lightly, as he refuses to see what’s in front of him, because really, the roles had just reversed.
She had wanted to get out once.
(but the door was locked)
But now she sees, she loves him, loves him ever so dearly, but it his he that wants to get out now.
And that door - he kicks it down, and runs, runs, runs away from her.
That third time is the last time she cries for him, and as she lays, screaming on a hospital bed, not so different from that one he left behind, she finds the first, standing there, crying for her, as another, poor, dreadful child enters this world, kicking and screaming, the way daddy would have liked to have left.
Julian Janus Marquet, she murmurs to those shining faces around her - My Jory.
iii. she was listening to the sound of heavens shaking thinking about puddles, puddles and mistakes
It rained that first night - the first of many, with him. She began it all quite alone, curled up in a ball on her bed, humming softly to herself, a distant memory of Oh Susannah, with a single tear, slowly slinking its way down her soft, porcelain (her Dresden doll) cheek. Chris and Carrie were both at school, and she was here, alone, Henny asleep at her television, and Paul, off, off, off and away, dreaming of his sweet Julia as he laced up stitches on some young women’s back.
The drops fell by the thousand upon his roof, their roof, and she sighs softly, musically - the only way she knows how, and closes her eyes, drifting back to days when she was young, and innocent, and she still had a mother who cared.
(but the door was locked)
In the not so distant past, she had loved the rain, the soft sound of it’s patters on the so-close rooftop had kept her awake, and when she danced, danced, danced on those attic floors, the rain splattered around her, and for once the attic was truly alive - alive with the glorious scent the rain sprung up around her.
She had loved the rain once, but now, now it only brought memories. Memories she wished she could forget.
And as she stole into the door of her benefactor, father, love, she searched desperately until she met his eyes, his soft, sad eyes, for he too had loved the sound of rain once, she could tell. And now? Now it only brought pain. She sighed softly in his arms, as she longed to take away that pain - that feeling of drowning, drowning, drowning in puddles of mistakes. Ever so softly she kissed him; gentle kisses across his face until he responded, more forceful, more experienced, as he carried her softly to his bed.
She knew she loved him as she woke up in his arms, his older face smiling peacefully over at her, it was not wrong. She loved him, but mostly, she loved how together, together they could hop, skip and jump over all the mistakes they had made - the rain had washed them away.
iv. now it's turpentine and patches now it's cold, cold campbell's from the can they were just two jerks playing with matches ‘cause that's all they knew how to play
She tumbled over stepping-stones in her attempts to escape them - the first and the third (the second was staring up at her always, in the eyes of her baby boy). Tumbled, tumbled, tumbled into the arms of Virginia - into the arms of debt, of loneliness, of life.
With bright blue eyes, and a too-large head she would stare up at her - Carrie, accusing her, wanting to go back, and hastily she would shove her baby boy - her Jory, into her arms, and she would sigh, and smile, and all would be forgotten. Forgotten until the next letter came - until the next time the phone rang.
I want to go back, she murmured one night. Cathy, Paul needs us - needs you. Please, let us go back. And God, God she wanted to go, back, back, back into their arms.
(but the door was locked)
She shakes her head and looks away from her not so childlike eyes, from her all too familiar face. No Carrie, she whispers, it has to be this way. She just nods, glumly, and walks away, her head heavy - but that is nothing on her heart.
When she whispers of Cory in that all too familiar hospital bed, it breaks her shattered heart into a thousand tinier pieces, and she cries, cries, cries, because she was so beautiful, and you weren’t ready to say goodbye to this one too.
But in the end, she have too.
Chris finds her arms, and she cries into his shoulder, he sighs softly, It’s just us two now. Let’s not play games anymore Cathy, please, let’s end this.
That’s what I’m trying to do, she murmurs.
Don’t, he pleads, but she shakes her head. Chris, this is all I know how to do.
He nods and looks away, as if he already knew the answer, and she sighs, soon, soon everything will be okay again. He nods again, and takes her head in his hands, staring at her hard, forcing her to take notice.
But God damn it Cathy, don’t you dare get burned.
v. elvis never could carry a tune she thought about this irony as she stared back at the moon
She smiled seductively at him over the dinner table that first night - positioned so he could see just enough, but not too much to spoil dessert. He looked at her longingly, and she smiled, smiled, smiled, cause in the end, this was her game to play, and she would win, win, win.
She laughs at all his jokes, and touches him softly on his arm while she talks, and does it all just right, just like mamma did, all those years ago.
He is brutal when he takes her.
She gasps in pain, feeling tears trickle down her cheek as he has his way, then slips from her side without another word. She doesn’t sleep well that night, and when Jory comes to her side to see what the matter is, she takes him softly in her arms, and puts that fake smile on her face - the one she’d mastered over the years, and really, he wouldn’t tell the difference.
He is softer when she understands - he plays this game too, but he is older, wiser, and knows the tricks she does not. She sighs softly in his arms, and he whispers I love you’s into her hair, and maybe, maybe, she thinks, I haven’t lost at all.
She tries that door on the night of her big finale.
(but the door is locked)
Only this time, this time she’s not scared to go back in. She opens the door and steps timidly inside, a thousand yesteryears at her feet, and she sighs, and cries, because in here there were four, not three, not two.
She steals from the room, but leaves the door unlocked, as she comes to face her creator in the eyes. She smiles politely, and plays her part, and the mother, mamma, mamma, mamma, she’s as white as they had once been, and she rejoices in it all; drinks it up.
But the matches burn quickly, and she chokes on the fumes as she calls to him, and he turns, races back inside. Oh, how she cries, cries, cries then, because again, again, again, again mamma wins, and takes him - Bart, with her.
She could play this game.
But her mother was the master.
vi. she was tracing the years with her fingers on her skin saying why don't i begin again
She is older now, as she stares at her reflection in the mirror, tears stringing down her face, for today, today her second husband was to be buried. Today, today another love fell down, down, down into the ground.
She held his hand - her Christopher’s that day, as soft words whispered on the wind. April just can’t marry with September, she murmurs, and almost chuckles at the thought. Oh, but it did.
They stand alone now, the two Dresden dolls, old, and alone, but with each other, and she sees now, that that’s really all she needed. Not two, or three, or five, but oh, she longed for four. She smiles softly at him, Christopher… It’s all right, he offers back, It’s okay, I know.
I love you, my lady Cath-er-ine, I always have, just as you have always loved me. I was patient, and it is time, so come, come ballerina, dance for me, one last time.
She nods slowly, and they drift away to that other world, where it was just they two, with their children; not blonde, but dark now; not Cory, not Carrie, but Jory and Bart, and she smiles down on them.
There are days however, when she wishes to go back, back, back to two, or to three, or even five.
(but the door is shut)
She knows it has to be that way.
So she dances, dances, dances around the loving arms of her brother, (lover, lover, lover) and he smiles up at her, that same, sad, attic smile, and she knows, knows, knows that everything is alright, because it is just them two, as it has always been.
And with him, everything is always all right,
vii. after all i’m still a jerk, playing with matches, it’s just he isn’t here to play along anymore.
When Christopher died, she died too.
Not her body, not her mind - she was still Cathy (but never Cath-er-ine) and she could still light those damned fires, but she got burnt a lot easier these days. She was still Cathy, but she refused to dance, because he, her Christopher, her gallant knight, he was not there to watch her anymore. And it was only ever he she danced for.
The first night, she didn’t sleep. It rained, hard, heavy drops upon her window, and really, it was just puddles, puddles and mistakes all over again - and there was nobody left to clean up the mess. Only her, the one left of four, to wallow in the memories of second, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, locked away, and left to play.
It is only now that she realises how magical those days were; the prime of her life, if there was such a time.
She smiles softly into her pillow - oh Christopher, do not worry, I will not cry for you, hundreds, thousands of tears I’ve shed over the years, for you, me, our twins too, millions of tears I’ve shed, but not now. Now I know, you’ve reached that garden, and everything will be all right.
I’ll be there soon.
(but the door was shut)
And so she made a garden of her own - a paper flowered heaven, up, up, up, high in the attic, where she belonged. And she danced, danced, danced among the purple, and red, and squishy orange blobs, amongst the warning signs from yesterday, because soon, soon, soon she would be home.
She falls to the ground before long, her hair now drenched with sweat, and as she lies there, she thinks back, back, back on her life; on her first, her second, her third, fourth and fifth, and it is only here that she realises, as though it had been written in Braille upon her skin for years and years and years, but only now could she read it, she is Catherine Doll, and she is Christopher Doll.
Somewhere, behind locked doors and strict rules they become one, but now he was gone, gone, gone, and she was left behind to mop up all her puddles alone.
I loved you first, here, amongst the paper flowers - the flowers in the attic, the petals on the wind, I loved you Christopher Doll, and now you are gone, I am only half here.
Wait for me.
~~~
They found her the next morning, laying in a bed of paper flowers, upon her face a hidden smile, as she looked out the window. She was gone, and they cried, cried, cried for her.
If she was there to see, she would be glad to know that somewhere along the line, she could touch them too, in her haste to find herself. But she was not there, she was dancing, dancing, dancing with her Christopher in their paper heaven; their paper attic, as those old faces looked on smiling.
She was buried next to him, amongst the Sheffield plot, where they both new they didn’t belong. But it was too late to argue, because in her life she’d been many things; A Dollanganger, a Sheffield, A Marquet, A Winslow’s lover, a mother, a sister, a friend, and a fiend. (but never a Foxworth)
And all along she had been him, and he had been her.
Because they were always just two jerks, playing with matches, in a world, that was too, too big for them, when their fire blazed of paper flowers, in an attic world called home.
And now, now, at the end of it all, that door swung open.