strawberry and chocolate pocky chain with whipped cream and a cherry
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Stepping Stones
Rating: PG-13
Challenge: Strawberry #3: stepping stones, Chocolate #14: vengeance
Toppings/Extras: pocky chain, whipped cream, cherry
Wordcount: 1800
Summary: Pia Rees and Simmins’ lifelong friendship from beginning to end.
Notes: I really want to write more of these long-spanning pocky chains, they’re so useful!
The first time I met Sim was at his granddaddy’s cremation. Yeah, real cheerful stuff, right? His grandpa was the only family he had left, and Ma said he was coming to live with us now. What the fuck? I was seven and he was fifteen.
Didn’t make such a great first impression; I giggled at how his granddad died. Aw, c’mon, someone threw a toaster down from the upper levels and it hit him square on the noggin. Death by falling toaster. Man, I dunno, but Simmins shot me such an awful look and I felt bad for days.
-----
So there he was, at our home. This poky flat me and Ma shared. All he had in the world was the clothes he was standing in and a tin that used to have peaches in it, now full of his granddaddy’s ashes.
“Will the sofa be OK?” Ma asked him, giving him a worried smile. He shrugged, all limp and lost and apathetic.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Thanks, Angie.” Then he turned to look at me. Smiled a little apologetically, like he hoped we’d be friends. Like my seven-year-old self was having any of that. I wanted Ma to myself.
-----
Simmins worked nights and Ma worked during the day. That worked out well ‘cause every though I was sure I didn’t need no babysitter, I did. I used to do everything I could to get Sim into trouble but it never worked.
“Pia, just sit still,” he’d say, all groggy and tired from working all night. “Please.”
“I’m bored,” I’d complain, hopping along the kitchen counter. They were already grimy as, I didn’t see why it mattered. Then I’d hop back along the opposite way.
“D’you want to go over with Mrs Kenwyn?” he asked.
“Ugh. No!”
“Then shut up.”
-----
It was early in the morning and I was so confused and sleepy but I had to get up when I heard Ma shriek, just had to. You never know what’s going to happen in the kind of place I live in and usually it’s nothing good.
Sim was stood in the main room, hand clamped on his arm, blood all over the place. He was all white and strained, even his button-blue eyes looked paler somehow. I wasn’t convinced by the wobbly smile.
“Just damn guard dogs,” he muttered.
“Don’t go again,” Ma begged, but we needed the money.
-----
“Goddamn! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
Meet Alan. Fucking scum. Don’t know what Ma ever saw in him. OK, he wasn’t so bad usually and he brought in more money than Sim and Ma and I could, but when he got drunk… he was a mean bastard.
“That’s enough, Alan,” Sim snapped. A man by then: I was twelve, he was twenty. He was skinny but a damn sight stronger than me or my Ma. There was shoving, bloody noses, with Ma all hollering in the middle. What good did it do?
I just stayed in the corner and burned inside.
-----
Natalie and Mel were my best ever friends. We were a girly gang of three. I met ‘em when me and Ma moved to Bristol Spire; we lived on the second floor and had a nice little community in there. It was home. Sim lived on his own by then but he still came by lots.
For some reason Natalie had the biggest crush on him. She’d spend hours scraping make-up around her face whenever I let her know he was coming.
“Seriously, Nat?” I’d ask her, unimpressed, leaning against the doorway into her bedroom. She’d only grin.
-----
Fifteen is too young to be dating a twenty-eight year old, but like I gave a shit. Stupid, I was so stupid.
“How long’ve we known each other?” Tay slurred at me. “How long?”
“I dunno, Tay,” I replied, keeping my eye fixed to the table. Why’d he always have to cause a scene at the pub?
“How long’ve we been together? Don’t you know?”
“Three months,” Simmins said from opposite. “Isn’t it?”
He didn’t have a clue and neither did I.
“D’yer love me?” Tay asked, suddenly grabbing my wrist.
Simmins stood up then and he didn’t look happy.
-----
I was still fifteen on the night of the Valeway Riot.
It happened so quick. Gangs on the streets, guns and knives and bombs and shouting and pushing and faces streaked with blood. Our little place in Bristol Spire got overrun and the electricity went out. They upper levels even called in the fucking military.
A bomb went off. Plaster, dust, blood. I was shell-shocked for hours or minutes or days. Sim came for me. Grabbed my wrist. Dragged me off.
“Sim,” I said. “Sim, Ma’s dead.”
“I know,” he replied. “I’m so sorry, Pia.”
But it wasn’t his fault.
-----
After that I lived with him. He was still doing his burgling, and I pretended to work in a sweatshop but they’d chucked me out long ago. I worked as a hooker. I had dreams. I wanted a streetbike, wanted to be a racer. I wanted it so damn much.
“Look at this beast,” Simmins laughed, oil all over his face, his hands. His granddad was a mechanic for the Firebirds. I guess he must’ve taught him something, ‘cause Simmins made me the most wonderful bike.
“Oh my fuckin’ God, Sim,” was all I could say. “Oh my fuckin’ God!”
-----
“What the hell have you been doin’, Pia?” Simmins demanded. He was angry. Simmins never got angry. It happened too much.
I’d had Alan, I’d had Tay, I’d had countless other men over my time as a prostitute-including the one that had given me the fucking smashed-up face that Sim was staring at. Some men just got rowdy and I got a good few punches in but not before he’d whacked me.
“At work,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.
“I called in on the factory, Pia,” he said darkly. “You ain’t been there months.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
-----
One minute it was all going swell, the next there was this jerk and this screech and this bang and shit…
The bike hit something, swung this way and that, looked like it was gonna regain and then-
It bucked and fell and the engine choked and I landed on my arm and it was like everything went black and white for a second, hit by this lightning bolt of pain.
“Fuck!” I knew it was broken, knew it. And there Simmins was to scoop me up, my brother, my best friend. I cried like a kid in his arms.
-----
I was laughing and shouting as I hit the water. It was cold and deep and there was this big rushing boom when I went below the surface and popped back up again like a cork. I shook out my hair, sending droplets showering, floated onto my back.
“Fuck! It’s cold!” I shouted and it echoed from the metal above me.
Simmins was looking at me like I’d gone fucking mental.
“You’ve got your clothes on,” he said, like I needed telling. He frowned. “And mind your language, Pia!”
I laughed like you wouldn’t even believe and splashed at him.
-----
My temper ain’t something I’m proud of. It just comes out at the weirdest times. Maybe I’m just a naturally angry person. From what I heard, my old man was too. Whatever, I used to lose it and get into a lot of scraps.
It always ended the same way: someone’d call Sim.
He’d grab my shoulders, turn me to face him. Look at me real slow.
“Calm down,” he’d order me.
“Fuck off, Sim, just fuck off. You’re not my fucking dad. Stop trying to tell me what to do.”
Then I’d follow him home and go to sleep.
-----
Everyone should have a Simmins when they get sick. He’d barricade me into the house and tell me I weren’t working, no matter how much we needed the dosh. He’d bring me warm food and stroke my skanky, sweaty forehead which I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole if I were him.
It was so bad at night, though, when he had to go work.
I hated being such a pathetic baby but I’d beg him, beg him not to go. Being in that house alone made me want to die. I couldn’t sleep unless he was there for me.
-----
“I’m off,” I announced, opening a scabby little knapsack up and chucking in my few flimsy possessions. Some clothes. Some make-up. Bits and pieces which I didn’t need, just wanted.
“What?” he asked, frowning at me blearily. Tough burglary last night. My sleepy little Sim. I grinned and ruffled his stupid, too-long hair.
“Got some deal on the upper levels. Sweet, eh?”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” He came towards me, looked at my packing. “Pia…?”
“I’ll be back when it’s over,” I said. “The lady said the pay’s good.”
I skipped out of the place like it was that simple.
-----
O’course, he followed after me.
“Pia, what’re you doin’?” he demanded, sleepy-eyed and dazed. It made me smile, how cute he looked. “You can’t just go runnin’ off with strangers. Who is she?”
“Some bint from the upper levels,” I said easily. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it sorted.”
“Where are you goin’ to be?” he asked. “You’re nineteen, Pia! You can’t just-…”
“Quit your worryin’!” I flung my arms around him in a big hug. He looked stunned; I hardly ever show my affection. I’m not that kind of girl.
“Look after yourself,” he said, quiet and uncertain.
-----
The next time I saw Sim, he was dying.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Sim?” I was asking around a faceful of tears. Shit. I couldn’t stop crying. “What the fuck?”
He looked at me, blood slickening the floor around him, his stomach a big old mess. My smiley, sleepy Simmins, all shot to pulp.
“Came lookin’ for you,” he said, stupidly calm. “I can’t feel my hands.”
I grabbed one, rubbed it. Held it so tight.
“There, Sim, there. That better?”
He smiled.
“Much better,” he said. “Thank you, Pia.”
I was nearly convinced.
Then he died.
-----
There’s nothing like it, really, there ain’t. It felt like big chunks of me were ripped out and thrown all over the place. Turned to dust and scattered. I felt so blind and cold and dead and hurt and empty. I couldn’t function any more. My blood turned black inside me.
I had to kill the fucker that shot Sim. There was no way around it.
And if I died too? No problem. Better than if I didn’t, actually. ‘Cause I needed Sim he needed me. We worked as a pair, see?
It was always going to be us two.
Title: Stepping Stones
Rating: PG-13
Challenge: Strawberry #3: stepping stones, Chocolate #14: vengeance
Toppings/Extras: pocky chain, whipped cream, cherry
Wordcount: 1800
Summary: Pia Rees and Simmins’ lifelong friendship from beginning to end.
Notes: I really want to write more of these long-spanning pocky chains, they’re so useful!
The first time I met Sim was at his granddaddy’s cremation. Yeah, real cheerful stuff, right? His grandpa was the only family he had left, and Ma said he was coming to live with us now. What the fuck? I was seven and he was fifteen.
Didn’t make such a great first impression; I giggled at how his granddad died. Aw, c’mon, someone threw a toaster down from the upper levels and it hit him square on the noggin. Death by falling toaster. Man, I dunno, but Simmins shot me such an awful look and I felt bad for days.
-----
So there he was, at our home. This poky flat me and Ma shared. All he had in the world was the clothes he was standing in and a tin that used to have peaches in it, now full of his granddaddy’s ashes.
“Will the sofa be OK?” Ma asked him, giving him a worried smile. He shrugged, all limp and lost and apathetic.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Thanks, Angie.” Then he turned to look at me. Smiled a little apologetically, like he hoped we’d be friends. Like my seven-year-old self was having any of that. I wanted Ma to myself.
-----
Simmins worked nights and Ma worked during the day. That worked out well ‘cause every though I was sure I didn’t need no babysitter, I did. I used to do everything I could to get Sim into trouble but it never worked.
“Pia, just sit still,” he’d say, all groggy and tired from working all night. “Please.”
“I’m bored,” I’d complain, hopping along the kitchen counter. They were already grimy as, I didn’t see why it mattered. Then I’d hop back along the opposite way.
“D’you want to go over with Mrs Kenwyn?” he asked.
“Ugh. No!”
“Then shut up.”
-----
It was early in the morning and I was so confused and sleepy but I had to get up when I heard Ma shriek, just had to. You never know what’s going to happen in the kind of place I live in and usually it’s nothing good.
Sim was stood in the main room, hand clamped on his arm, blood all over the place. He was all white and strained, even his button-blue eyes looked paler somehow. I wasn’t convinced by the wobbly smile.
“Just damn guard dogs,” he muttered.
“Don’t go again,” Ma begged, but we needed the money.
-----
“Goddamn! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
Meet Alan. Fucking scum. Don’t know what Ma ever saw in him. OK, he wasn’t so bad usually and he brought in more money than Sim and Ma and I could, but when he got drunk… he was a mean bastard.
“That’s enough, Alan,” Sim snapped. A man by then: I was twelve, he was twenty. He was skinny but a damn sight stronger than me or my Ma. There was shoving, bloody noses, with Ma all hollering in the middle. What good did it do?
I just stayed in the corner and burned inside.
-----
Natalie and Mel were my best ever friends. We were a girly gang of three. I met ‘em when me and Ma moved to Bristol Spire; we lived on the second floor and had a nice little community in there. It was home. Sim lived on his own by then but he still came by lots.
For some reason Natalie had the biggest crush on him. She’d spend hours scraping make-up around her face whenever I let her know he was coming.
“Seriously, Nat?” I’d ask her, unimpressed, leaning against the doorway into her bedroom. She’d only grin.
-----
Fifteen is too young to be dating a twenty-eight year old, but like I gave a shit. Stupid, I was so stupid.
“How long’ve we known each other?” Tay slurred at me. “How long?”
“I dunno, Tay,” I replied, keeping my eye fixed to the table. Why’d he always have to cause a scene at the pub?
“How long’ve we been together? Don’t you know?”
“Three months,” Simmins said from opposite. “Isn’t it?”
He didn’t have a clue and neither did I.
“D’yer love me?” Tay asked, suddenly grabbing my wrist.
Simmins stood up then and he didn’t look happy.
-----
I was still fifteen on the night of the Valeway Riot.
It happened so quick. Gangs on the streets, guns and knives and bombs and shouting and pushing and faces streaked with blood. Our little place in Bristol Spire got overrun and the electricity went out. They upper levels even called in the fucking military.
A bomb went off. Plaster, dust, blood. I was shell-shocked for hours or minutes or days. Sim came for me. Grabbed my wrist. Dragged me off.
“Sim,” I said. “Sim, Ma’s dead.”
“I know,” he replied. “I’m so sorry, Pia.”
But it wasn’t his fault.
-----
After that I lived with him. He was still doing his burgling, and I pretended to work in a sweatshop but they’d chucked me out long ago. I worked as a hooker. I had dreams. I wanted a streetbike, wanted to be a racer. I wanted it so damn much.
“Look at this beast,” Simmins laughed, oil all over his face, his hands. His granddad was a mechanic for the Firebirds. I guess he must’ve taught him something, ‘cause Simmins made me the most wonderful bike.
“Oh my fuckin’ God, Sim,” was all I could say. “Oh my fuckin’ God!”
-----
“What the hell have you been doin’, Pia?” Simmins demanded. He was angry. Simmins never got angry. It happened too much.
I’d had Alan, I’d had Tay, I’d had countless other men over my time as a prostitute-including the one that had given me the fucking smashed-up face that Sim was staring at. Some men just got rowdy and I got a good few punches in but not before he’d whacked me.
“At work,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.
“I called in on the factory, Pia,” he said darkly. “You ain’t been there months.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
-----
One minute it was all going swell, the next there was this jerk and this screech and this bang and shit…
The bike hit something, swung this way and that, looked like it was gonna regain and then-
It bucked and fell and the engine choked and I landed on my arm and it was like everything went black and white for a second, hit by this lightning bolt of pain.
“Fuck!” I knew it was broken, knew it. And there Simmins was to scoop me up, my brother, my best friend. I cried like a kid in his arms.
-----
I was laughing and shouting as I hit the water. It was cold and deep and there was this big rushing boom when I went below the surface and popped back up again like a cork. I shook out my hair, sending droplets showering, floated onto my back.
“Fuck! It’s cold!” I shouted and it echoed from the metal above me.
Simmins was looking at me like I’d gone fucking mental.
“You’ve got your clothes on,” he said, like I needed telling. He frowned. “And mind your language, Pia!”
I laughed like you wouldn’t even believe and splashed at him.
-----
My temper ain’t something I’m proud of. It just comes out at the weirdest times. Maybe I’m just a naturally angry person. From what I heard, my old man was too. Whatever, I used to lose it and get into a lot of scraps.
It always ended the same way: someone’d call Sim.
He’d grab my shoulders, turn me to face him. Look at me real slow.
“Calm down,” he’d order me.
“Fuck off, Sim, just fuck off. You’re not my fucking dad. Stop trying to tell me what to do.”
Then I’d follow him home and go to sleep.
-----
Everyone should have a Simmins when they get sick. He’d barricade me into the house and tell me I weren’t working, no matter how much we needed the dosh. He’d bring me warm food and stroke my skanky, sweaty forehead which I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole if I were him.
It was so bad at night, though, when he had to go work.
I hated being such a pathetic baby but I’d beg him, beg him not to go. Being in that house alone made me want to die. I couldn’t sleep unless he was there for me.
-----
“I’m off,” I announced, opening a scabby little knapsack up and chucking in my few flimsy possessions. Some clothes. Some make-up. Bits and pieces which I didn’t need, just wanted.
“What?” he asked, frowning at me blearily. Tough burglary last night. My sleepy little Sim. I grinned and ruffled his stupid, too-long hair.
“Got some deal on the upper levels. Sweet, eh?”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” He came towards me, looked at my packing. “Pia…?”
“I’ll be back when it’s over,” I said. “The lady said the pay’s good.”
I skipped out of the place like it was that simple.
-----
O’course, he followed after me.
“Pia, what’re you doin’?” he demanded, sleepy-eyed and dazed. It made me smile, how cute he looked. “You can’t just go runnin’ off with strangers. Who is she?”
“Some bint from the upper levels,” I said easily. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it sorted.”
“Where are you goin’ to be?” he asked. “You’re nineteen, Pia! You can’t just-…”
“Quit your worryin’!” I flung my arms around him in a big hug. He looked stunned; I hardly ever show my affection. I’m not that kind of girl.
“Look after yourself,” he said, quiet and uncertain.
-----
The next time I saw Sim, he was dying.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Sim?” I was asking around a faceful of tears. Shit. I couldn’t stop crying. “What the fuck?”
He looked at me, blood slickening the floor around him, his stomach a big old mess. My smiley, sleepy Simmins, all shot to pulp.
“Came lookin’ for you,” he said, stupidly calm. “I can’t feel my hands.”
I grabbed one, rubbed it. Held it so tight.
“There, Sim, there. That better?”
He smiled.
“Much better,” he said. “Thank you, Pia.”
I was nearly convinced.
Then he died.
-----
There’s nothing like it, really, there ain’t. It felt like big chunks of me were ripped out and thrown all over the place. Turned to dust and scattered. I felt so blind and cold and dead and hurt and empty. I couldn’t function any more. My blood turned black inside me.
I had to kill the fucker that shot Sim. There was no way around it.
And if I died too? No problem. Better than if I didn’t, actually. ‘Cause I needed Sim he needed me. We worked as a pair, see?
It was always going to be us two.