NAME: Holliday Taylor Hawkins
AGE: Twenty-Three
OCCUPATION: pan-am stewardess; recently discovered and soon-to-be editorial girl.
LOCATED: Dorset, London, Ullapool, the Atlantic.
WHAT’S NEW, SCOOBY-DOO?
(tw: alcoholism mention, drug mention)
i. From teenage mum, to University drop-out, and now a struggling alcoholic. Holliday had hit the trifecta and she did what anyone else in her position would do. She let it rough her up for a long time. It took hurting more people she loved than she could count on her fingers to come to her senses, but still every now and then, when the silence hits just right, all Holliday can do is think. She thinks so much lately. But at least she isn’t nursing the bottle to sleep.
ii. It should have been a dream to be discovered one evening during a red-eye flight from London to Chicago and it was a dream to be discovered by one of modelling’s most renowned magazine photographers. Holliday agreed to everything, a signed contract included, without thinking about the ramifications of her actions. Did this mean more travelling than she already took? The rumors of how dangerous the modelling world were true. It’d be a shock if Holliday survived any of it without stumbling out with a cocaine addiction or a decanter of Don Julio in hand.
iii. There is a distance that never existed before. There was a strain somewhere in the relationship with her son, Otis, caused by her drunk negligence. Holliday needs to heal herself in order to mend the damage, yes, but god... He talks more and more everyday and she’s so terrified of missing out on the pivotal moments. Moments she’d already been missing. The pink shorts wearing doll toting three-going-on-four year old deserved more. She wants to be the mother she wanted, so why is it so hard to do?
The reflection of feathered hair falling from the tight-knit bun gathered around features that no longer swirled with the intoxicating charm of youth. With each swig of airplane Scotch bottles, a year was cut from her life and added onto her face, starting with purple circles rimming once bright eyes. She could lie to passengers and to co-workers, laughing off the marks of exhaustion as mascara, but Holliday Hawkins loved a waterproof product more than most.
The people she could also lie to were friends and family, but Holliday could no longer get away with it. The first novel of her life detailed a teenage pregnancy, a divorce, and a long string of addictive tendencies that led to her gripping the bottle of Jack Daniels more than her own Joey Jack. It was an open book, one she’d practically publish herself. Where the fuck was her ghost writer when needed?
She could lie to these people day in and out, but she could no longer get away with casual acts of violence. She’d inflicted enough suffering that sometimes all she felt she had left of her son was the tattered picture poking from the breast pocket of the powdered stewardess dress. He looked different now than the photo of his two year old self. The almost five year old had darker locks, his porcelain-like skin scattered with freckles Holliday hadn’t even seen on herself since primary. Everyday, he was more like her. That was fucking terrifying.
Opinionated as hell with a false sense of independence, would Joseph Jackson Hawkins survive without the handbook of his almost identical mother? Or would he see the struggling woman for what she was and move forward before she had a chance to touch his life with her kiss of misfortune. Her heart lurched forward, choosing the answer for him. He was going to leave her. He needed to.
Vision became blinded, her head falling forward, back, and around in comfortable circles. Her hips swung into the same motion, allowing the beat of the song to encapsulate Holliday here and now, in this airport bathroom. Was she in New York? Perhaps. It did not matter what ground she set her feet to, she never felt welcomed. The girl who’d made her presence known at every corner she’d marched around in heeled booties feared the one thing she’d wanted most desperately. She wished to be know, but being known did not mean love or adoration whenever you needed.
The fairy godmother had fucked her over with her one wish, but that was bullshit, too. Hollie could only blame herself. It’s why she turned her back to the mirror and strummed along to the air guitar she manifested inside her mind. It was about the only happiness she could grant herself now, tears forcing to burst at each seam of her uniform. The showers were locked without a key-in-code and Holliday had forgotten to ask for it. Either drowning underneath the water in there or the tears out here -- neither were as acceptable as throwing her neck back and popping her mouth full of anti-depressants she’d never cared to know the name of. Only three of them.
Even doing the things that could’ve been healthy for her, Holliday somehow found a way to abuse. The helping tools were misused. Because they were washed down with another sample sized bottle. She quite liked the Scotch, because it brought forth the memories of whisky tasting in her grandfather’s dusty cellar. Those were the days when she could do wrong and be called endearing for it, with a peck to the top of her head. Where were the days when mistakes were accepted? Long gone with her own forgiveness and dignity, she was sure. As dead as the people who’d left them in this life.
She could be good at lying to herself, too. The song swapped to something much more mellow and melancholy crept up her spine, leaving unwelcomed goosebumps. She forced herself to believe that grandfather would understand her displacement in life, but he was harsher than her mother could ever be. Meaner than her father. It felt so much better to lie. I love to lie. I will always lie.
Fuck my true father, fuck the fake one. Fuck the boys who didn’t love me and the girls, too. Fuck my mother. Fuck me and fuck my life, fuck my life, fuck my life. “This was all meant to be temporary,” her voice cracked, letting loose the most comforting sobs she’d had in some time. The cries came hard and fast, tears washing away even the most waterproof of makeup. The pressure in her head began to subside some. Crying helped more than lying did.
Easy days were far and few between, but on those rare days, Holliday accepted accountability like an old friend. Apologies were non-existent for the most time and when you ached painfully with each step forward, it was second-nature to point the fingers. She refused to look at the reflection of stringy hair over her shoulder, that would have undoubtedly glared back at her and affirmed who the true problem was. The common denominator, you could say. Holliday fucking hated maths, too. Fuck maths.
She would allow the music to save her now, taking shot after shot.
“They can’t be bloody serious,” muttered Killian under his breath. It seemed now that instead of fire tornadoes and earthquakes, they were stuck in this ice storm. It wasn’t just a minor inconvenience, but he remembered that the other events had lasted for days, which might mean nothing but it might mean they were potentially going to be here for a while. He was quick to pat himself down to try and find what he had on his person. Maybe he could get through this by simply getting so high he lost track of time.
“How bloody long do you reckon this’ll last?” he mused out loud.
.
It was the exact feeling every time her mother glanced at her with eyes full of accusations. It was the same feeling when her son would ask and ask and ask for something she couldn’t provide herself. It’s the same feeling she received when her boss extended the legs of journeys, preventing her to get back to solid ground.
Holliday felt trapped. Everyday she felt trapped inside of herself and now she was stuck on this ferry. She pushed towards fresher air, even when it chilled her throat painfully raw. She mourned the days of freedom always, as she doubled over and remembered the technique of plopping her head between her knees in moments of panic. She didn’t hear the question, but it’d been one she’d been repeatedly wondering, too.
“I’ll need a cig if you’re going to talk to me,” she snapped, much unlike herself.
“Maybe, because the slow flashing and the dim buzz of neon signs kind of has that fantastical feeling of being in some sort of cinematic moment. A moment from a film where something so innocuous signals the coming of something more that it kind of makes you hope that something like that could happen for real,” suggested Calista. Ever the dreamer, she could only hope for so much. Although such a moment never came, she would never stop dreaming one way or another.
Calista looked at her as she spoke of her father. She couldn’t even remember any sort of words of wisdom her own father may have once imparted, if he had ever spoken something so sublime into existence. She focused instead on the games that lay before them. “Let’s play.”
“What s’that like? Being sober at a party full of drugs and drinking? Do we all seem like idiots?” he asked. Hayden couldn’t imagine such a path for himself, and in a lot of ways he felt Holliday was stronger for the attempt, regardless of whether she was successful or otherwise. “You can get some nice, homemade cupcakes or something. See, you’ll know I put the effort into that even more than the alcohol.”
.
Holliday didn’t know if Hayden was an alcoholic or if he was one of the lucky ones that could handle his liquor without a Kilimanjaro sized pile of consequences. She wanted to ask him about that and prison -- were there withdrawals or were you okay? She knew as well as anyone prison was a party buzzkill. She’d wait for her moment. Until then, he’d get the truth. Because they were friends. He’d make her cupcakes -- they were most definitely friends.
“Honestly? I do find you all annoying, but not for the reason you might be thinking. I’m real pissed not a single one of you has offered me a drink yet. Like, ah, enable me!” There’d been a time when Hollie fought tooth and nail against enabling situations. She couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as non-alcoholic champagne. But now? She was just desperate to be refreshed and numbed. Life truly blew big balls. “Anyways, woe is Holliday.”
“No- I can’t say. It’s too embarrassing,” Emmeline giggled again, “Emme. I think that’s my name, what’s yours?” She couldn’t control the giggles and the thoughts she was having right about now, “I feel so free.”
.
It was short and sweet and could’ve easily been two little letters and Holliday could remember the name on this alcohol-free evening. Knowing she was in her right mind was still not comforting enough and it’s why she indulged in the weed, letting it lay a band-aid across her heart.
“Everyday’s a holiday with me,” Holliday mused, raised brows. “That’s my name.” She laughed.
Clem looked down at her top, as though she’d forgotten what she had put on that evening. Truth be told, she had. Head raised, she grinned. The corset style top didn’t require a bra, even with her boobs. “No, no bra. I suppose I could go in in this, it’d dry quick.” A peel of giggles then. “Oh, wait. That’s what a wand is for, isn’t it?” A wand could solve all their costume related issues, in fact. It was easy to forget when your bra - or bra like top in her case - was full of jelly. That made it easy to wrinkle her nose and say, “A bra full of crisps would be better. It’s very sticky.”
.
It was all the approval Holliday needed to whip off the mock turtleneck, revealing a tattered t-shirt bra beneath. She loved every shiny, luxurious thing in the world. She also loved this worn in, soon-to-be stained bra. The squishy feeling of jelly coursing between her tiny toes had Holliday give out a shrill shriek, a hand shooting to her mouth to cover it quickly as an apology. The way she laughed afterwards and fell backwards, positively splashing Clem, did not feel much like any apology however.
Hayden nodded along as he listened to her suggestion. It wasn’t even a bad one, either. It was practical and, for Hayden, it was all about being pragmatic. “You’re not bad at all at that,” he commended. “’M shit at knowing what to get anyone. S’fucking nightmare. Alcohol always seems simplest. Until it s’a person who doesn’t drink, then ‘m fucked.”
.
“I’m sober now,” she half-lied, having just got stoned to the bone with Emmeline Vance in Mary’s bed. In all honesty, the days had all become one and she didn’t know who she’d shared her bad news of sobriety to anymore. It was like when Otis was born. Eventually she forgot who knew and who didn’t -- so everyone just did. She expected to feel shame then, she expected it even more now. “So good frickin’ luck with my birthday gift,” Holliday quipped. She much preferred experiences to gifts, but at the same time would sell her soul for a pair of Louis Vuitton booties, too.
“Because of the carefree way you get to live as a child? Because of the innocence of not knowing all the awful things you know now as an adult?” And, Calista felt a similar sentiment. She would love to be a child, though perhaps for different reasons. Many days she felt like she had her own childhood taken away because of having to care for her father, make sure ends were met and that they both made it through. She wouldn’t mind getting to live out that childhood that should have been meant for learning and growing.
Calista followed, though. “I do. But not for the usual reasons. I like the flashing lights, the buzz of excitement, the electronic pings of the machines, the cheap prizes that you can exchange for tickets. It’s very inspirational. Plus, you know, perfect place to feel like a kid with all the games.”
.
Holliday didn’t even need to voice her agreement. Somehow this girl, this woman in front of her just knew. Even if this was only a moment, a single moment somebody understood her, eventually thousands of moments created a lifetime. She’d taken every moment for granted. Except for this one. Shocker -- with someone she’d never speak to again.
“The lights gets me. I don’t know what it is about flashing neon that takes one’s breath away, but call me the sucker who falls for it every time.” She wasn’t quick to admit that she’d be the losing half of the pair, no matter what they played. She wasn’t necessarily there for the games either. She could hope one day she learned the words to describe the experience perfectly for anyone who didn’t get to feel it themselves.
“My dad never held back on beating me in air hockey. He always claimed that failure makes for thicker skin.” It was funny existing now, because most of the time it felt Mr. Hawkins wrote her off for failures as an adult. Now his teaching moments as a child felt a lot more like bullying. There was barely any fight left in her, even for pinball. “Wanna play?” God help her triggering those damn memories, but maybe, just maybe, they were replaceable.
Isla stared at the pink frills around her wrist, then at Holliday, and back at her wrist. “I feel like there’s a bitter irony in the fact that we’re completely sober for this.” She and Hol had gotten piss drunk together so many times before, yet now that her friend was clean and Isla herself was trying to cut back a bit, they somehow walked right into the kinkiest looking hancuffs out there. Even better, they were chained to one another. “And it’s a Saturday. Which is good, otherwise you could look forward to an 8 hour shift at Wixburger.”
.
Holliday cringed as a single question flashed through her mind in that moment. “Are we...” she could hardly say it... “Old?”
“Honestly, if I was a killer, this isn’t how I’d go about this interaction at all.” No, Emma was positive she’d be quick about that sort of thing. Not one to linger or play with her food. Efficiency seemed more important than anything else, should that suddenly be a part of her way of life. “Emma Vanity. I don’t sing, I do spend most of my nights doing the very alluring task of reading through case files. A glamorous life that I couldn’t be happier with.”
.
There were no theorizing her moves as a killer because she would, undoubtedly, be sloppy. So what if she had survived childbirth? Blood was so not her thing. Merlin, removing any sort of stain from the bag she carried would cost more than her life, even. At the very least, she’d found a partner in theater, rather than crime. That suited the pair much better. They’d steal the show where they went and Holliday knew that to be a fact.
She offered a single arm out to twist with Emma Vanity’s, ready to disappear into the evening and be transported into a world unlike hers. Anything was better than Holliday’s current existence. Literally anything.
She started to flip through the records, looking for Holliday’s request from earlier. She was wiping the dust from her fingers and setting the needle into the records grooves when Holliday asked a question Mary wanted very badly to answer well. She had the sense it meant a lot. Maybe it didn’t, but she thought it might.
“Hmm.” For a minute, she really thought about it. Then Mary grinned. “Have you ever wore fake nails? I swear the longer that glue bonds, the more like cement it gets.” Which was to say yes, bonds could strengthen over time. But. “But, nothing can last if you don’t maintain it.” Time and memory solidified relationships, but effort kept them from falling apart.
“It’s both, I think. Time can either bring you closer together or move you farther apart. Sometimes both,” she acknowledged. She had gone away and come back and gone away and come back how often over the years? Some friendships had suffered when that time away was too long. (Or was it because her effort had been too little then? Maybe she didn’t have an answer for Holliday after all, maybe she was searching for that answer too).
Mary thought then of Sturgis, who she only just now considered a friend, and Asher too. “Sometimes you need time to really bond with someone. Paths crossing at the right time and all that. But, yeah,” she shrugged, smiled, “I think we all like it when people try for us too, though.”
“Though some people,” a wry grin took hold, “you’ll just love forever no matter what, I think.” She took Holliday by the hands and spun her around to the record’s wail, lightening the mood.
Dawn didn’t even hesitate, like always simply opening her mouth to try whatever it was Holliday was offering. And then she frowned slightly, unable to place the flavour. Tangy, sweet, many different flavours all at once. “What am I trying right now?”
“Lord Skyrunner?” Close enough, for having not seen the films.
Holliday’s words brought a smile to Mary’s face, a warm and comfortable one that she let stay there a while. “It’s just nice to know there’s always a fresh start waiting, I think.” But Mary had taken many fresh starts. Walking into the flat she now shared with Doc, she realized, didn’t feel like one of them. It felt like building something real. Not starting, but staying. “There’s nothing like the comfort of home though. Once you find it.”
“Does it? That’s odd, I—” Mary’s eyes went wide as they caught sight of the candle burning dangerously low on the coffee table. “Oops.” Mary covered her mouth and made eyes at Holliday. “Let’s just not tell anyone I forgot to blow that out.” Again. For the third time that month. She sucked in a deep breath to blow the candle out, but then stopped. She was home now, so what was the use?
.
It was safe to say, if the show were not full of bands, dancers, or singers, Hollie didn’t give as much of a crap. Movies were great, each moving frame more interesting than the next, but she wasn’t really there. She knew what it took to make a movie. It was nothing like West End. Shit, it was nothing like Mary’s own performing on a pole! Live talent was... spectacular. Far better than a film about space.
“Oh my--” Holliday’s eyes only went wide because worrying had become a second nature ever since birthing Otis. She half missed the days of burning candles all in a single sitting while she ate at the chippy two blocks away. She also missed the days of worrying and double checking and triple checking. Holliday was stuck somewhere in between.
“Will you answer something for me?” Although, really, Mary was definitely the first person she’d choose if a talking contest occurred. She’d definitely answer a question for this inquiring mind. “Do bonds grow stronger the older you get or the harder you try?” Out of the blue, except not really.
Doc turned around, searching for anything that might be able to take the taste out of her mouth, and settled upon mostly stale bread. He shoved it into her hands. “No, no, it was a very successful failure, and brought about plenty of innovation.” He had learned nothing, and was probably at least currently safe from botulism. “The downside, clearly, is that I have yet to clear out all of the old jars.”
.
“How shit of me to piss on your legacy with my disbelief.” Pickled goods were more plausible than Santa these days. Holliday was grateful to stuff her mouth full of the bread, but... moments later... exhaled a heaping pile of crumbs. You’d have thought she went to drama school the way she clutched her throat.
“I’m not sure I’d want to get them out, even if we were. I was worrying too much about the jelly, clearly.” Of course, she could pop home and back again, but that felt like rather more effort than she cared to put in, and she shouldn’t be apparating anyway. “It’s a good thing we’re at Mary’s, isn’t it?” If anyone was bound to have an ample supply of swimsuits, it would be Mary.
.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve a bra.” To prove the point, Holliday snapped a strap of her itty bitty titty holder. Mary’s lovely Kinky costumes could be their backup plan. “A bra yearning to be full of jelly, you could imagine.”
WHEN: Saturday, 5 February, 1981
WHERE: Tinworth Boardwalk, England
WHO: Holliday Taylor + Isla Lucas ( @islaxlucas )
They were more comfortable than hand-cuffs she’d ever worn before, without a doubt. She admired the frills and fluffiness of the pink fabric that wrapped around them, and now trapped their wrists.
“It’s fish-and-chip Friday, Isla. Really, there are worse things we could be pissed at than these.”
