[trans]

name; vivi (full name is vivian)
gender; demigirl (she/they)
sexuality; lesbian

theme song; dead girl walking (reprise) - heathers musical
explanation; vivi used to be in a toxic friendship. it wasnt very healthy for either of them, and vivi still blames herself for what happened. she often wonders what things would be like if their lives had been different, if they werent the people they were, if they'd never met at all. still, she feels bitter over the messy conclusion her life led up to, and wishes most of all she could do it all over again. she wishes things had been better, things had been less messy and complicated, wishes things could go back to when she was young, before she even knew of the commitments she was getting herself into and the problems that came with them.

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writing;


She should be here.

She should be here, and it's all your fault she's not.

You should've guessed it. You should've seen the signs. You should have known.

But you didn't. And now she's gone, actually gone, and you really won't ever see her again. And it's all your fault.

Maybe, maybe if you'd looked closer, really thought about what she was saying, remembered she used to say she never wanted to go to college, then you could've done something. Maybe you could've..

(Made it worse.)

No! No, no, you would've helped her, you would've made sure she was okay, you would've talked her out of it! You wouldn't have let your best friend go down without an ounce of fight in her!

(You would've made it worse.)

You look over the railing with a bitter expression, a resentful expression, an expression that can't decide between being mad and being sad, instead of dignifying the voice in your head with a response.

Maybe you would have made it worse. Maybe you would've messed everything up. But you would've hated it more if you hadn't tried at all. And you hadn't. You hadn't even stopped by. You hadn't even considered.

(That's your problem. You never think about anyone but yourself.)

It's right. You're selfish, so so so selfish, and now you're talking to yourself because you never gave anyone else a second glance when you were friends with her.

(It's all your fault.)

It Is. You know that. You know that, and you wish you could take it back. You wish, you wish so badly that you could do it all over.

(Are you happy? This is your fault.)

You don't answer.


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writing;


She holds your hand like you're the person she'd spend the end of the world with, and you feel your heart beat fervently in your chest, and you think if it could, it'd be physically glowing right now.

"C'mon, we've got tons more rides to go on!" She looks back at you, a big grin on her face, and you quicken your pace to match hers, tucking in your wings so the wind doesn't catch them and slow you down.

She says she's leaving soon, but she won't tell you where. You don't mind, because you don't want to ever make her feel like she has to answer you, but you're also really curious. Just a few weeks ago, she laughed at the idea of ever leaving this little town. Now, she was "making plans, big plans."

That's why you're here. She's leaving to live a better life in a few days, at most a little over a week, and this is the one last hurrah before she's gone forever.

It all feels so surreal, even more so when mixed in with a potentially lethal dosage of nostalgia. (As if nostalgia could kill you, hah. i w i s h)

Maybe that's why you feel so bad--nostalgia. You've spent so long with her, you can't imagine not having her in your life, having her be just down the street in her perfectly perfect house, with her not-so-perfect-parents who're trying their best, and her obnoxious neighbors that you've just come to see as part of the package.

You didn't mind, or maybe you just tried to convince yourself you didn't because this is your friend, you should be supporting her, you shouldn't drag her down in your puddle of sorrow and drown you both, or maybe you. You don't know. You just know now you do.

And it hurts. She says she'll send you emails and pictures and postcards whenever she can, but it doesn't feel the same as waking up, going to her house, and walking with her to the bus stop and chatting it up until her bus came to take her to school.

School. Right. She says she's going away to find a nice college, a "better one than the one in this old hick town who's glory days have long been over." She says she's going off to plan the life of her dreams, and she can't do it here.

(She can't do it with you.)

No, no that's selfish. She has a right, you can't take that away from her. You're her friend, you have to support her, not push her away and get angry because she wants to live her life. She wants to get away from the people here, the people who hurt her and degraded her and told her she was worthless.

(That doesn't help. That just made you feel worse.)

You swallow around the thick lump in your throat and steel yourself to look up to meet her gaze, watching bright green eyes meet your's and then she smiles at you again.

You wish she'd smile at you more often.


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writing;


You're hiding.

(Cowering.)

You're hiding from them, from the looks of pity or bitter anger and resentment, from the consequences, the after math, the result of a failed relationship that went on too long past its expiry date.

(It's your fault.)

You're hiding because you don't want to face the future, or the present, and definitely not the past. (Coward.) You wish you could exist outside of time, outside of its rules, and not have to worry about anything and everything. (Then you'd be alone.)

You hate this. You hate yourself. You hate her, and you hate them too.

(Only because you want someone to blame.)

"Go away," you hiss, but there's no bite behind it and you know, and the voice inside your head knows, that you didn't mean it. You never mean it.

You want to be angry. Angrier. You want to throw things, have a temper tantrum, scratch up something—you want to do something that proves you're real, you're here, you're important, you exist, you matter.

(But none of those are enough.)

You curl up in a corner that's well-acquainted with your body being smushed up against it, and you curl up in on yourself and wrap your wings around you like a shield, like armor, and you try to feel sorry.

(There's nothing to feel sorry for.)

You dig the sharp points of your hooves into your arms, your hair, around your horns; to try to ground yourself, to try to re-accustom yourself to the feeling, to try to do.. Something. You don't know why you're doing this.

(Because it reminds you of her.)

No. No it's doesn't. That's not true. You did this long before you met her!

(You did it more often because of her, you just don't want to admit it.)

You throw yourself up and snap your jaws at nothing, at the air, and only after minutes of silence and the sound of your teeth snapping together ringing in your ears do you start to feel embarrassment, shame, biting at your skin and trying to get inside you.

(There's no more room. It's already there.)

As much as you hate her, you wish she was here, here with you. You wish she would just magically appear and come through your doorstep and do something, anything that would make this awful, horrible feeling go away. The weight of the world has been on your shoulders for too long, and you feel like it's finally broke and now you're falling, plunging through the clouds and sky to the death that awaits you below. You like to think she'll be there when you fall but you know she won't be waiting for you when you do.

(She won't catch you this time. You don't deserve it.)

You still wish she was here.


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