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@sisterfame
I typically arrive three years too late. I wish I had been able to sit in that white, aromatic kitchen and look you in the face but I was not ready. I was still on my way.
Mikko Harvey, from “Wind-Related Ripple in the Wheatfield,” Sixth Finch (Spring 2021)
natasha banks ridley, a very unconvincing ghost story.
LAURIE HARRIS Baywatch | S1E1: “Panic at Malibu Pier”
sellsout:
georgie’s never had any siblings to worry about. ‘supposes there’s lawless, a girl as a metaphor for an ingrown tumour ( they were razor - sharp parasites in the sweetest fashion, draining life for the other with vicious certainty : YOUR LOVE HAS NEVER BEEN KIND — sometimes it had been defined only by taking and taking and taking, until only gunshot wounds and fingertip shaped bruises were all that was left ). that’s the closest he’s ever gotten to sibling - attachment and he’d fucked it up, vinegar as a lovely chaser to wounds, lemon juice as a tonic to heal the soul : NOT EVEN FONDNESS HAD FUCKING HELD THEM TOGETHER. just georgie and his sharp nails and his furrowed brows, destroying another person’s life, worming his way into mara’s in the next stormy breath [ she isn’t some mythical light meant to chase away his soul - deep darkness — she’s a good time with a quick tongue and he likes her more for not trying to solve him ]. ‘ ANOTHER TIME. you just letting me down softly there? ‘cause you can just say no or never in a million years or fuck right off. i can handle a fuck right off. hell, i might even like it. ‘ his smile is not the polished charm staring back at you from glossy magazine shoots, it’s crooked at one side, only one dimple making itself known — a boyhood smile that hasn’t known life’s pleasures so entirely yet. ‘ you want me to fake her signature? i’m not good at faking signatures, but i’ll give it my best shot. MARA SPANKS, WASN’T IT? LARA RANKS? gimme a pen and i’m sure i’ll figure it out. ‘ there’s a clear tension held in the woman’s mouth as she hums about her sister, a fondness coloured with something a little — worse. ‘ there’s no way i can prove i’m not a total dickhead, then, huh? ‘
❝ i said another time, and i meant it. ❞ a lie masked by a grin, the gleam of her teeth more honest than anything she could verbalize. it all comes too natural : a smile and a pot of coffee and a talk easier than any she’s had at this place in years. the more comfortable she grows, the less natasha she feels ; every room a shrine to indulgence, scratches and nicks in the walls with stories to tell — it’s nowhere she belongs. part of her wants to flee, abandon it all before jack stumbles in by chance and gets the idea stuck in his head that she could actually feel at home in a place so thoroughly marked as his ; the other part stares right back up at georgie like there’s not a second thought to be had anywhere. ❝ you stick around long enough, and we’ll go grocery - shopping together. you have my word. ❞ bit more truthful, that time, resistance null under the slightest tease. ❝ nice of you. no, uh, i need to see her myself when she’s up, make sure she’s doing okay. ❞ she could come up with a better excuse, one that doesn’t make her sound so much like a caregiver, but if he’s spent more than a night or two with mara, surely he’s well - acquainted with the messes that she makes, no further explanation needed. a hopeless hobby, all tangled with missed calls and thoughts hard to swallow, it exists as their only constant. off her barstool nat slides, mug in hand, and palms open mara and jack’s fridge — she’s impressed when it looks more like a fridge shared by two functioning adults and less like a frat party’s stock of alcohol ( that can’t be a conscious decision one of them made, but natasha chooses to believe it is ). ❝ mm, sure. you can tell me about yourself. and not something i could find out by just googling your name, okay? something real. ❞
[7/365] Days of Music
I’m going out I’m gonna drink myself to death And in the crowd I see you with someone else I brace myself ‘Cause I know it’s going to hurt
‘ AH — you are not going to throw up, are you? ‘ every night, a different woman found herself on this gilded sidewalk, a runaway of elegant ladies drinking themselves into oblivion ( should write a song about it . . . ah, fuck it, georgie would do it better ). their voice is a baby bird and it is only a day old : IT WHISPERS IN THEIR THROAT, THEIR HANDS LIFTING TO PRESS AGAINST THE STRANGER’S SHOULDERS. fingertips are still wet with grafitti, the first half of their band name sprawled across the side of the building. ‘ ah, ah, no falling over. that is — the first sign of something or other. DON’T DO IT. are you with me, ma’am? can you count to ten with me? ‘
@sisterfame
a half - broken beer bottle sparkles on the sidewalk, and when natasha squints at it she thinks she can see her reflection in the biggest shard. she can’t, it’s only a smudge of dirt or maybe the leftover stick of a label, but still she’s chosen the glass to stare at as she hunches over herself. christ, it’s been a while, ‘tasha. informal guardianship, round - the - clock anxiety and dread leave little room for nights like these, and even tonight was a mere thing of chance, spurred on by a sudden snap to get irresponsibly wasted with a group of friends offering a spare ticket. the frosted nips in all their top forty glory were a fun time, natasha’s battle against nausea decidedly much less so. her hair hangs wild and loose with her ; one palm releases its pressure from her thigh and blindly brushes back a curtain of curls. somewhere behind, a voice, then a touch — not a recognizable one, but she’s sufficiently drunk herself into a thorough state of apathy. already halfway to getting sick in public, how much more out of your skin can you possibly feel? so against every cautionary tale she’s heard and passed on, she accepts the help of a stranger. ❝ one! ❞ she tries, anyway ; easier said than done when she’s split the tiny bit of focus she has between keeping herself upright and holding her hair behind her neck and still, still staring at that damn shard of glass. ❝ two, three. did i do it? ❞
sellsout:
❝ you got anything specific you need to see mara about? anything you can't write down on a sticky note? 'cause, you know, we could go to the grocery store together — since it's so fucked up that i ain't been in a while. ❞ tap, tap, tap ( what song was he banging out against his overfilled mug, letting his fingers burn with an intent that is anything but brutal? — HEART HERPES, BY FROSTED NIPS ). jesus, blast from the past much? has to stop his fingers from doing that. focus. tap, tap — different beat now, something more generic. THE POUNDING IN HIS HEAD STOPS ( not a headache, then, rather the sudden roar of memories that needed to be stabbed to death and buried in the backyard ). ❝ she's just ( … ) mara, i mean, she's just — mara. i don't know. she's a fucking bitch and she annoys the shit outta me, i ain't gonna mince words think i might like to spend the rest of my goddamn life being annoyed by her, though. ❞ his smile is all gravel and rust ; ain't ever been starlight there, but he doesn't mind it too much. he's content with the earth now. ❝ you two really that different? 'cause i could see myself liking you just fine — 'less you decide i'm a fucking asshole. won't mind that, either way. ❞
❝ another time. ❞ turned down gently, as enticing as it might be to accept. sam wouldn’t like that, would he? she knows damn well mara wouldn’t, as possessive as she is. mental note made to mull over the possibility of another time, and natasha sighs. ❝ uh... yeah, i need her signature on some of mom and dad’s residual checks — i wouldn’t need it, she could get them sent here and taken care of, but she knows i’d do it for her. and why should mara do anything for herself when someone else could handle it? ❞ every breath between strung with a hostility reserved only for mara : fond, even when exhausted. these limits can be pushed, it always turns out, lines crossed again and again when mara’s among the last true senses of family natasha can feel ( and those threads, even, have been fraying for years ). she clings, desperate and detached at once ; any words that sting taste better than none at all. natasha could choke on the laugh he draws from her, nodding along with his assessment. ❝ sounds like you know her well, then. ❞ another drink from her mug, thoughtful. tongue swipes along her lower lip to savor the warmth left behind. ❝ oh, i’m already sure you’re an asshole. — nothing personal. the guys she brings home always are. most of them, anyway. she’s got a type. ❞ explains jack, explains every faded bruise on her body and every trembling voicemail she’s left on natasha’s phone in the dead of night. ❝ believe me. some days she feels less like my baby sister and more like... someone i happened to grow up with, i guess. ❞
mara and nat really did totally opposite things w their fame post-accident didn’t they... fascinating.
Mädchen Amick in Baywatch: Panic at Malibu Pier (1989)
writing this was a hate crime
thinking about her
sellsout:
his hand presses against the coffee pot until the heat becomes unbearable ( a sharp sting against his fingertips, the gooey warmth fading away to that tang of pain — HOLDS HIMSELF THERE UNTIL THE PLEASURE LEAVES ). wonders if that's how it looks from the outside : georgie, a hand — MARA, A COFFEE POT. hasn't quite boiled over yet, though, but he thinks he might have gotten close once or twice. ❝ nat. good choice. what i would have gone with, too. ❞ coffee pot reaches its boil ; he pours two glasses of the stuff, throws in milk — watches it splash against the side and forgoes cleaning it up ( they'd get to it later, after early morning had faded away ; sure, they'd get to it, and the ash on the counter, and the unwrapped take out spread across the floor, near the sofas ). a shrine to their blurred memories, the phsyical remnants of nights that sped by too quickly. ❝ hey, i'm not gonna knock how someone gets their kicks, nat. ain't shopping supposed to be therapeutic? personally, i don't see the appeal of staring down a bunch of cucumbers to see which one is gonna disappoint you the least, but i haven't been in a grocery store in ( … ) jesus, a long time. that's fucked, huh? ❞ hand ran through messy hair with a distant laugh, a cup put in front of the semi - stranger. mara banks' sister. another puzzle piece slipped right into place, but the picture didn't seem any clearer. ❝ your husband, huh? damn, why are the good ones always taken? a guy could lose hope. ❞
❝ fucked, yeah. ❞ repeated with partial agreement, little want to put assertion behind it. domesticity has always appealed to her, has since the decades ago spent in the midst of walks of fame and various movie sets. the banks name wasn’t without its perks — still isn’t, on her more desperate days when she isn’t so hesitant to drop mention of it — but now and then it was nice to escape its legacy, shed the spotlight on her back. you got your wish, ‘tasha. happy yet? she clears her throat, rids it of the roughness grown there. ❝ thank you. ❞ hard to remember the last time she was served, let alone in this place — more likely that it’ll be a shot of rum shoved into her palm, despite her insistence that she’ll have to drive home soon or that it’s hardly noon. ‘tasha banks, the world’s leading expert on telling mara banks and company no. brows lift as she raises her mug to her lips. ❝ please lose it. ❞ warmed by laughter and the coffee alike, nat’s cheeks color a pale pink. ❝ i promise if there’s something in mara that appeals to you, you won’t find anything like it in me. ❞ subconscious twitch of her head over her shoulder as she speaks, eyeline skimming down the hallway and past mara’s bedroom door to the one some feet beside it — locked, she’d wager, and if he was as lucky last night as he likes to boast on any other, he isn’t alone. she swallows, forgetting she’s in between sips of coffee. a look back to georgie, a charmed smile. ❝ we don’t have a lot in common. ❞
nat is a good mom and she is proud of it
sellsout:
FUN NIGHT? he doesn't really remember, which means yes : it was glimpses of blue - red spotlights, the rush of alcohol staining his tongue, his hands all over mara ( her back most of the night, her wrist to press a soft kiss where her pulse was more hummingbird than blood, gripping at pillows that felt like they were part of ‘em ). there's a headache coming, frustrated stormcloud of grey ink that would sprawl out soon enough, and his jaw aches for some unknown reason — must have been a fun night, then. ❝ nat, natasha. what'd you prefer? IT'S GEORGIE, FOR ME. nice and simple, you know? ain't making me sound like i'm goddamn ancient. ❞ only calls me when she needs something. SUPPLY AND DEMAND : mara wants him, he wants her — that's what they need from each other ( and maybe she'll get bored of him at some point ; jesus, that fucking stings, doesn't it? ). ❝ you don't gotta be sorry, nat — natasha. come on, you're more welcome here than i am, i'm just a bed - warmer. ❞ wry grin splashes across his features. he moves past her, coffee machine switched on, the gentle buzz filling the room. ❝ real fun. you party much, nat / natasha? ❞
the courtesy of choice in name isn’t one she’s offered often. with jack, it’s nearly all terms of endearment, babe and sweetheart and other words he hasn’t earned the right to ; she’s lucky if she hears any name from mara at all. ❝ ... nat. thanks. ❞ body slides onto a barstool, nat choosing to ignore a little mound of ash that lays on the countertop, no doubt carelessly nudged off from a blunt. it’s like a snapshot of any evening with mara. even though she’s rarely included in her sister’s exploits anymore — something she’s thankful for, she doesn’t miss waiting until the latest hours for mara to come home, drunk years before she should've been, slurring insults unprovoked, that’s someone else’s problem now — she can picture the scene so clearly that it’d drive her to old anger if she weren’t now distracted with georgie’s curiosity. ❝ sure, if going for groceries past nine on a weekday’s a party to you. ❞ light jab, clear contrast of their ideas of a good time. she doubts georgie’s totally harmless, because she can’t imagine mara getting involved with someone sanitized to nat’s own preference, but he’s friendlier than most others that spend the night here. charming, too, without looking like he’s trying too hard. makes her feel like she can breathe. ❝ no. i’m not — ❞ my sister. ❝ it’s not really my scene. even before i had my son, my husband, i didn’t go out a ton. too loud, too crowded, you know? ❞
❝ are you ever gonna feel guilty for this? ❞ pillow talk that's better suited elsewhere, probably, but this is always her first instinct, always her next step in this routine they share. while he lounges behind her, surrounded in his tangle of sheets and satiated for now, she’s sat up. bare back to him, natasha slides her palms over her knees. to her left she can see the mirror of his dresser, the scene reflected back to them ; everything in his room looks grey even when it’s not. ❝ i’m not asking you to, ❞ she clarifies, lamely. maybe the first couple of times, she’d expressed some shock, at herself and at him ; by now she feels she knows him well enough — the façade of man he molds around himself, and some of what’s underneath. doesn’t take too long for his snakeskin to start flecking away when she’s concerned, it turns out. ❝ i just wanna know, you know, what your... limits are, i guess. ❞
thinking about how nat tried so hard to squeeze herself into normalcy after everything happened and she found a man to love and to marry and she had a child and they moved into a nice home and it still wasn’t enough for her - because she can’t manufacture the same sense of family and belonging she had when her parents were alive and mara was okay, she can’t just check off the boxes that lead to domesticity and expect things to be the same as they were before - it backfires, and now she feels trapped in a way she can’t place
