ᴅʀᴀᴋɢᴏ ᴇɴᴛʜᴜꜱɪᴀꜱᴛ

ᴀ ʙʟᴏɢ ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʀᴛ ꜰᴏʀ 𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮, ℜ𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔍𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔥𝔬, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛, ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴀʀɪᴏᴜꜱ 𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕜𝕘𝕠 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤.

[rosesforshego]

Update Schedule and Story Summaries: 

𝐼𝒻 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝑀𝓎 𝑀𝒾𝓃𝒹, 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 (ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀʟʏ; ᴡᴇᴅ. @12ᴘᴍ )

ℜ𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔍𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔥𝔬 (ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ )

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛 (ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀʟʏ; ᴛᴜᴇꜱ./ꜰʀɪ. @12ᴘᴍ )

𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕜𝕘𝕠 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤 (ꜱᴄᴀʀᴄᴇ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ; ɴᴏ ꜱᴄʜᴇᴅᴜʟᴇ )

❤♡❤

EDIT 5/3/21: All stories are on hiatus until further notice

[rosesforshego]

Hello, everyone! Here’s a little update in honor of my birthday today! Normally, I like to write a little one-shot/post a chapter to celebrate, but with my birthday falling on Easter this year (and a tight work schedule), I couldn’t finish chapter 9 of If You Could Read My Mind, Love in time. So, here’s a little snippet of the second draft instead! 

Happy birthday to me and happy Easter to those who celebrate it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: the chapter is still being worked on. What you read here may not read the same in the final draft, but the sentiment behind the scene will remain consistent.

The morning sun illuminated the middle of the classroom, but abandoned the corners, leaving them shrouded in darkness—a certain type of darkness that was hard for Sheila to perceive as the shadows shifted along the walls. Quickly, she removed her gloves, allowing pieces of ash to slip from the cloth. Too enthralled by her fear, Sheila did not think twice about who may be watching and ignited her left hand. The fiery, green glow acted like a child’s nightlight; a very powerful and destructive nightlight that revealed the monsters that were potentially lurking around her, but, with one slip-up, could eradicate her classroom altogether.

She stepped forward, the sound of her sole against the tile deafened by her own heartbeat. This little dance that she played with the demons in her classroom, was truly ridiculous. She must have looked absurd—tiptoeing around her own space like a child, petrified of the monsters that lie underneath the bed. Even worse, as she drew closer to the middle of the room, she realized that she could have just turned on the lights instead of participating in this poor excuse for a low-budget, haunted house.

Michael always told her that if she were a character in a horror movie, she would be the first to die. Sheila always protested this accusation, believing that her will and wit were strong enough to push her through the most trying of times, but, as she extinguished the flame from her hand, she started to wonder if Michael was right all along.

God damnit.

Sheila exhaled, releasing the stale air she had been holding in her lungs. Most custodial staff had keys to the classrooms, so one must have forgotten to close and lock the door on their way out. See? Simple explanation.

At least, she thought, until she turned and spotted a brown paper bag on her desk that she certainly did not recognize.

[rosesforshego]

𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕜𝕘𝕠 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ

Shego was destined to life a life of solitude. It was a prophecy that could not be broken—the will of the Gods could not be quelled, no matter how hard she tried. No matter how many times she extended her green-glowing hand towards outcasts like her, no one graced her singed fingertips with the love she craved. Not even her own brothers—her family.

She wandered the streets alone, guarded, unwilling to let the stone wall she built crumble to her aching feet. She accepted her fate, cursed the Gods that bestowed such a lonely life upon her shoulders, and bellowed into the night, only to wake the next morning alive, but empty. Without a person to call home, Shego relied on herself—and the vacant jail cell—for company. As the arresting officer pried the jewels from her cold hands, she curled into herself on the stone bench, silent tears displacing the dirt caked on her cheeks, yet not a sob was heard. Instead, the loud clank of metal bars echoed in the room, alerting the guards of her departure, but they were too late. Only the tinge of grey smoke bore the evidence to her existence in that jail cell.

Her shadow faded into the night as the cell waved goodbye, awaiting her faithful return.

So, when she was picked up by a kook, self-proclaimed “mad scientist”, Shego rejected his offer of friendship. A victim of her own fear, she maintained a skewed perception of love towards her emotional captor—Stockholm Syndrome, if you will, perpetuated by the black buzz that filled her head with nothing but absolute terror. Every touch, every joke, every evening spent on the velvet couch, popping popcorn into each other’s mouths, Shego felt the cracks in the stone wall grow larger and larger until a loud boom resounded within her mind—an explosion of anger, resentment, terror, and longing—that would force her to retire early for the night, leaving a confused Dr. Drakken on his side of the couch, worried about his “sidekick”.

Shego was never a fan of life. The beauty tormented her with wants and needs that were never attainable. She longed for ideals that laid a smidge out of her reach—taunting her with what she couldn’t have. It was a cruel game. But, as her fingers wrapped around her hot coffee mug in the early morning, the sleepy face of her boss, graced with a loving smile, pulled at her unmoving heart, ripping it from the cold caverns of her chest for him to take for himself.

And she let him.

Late nights turned to early mornings. Failed schemes turned into laughter in the back of the cop car. Promises made were never broken. Smiles were never tarnished. Shego found the companionship she craved and Drakken the same. A hug here, a peck on the cheek there—encounters that both criminals shyed away from turned into emboldened experiences of passion that neither party regretted nor forgot.

So, as Shego’s gloved fingers slipped beneath the damp fabric of his coat, she cursed, once more, to the Heavens—enraged by their alleged betrayal. She let the wall crumble long ago, in good faith, believing that the Gods took pity on her. She was wrong. She was a fool.

Hot tears mingled with sludge that painted her face into a picturesque crimson field of sorrow. She’d have half a mind to wipe away the trails, but her hands remained fixated on the wounds she held within her arms. Her voice, mixed with the growing sound of sirens, echoed in the room—resounding off of the cold walls, filling her ears with the pain she felt deep within her shattered heart.

She sat, alone, on the cold bench. Without him. Embraced by the emptiness of the jail cell that had been awaiting her inevitable return.

[rosesforshego]

𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕜𝕘𝕠 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

AN: this piece goes out to Jenna (writerchic16) because she brought up this beautiful song and it inspired me. Lyrics are from Billy Joel’s She’s Always a Woman. 

Shego never understood Drakken’s obsession with the Karaoke Bar. Every Friday night, like clockwork, she’d watch his hovercar effortlessly glide away from the lair and into the stillness of the night, eager to press the dirty mic against his lips.

Did they ever clean that thing? Shego grimaced. Something told her she didn’t want to know.

He’d always come home late, smelling like beer, though he never drank. She’d be in the kitchen, wrapped in the fabric of her nightgown, a cup of cocoa-moo in her hand as she patiently awaited his return. Though, when she’d hear the faint, familiar rumble of a returned hovercar in the depths of the lair, she’d pry herself out of her seat and take her pity party to her room. She never wanted Drakken to know that she couldn’t sleep without him.

The day he asked her to come with him, she nearly spat in his face. She always believed that she’d be caught dead at that hell-hole, but instead of unleashing her fury on him for asking such an idiotic question, she simply stated “no thanks”. Her brain told her no but her heart longed to join him. With each passing day, it became increasingly difficult to deny her heart the yearning that it longed for.

She sat at the clothed table. It wobbled beneath her elbow that was perched upon the grimy surface. A blue jacket, wrapped around her shoulders, comforted her as she watched the strange blue man—the man who she decided to dedicate her life to—boldly take his stance on the stage. Microphone between fingertips, his abrasive voice was like music to her ears as he sweetly sang the song that he had decided was her song from the moment he first saw it on the list all those years ago:

And she'll promise you more than the garden of Eden. Then she'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding. But she brings out the best and the worst you can be.

Blame it all on yourself 'cause she's always a woman to me. . .

[rosesforshego]

𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕜𝕘𝕠 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀꜱ

AN: this fic contains heavy angst and mentions of blood. 

Pressure forcefully shoved her body down into a black abyss as a rope, tied to her ankle, aided in the shadow’s quest to turn her organic form into a melancholic dream by dragging her body into the forbidding world of nothing. Water coursed through her veins—spilling the blood that they once contained—and filled her mouth with its bitter-sweet flavor. She choked, the viscous liquid seeping into her lungs, yet she did not drown. She did not die. Instead, her limp body continued to fade into the nothingness—the black void—that had consumed the light that once shimmered upon her pallid cheeks; that illuminated her body in the deep sea.

Slowly, her aching arm rose towards the fading radiance—the warmth that her life had once possessed—hoping beyond hope that someone, anyone, would reach back; would save her from the ravenous, vacant vacuum that consumed her.

Through the thickness of the still water, a rugged hand stretched towards her own, curing its palm around her slender fingers, pulling her towards the surface of the crashing waves, where she could bask in the sun’s rays once more. But, soon, as her smile grew for her unknown savior, the rope had tightened its vice grip, tugging on her ankle, yanking her legs back towards the abyss while the hand continued to lure her towards the sun.

She was stuck, unable to move for her body stretched in opposing directions. It pulled at her muscles, broke her bones until one force overcame the other; until the rope around her ankle untied itself and slithered into the grand chasm below. Her body continued its ascent to the light where the face of a man greeted her with a sincere and loving smile. A smile she had recognized from the late nights she used to spend at the coffee table, or in the early mornings when she would roll over in bed to see him.

That face.

That man.

Her husband.

Drakken?

Her heart pounded against her aching ribs, fighting to free itself from the confines of her body as her lungs struggled for air. She sat up, her joints cracking with the sudden movement, disoriented by the quick movement of her eyes, darting around the sterile room. The nightmare, it was. . . horrific. Horrific and. . . the more she thought about the dream that had abruptly pulled her from her deep slumber, the more it faded from her memory.

She shook her head, groaned, and wiped the sleep from her eyes with the back of her manicured hand. How long had she been out? She never remembered falling asleep in the first place.

And, where was she?

As she pulled her hands away from her eyelids, she carefully observed the objects that stood before her—a metal wall, a stack of surgical tools, and a white sheet draped over her lean calves.

This was not their bedroom.

But, in the midst of the foreign chamber, one voice collected her thoughts. A voice that solemnly called her name. A voice that broke with heartache.

The voice of the man that she had vowed to love for the rest of her life: Drew Lipsky.

She turned her head and spotted him next to the small bed that she rested upon—tear stains on the white sheets, snot on his sleeves.

How long had he been there? How long had he been crying? Why was he crying?

What happened?

She called his name. He didn’t answer. He continued to sob, desperately attempting to muffle his lamentations with the bedsheets that he balled within his fists. She called him again, but instead of lifting his head to meet her eyes, he buried his face further into his own lab coat—trapping carbon dioxide between his lips and his lap, suffocating himself.

The man who she once believed could carry the world on his shoulders shook unsteadily, demoralized and defeated. Broken.

Instinctively, she removed herself from the bed, pressing her toes against the smooth tile of the floor beneath her as Drakken slowly turned his body and pressed his back against the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. She slipped her figure next to his, curled her legs to her chest, and rested her head upon her knees as her gaze fell onto the tears that slowly rolled down his cheeks.

“Oh, Doc. . .”

He curled his body similar to her own in a desperate attempt to diminish his presence, protecting himself from whatever demons haunted him, nagged him, beat and tortured him enough to break him under their unrelenting spell. How could someone do that to her husband? Her buoyant, light-hearted, radiant, beautiful husband?

The longer she observed his behavior—his pleas for God to relieve him from this pain—the more her heart had shattered upon the tiled floor.

But even after she had explicitly asked what had weighed on his mind, he refused to explain away his tears. He wouldn’t talk to her at all. Not a word.

Strange. Drakken was never one to keep secrets from her. He was an open book—a thin paperback that encouraged her to turn its pages, to read every word stained in ink on its fragile folios. He once shared with her all of the thoughts that concocted within his mind, no concern too minuscule, no comment without value.

But, instead of burying his nose into her neck, letting the drool mixed with mucus and tears gather on the collar of her shirt, or wrapping his solid arms around her thin frame to engulf her in his warm embrace—or even so much as turning in her direction—he kept his gaze on the reflection of the overbearing lights that shone upon the pristine floor.

On anything that wasn’t her.

Why was he ignoring her? Did she do something wrong? Was it her fault that he was so upset?

She continued to stare at the disheveled man that sat beside her, mesmerized by the way his body shook with each sob that escaped his lips. All she wanted was to place her gentle hand on his arched back and rub light circles into his skin, or to pull his head closer to her chest so he could listen to her heartbeat—a steady rhythm that once soothed his chaotic mind.

The more his soul fractured from the strain of the agony that compressed it, the more hers tried to reach towards him. As his body shivered, she found her hand slowly, unsteadily, stretched towards his frame to wipe away the bitter tears that stained his flushed cheeks.

But before her fingers could graze his clammy skin, glistening with sweat, they recoiled briskly back to her side as the door before her groaned with use.

From the portal emerged a man. An unfamiliar man. A man whose downturned features forebode bad news. A look of sympathy and concern etched into his wrinkles around his mouth and his cloudy, sunken eyes.

He sighed, audibly, seizing Drakken’s full attention as his black shoes left scuff marks on the white tile. What was he doing here? What did he want from her husband?

“Mr. Lispsky, please stand.”

And he did. He followed this stranger’s every command yet he wouldn’t acknowledge her existence. Her. His loving wife. The one she had thought he loved with all of his heart.

Of the years that they had known each other, he had never been so distant. Why start now?

Following Drakken’s lead, she stood next to the hunched figure of her husband. Her hand, inches away from grazing his, rested by her side as she attempted to get a closer look at the stranger in blue scrubs.

“When should I schedule her funeral?”

She turned to Drakken. His voice quivered, broke under the strain that he forced upon it. A voice that, through the deafening resonance of his depressed moans, struggled to be heard.

Funeral? Was that what Drakken was so worked up about? Was that why he seemed so disheartened? So dejected and depressed?

Was that why she saw the light in his eyes—the light that once brought a sense of exuberance to her life—fade?

Who died?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lipsky. We cannot bury her body until the case is either solved or closed.”

Case? What case?

She turned to Drakken, awaiting his response, but as each word left the man’s mouth, Drakken’s frown etched deeper into his lips as his body slightly slouched against the white sheets that she once laid under. As his eyes continued to water, she could see the mischievous glint that he possessed, that she loved so much, fade as the demons of despondency seized his heart.

She turned back to the man, slowly growing enraged by his presence. He was hurting Drakken with each careless word spewed from his tight lips. Her fists balled as a familiar heat rose within her fingertips, desperately trying to keep her own anger at bay for all she wanted to do in that moment was scream. Scream at him. Ask him why he was torturing her poor husband. Demand to leave them alone.

With a sigh, she decided against it.

“What do I do until then?” Drakken spoke. His voice cracked as it struggled to leap from his throat.

“Wait.”

Wait? Is that the best advice he had? Just. . . wait?

“And hope that the police can find the man who murdered your wife.”

Drakken’s breath hitched, the reflection of the blinding lights shifted in the salty tears that coated his bloodshot eyes. She turned to him, her mouth agape, searching for answers to the questions that ran rampant in the distressed look that bore deeper into the crevices of his wrinkles.

Questions, such as “how can I be dead if I’m standing right next to you?” or “whose dream is this, yours or mine?”, but there were no answers.

At least, not from Drakken.

Instead, he shifted his position to lean his torso against the bed. His eyes lowered; his gaze focused on a figure that laid before him while his hand rested upon what looked like the outline of a thigh beneath the sheets.

Drakken’s simple response was a gentle nod, followed by the attempt to hold back the lamentations that he so desperately wanted to release—to fill the room with his voice, and only his voice, as if opening his mouth to scream would release the overpowering tension that his own grief held on his heart.

His lips tightened, disappearing into his flesh as the tears that once glistened in his eyes spilled onto his calloused hands; the same hands that once spent hours typing away on a tiny keyboard, that once pulled the comforter closer to his side of the bed, that once combed her hair as she cried into his chest in moments of weakness—in a moment where he’d drop everything in order to protect her from her own inner demons.

The same hands that’s flesh was stained a faded red.

She followed that stain as it dragged along the sheets, grazing over blotches of crimson blood that bled through the sterilized white that laid upon the table, all the way until his trembling fingers cradled the cold, unmoving face of a woman that would once stare back at her in the vanity mirror.

She reached towards her—the figure on the slab—in disbelief as her mouth remained agape. Who was this imposter? That was not her. But before her thumb could come into contact with the pale skin, the vibrant green of her own washed away to reveal a grotesque pattern of blood and sweat that covered her stature, pooling around her chest, leisurely rolling off of her pale derma as is dissipated into the air before it could splatter upon the floor.

She turned to Drakken, at a loss for words. She looked to him for answers, just as she had for the past five years, but his gaze remained transfixed upon the still frame of the woman in front of him, eyes downturned, misery radiating off of him like an aura that she could feel within the depths of her soul. Instead, the answer she sought laid before her on the metal table, draped in a blood-stained sheet—the same sheet that she had tossed aside as she arose from her nightmare.

The woman was Shego.

[rosesforshego]

𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕜𝕘𝕠 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1: ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ʙʟᴜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ

AN: a response to “Drakgo Prompt #2″ by @drakgoprompts

“It’s beautiful.”

The pale light caressed Sheila’s face, grazing its gentle thumbs across her cheeks. She smiled, happily, a glimmer of light reflected in the depths of her eyes that had told Drew otherwise. How often was she graced with the opportunity to bask beneath the moon with another? If Drew had to guess, he would say not enough.

This woman who laid beside him—the strong, independent, passionate woman that he had quickly grown to admire—was as lonely as him. Shocked, he was, to find out, but not everyone was gifted the best lot in life. He and Sheila scraped the bottom of the barrel for whatever scraps of happiness were left for them. At least he got to share the scraps with her.

His lips pressed together, forming a tight smirk. At least he got to share with her.

“Yeah,” he muttered as he pressed his back into the ground beneath him. The blades of grass tickled his neck, but he made no effort to adjust, “It is.”

“Drew. . .”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you…” a sharp intake of breath to sooth her beating heart. She tried again, “Do you think there’s more to life than this?”

Blades of grass scratched his pallid skin as his cheek rested on the soft earth; a look of confusion, mixed with sorrow and a hint of worry, seemed to be the single answer he could give.

“Like,” she copied his position, “there has to be more, right? The sun rises, the sun sets, the monotonous routine starts again at the crack of dawn.”

“And? What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m not living,” her brows furrowed, deepening the crease above the bridge of her nose.

She was right. She wasn’t living. Which meant he wasn’t living, either. They were two carbon entities floating along time with no meaning; without a purpose—only walking towards the inevitable, cold embrace of the Grim Reaper.

He forced a small sigh through his nose. She was right. She was always right.

Leave it to Sheila Goodwin to redefine Drew’s life.

“Well,” he swallowed the lump in his throat. How was he going to get out of this one? “I suppose that life has turned into a mundane routine,” that, he could agree with, “but, is that truly all you see?”

Her eyes met his; the moonlight shimmering in the wetness that she desperately held back.

“Yes.”

He pondered for a moment, the dusty gears in his right-brain turning with a resurgence of motivation to battle the logical backlash from his left. There was more to life than this. There had to be. He just had to show her.

“Look at the sky. What do you see?”

She was displeased, “Drew, I don’t think—”

“Just tell me.”

With a heavy sigh, Sheila tore her gaze away from Drew and studied the black void that stood before her. Aside from a few stars that played hide-and-seek behind moving clouds, the moon was the one entity that stared back at her.

“The moon.”

“Not just the moon, Selene. A blue moon.”

A great blue moon.

“What’s the difference?”

He raised an eyebrow. No wonder she was oblivious to the natural wonders that came with life.

“Blue Moon refers to a rare event where a second full moon occurs within a singular, calendar month. Hence the term once in a blue moon.”

“And?”

“Will you let me finish?” He chuckled as he felt his head rub against dirt when he shook it. How impatient.

A half-hearted chuckle in response. “Sorry, Dr. Lipsky. Continue.”

He smiled. She’s insufferable.

“While this particular phenomenon is often used colloquially to symbolize a rare event, its light connects us to our spiritual being—the rhythm of life inside of us. A rhythm that you, yourself, had deemed to be monotonous, if I remember correctly.”

A snort. How cheesy.

“You were never meant to be a philosopher.”

“Maybe not. But,” another pause. Sheila wasn’t quite sure if it was to help collect his thoughts, or for dramatic effect. Either way, it kept her on the edge of her seat. She adored Drew’s attempt at insight, though she would never admit it. “to answer your question: I think there is more to life than… this. Whatever this may be. Because things, like the blue moon, exist.”

She turned to face him again and met his beaming irises—their crystal-like hue playfully dancing under the moonlight. Drew possessed a scattered mind, littered with outlandish theories that were tough to follow, but, for once, she understood.

“Sheila, if you look outside of your routine, you’ll see that there are rarities in life that are worth living for.”

The glimmer returned.

“Yeah,” her thumb grazed his, “there are.”

[rosesforshego]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 13: ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ

AN: For my birthday this year, I decided to celebrate by gifting you all a little present. So, here is an impromptu update to TSGIML for this special occasion. I hope you enjoy!

ღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღღ

SheGho hated parties.

People always found the dumbest things to celebrate. Babies were gross, weddings were boring, and who in their right mind would want to declare through party balloons and wax candles how many years they’ve spent in this wretched, unforgiving, mortal world? SheGho never understood, nor ever wanted to understand why others found delight in these stupid rituals and, to her family’s dismay, would often opt out of even her own birthday parties.

Drakken was different.

He loved parties and celebrations and, just, well, living—a state-of-being that he still got to enjoy. To say SheGho was a little jealous would be an understatement, but she would never admit it. Regardless, his party hats and noise makers and streamers that littered the layer like some twelve-year-old TPed his furniture annoyed her to no end, but, like the “obedient” ghost that she was (not like she had a choice), she would watch him have his fun.

So, when Drakken dragged his body, as if his very existence weighed upon him, into the cold confines of the lair he loved so much, SheGho knew something was wrong. It was his birthday; his damn birthday—a day to celebrate him. He should be thrilled.

But, instead of baking a cake or obnoxiously singing an off-key version of “Happy Birthday” or laying a party hat on the coffee table for SheGho to “wear”, he sat on the couch. He did nothing but slowly sink into the inviting crevices that whispered his name as the piece of furniture engulfed him in its soft embrace, nearly swallowing him—and whatever was left of his happiness—whole.

He was lonely.

His lair was haunted by a literal spirit of a conniving woman and he was still so goddamn lonely.

If there was something that SheGho hated more than parties, it was seeing Drakken like this. She wasn’t entirely sure why and, truthfully, she didn’t want to know. But what she did know was that, in the depths of her being, she absolutely could not bear to witness the depressed state of this dejected man.

Celebratory parties were bad enough, pity parties were a whole new level of discomfort.

Assessing the situation, it was safe to say that SheGho was ill-prepared. As if she already forgot earthly customs, she had the audacity to show up without a gift, or even a few encouraging words to lift him from the depths of the couch. Annoyed with the situation and herself, SheGho turned to the one habitual technique she knew would penetrate Drakken’s barriers of despair.

Ripping off a destroyed page of her notepad—one full of questions about the movie Drakken made her watch the night before—SheGho inspected the new, fresh piece of pape for a moment before scribbling the few words that may not have been “encouraging” by any sense of the word, but would mean something to the mad scientist, nonetheless.

“Happy Birthday, Drakken.”

She dropped the notepad in his lap, startling him out of his stupor. Quickly, he fumbled for the paper, nearly dropping it in his clumsiness, which elicited a small eye-roll from the ghost. She should’ve seen that one coming.

Her displeasure for his antics only lasted mere moments as the first signs of joy slowly engulfed his somber features. Delighted by her message, he smiled. And, in return, so did she.

Yeah, life and the afterlife were pretty miserable, but at least they could be miserable together.

[rosesforshego]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 12: ᴄᴀᴘᴇ ᴛᴏᴡɴ

She Ghost looked at the cursed gun in her hands and felt angry.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her sunny surroundings. She had always loved wild Cape Town with its unsteady, unlucky umbrellas. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel angry.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Dr. Drakken. Dr. was a charming knight with tall eyebrows and pink abs.

She gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a violent, courageous, cocoa drinker with moist eyebrows and handsome abs. Her friends saw her as a bitter, bad banker. Once, she had even revived a dying, chicken.

But not even a violent person who had once revived a dying, chicken, was prepared for what Dr. had in store today.

The snow flurried like swimming elephants, making She calm.

As She stepped outside and Dr. came closer, she could see the fluffy glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want a pencil," Dr. bellowed, in a cold-blooded tone. He slammed his fist against She's chest, with the force of 4816 toads. "I frigging love you, She Ghost."

She looked back, even more calm and still fingering the cursed gun. "Dr., I am your mother," she replied.

They looked at each other with stable feelings, like two mighty, mouldy monkeys chatting at a very energetic engagement party, which had R & B music playing in the background and two grateful uncles jumping to the beat.

Suddenly, Dr. lunged forward and tried to punch She in the face. Quickly, She grabbed the cursed gun and brought it down on Dr.'s skull.

Dr.'s tall eyebrows trembled and his pink abs wobbled. He looked stressed, his body raw like a bewildered, broad banana.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Dr. Drakken was dead.

She Ghost went back inside and made herself a nice mug of cocoa.

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮  UPDATE:

First, I would like to apologize for the infrequent posts. Life has not been kind over the past few months, so most of my energy has gone into maintaining my grades and GPA. Unfortunately, I am still incredibly sick, but I’m hoping that the steps I am taking now will lead me down the road to recovery. 

Second, I am not giving up on fanfiction--in particular, If You Could Read My Mind, Love and The She-Ghost In My Lair. I want to get back to these soon because, not only do they spark joy in me, but I’ve seen your wonderful comments and I know that quite a few of you want this project to continue. I hear you and, in all honesty, I want to create it for you. There are so many things in store for these two fanfictions and I want you to take a seat next to me on this emotional rollercoaster. Though, my personal issue remains: I am a little hesitant to buckle into the seat solely because of my current condition. However, with the school semester coming to a close, I hope to have more free time to relax and write--to work on these fanfictions that lay near and dear to my heart. Unfortunately, I cannot guarantee anything, but, regardless, I will continue to work on these two fanfictions--little by little if I have to--to ensure that this content (and all of the crazy chapters I’ve conjured) reach you, my beautiful audience and friends. 

Third, thank you everyone for your patience during this time. The amount of love that I’ve received over these works has been astounding and I cannot describe how incredibly lucky I am to have captivated your attention and love for these characters. Truly, all of your kind words mean the world to me. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. 

With that said, I come to you with a little present: the beginning to Chapter 9. This chapter doesn’t have a name yet, but it has direction, I just have to write it. For those of you who are itching for new Drew/Sheila (primarily Drew, in this case) content, please take this little snippet as my gift to you.

I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: the chapter is still being worked on. What you read here may not read the same in the final draft, but the sentiment behind the scene will remain consistent.

August 30th, 2002 6:15am

A sweet, boisterous hum filled the vacant classroom, bringing with it a sense of life into the dull, diluted atmosphere. He listened to it—the sound of his own voice—as it reverberated off of the walls plastered from floor to ceiling with outdated posters, reminding him of better days gone by. Yet, as the morning sun’s rays cascaded upon his chipper form, the idea that the décor of the classroom will soon be graced by Sheila’s expert touch instilled a sense of hope for a brighter future.

A future with her in his life. Someone to laugh with, to cry with, to support during hardships and to trust in his most vulnerable moments.

A friend.

Drew’s fingers anxiously fiddled with the paper bag that sat between his digits. The material crinkled at his touch, replacing the honey-laced hum with a chaotic clamor that was not enticing to his ears. But he did not flinch. Instead, he carefully placed the bag upon Sheila’s messy desk. As the contents inside it settled onto the surface, a wave of relief flooded him as his home-made meal reached its final destination.

Curiously, as one hand released the bag, the other grazed the slew of ripped paper that littered the desk. From the few conversations they had, Drew knew that Sheila was a little scatter-brained, but, as he started to piece together the strips of notes, he slowly started to piece together the destitute version of his colleague.

1.      Pick up meds for the twins.

2.      Get the carpet cleaned.

3.      Fix the leaking pipe.

4.      Remember vending machine money.

5.      Check up on Dan.

The rusty gears in Drew’s mind turned as he pieced together the foreign messages, similar to the intricate puzzles that he once completed with his mother. Though, instead of beautiful landscapes, the pieces to this puzzle shared with Drew a few aspects of the chaotic hell that held Sheila’s life its prisoner. Little fragments to remind Sheila of her duties and obligations outside of the classroom deepened the forming frown that plagued Drew’s once cheery disposition.

He shouldn’t be snooping—what Sheila did outside of school was none of his concern—but he couldn’t look away, too enthralled by the nature of the notes to leave the torn pieces of paper in good conscious. He was determined to crack the code of this walking enigma. But as he started to piece together item number seven—get the hell out of this place—Drew figured that it would be in his best interest if he didn’t know her secrets.

His palm swatted at the fragments, setting the pieces back into the disarray in which he found them.

[rosesforshego]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 11: ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

One of the many displeasures Drakken had faced in his life was sharing the television with his mother. The Lipskys—stubborn as they were—could never agree on anything, let alone what silly sitcom to watch on their cracked television screen. When Drakken moved away, he looked forward to “real” meals and owning his own television. While he may have settled back into the comfort of T.V. dinners, Drakken often found himself relishing in his newfound freedoms. He could watch whatever he wanted whenever he wanted; he didn’t have to share the screen with anyone.

And then She-Ghost came along.

He didn’t mind her presence. He could tolerate her anger, torment, and laughter. But taping over his pre-recorded episodes of Captain Constellation was, ultimately, the last straw and if he could kick her out of the lair, he would’ve in a heartbeat.

Unfortunately, for both of them, this was a curse that even Monkey Fist couldn’t break. So, they were stuck together like an old, married couple who were heavily regretting their vows.

In his attempt to quell her mischievous habits, Drakken hid the T.V. remote in obscure locations and hoped that she wouldn’t have access to the television while he was in the lab. This didn’t work. Then, he tried to bring the remote with him, but she somehow got ahold of it while he remained preoccupied, and none-the-wiser.

Every scheme he had planned to thwart her evil-doings failed. She was always one step ahead and, as tricky as she was, he could never outsmart her.

It was only natural for him to be upset over the situation—after all, he recorded Captain Constellation for a reason—but there was still something that didn’t sit right with him, and it was not birthed from his frustration.

He threw in the towel and let SheGho have her victory. She recorded her shows, which occupied the majority of his DVR, and she’d consume them, slowly, while he spent his days working in the lab. But, when it came time from him to take control over the television, there would be a startling lack of her presence. Some nights, she’d sit on the opposing end of the couch—as far away from Drakken as possible. Other nights, she’d be gone. He never knew where she’d run off to.

So, with a heavy heart, he’d stab his frozen T.V. dinner with his fork and subtly whistle the Captain Constellation theme song to himself.

[rosesforshego]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 10: ᴏʟᴅ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

Her fingers grazed the crumpled image, dipping into the inked figure of a man for a moment before her absent touch receded. The corner of her lip playfully tugged at her solemn features. How dorky he looked—his button up, brought together by a new, black tie. His glasses, large and round, added to the aura of innocence about him.

Around his arm sat his colleague—a student in the aeronautics program, if she remembered correctly. He had a similar, horribly boring, fashion sense as the young, mad scientist—clean shaven, blazer polished. The two men, resting in each other’s embrace, looked rather distinguished.

Looked like best friends, ready to take on the troubles of the world. . . together.

A gloved hand abducted the crumpled paper and quickly threw it in the garbage.

The smile faded. Maybe some friendships weren’t meant to last.

[rosesforshego]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 9: ꜱɴᴏᴡ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴀʟ

Drakken’s body sank further into the patch of snow. Once dedicated to clean the bountiful white semi-solid off of his deck, his old bones creaked in ways that were unnatural. And, with his henchmen gone for Christmas vacation, he had the lair to himself, which meant he was tasked this the snow-removal responsibility. He grunted, the snow seeping into the cloth of his jacket as he contemplated his isolation.

Er, near isolation.

But it’s not like SheGho could’ve helped him with the task.

Her prints, as delicate as they were, left vague, foot shaped patters in the snow—the only evidence to her existence. They stopped by Drakken’s feet and, though he couldn’t see her, he knew that SheGho was watching him, judging him, with a contorted look on her immaculate features. The features that changed appearance each time he discovered something new about her past life.

The snow beside him dipped below the surface of the pile. She laid with him, her transparent body beside his own, her cold aura adding effect to the freezing temperature of the unforgiving Alps lair he decided to purchase, on a whim, against his better judgement.

He smiled. At least he wasn’t alone.

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴍɪᴅᴅᴀʏ ꜱɴᴀᴄᴋ

August 29th, 6:30 am.

Drew paced through the vacant halls of Middleton High with a thin piece of stick paper between his fingertips. Awaiting his coworker’s arrival, he occupied his mind with what he had planned for the day ahead—experiments, meetings, and slowly working his way through the lab reports stacked upon his desk at home. But what he anticipated the most was not for the surface of his desk to bask in the light of day once more, it was for his lunch period.

Lunch was the time of day where Drew felt the tension in his shoulders melt into the air of his classroom. Savoring each bite of the sandwich he made the night prior, he could indulge in the wonders of his life that often kept the gears within his mind turning. This was the time in the school day where he truly felt peace and, though his bundle of nerves ate away at him, he felt it was time to share that peace with another.

When Drew learned that Sheila shared the same lunch period as him, he was ecstatic. Finally, a colleague that he enjoyed conversing with had the same time off as him. It was a blessing for the lonesome Drew Lipsky. All he had to do was ask her to join him and he’d be golden.

But, therein lies the problem: Drew, himself, was too chicken to ask. Instead, he fell back upon what was familiar—passing notes. . . like school children. The note between his fingers slipped further into the crevices, descending to his palm. There was the off chance that she’d reject his offer, but it was less painful for her to simply not appear than to say no straight to his pleading eyes.

He continued his journey through the windy corridors of the school, noting the excellent work he and his colleagues had done to liven up the blank walls. Colorful posters hung with pride as the teachers wished a good school year upon the students who passed the signs. It was the least they could do to comfort the in-coming freshmen.

The cluster of posters dwindled as the wall quickly approached a large set of lockers. He drew closer to the metal that would horribly clank as each door slammed shut for the day. Oh, how he despised that sound—it would ring in his ears for minutes after the clamor subsided. He never liked to be out in the halls with the students for that reason, and that reason alone. Otherwise, he didn’t mind the crowd. He easily slipped past groups of students—some of which stopped to engage in a friendly conversation with their chemistry teacher—as he made his way to his distant destination. He enjoyed the aura of familiarity the chaotic hall brought. Maybe it was the years of experience with Middleton High that made the sea of students bring a smile to his face.

He gazed at the lockers, each bleeding into the last as they sat with conformity—the only aspect about them changing was the number displayed by each lock. Quietly, his eyes trailed to locker 134. He smiled.

This locker, in particular, belonged to his niece, who he loved dearly.

Only a few days into the school year and Kim Possible had adjusted to the life of a high schooler with ease. She effortlessly was asked to join the cheer squad, she had already started to indulge in other extra-curricular activities, and she was on a one-way track to academic stardom—all while saving the world from ravenous villains who, in Drew’s opinion, should have no reason to be so involved in his niece’s life.

As sad as it was for Drew to see the light of his life mature with such intensity, he was proud of her—of the woman she was becoming.

A few lockers down the hall stood Ron’s. As Drew approached it, his elated smile settled into a faint frown. Ron, too, attempted to make the adjustment to the new lifestyle, but it seemed as if the world was out to get him. Picked on, teased, pushed through the crowd, Ron was thrown around the halls of Middleton High like a ragdoll. He was even banned from entering D Hall by a group of delinquent students who have been hunting him since preschool.

Drew shook his head at the thought. When will the pettiness end?

The burdens Ron brought with him were hard to shake from his shoulders, no matter how hard he tried.

Drew quietly brushed his fingertips against the cool metal. Within the half-hour, this particular locker would signify its life with a piercing squeak that Drew could audibly hear within his mind. Ron would haphazardly stuff his unnecessary belongings into the metal walls, along with Rufus, who loved to use Ron’s locker as his personal home, then go about his business as if he didn’t have a care in the world—ignorant to the atrocities that plagued his social life at the hands of students who thought of him as lesser.

But Drew knew.

Drew knew the deep hardships Ron faced and he understood why Ron decided to place his best-foot-forward. It stopped him from indulging in the pain.

Drew wished he was like Ron Stoppable.

A short, faint sigh escaped his parted lips as he reluctantly removed his fingers from Ron’s locker. Drew, despite himself, hoped that this day would be different—less demeaning—for both of them. But Drew knew that he could scream his soul’s most urgent wishes and the world would respond by spitting in his face.

He shook his head to rid the thought. No. He must battle his pessimistic, cynical mind—swallow the horrid thoughts before they consumed the little seedlings of hope he had left. It was all he had, and he was not going to let the world strip him, or Ron, of that luxury.

Drew continued his journey through the corridors, collecting crumpled papers and gum wrappers, filling empty garbage bins with discarded litter—the reports that should have been brought home to mothers and fathers. Along his route, he closed a few lockers that were left neglected after the shrill bell sounded off at two-thirty the day prior.

“How could they be so careless?” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The belongings, that were nearly left out in the open, begged to be stolen. But, really, what of the few contents that were left within the confines of the four walls held value? Drew knew how much those damn chemistry textbooks cost, but the students didn’t care.

He let an incoherent grumble rumble in his throat, slipping past his neutral demeanor.

All he held was a simple wish: for the week to be over.

“Two more days, Drew,” he whispered, hoping that the sound of his voice would give him the support he craved, “just two more days.”

His fingers fidgeted, sliding the note between them as he conducted his second lap through the halls. As his watch ticked dangerously close to six forty-five, Drew hovered by the grand entrance to the school in anticipation for the arrival of the woman he sought after. All he wanted was to pass the short message to her; a little meet me in my room for lunch, nothing more. He figured that their shared lunch period would be ample time to discover more about each other over some delectable, homemade sandwiches, stuffed with deli-meats—if that’s what she liked to eat.

A faint hum rumbled within his chest. Sure, she accepted his peace offering of half a ham and cheese sandwich a few days prior, but he couldn’t help but let his mind wander, conjuring the many possibilities as to what made her taste buds sing. Peanut butter and jelly? Nah, too bland. Sheila seemed to be the adventurous type—peanut butter and jelly must bore her.

Frozen dinner? Soup? Leftovers? The options that Drew naturally found himself drawn to were too ordinary for such an extraordinary woman. Though, as his mind spun with various unimportant answers to his silent question, Drew understood next-to-nothing about her personal life—a life full of rich experiences that were encased in a thick, mysterious aura that remained impenetrable by Drew’s defenses.

He pondered for a moment. Maybe he could take advantage of her vulnerability while she ate. . . whatever it was she ate for lunch. With her guard down, there would be the opportunity for his pervasive questions to slip past that aura—

“Drew?”

His head snapped in the direction of his name, carried through the silence by a sweet, supple voice.

“Sheila?”

She chuckled, her mahogany glove covered her lips to muffle its intensity, “You look lost.”

“Oh, erm—” what the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry, just speculating about your eating habits? He bit his lip. He had to lie. He could not tell her the truth. That would be embarrassing.

“I arrived early for a meeting—”

Bullshit. He nearly winced at the booming voice within his head.

“—and had some time to spare. So, I decided to take a little stroll.”

“Mmmm,” Sheila hummed, crossing his field of vision to rest upon the wall beside him, “enjoying the scenery?”

“Not particularly,” he admitted, “you would not believe the amount of garbage I’ve collected today.”

Sheila raised an eyebrow, her teeth chewing on the corners of her uncovered bottom lip, scraping dead skin, “Since when did you join the janitorial staff?”

“Give them a break,” he responded, a little quicker than Sheila had expected, “they’re overworked.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Drew’s first reaction was to verbally agree with her statement—maybe dive into a long conversation about how exhausted this week from Hell had made him, but, before he could open his mouth, his attention quietly fixated on the shimmering green of Sheila’s eyes. Once full of a youthful spark, her irises faded into a dull and diluted emerald, shadowed by the semi-dark circles that appeared under her eyelids. Upon closer inspection, Drew’s gaze followed her protruding, strong cheekbones that led to folds that rested beside the corners of her frowning mouth.

Concerned, Drew felt his thoughts resurge in a chaotic tizzy. Was she sleeping? Eating? Stressed? Day four into her new job and she started to look a little worse for wear.

His worry seized control of his heart, causing each beat to strike a nasty, piercing pain into his ribs.

Drew opened his mouth. He desperately wanted to ask if there was anything he could do to ease the distraught nerves that consumed her, but he quickly closed it before the words managed to emerge from his throat. As fascinated, nearly infatuated, as he was with the woman who stood before him, he knew next-to-nothing about her. The last thing he wanted to do was to scare her away with his obsessive compassion.

Instead, he brought the note in his hand into the shared space between them.

“Speaking of, I have to get ready for class,” he said, reluctantly—his eyes downcast onto the yellow paper in his hand, “But I wanted to pass this along.”

He gently placed the note, covered in crude penmanship, on top of the books she held within her arms.

“A note—?”

“See you later.”

Without uttering another word, Drew Lipsky’s slender legs quickly carried him through the hall. He turned the corner and vanished before a dumbstruck Sheila could respond—a pleasantly unexpected note within her possession.

♥♡♥

12:20 pm.

Sheila found herself in quite the compromising position. One hand braced against the vending machine, the other forcefully inside the metal retrieval box, she looked like a crook that she had thwarted ten years prior. Though looking back on the situation, the man just needed a bite to eat—it was rather unfair for her and her brothers to throw that poor man in prison. She snickered under her breath as her arm snaked its way towards the goods that laid beneath the glass, desperately clawing at foiled bags to reach the Doritos, that she paid for. They were stuck on the top shelf.

A bite to eat. She remembered the sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched the man behind bars. Henry told her it was for the good of the city—men like him commit one, simple crime, then become addicted to the life of a criminal. She believed him.

If only he could see her now.

Her starved mind (and stomach), as idiotic as it was, truly believed for a brief moment that she could reach the top shelf from the depths of the machine. She peered up at the goods displayed before her as she stretched her arm to uncomfortable lengths, not even coming close to the Doritos that clung to its metal coil for dear life.

Sheila started to believe that her brilliant plan was never going to work.

Regardless, she continued to rake her hand through whatever snacks she could grasp to bring herself closer to the prize that was rudely taken from her. She was a good citizen—refused to steal food that she didn’t pay for—so she neglected the package of fruit snacks that tauntingly brushed against her exposed arm.

A good citizen with her hand stuck in a vending machine.

A good citizen, my ass.

If she wasn’t in the Middleton High teachers’ lounge, with the possibility to be surrounded by her coworkers within mere seconds, she would’ve let the few tears of frustration slip from the pools in her eyes.

“Sheila?”

She winced.

Great. He always had to barge in when she was most vulnerable, didn’t he?

“Uhh,” Drew stuttered, forcibly grabbing whatever words swam in his mind as fast as he could to stop the silence from growing between them, “bad timing?”

She reluctantly turned to face him, her hand still deep within the machine, “Y’think?”

The crack in her voice alerted him, but he didn’t mention it out of respect for her dignity. Instead, he moved closer, closing the large gap between them as Sheila’s eyes grew wide with terror.

She tried to open her mouth, but her jaw refused to relinquish its control. So, she screamed within her mind—her perceived voice sending shockwaves of pain as it pierced her thoughts, ordering Drew to stay away, to turn around, to leave her so she could wallow in her defeat. Unfortunately, Drew, as intelligent as he was, could not read minds. He could barely pick up on obvious social cues. Sheila’s pleas were left unheard as he descended to her eye-level—her gaze caught within the deadly web of his piercing, wandering eyes, laced with confusion towards her criminal-like position. She dared not utter a word and turned back to the sight of her gloved fingers grasping at the coils of the machine, climbing the rungs until she ran out of arm.

She had escaped him. . .  but not for long.

“What are you doing?”

Elbow deep in her new lover, Sheila pointed her free hand towards the bag that clung onto its tight, metal coil, “Trying to reach those chips.”

A brief chuckle escaped his lips and hovered in the still air between them. It would be rude of him to say he found amusement in the awfully compromising scene before him, so he didn’t, but that damned chuckle only deepened Sheila’s frown. How dare he make a mockery of her predicament.

“And your genius plan was to grab them from all the way down here?”

The lids of his eyes laid heavily across his irises as he looked down at her form. He held his position steady over her—a sense of authority as if he had the high ground in a situation that he should not be a part of in the first place. Sheila squirmed, uncomfortable under his gaze—one that displayed a hint of playful jest that, somehow, brought ease to Sheila’s mind, despite her seemingly criminal actions.

A smile broke through his thin lips and Sheila couldn’t help but reciprocate. She shook her head, the curls of her hair brushed against her shoulders as her eyes rolled away from his and to her elbow that was jammed in the metal. Drew’s trailing eyes followed her lips as she turned away. There was something charming about her. A charm that kept him awake at night—his thoughts plagued with her smile.

“Shaking it didn’t work,” she admitted, hoping that Drew would understand her justification for this particular predicament.

“Clearly.”

She huffed. In her sporadic attempt to continue her moronic plan, she was left ill-prepared for his comeback.

 Drew receded from Sheila’s personal space and lifted his frame off the floor. With a grunt, he stretched, cracking his spine to alleviate the tension built between his bones. Sheila eyed him, curiously, as she watched his face morph from its euphoric twists into a clam, calculated state. He stepped around her, careful to leave her untouched, and placed himself beside the machine. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, quick to retrieve a few bucks before Sheila could protest.

To his dismay, she caught onto his plan, “Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“Why do you want these, anyway?” he asked, disallowing her protest to continue. His greatest weapon against her was to fill the conversation with his curiosity.

He slipped a few dollars into the machine, “You know how bad these are for you, right?”

“I’m hungry.”

The coil turned, dropping the chips onto Sheila’s arm. She winced as the sharp edge of the bag collided with her skin. It stung but made no mark with its departure. She carefully dislodged her throbbing arm from its position and grabbed the bag that rested within the retrieval.

Horrified, Drew’s mind spun with the possible outlook on her impoverished life that she, unknowingly, admitted to.

Was this all she had?

“Please don’t tell me that this is your lunch.”

“No,” she stated as she pulled herself off of the floor.

Drew nearly sighed in relief. Sometimes, he didn’t mind when his mind was wrong if it meant that Sheila was nourished.

After all, maybe she just needed an extra something to go with her—

“It’s my midday snack.”

Drew furrowed his brows. His mind is never wrong. He should’ve known.

“So, lunch.”

“No, lunch is a meal.”

Drew would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so concerned for her well-being. He shook his head, maintaining a small smile to ease Sheila’s nerves, which did nothing to settle his own.

Sheila left the vicinity of the vending machine to grab her bag that perched on a nearby chair. Carefully, the strap wrapped around her shoulder, ready to depart from the teachers’ lounge and embark on the short journey to Drew’s classroom. She wasn’t going to ignore his pleasant invitation.

With a silent understanding, Drew dropped the subject and opened the door, motioning for Sheila to follow. She did, obediently—ready to leave the machine and its wicked ways behind, never wanting to be seen with her arm inside of it again.

Drew was the first to break the still silence that fell upon them.

“Do you think the school’s going to reimburse me for the two dollars I spend on those chips?”

Sheila rolled her eyes. Her hand collided with the side of his arm in a playful slap that caused Drew to recoil beneath her touch. His smile widened; a faint laugh encouraged her playful nature as she settled into the comfort of his aura—the tip of her shoulder brushing against his arm.

“No, but they better reimburse me! I need those two bucks back.”

[rosesforshego]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴ'

Steam seeped into his nasal cavities, breaking apart the clumps of mucus that made breathing unbearably insufferable. A sigh of relief as fingers ran through his locks, Drakken relished in the calm that came from the fog that filled his bathroom. The hot water, like a warm blanket, coated his blue skin, washed away the left-over suds from his shampoo, and relaxed the tense muscles that pained him after a long day of his evil-doings.

Drakken was finally at peace.

The bottle of soap fell from the marble counter. He jumped, his foot slipping on the slick floor, his elbow slamming into the shower wall with a loud THUMP in his attempt to cease his descent.

“SH-SHEGHO? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

Instinctively, his hands moved to cover himself as he stood, naked, in front of the glass that separated his body from the bathroom.

Slowly, meticulously, thin lines appeared in the fog that encased the glass. She spelled her reply:

“Just watchin’.”

He snarled.

“Get out.”

His threat fell flat as she wrote her second reply:

“No,” followed by a crude doodle of a heart.

Really, what was there for him to do? Truthfully, he was more scared of her than she was of him, and it was not like he could physically shoo her out of the steamy room. All he could do was finish his business as fast as possible while SheGho made herself at home, against the glass, drawing small pictures of hearts and smiley-faces to remind him of her overbearing presence.

The next time he hopped in the shower, he wore his swim trunks. SheGho was not amused, but accompanied him anyway.

[rosesforshego]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪᴅᴇ

Beneath the stars, the raven strands of Drakken’s hair faded into the blackened night. The radio’s signal struggled to weave in and out of trees, which infuriated him as the long-fought battle between music and static filled the car with its obnoxious clamor. In the end, the static won and Drakken moved to haphazardly shut the radio off before the static drove him insane. In the darkness, all that was left to accompany him was the rumble of an old engine and a familiar hum that continued to sound within his ears. 

He wasn’t sure why she enjoyed midnight rides. In the cold depths of the mountain air, maybe the environment reminded her of something she felt in life: the stars that glistened in her eyes as she wondered what laid beyond this world, the shadows that fed into her curiosities when she followed them down the never-ending pavement, the warmth she felt rise within her as her mortal soul drifted towards the alluring force of nature.

In life, she held the world within her fingertips. In death, all she had left were melancholy memories--a faint wish to feel those exhilarating sensations grace her being just one more time. 

At least, that’s what he believed. 

The hum drew closer as a faint pressure weighed upon his shoulder. A slight chill ran through him, but he kept his hand firm on the steering wheel, never losing sight of the road.

He sighed. There were just some things he would never know. 

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢꜱ

August 28th, 2002 6:30 am.

The fabric of his cotton button-up folded around the curvature of his elbow that rested upon his desk. Pen in hand, he rearranged his day planner to accommodate a pop-up meeting that sprang upon him only five minutes prior. His frown deepened, increasing the intensity of the wrinkles that hung around the corners of his mouth, as the permanent ink scratched out the preparation of his dinner that he was going to start as soon as the shrill bell rang at 2:30 pm. His sigh, long and slow, audibly left his nose as his cheek sunk further into the palm of his hand. Looked like he would have to settle for something small, and easy to make, for his lonesome meal.

It’s for the best, he thought. After all, he had lesson plans to catch up on, and a report to write for his superiors, so he shouldn’t spend time preparing a formal dinner for the one person who sat at his kitchen table—himself.

Drew pushed the frame of his glasses until it settled between his eyes, straightening his vision before the lenses fell from his nose entirely. He was not particularly happy when he received the news of this “emergency” meeting yesterday afternoon, and he was nearly furious when he was instructed to conduct a “team-bonding” exercise for the science department ASAP. He would have to admit, it was a rocky start to the school year—the clique culture that controlled the faculty was as present as ever, despite administration’s attempts to stop its formation over the summer—but, was it his responsibility to wrangle these adults and lecture them on how to be adults? Treating others with respect and kindness was a lesson that was taught in Kindergarten. He thought by the time his colleagues were old enough to return the favor, they’d at least remember this important lesson. Alas, he had put too much of his faith in the faculty, yet again, and it was his job to clean up their mess.

Sometimes he wondered why he accepted this “department head” position. It seemed to be more trouble than it was worth.

Besides this babysitting gig, he was tasked with orchestrating this afternoon’s gathering like a poorly-trained conductor in front of a group of ill-prepared musicians—but that seemed to be the theme of every department meeting for Dr. Lipsky. He and his colleagues knew that little direction equated to little progress, but no matter how many times the science department had voiced their concerns over faculty and students, their meek solutions were lost in the ether, never to be discussed by their boss—the Principal—ever again.

His gaze remained transfixed upon the daily planner in front of him as the vague image of his colleague’s solemn faces flashed before him. After years of poor treatment, he wondered why they still worked at Middleton High.

They deserved better.

The door to the lab shuffled against the floor, displacing a thick layer of dust that accumulated upon the tile. Behind the frame stood the slender stature of Miss Goodwin, carrying two freshly-brewed cups of coffee. Startled by his unsuspecting presence, she nearly receded into the hallway, but instead of giving in to her insecurities and subsequent embarrassment, she confidently stepped into the dimly-lit room, illuminated by the dawn’s rays.

“G’ mornin’, Drew.”

“Good morning, Sheila.”

She closed the door behind her, pressing her sole against the slab, maintaining her balance as she slowly moved closer to him. Drew watched her, in awe, confused and intrigued by the way she carried herself on top of the thin heels of her shoes. He always found fascination in the ability to remain balanced upon such thin plastic and, while Sheila crossed the room with a bit of elegance in each step, he found himself with a lack of understanding for such a feat, yet maintained his sense of child-like wonder.

Sheila placed the coffee in front of him, dissuading his roaming eyes from staring at her grace. Not like she particularly minded, nor noticed. The cup rested within the perfect ring that was created by the coffee that sat on his desk the day before. She cocked her head at the sight, a little perplexed and amused that Drew didn’t wipe away the ring. She thought that such a small marking would have driven him insane.

Maybe she assumed wrong.

She smiled, her teeth peeking out from being her blackened lips in an endearing way that Drew could get used to. However, her sly ploy to distract him was not successful as his eyes landed upon the gloved hand that subtly retreated from the cup, carrying within her palm a crumpled, yellow piece of paper.

“What’s that?”

Her sweet smile faltered.

“What’s what?”

His brows lowered, along with the melody in his voice, “The paper in your hand.”

She grew anxious at the twang of accusation within his tone as her hand deposited the paper within the pocket of her blazer.

She lied through her grinning teeth, “Receipt.”

His gaze bore holes into her fake demeanor, which nearly made her forehead glisten with sweat. Bull, he thought. What kind of receipt was printed on yellow paper?

“Well,” his legs swayed, turning his chair from side-to-side, bringing his idle body with it as he chewed on his words. Curiosity may have killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back and that was the principle he lived by.

“Feel free to throw it away in my trash.”

He gestured to the bin beside his desk.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” she deflected, nearly immediately, at his intriguing proposition. Drew sat up, his back pressed into the chair as he watched her free hand wave his words away. She had something to hid, he was sure of it. Just, what? He needed to know.

Quickly, without weighing the consequences, she continued to spin her web of lies as she attempted to add a sort of justification to her statement, “I need it for reimbursement purposes.”

Reimbursement? For what?

Enough beating around the bush; it was time for the direct approach, “What do you mean—"

“So, Doc,” she slid her leg onto his desk, closing the artificial gap between them with such abrupt energy that she nearly split her coffee onto her gloves.

Strange, he mused, eyeing the deep, burgundy that encased her hands. The morning was not chilly. Why did she choose to wear gloves?

The desk creaked beneath her frame, accommodating her weight as she shifted into a more comfortable position. Her words, abrasive against the calm that encapsulated the room, pulled him away from his curiosity, “How’s your morning?”

Truthfully, he was rather appalled that she had decided to make his desk her new seat, but he did nothing to stop her.

A sliver of raven hair fell from behind her ear and Drew resisted the urge to brush it back into place—not like the kind gesture would have eased her frazzled mind. After her successful break-in the previous morning, Sheila had not expected to find Drew slouched behind his desk. She hoped that her sly caper would be just as successful—if not more since she took his coffee suggestions to heart—but, as she felt the heat of her embarrassment rise to her flushed cheeks, there was nothing she could do. Though, she was a little upset that she would have to trash the note she wanted to leave for him. Not in his trash, though.

Maybe it was for the best.

Drew’s raging mind remained fixated on her hunched stature. The confidence that she had entered the room with dissipated behind the worry in her eyes. He may not have known her for long, but if he knew a thing or two about human behavior, he would have to guess that she was stressed—possibly due to whatever secrets she hung over his head. He hoped that Sheila, of all colleagues, could confide in him, but it was only Day 3 of their budding friendship. Maybe he was asking for too much too soon.

The corner of her mouth quivered nervously as her eyes searched his, waiting for his absent reply. Her words pierced the conversation in a way that was rather odd for the two of them, then hung in the space between them as Drew remained silent on the matter. She smiled, meekly, attempting to quell the quiver, but to no avail, as she hoped that he’d drop the subject and free her from her entanglement within the web she spun that would make even the most dignified of spiders proud.

So, drop it he did.

He leaned further into his chair—opening his crossed arms in a comfortable, calming gesture to ease her tension, but he maintained his watchful eye, unsure of where the conversation would lead, nor how his colleague would react.

Miss Sheila Goodwin was a book he’d have to pry open with his bare hands if he wanted to know her secrets. She wasn’t going to simply give them to him, despite his charms.

“Fine,” he replied. His chair squeaked under his weight.

“Just fine?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at his response. The quiver in her lip subsided.

“Drew, I’m surprised. You’re usually more elaborate than that.”

Usually? She’d only known the man for three days. Yet, she possessed the uncanny ability to analyze his behavioral patterns—his strange, wacky, slightly familiar with an aura of comfort patterns. It was something she’d like to explore.

“Well, I had a meeting with the department heads this morning,” he continued, obliging to her subtle request, “and I—”

“Wait,” she interrupted, her curiosity clutching her rational mind, “The department heads? Why did you need to meet with them?”

A short snort escaped Drew’s nose as he crossed his arms, closing the invite he had extended towards her, “I’m the head of the science department.”

Oh.

A pale pink broke through the green tint of her skin. Monday may have been her first day as a full-timer, but she had her substitute experience to fall back upon, and she was rather appalled at herself for not knowing this important bit of information. She knew who held the reins over the other departments, but not for science.

It was just her dumb luck that Drew Lipsky had to be the head of the science department—and she just had to showcase her ignorance in front of him.

How embarrassing.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry,” Drew waved his hand, dismissing her apology, “You’re new. I’ll give you a pass on this one.”

Truthfully, he would’ve given her a pass anyway—on anything. She was nice to him, treated him with kindness and respect that he had craved for years. Why be pressed over a silly matter?

She subtly rolled her eyes, which prompted a cheeky smirk from her colleague.

“Thanks.”

With a gentle push, she gracefully leaped from the desk. Her heels pressed upon the hard floor with a satisfying clack that rang within Drew’s ears. He watched her brush the accumulated wrinkles from the cloth of her slacks and, without saying a word, departed from his workspace.

Drew lurched forward, stretching his hand towards her receding frame, but stopped his movement before he could grasp her arm.

Damnit. Leave it to Drew to screw up practically every good thing that graced his miserable, lonely life.

He retracted his hand and leaned back into his chair, watching her stiff stature fade into the greying light. James had always warned him that his sarcastic personality was a niche sense of humor. His mother had always told him that he shouldn’t utilize commentary in the form of jest. He always knew that his awkward, geeky, socially inept personality would drive others away, but he had hoped that this time things would be different. That they’d click. That she’d understand his sarcastic wit and appreciate the sense of humor that had tormented him throughout his formative years. It was never his intention to offend her and, if he did, he was deeply apologetic about it, but for Sheila to simply state her thanks, then saunter away without a word pierced his beating heart.

When he first found her, sprawled upon the mucky floor, prying gum away from its hold on the tile, a warmth grew within his chest. She and her infectious personality was a gateway to a plethora of opportunities to find friendship within another—someone outside of his little group of scientists who understood the hardships of teaching; someone who’d laugh with him, talk with him, support him through his successes and his failures. He desired for someone different, who could release him from the strong confines of his mundane routine. A colleague who could provide a sense of fulfillment in his dull life.

Was that too much to ask?

She zeroed in on the port that led to the vacant hall outside of his classroom, but she didn’t pass through it. Instead, she turned to the long lab table that sat beside the door and snatched a chair from underneath it.

Sheila dragged the padded, metal legs across the tile towards Drew’s desk, then haphazardly spun the chair and straddled the plastic seat. The back of the chair faced the scientist in an informal, comfortable manner as she rested her elbow on the metal—her balled fist held her chin while the other lazily draped over the chair. A slight grin crept upon her features as her stature invited Drew into the easy-going, laid-back atmosphere her informal stature created.

“So, what happened?” she asked, “Tell me more.”

Drew blinked away the uncertainty that pooled within his eyes. For a brief moment, Sheila recognized a subtle perplexed look etched into the crease between his eyebrows, but it quickly faded once he found the courage to compose himself.

“Well,” he brought a finger to his thin lips, tapping them as his eyes trailed to the brown stain on the white ceiling, “this year has been off to an. . . interesting start.”

She shifted in her seat—the uneven legs rattling against the tile, “You’re tellin’ me.”

His gaze met hers for a brief moment of understanding. Her smile softened the corners of her eyes, but her emerald irises displayed a similar sort of uncertainty, laced with sadness and frustration, that reflected within Drew’s.

The job never got easier and he didn’t have the heart to tell her.

“Yeah,” a small chuckle escaped with his response and faded into the thick atmosphere, “you’re not the only one who had a rough first day if that’s any consolation.”

“Somewhat,” she admitted. It was nice to know that she wasn’t the only person left to suffer in the harsh elements that came with the high school, but the curve of Drew’s frowning lips indicated that there was an issue that ran deeper than new teacher initiation day.

Drew broke eye contract with Sheila, his gaze wandering to the posters the clung to his classroom walls. His lips formed a thin line to counteract the growing frown from settling into the creases that formed deep folds around his face. He was positive that she’d hear about the events that were recounted in the early morning meeting, but, after the horrifying experience she called her first day, he fought against the urge to gossip, despite the intense curiosity that laid within her, begging for him to keep her in the loop that she was shoved out of.

Sheila placed a gentle hand on his outstretched forearm. The simple gesture immediately forced his eyes to find hers, but they still held a vacant expression as his mind remained lost within his thoughts. Bothered by his distant stature, and his stand-offish gaze that passed through her, she leaned closer to his stiff body that swayed, slightly, in the chair.

“Everything alright?”

“Huh?” he shook his head, her voice yanked him from the confines of his head.

The look of concern that lined her clenched jaw startled him, yet sent shockwaves of a calming sensation that eased his mind. It was an open invitation for him to confide in her.

It was everything he could’ve wanted.

“Oh, yeah,” he regained his composure, removing his arm from Sheila’s touch, “the meeting went well. I’m just not looking forward to hosting one later this afternoon.”

“With the science department?”

“Yeah,” he eyed her as a soft gleam reflected in the beautiful blue that captured Sheila’s attention, “I was hoping to go home early. Maybe take a nap. . .”

“You’re already that tired?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as a hint of a mischievous, playful spirit rose within her banter.

“I only wake up this early if I have to,” he retorted.

Lately, it seemed as if he could never get enough rest. Waking up before the sun didn’t help.

“Not an early riser, I see,” she remarked, crossing her arms upon the back of her chair.

“I thought you knew,” he said, gesturing to the coffee that sat, untouched, on his desk. Its warm steam continued to seep through the cover, dissipating into the morning air. It invited Drew to take a sip—to wake his drowsy, clouded mind—but he remained immobile, too attentive to the conversation, and Sheila’s cheeky responses, to move.

“I made a guess,” she admitted, “It was nearly a fifty-fifty shot since I knew next-to-nothing about you.”

“You knew I liked coffee, didn’t you?”

She laughed—its melody allowed the light from the new, morning sun to enter his welcoming gaze, “No.”

“Lucky guess?”

“You could say that,” Sheila remarked as she stood from her chair, snatching her coffee that sat beside Drew’s upon her departure, “Hopefully I made it right this time.”

“Not like you made it wrong last time,” Drew mumbled, leaning forward to grab his cup.

The liquid behind the Styrofoam warmed his cold hand. He hadn’t meant for Sheila to hear, but in close quarters, it was difficult to mumble anything without her sensitive ears grasping onto every word. She was quick and keen—blessed with a youthful spirit; a witty personality that he’d have to learn how to keep up with if he wanted to maintain the friendship that bloomed between them.

“Yeah, well,” she pushed the chair back towards the lab table, its legs scraping against the floor as it nestled into the nook beneath the chemically-stained surface, “I tried to follow your instructions, but you didn’t give me any.”

Drew brought the coffee to his lips. The bitterness that coated his tongue the day before was replaced with a rich, creamy taste that brought chills to his ample skin. He hummed into his cup, delighted by the taste, indulging for a moment in the delicious caffeine that would, without a doubt, aid him through the long day ahead.

“It’s perfect,” he remarked, reluctantly pulling the cup away as his gaze trailed towards his colleague who was making her way out the door.

“Hey,” he sat up in his chair as she turned her head in his direction, “where’d you get this?”

She smiled, her irises beaming in the sunlight, “I made it just for you.”

With that, she left—the click of her heels echoing in the empty hallway.

The corner of his lip curved into a smile but immediately faltered as he set down his coffee.

If she made it, then what was the paper for?

Alarmed, he abruptly rose from his seat and followed the draft that flowed out the door in her wake, all the way calling her name, asking questions that demanded answers, as child-like laughter beckoned Drew to Classroom 121. 

[rosesforshego]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎-𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙼𝚢 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚛

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ɴᴇᴡ ᴅɪᴇᴛ

As part of his new diet, courtesy of SheGho destroying his packages of dino-nuggets, Drakken stocked his fridge with fresh fruits and vegetables from the nearest farmers market to his isolated Caribbean lair. At first, the diet looked promising; he had gone the extra mile to learn how to cook--a basic life-skill that his mother failed to teach him--but, as SheGho peered behind the fridge door that Drakken left agape, she recognized the familiar packaging of his beloved dino-nuggets, poorly hidden behind heads of lettuce. 

He knew she’d be disappointed. He had assumed that she’d unleash her fury over his poor eating habits on the innocent package of nuggets. What he didn’t anticipate, however, was the absence of the old carton of strawberries he had bought days ago. 

Drakken opened the fridge, now stashed with his junk-food, and noticed the molded carton missing. Peculiar, he mused, for he didn’t remember throwing them out, but he very well could have. It wouldn’t be the first time a memory was lost the ether. He paid no mind and closed the door. Later that evening, there they were, in their rightful place, lodged in the back corner of the fridge. Naturally, his curiosity grew and he wondered if the strawberries would conduct their disappearing act the next time he wanted his nuggets. 

Instead, he found the carton on the table, by an unkempt chair that wobbled in the light breeze of the nearby air conditioner. Recognizing the blue-ish culture that made the sugary fruit its lovely home, Drakken grabbed the carton to throw it in the trash, but it didn’t budge. 

“SheGho, will you please give me the strawberries.”

She didn’t let go. 

“But there’s MOLD!”

She was not persuaded. Not wanting to anger the demon that occupied his lair, he left her alone, hoping that the strawberries wouldn’t spoil the rest of the food in the fridge. 

Weeks passed, the strawberries remained nestled in their back corner, save for the few times SheGho decided she wanted to look at them. Her strawberries, the fruit she favored in life, were black with disgusting mold and a foul odor that concocted within the sealed plastic of the container that now had her pseudo name on it. She marveled at them, wished that she could taste the bitter-sweet flavor, then put them back in Drakken’s fridge for safe-keeping, afraid to rid of the one thing that reminded her youthful spirit of the mortal world.

The day Drakken decided to start his own garden on the back balcony was the day SheGho actually offered her assistance around the lair. She tended to his plants, feeding some of her accumulated energy to them, giving extra attention to the new strawberries while the old ones laid within the depths of the garbage can.