Fic: Sour Cherry
Title: Sour Cherry
Characters: Penny, The Other Girl, Donna, Lucy, Eduard, Mary, Gwen, Stacey, Liz, Andrew
Word Count: 1563
Warnings: Death, suicide, various issues that come with old age (if you want something specific tagged I'll do that)
A/N: So, geez, hello wasteland. This might be terrible and morbid and I feel like I've fucked up with tenses, but lately I've been thinking a lot about the club girls, and what they'd be like as older women, and I wanted both closure and to come back to writing them. So this isn't an 'ugh I'm done with them' cos they're my babies, but just something I wanted to try for myself after years away.
In 2015...
It had only been a few weeks since Penny had grabbed The Other Girl's hand at the bridge, and her twin/manifestation of trauma/split personality/whatever had promised “more fun than ever”. It had been ridiculous to trust her. With her purpose gone, as The Other Girl put Critic, she was actually just around more than ever. The club wouldn't stop being busy and everyone was frayed and breaking and “I gotta leave before I overdose on Christmas Eve too” was in their eyes, and that combination must have been like crack to her.
The Other Girl might have been having the time of her life, but Penny was done. One night, in a cold March, she doesn't bother turning the lights on in her apartment. The street lamps guide her to the kitchen, she takes a knife out and rams it into her stomach.
It takes half an hour to die. Through the agony she thinks she can hear The Other Girl screaming and, when her brain finally shuts down, the last thing she feels is satisfaction.
Her neighbors only realize she's dead a few days later, a weird stench in the strange girl's place. Officials find the body, rule it a miserable hooker's way of getting out, and parents are found in Lincolnwood. They grieve, but mostly for all those years of distance.
The Other Girl still exists, but like a shadow, and everything smells like rot.
In 2018...
Donna was walking home when it happened. The club was over, everyone had scattered like ash (and some actually were) to other places of the world, some relationships cracked beyond repair and others were no doubt going to be BFFs forever.
As for her, she was working in a dump of a bar and money was slowly running out. The past few years had taught her to put a guard up and she didn't need to talk to anyone or ask for help. Guarded walls came with pride that was difficult to shake.
She's rushing through a cramped short-cut, which don't start, she knows. She was tired of being pushed around on busy sidewalks, and her habit of not bringing comfortable shoes to work hadn't died.
“Gimme your money lady.” In the little light she had, she could tell he was bigger than her.
“I don't have any, fuck off,” she said hoarsely. He was in front of her, and clearly had a knife, but she could step on him and run?
It doesn't work like that. He grabs her, she struggles, he knocks her down on the hard surface and she lands right on her back, skull cracking. Through her shock, and the blood spilling onto the curls that she'd always kept so nice, she can faintly see him making a break for it.
What a waste, is the last thought she has, although she's not sure what the specifics of that are.
In 2057...
When she hears the news that she has liver failure, Lucy cackles. Eduard and the doctor think it's the kind of laughter to hide from crying, but really she's just laughing. She's lucky she made it to seventy, she figured she'd get stabbed in her twenties.
Eduard's puppy like expression, still there under wrinkles, and his hand on her knee steadies her as the doctor talks about options, but it's only because she's not a complete selfish cow that she doesn't walk right out of there and get herself a martini.
On the other hand... “I don't want treatment”. Her voice is clear.
The doctor doesn't seem too perturbed, but Eduard looks at her confused. “May- may I speak with my wife outside?”
“Of course.”
She doesn't let him get out a word when they're alone together, just kisses him like he's still the only man in the world for her. “My darling,” she says kindly, holding his face in his hands. “I don't want to die in a hospital bed. I want to die in our home, with you being the last person I looked at in my life.”
Stroking her hands with his, knowing there's nothing he can say, he nods. “I love you.”
She kisses him again. “I love you too.”
When the time comes, it's harder than she thought. Her body hurts, her skin is yellow, and she keeps crying when Eduard has to remind her of what she's forgotten five minutes ago.
But as she slips away, in bed, holding his hand, and fulfilling her promise, she can't think of any regrets. Not in Louisana, not in the many homes of New York, definitely not in Chicago.
In 2059...
When her mom dies from Sudden Cardiac Death, in her living room, at 65, Gwen doesn't cry. She's in her forties, and her mother's sometimes desperate reassurances of what a brave girl she is (she had got pretty early on that her mother was the “my daughter needs to have better self esteem than I do” type) ring in her head as the doctors explain to her what she already knows, that Mary Jane Kelly, widow of Joe Vargas, had always been sickly; with a family history of heart problems and that a good few years in Chicago... partying (if she was younger she would have told him straight up that her mother was a sex worker, who probably fucked doctors like him who'd cheated on their wives) had only heightened her risk.
As she starts to clean the small house - mom was tidy but never seemed to be able to throw out clothes - more memories start to pop up. Her mother jumping up and down in glee when she'd told her she's got a job as a product manager at a video game company (“I don't know what you'll do but your dad would be so proud! I'm so proud! Please don't get awful abuse from the internet!”), her mother squeezing her ten year old hand after getting the news that her husband had died from his injuries, the fact that her hair had never changed from pale red, the look of anger on her face when a crummy boyfriend of Gwen's had made a joke about dead hookers in a ditch.
For the first time in a good few days, she smiles. Her mama was so much stronger than she'd gave herself credit for.
In 2064...
Stacey spends her final days in Pine Ridge. It's a nice place, though she still has enough of her mind to wish sometimes that she had a private room. What can you do on an cashier/private tutor's wages (plus a popular book about sex work, she likes to note out loud), a lot of student debt, and no children to help out? Her nieces and nephews will come over though, at least once a month even though they live all over, and wheel her around the village. Wappinger Falls is still so pretty, and she always requests they take her to Grinnell Library, the place she read in for thirty years.
The sun is setting one day when she feels very sleepy, though she's sure it's the (not puree'd, something she's proud of) omelettes she had for dinner, and settles in a recliner between her bed and her window, with a copy of the The Handmaid's Tale in her hand (not her old copy, but niece Anna had procured her a new one, just for memory's sake) and a glass of apple juice on the counter.
If there's an afterlife, she'll apologize to the author for dying after the first chapter.
In 2073...
Andrew couldn't bring himself to put his mother in a care home. Having invested in care homes himself, he's seen too many adults lose their function and it's already painful enough. So when his mom started having trouble walking, having trouble seeing through watery eyes, having trouble remembering anyone but him, he dips into his savings and gets her the best live in carers he can afford.
If he's honest, he's mostly just angry. Not at the people looking after her, he would have got them fired if there was any whiff of mistreatment, but at both her first husband (his biological father) and her dickbag second 'love' who turned out to be just as bad as the first, neither had helped.
He was also angry at her at well. She'd looked after him by dancing on stage, going without food because he was coughing as a kid (her friend Lucy had told him this when he was having a strop as a teenager, that shut him up), and dealing with god knows how many
creepy men to keep a roof over his head. All he could do in return was pay people to make sure she didn't get bed-sores when she couldn't leave the bed, keep the photos of Chicago friends on the mantelpiece (because even though she didn't remember, she would never want them gone) and read to her before he goes home to Meadow.
Even after she passes in her sleep, peacefully, at 90 years old, and having given him a sloppy kiss on his hand a few hours previously, it still doesn't feel like enough.
Characters: Penny, The Other Girl, Donna, Lucy, Eduard, Mary, Gwen, Stacey, Liz, Andrew
Word Count: 1563
Warnings: Death, suicide, various issues that come with old age (if you want something specific tagged I'll do that)
A/N: So, geez, hello wasteland. This might be terrible and morbid and I feel like I've fucked up with tenses, but lately I've been thinking a lot about the club girls, and what they'd be like as older women, and I wanted both closure and to come back to writing them. So this isn't an 'ugh I'm done with them' cos they're my babies, but just something I wanted to try for myself after years away.
In 2015...
It had only been a few weeks since Penny had grabbed The Other Girl's hand at the bridge, and her twin/manifestation of trauma/split personality/whatever had promised “more fun than ever”. It had been ridiculous to trust her. With her purpose gone, as The Other Girl put Critic, she was actually just around more than ever. The club wouldn't stop being busy and everyone was frayed and breaking and “I gotta leave before I overdose on Christmas Eve too” was in their eyes, and that combination must have been like crack to her.
The Other Girl might have been having the time of her life, but Penny was done. One night, in a cold March, she doesn't bother turning the lights on in her apartment. The street lamps guide her to the kitchen, she takes a knife out and rams it into her stomach.
It takes half an hour to die. Through the agony she thinks she can hear The Other Girl screaming and, when her brain finally shuts down, the last thing she feels is satisfaction.
Her neighbors only realize she's dead a few days later, a weird stench in the strange girl's place. Officials find the body, rule it a miserable hooker's way of getting out, and parents are found in Lincolnwood. They grieve, but mostly for all those years of distance.
The Other Girl still exists, but like a shadow, and everything smells like rot.
In 2018...
Donna was walking home when it happened. The club was over, everyone had scattered like ash (and some actually were) to other places of the world, some relationships cracked beyond repair and others were no doubt going to be BFFs forever.
As for her, she was working in a dump of a bar and money was slowly running out. The past few years had taught her to put a guard up and she didn't need to talk to anyone or ask for help. Guarded walls came with pride that was difficult to shake.
She's rushing through a cramped short-cut, which don't start, she knows. She was tired of being pushed around on busy sidewalks, and her habit of not bringing comfortable shoes to work hadn't died.
“Gimme your money lady.” In the little light she had, she could tell he was bigger than her.
“I don't have any, fuck off,” she said hoarsely. He was in front of her, and clearly had a knife, but she could step on him and run?
It doesn't work like that. He grabs her, she struggles, he knocks her down on the hard surface and she lands right on her back, skull cracking. Through her shock, and the blood spilling onto the curls that she'd always kept so nice, she can faintly see him making a break for it.
What a waste, is the last thought she has, although she's not sure what the specifics of that are.
In 2057...
When she hears the news that she has liver failure, Lucy cackles. Eduard and the doctor think it's the kind of laughter to hide from crying, but really she's just laughing. She's lucky she made it to seventy, she figured she'd get stabbed in her twenties.
Eduard's puppy like expression, still there under wrinkles, and his hand on her knee steadies her as the doctor talks about options, but it's only because she's not a complete selfish cow that she doesn't walk right out of there and get herself a martini.
On the other hand... “I don't want treatment”. Her voice is clear.
The doctor doesn't seem too perturbed, but Eduard looks at her confused. “May- may I speak with my wife outside?”
“Of course.”
She doesn't let him get out a word when they're alone together, just kisses him like he's still the only man in the world for her. “My darling,” she says kindly, holding his face in his hands. “I don't want to die in a hospital bed. I want to die in our home, with you being the last person I looked at in my life.”
Stroking her hands with his, knowing there's nothing he can say, he nods. “I love you.”
She kisses him again. “I love you too.”
When the time comes, it's harder than she thought. Her body hurts, her skin is yellow, and she keeps crying when Eduard has to remind her of what she's forgotten five minutes ago.
But as she slips away, in bed, holding his hand, and fulfilling her promise, she can't think of any regrets. Not in Louisana, not in the many homes of New York, definitely not in Chicago.
In 2059...
When her mom dies from Sudden Cardiac Death, in her living room, at 65, Gwen doesn't cry. She's in her forties, and her mother's sometimes desperate reassurances of what a brave girl she is (she had got pretty early on that her mother was the “my daughter needs to have better self esteem than I do” type) ring in her head as the doctors explain to her what she already knows, that Mary Jane Kelly, widow of Joe Vargas, had always been sickly; with a family history of heart problems and that a good few years in Chicago... partying (if she was younger she would have told him straight up that her mother was a sex worker, who probably fucked doctors like him who'd cheated on their wives) had only heightened her risk.
As she starts to clean the small house - mom was tidy but never seemed to be able to throw out clothes - more memories start to pop up. Her mother jumping up and down in glee when she'd told her she's got a job as a product manager at a video game company (“I don't know what you'll do but your dad would be so proud! I'm so proud! Please don't get awful abuse from the internet!”), her mother squeezing her ten year old hand after getting the news that her husband had died from his injuries, the fact that her hair had never changed from pale red, the look of anger on her face when a crummy boyfriend of Gwen's had made a joke about dead hookers in a ditch.
For the first time in a good few days, she smiles. Her mama was so much stronger than she'd gave herself credit for.
In 2064...
Stacey spends her final days in Pine Ridge. It's a nice place, though she still has enough of her mind to wish sometimes that she had a private room. What can you do on an cashier/private tutor's wages (plus a popular book about sex work, she likes to note out loud), a lot of student debt, and no children to help out? Her nieces and nephews will come over though, at least once a month even though they live all over, and wheel her around the village. Wappinger Falls is still so pretty, and she always requests they take her to Grinnell Library, the place she read in for thirty years.
The sun is setting one day when she feels very sleepy, though she's sure it's the (not puree'd, something she's proud of) omelettes she had for dinner, and settles in a recliner between her bed and her window, with a copy of the The Handmaid's Tale in her hand (not her old copy, but niece Anna had procured her a new one, just for memory's sake) and a glass of apple juice on the counter.
If there's an afterlife, she'll apologize to the author for dying after the first chapter.
In 2073...
Andrew couldn't bring himself to put his mother in a care home. Having invested in care homes himself, he's seen too many adults lose their function and it's already painful enough. So when his mom started having trouble walking, having trouble seeing through watery eyes, having trouble remembering anyone but him, he dips into his savings and gets her the best live in carers he can afford.
If he's honest, he's mostly just angry. Not at the people looking after her, he would have got them fired if there was any whiff of mistreatment, but at both her first husband (his biological father) and her dickbag second 'love' who turned out to be just as bad as the first, neither had helped.
He was also angry at her at well. She'd looked after him by dancing on stage, going without food because he was coughing as a kid (her friend Lucy had told him this when he was having a strop as a teenager, that shut him up), and dealing with god knows how many
creepy men to keep a roof over his head. All he could do in return was pay people to make sure she didn't get bed-sores when she couldn't leave the bed, keep the photos of Chicago friends on the mantelpiece (because even though she didn't remember, she would never want them gone) and read to her before he goes home to Meadow.
Even after she passes in her sleep, peacefully, at 90 years old, and having given him a sloppy kiss on his hand a few hours previously, it still doesn't feel like enough.