Alien Green #13, Off-White 14

[analogbasilisk]

Universe: Beschiverse
Story: Of Rusted Hearts And Greased Palms
Title: There's a word I've said more than any other word: it's sorry, sorry
Colour: Alien Green #13. "I want to believe", Off-White 14. Blow
Supplies and styles: graffiti (May/June challenge), canva, life drawing, resin, photography 
Resin: fandom_empire  Fortune Wheel, Week 4 - Team Challenge (Mistake)
Word count: 508
Rating: T
Warnings: mentioned child abuse, homophobia and mentioned underage sex

The way Mother had screamed and raged would make one think Faith had corrupted every single woman of their circle. Would make one believe she laid her hands on and inside more women than a grown promiscuous adult did. A reputation she didn’t hate but didn’t appreciate either, not when it was quite the excuse for… that Talk.

Calling it “Talk” was probably some kind of charity. Mother talked less than she yelled, spit flying with each insult, each sin she listed. Her fists did more talking, Faith had been quite familiar with Mother’s “I shall fix you” punches. Actually, punches were a little less worse than the kicks. And the belt, the fucking belt.

Faith could settle with fists.

Faith wasn’t sure she thanked Stuart enough for coming to get her when she called him at 1am, asking him to pick her up because the argument with Mother had been bad this time. The “your daughter is fucking the pastor’s daughter” rumour – Faith was a lot more respectful than that, reached her.

Faith hated living in a fucking car, knee aching all the time and counting pennies to buy anything. Her mouth tasted bitter and sour from the cheapest liquor they found and shared. Faith ended up taking over half of it, they shared way too many stories about how their parents saw their queer ass as a perfect punching bag. The way they thought they could beat it out of them.

A lot of alcohol, a lot of child abuse stories, and a little bit of shitty hetero sex with the only boy Faith ever trusted.

A mistake she wished she had been drunk enough to not remember anything. And made her wish she could find a shower in the next ten minutes. Faith climbed out of the sweat and alcohol (with notes of sex still) smelling car, thankful she did have the mind to put the pants and shirt back. It felt gross and sticky overall, was that how trying to be normal felt like? All disgusting and dirty after every time her metaphorical husband wanted to have his pleasure?

Years of homophobia carved into her bones and the familiar taste of blood and tears didn’t help convincing her. Not at all. She was still too angry to feel that stupid need to make Mother proud. (As if she didn’t have sex with her best friend last night partially because she wanted to see if she could be normal. As if she wasn’t thinking about how maybe then you’d be around of me. I want to believe. I want to believe I could be good enough for you.)

Faith sneaked into the front seat and found the couple of half-empty water bottles. She washed her mouth quickly before finding her trusted pack of cheap cigarettes and white lighter. A little of nicotine already helped her brain to feel a little less chaotic. The morning was refreshingly chill, her skin felt too tight and she kinda hated not feeling right.

She hoped didn’t feel the same.