The Finale || The Last of Autumn St. Claire
She was born April 1st 1994; She figures the date may be the reason why her life is such a joke.
Her grandfather was a man of war; a specific type of war, one where a suit is the uniform and blood was your white flag. To surrender was to die. Her uncle was the one to paint his house with his own blood and that of the innocent ; his two children left to wipe away the tear stains and red streaks from their mother and father and unborn brother. Her father then took the throne, his lips sealed from his wife and son and unborn daughter. She was the unborn daughter.
Her mother was made of silicone and fury. She stood 5’8 with nails almost as sharp as her tongue; a monster of a woman. She graced her eldest son with her narcism and gifts and praise, and her eldest daughter with her looks and slaps and screams that made tears fall until She was nine and there was none left to give her. She gave her youngest son eternal fear and her youngest daughter her disordered mind. She would speak little to her husband who now was so invested in his war that he no longer had time to give his children anything.
She was blessed with dark hair and long legs and nice breast size which would later come in handy when She would realize looks were all She currently had.
She spent her younger years falling off balance beams and tripping in child-sized high heels, failing singing lessons and tripping on the dance floor. She was the tornado and her mother’s dreams was the house not quite built properly into the ground ; She wrecked and crushed everything in her path, leaving nothing but a wasteland of kicks and slaps and hot-iron burns.
Middle school came around, knocking her off her feet and onto the ground ; appalled by the boys and the girls and the lockers and the teachers — oh my. Her mother, attempting to built back the house her Tornado destroyed put in a new foundation — if She failed the talent section in the pageant of life, who’s to say She couldn’t win miss popularity?
With the stronger foundation, the Tornado ceased to destroy her mother’s hopes and dreams, and instead moved on to those who were not of the same status as She. She wrecked and destroyed and smiled bitterly as She tore down the smart kids with the lisp and crooked nose, the pretty girls who slept with the boys, the glassy-eyed pot smoking kids who would laugh at everything but the words She spat out at them.
Her cruelty earned her fame instead of shame and She rose to the top. By high school She was welcomed in with open arms ; arms that held a knife that would stab anyone in the back if given the chance. She spent her ninth grade year laughing at the losers and batting eyes at the boys. By tenth grade her teeth were sharped by the harsh words that left her mouth ; spreading rumors about girls sleeping with teachers and flirting with boys who She’d cackle at.
Junior year the high began to escape her and She felt her bitterness soak into her ; becoming herself rather than something felt to laugh at the others. Soon She was spitting out remarks with little thought, not a care to who heard them or whether or not they were actually hurt. Her apathy increased and soon it was everything. The exciting things became a routine, going to parties was like getting up with fifty pound weights on each shoulder. Food began to taste the same, a grey plate of nothingness ; and her mind felt far more empty. She was tired and apathetic and cared less and less about herself. Showering was difficult and standing became a chore. Waking up each morning was suddenly something She never wanted to do again. She was no longer herself. She was just Plastic.
She spent the June to senior year going to sleepovers and gossiping about things that sent her into a coma. By July the leader of her “clique” used her magic Plastic powers to coerce her to leave the bed and go to a party at a house that would be filled to the brim with private school boys who were just waiting to be blessed with their presence. She painted her face and curled her hair ; dear lord, please give me a reason not to go to this party. The routine. She contemplated excuse after excuse, finding a good one when they pulled up to the party.
Not a single private school boy was there. She was surrounded by the very people She’d hope to avoid in a house clouded with pot-smoke and alcohol breath. She did not know a soul, other than the girls that had persuaded her to get there to began with. Her short time alone in a corner was interrupted by a boy only slightly taller than her. If it had been the halls of school She would have a brainwashed muscle head force him out of the way. She forced herself to hold back a snide comment to find it physically impossible and instead tossed back another cheap drink She’d found placed upon a table. She spent the time he stood before her staring off into the distance, pretending to not care and not be listening as She always did. The routine. He spent the time continuing to speak to her, as if She was listening — which She was, despite her complete distaste towards the boy.
It was only then did She realize She did not have a complete distaste towards the boy. She hardly knew the boy. The Plastic had a complete distaste towards the boy.
So that was the summer of sneaking on trains and jumping of planes and watching movies and interrupting plays and 50+ missed text messages from her friends and promises to pretend it all never happened and a romance that wasn’t actually a romance at all. She just wanted it to be one.
And after September hit and school started the Plastic was back. She spewed out insults and cruel remarks and told stories of that summer She met a one of those private school boys and spent it hooking up with him and many of his gorgeous friends.
Winter break was spent in the sun. Her mother flew the family to Bora Bora, to have a great time tanning and family bonding. Family bonding consisted of her father flying back and forth and back and forth. Her mother would yell if anyone got within five feet of her. Oldest brother spent his time with the gender no one assumed he was attracted to. Her younger brother had no family, flirting with girls and going to their suites instead of his own. Her youngest sister sat in the shade, her science books to keep her company while she soaked up her secret world of biology and chemistry. And She spent it in her small swimsuit, putting on a show for the boys so they would buy her a drink that she could toss back with little to no care.
Her return home was when She was graced with the voices of many welcoming her back, greeting her girls to listen in on the latest gossip that She didn’t actually care that much to hear. The voices blurred together, subtracting one in particular that She’d figure was one lost to Boston. Her summer adventures had not occurred but other half of the not-romance was standing in front of her. The same name. Same face. But their past was to be forgotten. All involving Wesley O’Hearn previous to that moment was to be forgotten.
So She continued with the gossip and cruelty ; the endless consumption of drinks to forget that She was stuck in some lifeless purgatory between apathy and hatred. She stuck to her only friend who, like her, had been gutted and turned into a Plastic shell ; and they laughed at the lesser people (who very often consisted of Wesley O’Hearn) and planned spa days and pretended they were something so better than they actually were. The very little time She was sober She spent flirting with a boy who She cared little about. She took him in, using him to fuck away the lifeless feeling. To pretend She wasn’t completely hollow.
The white linoleum that was never quite white enough was under her tall heels when she found out she was rotting. And despite the sudden awareness that her liver was becoming a corpse that would soon spread to the rest of her, she could not help but be annoyed that the linoleum was the thing she had to stand upon when finding out such news.
A school trip to London was what got her to ignore the feeling of a deteriorating liver. The tall buildings that were beautiful but not completely remarkable distracted her from the fact that She was to die within the next year. She spent that trip continuing to fuck away the hollowness with the boy She’d become good friends with, despite the fact that She was only using him. It wasn’t until She met a boy whom She probably was not allowed to talk to at all. It was on that trip to London that She did fully understand the fact that She only had a year to live. So take advantage of what time She had left She would.
She began to date this boy, this Tall Boy with Messy Brown Hair that She thought was absolutely beautiful. She ignored the things her friends began to say, about how She was being stupid — how could She date someone of such lower status? She managed to keep her high title until little miss Marie Antoinette had her head chopped off. She shoved her worries about her dethroning into the back of her mind ; pretending that the only thing that made her more than a pretty girl with a rich daddy was thrown away. She pretended, and by the time that She couldn’t bear to anymore, that tall boy with the messy brown hair said something. Something that made her heart seize up and caused her breath to stop and her have to bite back to automatic grin on her face. Those three special words.
"I love you"
Three words which gave a point to exist that wasn’t just to spite everyone. Three words that She had been waiting for her entire life. Three words She waited for before bedtime each and every night but never received. Three words that would’ve given her the acceptance She needed so long ago. Three words that melted her ice-cold heart and threw it into the hands of this tall boy with messy brown hair.
Her days were filled with pink roses and sunshine ; with the abrupt inclusion of emotional breakdowns. Slowly “I love you” began to turn to a montage of cheating and drugs and oncoming death and She was back to being the Tornado — wrecking everything in her path. The tears spilt every single night became bedtime kisses. There were break ups that pushed that Tall Boy with Messy Brown Hair to a suicide attempt ; which led her to urged the relationship of that Tall Boy with Messy Brown Hair and her unexpected Parter-in-Crime: the girl with the red hair and horrible reputation, the girl that the Tall Boy with Messy Brown Hair so obviously loved more than anything in the world.
From that came promises and assisted suicides, through the aid of a rebellious Little Red Head that She so often bickered with and so often teased. There was a sudden change of plans the moment a needle slipped through her skin ; the Little Red Head called for help and her attempt to grasp an early death had failed.
She spent her time after that watching from the sidelines. Watching is her Parter-in-Crime became pregnant with that Tall Boy with Messy Brown Hair’s child ; watching her lose it. Watching her Wesley O’Hearn decide to like the Pretty Wallflower, of whom She had befriended over the course of her relationship with the Tall Boy. She sat in the corner with a bottle of vodka ; lending a helping hand for the people who really were in worse situations than She was in. Suddenly her mayhem of a relationship seemed petty. Suddenly she realized it was not that relationship that affected her — but the Plastic that was finally melted because of her newfound rebellion against that group.
Wesley O’Hearn died. News which She did not hear from a close friend or family member ; but instead news given to her by a strange girl with crazy hair who decided she was head-over-heels in love with Wesley O’Hearn after they had a few conversations. She was told of Wesley O’Hearn’s death by a crazy person. She denied it long enough that by the time She was just about to accept the fact that the other half of her summer not-romance was dead, he came back from the coma that he apparently was in, making enough jokes about him being Jesus Christ that She wanted to bash his beautiful face in with a sledgehammer.
Then there was a fire.
A fire with flames that licked the curtains and trailed onto beds and onto the young high schooler that slept upon them. Flames that engulfed the boy who had returned to his upscale boarding school after hearing news of his older sisters upcoming death. The boy who did nothing wrong ; but instead hid on the side, avoiding his mothers wrath and the family drama that ate them from the inside out.
She had to identify the body of her younger brother. The black and red peeling flesh and the exposed right arm’s bone and the smell of a rotting boy who once pretended he was superman ; who once drew a self portrait and put it over her mirror with a little “you look better like this” post-it note next to it. That boy.
The next nights were spent guzzling liquor like oxygen and praying to god that her entire life was just a long nightmare and drunkenly going to the house of Wesley O’Hearn and just crying until She felt herself drained of all fluids and questioning why She was left to live when her baby brother was forced to die a miserable death. A death of which the boy would not return from. Not now. Not ever.
Then a new boy came. A flirtatious blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy with the literal broken heart ; not unlike her broken liver. Broken Heart Boy became her frivolous little crush ; a bit light-heartedness was added to her life. The strangeness of the sudden nature in which She went to the boy from the death of her brother was blatant ; but necessary. Distracting herself with something other than alcohol, and instead the idea of having a normal prom on a normal night seemed so absolutely incredible that it made it easy to accept the invitation when it was given to her.
The prom was a bore, despite the old horror movie reenactments that occurred. And instead of going to an after party, She became a part of an accidental group that almost resembled a cult. The Pretty Wallflower, her Partner in Crime, the Broken Heart Boy, the Little Red Head, Wesley O’Hearn, along with his Virginger friend and a moody Goth Kid, and She turned in to a incongruous group of eight that ran about on strange and adventures.
It was not long after that when the Pretty Wallflower began to talk of false pregnancies and break-ups and the fact that the Virginger seemed to have a liking for her more than Wesley O’Hearn ever did. She went over to Wesley O’Hearn’s house, where She figured a distraction would be nice. And distraction she did find.
She found herself waking up the next morning wrapped up in Star Wars sheets with a smile on her face and lying next to the one person She’d figured She had lost her chances with nine months prior. But perhaps those chances weren’t completely screwed over.
And perhaps’ are just perhaps’, and hopes are for idiots — and She was an idiot. Wesley O’Hearn was in love with her Partner in Crime, which in the end, She should have figured that it was bound to happen. And then the Broken Heart Boy decided he would mend his metaphorical broken heart with that very same Partner in Crime.
And suddenly She realized exactly what it felt like not to mean absolutely anything to absolutely anyone. And that ice-melted heart that had been passed around and juggled about by boyfriends and mothers and brothers and sisters and friends and lovers and the future had been returned to her with dents and bruises and marks here and there because there was positively no one who wanted it anymore.
o, for once in her life, She put a goddamn band-aid on it and kept that heart all to herself.
Only a short period later did She realize that the bloodied and bruised and damaged thing She held was not a heart, but her ego. A ego that She so simply threw to other people ; an ego for them to assure her that She was not a failure— not a mistake made by her unstable mother and absentee father. She did not ask anyone for their eternal love but for a boost in her barely-there confidence.
She had given her real heart away long ago.
And so the next time she heard those three words :
"I love you"
She realized she could finally fucking believe them.
August. St. Bitch. Plastic. Skank Bitch. Осень Санкт Клэр.
The legend* that is Autumn St. Claire: the girl who screwed up so much she thought she was dead ; and still managed to end up pretty fucking happy.
The End.
*at least she is in her head and let’s just let her dream.
