𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄.

might fuck about and write eivor the big ol lesbian

sagaiisms​.

“Dad dances like someone stepped on his toes.”   It’s true. It’s the regular and well-documented dad-dancing that shifts him from the heel of one foot to the other with a flailing of limbs that Theo’s pretty sure he doesn’t know what to do with... that’s as flashy as he gets. She’s a little standoffish -- has the hems of her sweater sleeves pulled hard over her hands, and she blinks a couple times when her mom asks about the music. (She always thinks she’s alone when she dances -- the makeshift dance studio feels pretty empty and there’s a TV with a VCR she can rewind the same video through. She hasn’t quite figured out all the moves, but she likes watching it over and over until some of it sticks.)

“It’s called Cold Hearted. The video’s pretty cool -- they’re really good at dancing. Not like dad.”

theyeardecembered​.

There’s a clatter that sounds like Kevin’s shoes being kicked from one side of the closet to the other, and that’s fine because Theo’s been telling him to get rid of that specific pair of Nikes that scream mid-life crisis for the past three years. There’s another that sounds like a coat going down, the scrape of the hanger, the muffled thwump of shit falling on top of shit and -- okay. It’s been a long night. Fuck, it’s been a long fucking year. 

(That house will never leave them, and it’s pretty evident after the night they’ve had. It fucking feasts on them, pulls them apart, rib by rib, bone by bone, until there’s nothing but a noose and a greying corpse to make of them. Mom was first. Then Nell. It tried to take Luke, then Steve, then Shirley and Theo, then it went for someone totally fucking innocent. And honestly? They’re lucky to be alive. They’re lucky to -- not be stuck in the goddamn fucking red room. Jesus, there’s a lot to unpack there.)

           “Can I come in?”   It’s cautious. Theo has a pretty good idea of what’s going on -- the first night they met, it was something similar, but it was crouching behind a plant pot just off the porch and she was this close to being convinced that Shirley’s porch light was about to come on and she was going to stare them both down until they shifted it inside or Dani started breathing long enough to make it back to her car. Nice enough. Big pile of emotional issues to deal with. It’s a touch thing.

She tentatively closes a gloved hand around the doorknob and twists it, slowly, carefully, sure to keep everything level and calm because that’s a fucking coat closet and she’s cowered in the corner like there’s a whole spate of monsters sitting outside that door. Okay. Monster in the closet. Monster under the bed. She’s dealt with that kind of situation in kids a fraction of her age with pigtails and scuffed knees -- she can handle this.

                   So she does. She crouches, keeping a little space between the two of them, and eventually eases back on her heels and sits down opposite.

                         “It’s been a pretty fucked up night.”

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She’s used to being in control. Prefers it. She heard the car pull up and rushed to grab her shoes, but there’s something about the walls in Shirley’s guest house -- they’re selectively thin. (She says selective, because she’s pretty sure Shirley would’ve said something about the noise. More so than just calling it the pussy parade.) Oh fuck, she hears the distinct shrill tone of her sister. Something about a girl who comes back that feels kind of alien. Oh fuck, she’s talking to Shirley.

(Theo darts out, hopping into her shoes and slinging her jacket over her shoulder. This feels like a bomb about to go off, and yeah... she wants to avoid that. So she gives her sister a look, and -- oh, good. She can take a hint. Shirley wanders back to the main house, leaving Theo with her keys in one hand and an unlaced boot on her foot.)

           “I see you’ve, uh. Met my sister.”  Cue the awkward smile. Fuck you, Shirl.

suresaint​.

Theo feels her jaw set. Of fucking course she sounds like a jealous sibling pushed out of a windfall of cash. And honestly, fifteen grand had just about finished covering her PhD and the piece of shit book that would, theoretically, make all of them rich if they’d stuck around longer than the eight percent royalty cheque Steve decided to write out, but holy fuck. And yeah, that kind of stings, because if it had just been about money, Theo can learn a thing or two from Luke. Stealing. Cheating. Lying. There are easier ways of getting rich than fucking with that house.

“You should really read Steve’s book. It’s a piece of shit, but you’d at least understand it better. I can assure you, I don’t want a cent from that house. If I’m totally honest, I’d burn it to the ground before letting someone else set foot in there.”   And Steve’s a bastard for letting it go. He’s gone from a struggling writer to something of a sensation and there’s no fucking reason to sell that godforsaken house. (She remembers that night better than he does. He’s black gaps and creaking floorboards. Theo’s watching it through her dad’s fucking eyes and sensing corpses left right and centre. Fuck you, Steve.)

            “The house is going to kill you. The same way it killed my mom, and countless of people before her. You can keep the house. I don’t want it. But lock the doors, and throw away the fucking key.”    She figures it’ll be taken metaphorically. There’s a long stream of mental illness in that house, or something along those lines. But there’s not a single one of them that left that house unscathed -- Luke’s an addict, Nellie’s on the edge nearly every fucking day, Shirley’s a control freak who lives in a funeral home, and Steve chooses to ignore every fucking thing that comes his way. (She knows she’s not in the clear. But it’s easier to sort through everyone else’s problems than fester in her own.)

wellward​.

           “Sounds like quite the project.”   Theo keeps her hands to herself, and tucks them back into her pockets. It’s a comfort thing, really, and there’s a cold that settles itself on her face that Theo hasn’t been able to shake over the past few years. Being a germophobe is infinitely easier than explaining something she’s been trying to get to grips with for a solid thirty years. It breaks any semblance of familiarity, and Doctor Crain moves the next pawn onto the chessboard. She figures there’s a joke in there that’s held behind her teeth. It’s a what, I’m a lesbian so I know everything about hardware and DIY? that revels in a specific kind of levity that Theo’s never awarded herself, so she watches instead.

           “There’s a Home Depot in South Bay.”   Drawer handles. Not exactly her area of expertise, but it beats talking about touch or the way she tugs at the hem of her gloves for any longer than she has to.    “But I’m not Google. I’m sure it’ll come up with somewhere closer.”

twicelit​.

                               People talk. Somehow Theo figures that that isn’t the only reason why mom’s sat opposite her -- imparting advice is one thing, but people talk is another. (She feels like people have been talking all her life. The Crain Kids was nomenclature for the freaks with the dead mom in high school -- Hugh never helped them in that respect. Telling the fucking media that a haunted house killed their mom, then refusing to help clear shit up when it whipped up a frenzy. Alongside Nellie and Luke’s ghost stories, and Steve’s literary butcher’s job... so yeah. People talk.)

              “What, we can’t just hang out?”    For all her sage wisdom, sometimes Theo still has to keep the figment of her own fucking imagination at arm’s length. She takes a sip as she mulls it over -- what does that say about her?

“Rough week at work.”   It leaves pursed lips and Theo picks at the corner of the bottle label. She doesn’t make a habit of this -- something about mom showing up and Theo bearing new wounds feels a little sacrilegious, but hey. She’d prefer to live her actual life.

          “There’s a kid. I can’t get through to her.”

              “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”    There’s a fresh slug of beer that swills around the back of her mouth when she talks, and Theo crosses one leg over the other. She’s alone, thank fuck, because she’s sure it looks like she’s talking to the wall, or the ceiling, or hey, maybe even the bottom of the bottle. But no, there she is. Clear as day. (Theo wouldn’t believe herself if it was anyone else. If Nellie’d come to her and told her she was talking to mom, Theo’d ask her about her medication. And then she’d probably hear it from Shirl about minding her own fucking business -- to which she’d reply that honestly? It probably is her fucking business, Shirl.)

                          “People are gonna talk.”   Another swig is passed through her lips. Theo places the bottle back down against the table.      “Hi mom.”