“It’s an apology– kind of. Like the ones actors make when they realise there’s no way they’re not getting cancelled. You can read it now, if you want.”
I shook my head. “I can’t let her have the last word, Cotton. Otherwise, she’d win.” I’d meant that as a joke, but that was answered with another question about how much progress I’d made on finding a therapist.
I remember the four of us waiting around, partially hungover, and charged with pre-battle fire. March was accosted by Ash nearly immediately as he walked in the door. I’m pretty sure Pearl Harbour was less startled. “[March.] You lied to me?”
But in this particular day, when Avery hadn’t responded to any of my texts, I happened to notice what their last status update was:
“Either I will fix this body or I will destroy it.”
That’s not a good sign.
That’s when April pretended to be struct blind, because of course she did.
One particular night, Cotton, April, and I had just been drinking. I decided to show them both the still-being-renovated front desk at the inn, since I had a key and it was the type of workplace I liked to show off. Then… April pretended she was possessed.
(Disclaimer: Some of you who know me on social media may have seen me talk about Kaspar. I’ll […]
“And I’ve had… five glasses of wine and… five cocktails so… Seven drinks. I was just calling to let you know that… what you did to me last night, it was fucked up. And if I die tonight, it’s out of spite.”
“I wish I could just switch and let someone else handle my problems for a bit.” Well, I don’t know how to do that on command. “Well, yeah, your alters are useless.” … Thanks.
It was quite an auspicious arena for Avery’s blunt, pragmatic, interrogation-esque nature to fight April’s absurd, flighty convolution. Avery’s not the sort of person to exactly filter their reaction, either, so I had a very specific prediction about how this would go:
“Wait, did you JUST say you got hired by BLIZZARD but turned it down? AHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!” I could just hear it now.
There was actually a drinking game based around how often he’d mention “psychology degree.” When asked to prove the existence of said degree, it’s harder to find than Donald Trump’s tax returns.
“And she’s a sociopath, Mum. It’s basically a whole ‘keep your friends close and enemies closer.’ She can’t help it. She has to do this charisma-masking thing. The fact that she hardly paid me any attention is proof that I’m more important to her.” Mates, I was brainwashed, brainwashed.