#augustself

[rebeccasheart-blog]

who shot rebecca heart? - sp.

            They are frequent. Whilst asleep, whilst awake -- they come at all times of the day and night. Nightmares, terrors, flashes... They hit her when she leasts expects them. In the middle of the night, during rehearsals in The Heart, at dinner, lunch, when she’s driving, whilst she’s talking -- she hates them. At first, they told her nothing. They told her exactly what she remembered and nothing more. She’d see the gun in a hand, the barrel inches from her chest. She’d hear the shot echoing in her ears, feel the blood in her hair -- but that was it. 

       Until they changed. Until those flashes grew longer, until they became clearer. And she began to remember. She remembered the drink she’d had in her hand, and the smile she’d flashed at her daughter, and the crowd she’d slipped through on her way across the floor. She remembered the type of gun pressed against her stomach and the colour dress of the woman who dared to pull the trigger. 

                There were times were she wanted these memories to end. Where she wanted nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare of her almost-death. But lately, she’d popped a few pills, hoping that she’d fall in to a deep enough sleep for her to finally see the face of the bitch who put a hole in her heart. It was dangerous and stupid and she absolutely should not be doing that -- but desperation called for extreme measures and Rebecca could not live with not knowing. 

        With the door locked, her back against the wall and her knees drawn up to her chest, Rebecca curled in to the corner of her office and closed her eyes, a now empty bottle of what were sleeping pills lying open at her feet. 

                                      And she remembered. 

        It was hazy at first, as it usually is. The noise nothing but white in her ears and dulled, muffled. She can never remember what she was said, could never hear the words -- but she remembered her shoulder knocking in to another’s, she remembered looking up with a smile and the start of an apology on her lips, and she remembered the look in the eyes that stared back at her. 

                Banging on the doors woke her from the image of blood on her hands and Caroline’s face above her own, but Rebecca was too shaken to answer the calls that sounded through her office door. Eyes wide and hands clenched in the fabric around her waist, it took a moment for the shock to wear off before cold-hearted fury began to sweep through her bones. She knew that face, she knew it well. 

       Blindly, Rebecca leaned forward and reached for her phone, sliding it off the table in her disorientation. She fumbled with it, sliding it with a shaking hand -- from shock, or anger, or perhaps from both. It didn’t matter. Bringing up Jabba’s contact, she snarled at her screen, her grip on it growing tighter until, just as she’d pressed send, she threw it at the wall, two words flashing before it disappeared through text. 

                                             NATASHA MORRIS

[the-joker-queen-blog]

The Image Lives On // Self-Para

The town car ambled slowly past Harris Theater and Daniella stared, her brow raising at the crowd that stood in a mass of fancy dresses and sharp tuxedos. Strange how the world can find a way to keep going even when another's could fall apart. Not that hers was falling apart. She was perfect, if only in her appearance. The phone that was lightly gripped in her slender hands told a different story. Maybe if she had stayed a little longer. Or if she had forced him to come along instead of giving him a choice. Alfeo had been a staple in her childhood and to find out that the man had kicked the dust in the form of an overdose was a kill shot to her system. The woman's lips pressed a hard line, almost blending into the age sharpened edges. The thought was a fancy if anything. There was no way that the old man would have budged from his new hold. Too much the town had offered him to back out then, he would often say. He would be sorely missed. Her pseudo-father. Reaching into her bag, she fished out a compact, using it to check for stray tears as the driver finally pulled to a stop. When the brunette was finally assured her image was saved for the night, she gave a swift smile to the him. He was young, a kid barely out of high school who needed money for college. Daniella reached out one hand, tipping the boy generously before climbing out of the opened door. Flashes immedietly went off in her general direction. She was a new name still and it would sell any tabloids famously. Smiling, she made her way through the mass and entered the glass doors to the theater. Her image was all she had at the moment. Getting into the donating spirit would help her possession lead to higher ladders. An ADA was supposed to be in attendance tonight. It would have been the first thing Alfeo would have pushed her towards. And, if it was the only thing she learned from her father's most trusted employee it was something she learned well. Always listen to the consigliere.

[laceykeating]

ghosts of the past; a self para.

trigger warning/s: abuse (I think that’s it, but let me know!)

Lacey couldn’t remember the last time she had thought about her mother. Well, the woman who abandoned her and her brothers, her father, turning them into savage animals when it came to blaming and fists, pummeling every inch of the girl’s body whenever their anger peaked. The father was supposed to be the hero, Lacey was supposed to be a daddy’s girl, yet she never got that chance.

But there she was, sitting in her room, thinking about the woman who had left her to the wolves without a look bad. And she sighed, grabbing her bag and slipping on her shoes, the door shutting softly behind her.

“I’m heading out,” Lacey called out to no one in particular and was met with silence, bar from a few laughter’s in different rooms and furious keyboard tapping. She rolled her eyes, “Bloody Jokers.”

Tugging her coat tightly around her slim frame, she walked briskly in the direction of the prison – where a majority of her family were being held. Lacey couldn’t have said thank you enough to the Heart family for keeping her safe, ensuring her brothers and father were locked away. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t visit.

Of course Lacey had called the prison in advanced, made sure visiting hours were still running and requested a visit for her father.

“And what is your name?” The caller had asked in a monotonous tone, and Lacey could distinctly hear the snapping of gum.

“Um Lacey Hea – Keating. Lacey Keating.”

Of course she was never officially a Heart, being too old to be adopted and the paper work was too much of a hassle, but that hadn’t stopped Lacey from imagining herself being a Heart, last name and all.

Signing in and following the guard into the visiting room, she spotted her father sitting behind one of the tables, a guard flanked either side of him. With a nod, the two guards stepped back just enough so they could have their privacy.

“Lacey,” her father murmured evenly.

“Father.” She replied quietly, slipping into the seat across from him.

There were no heartfelt tears.

No hugs.

No ‘I missed you’, ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you’. Just empty silence.

She thought about what she wanted to say, on the walk there, but had come up short. So after a couple of minutes of silence, Lacey spoke up. “What happened to mom?”

Her father snorted, leaning back in his seat. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because I’m your daughter.”

“You got us locked in here.”

“Because you were a shitty family.”

He sighed and she leaned back in her seat, never taking her eyes off of him.

Not answering for a few moment, looking down at his hands before speaking. “She left. Not long after you were gone. I don’t think she ever wanted children, but she had them anyway. Couldn’t handle it, I suppose. There isn’t much to it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all there is.”

[serenaromono]

Freedom | Self

TW: Blood, fighting, gore

Serena had had enough of the judging eyes, the side looks and the constant whispers. She was a Joker. Big freaking deal. She had the last name and attended the blood bath but that didn’t mean she was apart of the craziness that was her mother. She was apart of the family, had come because everyone had begged her to. And because she had a chance at having her own bar. Her own space to make her own in a way, even if she was co-owning it with a man that couldn’t show his face these days. 

Yes she had attended the gathering at the Heart, hoping to just enjoy a party where no blood was shed. And instead she watched as the woman who lead the Hearts and Clubs be shot. She hadn’t seen who did it, but the gunfire had been herd clearly in the establishment. And it had been the talk of the town indeed. But she had no part of it, and neither did her family. At least, that is what she wanted to believe. And what she prayed was true in some sense of the world.

It was well after closing now, and she had finished putting everything away when she had stepped out into the back alley behind the bar. It was raining, but it didn’t clean the air or wash away the stink of the streets. It only added to it. Pulling her jacket tight about her, she walked past her car, headed down a few more alley’s. She needed to find something to ease her tension, ease the anger that had been building, and ease her hatred against so many.

Serena had walked for god who knows how long when she finally came upon what she sought. A man who was harassing another and wouldn’t relent. Someone who nobody would truly miss if he didn’t appear again because his head had been beaten into the pavement. Someone who would take the brunt of her rage and feel it through every bone that supported his form.

Serena came up behind the man, grabbing him firmly on the shoulder to turn towards her. The sound of being startled from a hand grasping him, was heard ever so briefly as her fist raised to meet his jaw, a sound of pain mixed with annoyance escaping through lips that hadn’t seen a razor in weeks. “Maybe you should not pick on people in alley ways. Don’t know who will come up behind you buddy.” When she saw the fist rising to hit her, she ducked quickly to avoid it, doing a shoulder check into the man’s gut, sending him back towards the wall.

She began bouncing lightly on her feet as all the rage that had been building in her system becoming her energy, the fuel that kept her going as she waited for the man to stand from the slouched position on the ground. “You little bitch. I am going to hurt you for this, maybe use you like the cunt you are.” The words were growled from the man, adding more fuel to her rage. Making her want to kill him instead of just beat the living tar from him. 

With a bounce from one foot to the next she ran at the man, raising a leg into a roundhouse kick. Her foot met with the top of his head, delivering a painful blow. Moving as quickly as she did though she wasn’t completely able to escape the grasp of his hand. She felt the twist of her ankle, sending a cry from her lips of sudden pain but it was numbed quickly as she used her other foot to kick free. Mostly with a kick to the balls, hard enough to no doubt leaving bruising and possible bleeding.

Scrambling back into a standing position, limping some, she sent another fist towards the man’s jaw, her knuckles connecting hard with bone. The audible crack that sounded in the alleyway was like a drug to her, making some satisfaction and relief fill her. “I am not your play thing. No one is. Maybe next time you think about harassing someone, you will think of me.” She snarled before delivering punch after punch to the man’s face. Bone moved beneath her knuckles with each hit, blood pouring onto the street in slow rivers. She didn’t pay attention when the man completely slumped over, her hands continuing to break flesh and bone away from its home. 

Only when the burn in her ankle and knuckles poured through did she stop. Her breath heaved as she stood, her body shaking with the ecstasy and relief she felt. All her rage was pushed out for now, and she felt slightly more human. More herself then she had in days. “Fucking assholes.” She mumbled as she walked back the way she came, letting the hard rain rinse the blood from her hands and coat. Her face held a cruel smirk as she moved back to the place she worked, ready to continue on with the life she had been born to live.

[rebeccasheart-blog]

m.i.a || rebecca & _______

              Rebecca has never been one to stay still for long. She was a child who liked to fidget, forever scolded by her mother for wringing hands and shaking knees. And she was stubborn, but that was well known. Still, they shouldn’t have expected her for stay in there for much longer. She hated hospitals, if not for it’s white walls and sterile stench, than for the hours she’d spent in here, by her son’s side. A daughter dead, and a son near following. Rebecca hated these rooms, and not just because the colour scheme was atrocious. 

                    So, she left.

                         Against medical advisement, Rebecca mustered what strength she had, signed her name amidst protests and orders - Rebecca could not be ordered, and she could not be controlled... and the morphine may have yet to work it’s way entirely out of her system, but the nurses on staff didn’t need to know that. At least she could breathe on her own, and if she could breathe on her own, Rebecca was of the opinion that she could walk on her own, and leave on her own. Perhaps, she should’ve left a message. Called Marcus to come sign her out, or ask one of the children to escort her home - but she saw the way they looked at her, like she was made of glass, like she could break. She’d always been nothing but bulletproof to them, larger than life, untouchable. 

          How the mighty have fallen, she thinks bitterly as she grimaces, scowls, and trudges along. At least she could be thankful for the clothes she’d asked Ariadne bring, and for once she was grateful for the flats. Somehow, she doubted she’d have made it as far as she had with six inch heels. She doesn’t like this, the sight she must be. The Red Queen, struggling to walk straight after a week under lock and key, under constant supervision, vulnerable, and weak. 

                    She wanted her father.

                                       She wanted to go home. 

         The Manor was almost exactly as she remembered it. Big, imposing, magical - it was a work of art in it’s time, a true castle on a hill that overlooked all of Wonderland. But time had worn it down, and it seemed almost... lonely, now. The gates were rusted and they creaked as she pushed them open with the heel of her palm. The grounds were trimmed, a longstanding agreement ensuring that what had once been the family home remained well-kept - but her favourite oak tree had overgrown. It was almost exactly as she remembered it, but not quite. Wandering towards the trunk, Rebecca lifted her hand and let her fingers gently brush through the branches until she found her way to the middle, where she turned her back on the bark and slowly sat, grunting as her chest tightened in warning. 

                         However long she sat there, she’s not entirely sure. But the gates creaked open again, and Rebecca blinked, looking up to watch in silence. Few people knew about this place, even fewer were capable of getting in, but only a handful would think to look for her here. 

[rebeccasheart-blog]

hide and seek | & self para.

Summary: Rebecca flat-lined for a grand total of thirty-three seconds. Or, anaesthesia’s weird and Rebecca’s confused. Mentions: Caroline Heart, Marcus Heart, Antonio Diamond & Vivianne Spade. Second Summary: Basically... Rebecca dreams whilst in surgery. Time & Date: 4.38AM, 3rd of August, 2015. To Note: The bullet nicked Rebecca’s heart, which is why she has yet to wake up. The surgeons had to be extremely careful when repairing the damage and she went in to cardiac arrest where they lost her pulse. But don’t worry. They got her heart beating again and she is now in recovery.

“Caroline?” Her voice carries, it always carries, but the smile she wears widens as giggles reach her ears. Gently, Rebecca pushed a door open, one hand with fingers curled around the handled, the other pressed flat agains the wood by her head. Peering inside through the crack she’d made, Rebecca bit her lip as she glanced around the room. It was rather dark in here, the low lights above casting a dull glow. Most of her winter clothes were stored in this room. Her coats, her jeans, her sweaters -- there was a shelf of knit beanies, a wall of boots alone. Everything a girl could want in a wardrobe... sans a girl. “Baby girl?” Rebecca tried again, a crease forming in her brow.

Her daughter had to be in here somewhere. Caroline loved this game, and Rebecca thought she was getting quite good at it. Another giggle, a peal of laughter, and soft little footsteps on timber floors. Rebecca whipped around, the door still open in her hand as she glanced behind her, before turning on her feel and trotting down the hall. “Caroline?” She called again, looking right where laughter came from left and Rebecca ran. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal. They didn’t play like this. Caroline hid, and Rebecca sought, and then they baked cookies in the kitchen. Hide and seek did not involve cats and mice. 

Panic seized her heart and Rebecca spun, turning to face one direction before spinning to face the other. Her wardrobe was huge. It spanned a vast majority of the west wing’s second floor, and it was a maze to those otherwise unfamiliar with it’s floor plan. Rebecca had things hidden in this room that she would rather one not find, especially her children. Most of her secret stashes were dangerous to those with little fingers, especially if they were sticky. But as familiar as these walls were, Rebecca for the life of her couldn’t remember which was was out, or which was was further in. “Caroline?!” she called again, her voice an octave higher and her hands clenched tight by her side. “Caroline, where are you?” 

She ran. Moving through the halls until they began to blur together and she realised her eyes were wet with unshed tears. What was happening? A pain in her gut had her doubling over, her breath hitching almost painfully. Her heart seemed to jump once..... then twice.... and one more time. The light above her began to flicker, and Rebecca stared up at it with wide, frightened eyes. “Marcus?” She tried, choking out her husband’s name as she felt cold air sweep over her skin. Another giggle, more footsteps, and Rebecca closed her eyes. “Non capisco,” she breathed, shaking her head as she felt the rise of panic in her chest. “D-daddy... Viv?” Opening her eyes, Rebecca stared at her reflection in the mirror on the wall. The mirror that hadn’t been there before. Her eyes traced sweat-slicked hair, stared at paled skin and blood on her lips. Slowly, Rebecca stood, sliding her hands from her knees and rising until her back was straight. She bent a little to the side, her head cocking as her chest rose and fell with deep, shuddered breaths. 

Rebecca flinched as a gun shot rang in her ears, watched as her reflection shattered with the mirror breaking, and she instinctively closed her eyes to protect her from the shards. The lights go out, and she’s left alone in darkness, with glass in her hair and blood on her lip.

[ben-holmes]

smash the mirror | self para

CHARACTER ♣ Ben Holmes MENTIONS ♣ Rebecca Heart, Tiger Heart, Whitey Rabbit TIME ♣ 2nd August SUMMARY ♣ A response to Rebecca’s shooting.    TRIGGERS ♣ Blood and violence.

Ben had always been optimistic. It was in his nature to be hopefully for every outcome, positive in times of hardships and discontent. So when Rebecca told him that all of Wonderland was invited to celebrate her birthday, he didn’t expect any rivalry, any brawls or blood spilled. He was tipsy, a little bit high from the bit of coke he’d taken earlier and he had probably stolen about ten kisses to Rebecca’s neck and her lips when no one was looking. It was risky and he knew it, but it was her birthday and he was in too good of a mood to be cautious all night. 

It all crashed down upon him too quickly when he exited the bathroom and they music had stopped, people were crying and crowding around something in the middle of the dance floor and worry gripped him. He hoped, prayed, that someone he cared about hadn’t been hurt, that someone hadn’t slipped and hit their head or something along those lines. He certainly didn’t expect for there to be a scream, a plea to call an ambulance and discovering that the voice had belonged to Caroline made fear take hold of his heart. If it was one of her kids, or a nephew, niece or sister, Rebecca would go mad and he hastened his pace, pushing though the crowd with a little more determination to figure out what was happening.

He didn’t expect to find this, to find her, and time began moving all too fast.

She was bleeding, with tears in her eyes and he had never seen her cry. “Becca, oh my god, Rebecca.” He felt cold. Cold and raw and full of fear for her, for this woman that he loved so completely. There was shock, and he moved forward, intent on doing something, on helping stop the bleeding or comforting her and secrecy be damned. But he was barely crouched beside her before the police were on him, telling him he wasn’t family (and that couldn’t be right, she was more like family than anyone else was). In reaching out for her, he found the crown instead and gripped it tight as he was pushed away, shoved and prodded as he was escorted out of the building with the rest of the crowd. He felt numb, cold and broken and his eyes remained trained on Rebecca until she was out of his view and he was hyperventilating, barely aware of anything other than the fact that she was covered in blood. 

His breathing didn’t return to semi-regular state until she was wheeled out, strapped to a gurney and he could see her chest rising and falling with life. 

Ben wanted to follow the ambulance, wanted so desperately to be at the hospital and find out first hand whether she was going to be okay. But he was not her husband. To almost all of Wonderland, he was just her employee and nothing more. That was the way it was supposed to be, the way they wanted it, but secrecy and lies didn’t sound quite so appealing anymore. He felt sick, physically ill and he trudged over to the drain in the pavement, dropping to his hands and knees as he spewed until he had nothing left to give, and it was only then that he realized that he had her crown still clasped in his grasp. 

His hands were red, strained from the blood the crown had been tainted with. Her blood. His lip wavers and his eyes are wet and he doesn’t want this, never this. His eyes close as sirens go off and the ambulance is pulling away and he knows straight away that when ( if ) she survives then she probably won’t even be awake for a few days, and his chances of being able to sneak in and see her are somewhat slim. Ben pushed himself back up to his feet and started walking in the direction of his apartment, his hands trembling so badly that he didn’t trust himself to drive. It was like being on auto-pilot, for he wasn’t even sure he was heading in the right direction until he was outside his own front door.

Obi greeted him, the puppy barking and jumping up to try and lick Ben’s face, and he never even got close. He bent down, placing the crown on his coffee table as he pulled the dog into his arms, nuzzling his nose into soft fur and closing his eyes and it was slightly comforting, but he could feel the ache in his chest growing more prominent and he couldn’t hold it together if he stayed like this much longer. Walking down the hall, he used Whitey’s spare key to unlock his close friends door, rubbing the dogs head as he placed him inside and closed the door behind him. Ben needed to be alone, and that meant being away from even the dog.

Stepping back into his apartment, his eyes fell to the crown on his coffee table and he moved around the apartment, gathering a rag, some cleaner and polish before sitting down on the couch. It didn’t matter that his hands were still bloody because the crown was too and it would be a while before he had removed every last bit of blood from it. As he cleaned and scrubbed, he couldn’t keep his mind focused, his attempt at distraction not quite as effective as he had hoped. Ben couldn’t help but notice all the physical evidence of Rebecca Heart that lingered around his apartment. 

Stockings at the foot of his bed that he had peeled off her legs days ago and hadn’t bothered to remind her about because he always liked her better when her legs were bare anyway. A pair of panties stuffed behind one of the cushions of his couch from a late night rendezvous and he’d decided she was not allowed to put them back on A book she had placed on his table, two coffee mugs lingering in the sink from a lazy morning and the worst was it was the smell of her perfume. It had long since left his apartment, but he could still smell it and it only reminded him of all the times he had nuzzled her neck and breathed deep. 

He didn’t realize he had been crying until his vision became blurry and he could no longer see the crown he held in his hands, practically clean already because it had still been wet, the blood not quite dry yet. But he could still see the red clear as day, just as he could the image of her bleeding on the ground. He wipes his tears on his forearm and continues scrubbing, cleaning the crown trying to remove the last of the blood. But his hands were trembling, shaking so terribly that he lost his grip and both his rag and the crown landed on the coffee table with a light thud and he let out a noise of frustration because fuck, he couldn’t even clean a damn crown.

Just like he couldn’t help her. 

Pushing against his knees, Ben stood and moved quickly to the bathroom and he thought he was going to throw up again, but his stomach was empty and dry. All he could do was try and blink the moisture from his eyes as his knuckles turned white from how hard he was gripping the sink as he dry-heaved. Ben was sure that he’d had his heart broken before, that he had been hurt in the past, but nothing compared to this. 

Dropping his head, he turned on the faucet until water began to flow and he put his hands underneath. This was her blood that was currently leaving his fingertips, turning the water pink before swirling down the drain. Blood that had pooled around her, drenching her hair and her dress and tainting her face. Anger settled in the pit of his stomach and he would kill whoever had done this. Whoever had dared to put his Becca against the barrel of a gun and pull the trigger would pay, and Ben was not above being the one to cause their pain. He wasn’t innocent, he’d killed the guilty before and he would happily press a gun to the shooter’s chest and watch them bleed out. Just like Rebecca had.

What if she’s already dead?

Ben’s head slowly rose, facing himself in the mirror and anger and despair rose in him all at once. He didn’t make the conscious decision, but his fist pounded forward and the mirror cracked and smashed, blood trickling down his knuckles from the shards of glass that had pierce his skin and he let out an agonizing wail, one that he didn’t know he was capable of. He moved back until his back hit the wall and he slid down it, face in his hands as he allowed himself to feel the pain, the fear and the sadness as he sobbed for the woman he loved. 

[rebeccasheart-blog]

long live the queen || & self para.

               She loves her birthday’s. Ever since she was a kid, she’d loved them. Of course, her father had gone all out for his little girls. Everything they could possibly want or need, they got. Spoilt was an understatement when it came to their birthdays, and Rebecca had never really grown out of that. Every party she’d ever thrown had been bigger and better than the one before -- except last year. Last year, her birthday had been hell on Earth. Even now, a year later and with her daughter alive and well, it still hurt. 

            She can still remember the agony that pierced her heart when she heard, when she saw what had become of Caroline. She’d had nightmares of that night for months, but this year would be different. This year would be better. 

                                       She had the cake pops to prove it.

              Twirling one in her hand, the other moving up to her hair to ruffle it a little, Rebecca grinned at a few of her guests as she passed. Honestly, it was going... well, and that surprised her. Not that she would’ve been pleased were blood to spill but words, at least, she’d expect to fly. Insults and thinly veiled threats. Of course, she’d had enough of that with Charlotte earlier but, still -- when crime and law and three sides of a war congregate in one place, one tends to expect a fight. 

                Sliding the stick of her pop out of her mouth, Rebecca dropped it on a passing waiter’s tray, smiling, content. From her place, she could see a vast majority of her club, and the people within it. Vivianne, by the bar. James and Lydia, at a table. Tiger -- Caroline, sitting beside Amber across the floor. A quick flick of her gaze finds the boys, her boys, off to one side, and she smiles at the sight of her sons and her husband - together. It wasn’t ideal, with the Jokers in close proximity and law enforcement keeping such a close eye, but it was... good.

                                                Happy Birthday, indeed.

                               Catching Caroline’s eyes with her own, Rebecca smiled softly, raising her glass in a silent toast because, as much as it hurt, as much as she still hurt now, this was her daughter, and no amount of denying it, of pushing it away, could change that. Caroline made her choice -- Rebecca didn’t want to lose her again because of it. 

             She bit her lip, swallowing a mouthful of her wine before walking forward, weaving her way through the bodies dancing. She’s usually graceful, she’s usually able to sidestep a drunk man unsteady on his feet, but there are a lot of people, and the floor is wet with sweat and spilled drinks. She stumbles a little, knocking in to someone and Rebecca turns, her too-good-a-mood throwing her usual glare and insult reaction out the window.

                                                            She smiles.

        It’s not quite apologetic, because Rebecca rarely apologises for anything, but it’s enough it seems, for they smile back, reach out with one hand to steady the Queen as she tries to find her balance. They’re close now, incredibly close, chests pressed together... Their hand tightens on her wrist, Rebecca’s smile falls, and she stiffens. There’s something pressed against her stomach, moving up, up, up -- closer and closer to her chest and she panics. Her eyes widen, her lips part, and she pulls back enough to look them in the eye as they smile at her, and...

                                                         BANG 

            The gun shot rings in her ears, tearing through her stomach like fire, and Rebecca doubles over a little, her eyes wide and her mouth open, a strangled gasp flying from her lips. She’s been shot before, but this... this one burns. It’s just below her chest, beneath her breasts but the angle -- there’s a pain in her heart, and she drops her glass. It’s like slow motion, the way it falls over their back until it shatters on the floor and Rebecca grasps blindly at their arm, trying to stay standing as the pain races up her spine.

      Rebecca stumbles back, her hands falling to her stomach where she can feel the lace of her dress begin to fall heavy. Her hands shake, her head bows and she stares at the palms of her hand as she turns them over. Blood. Blood cakes her hands, stains them red. Blood. Her blood. The shock begins to settle in, and she looks up slowly. They’re gone. The shooter. Having disappeared in to the crowd but the corners of her vision are starting to go black, her head begins to feel like lead and she stumbles back another step, reaches out blindly to grab the person standing beside her but her hand misses, and she starts to fall.

                Looking up, Rebecca blinks as tears begin to well in her eyes. Her lips form a perfect ‘O’, framed in red, just like her dress, like her hands, like her blood. Her eyes meet Caroline’s, and Rebecca tries to say something but she’s already falling, and she can’t  keep herself up.

        Rebecca crumbles to the floor, her legs going weak, her knees buckling, and she falls back with her hands pressed against her stomach in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.

                                                          It doesn’t stop.

          Her hands shake, her legs curl up as she turns on her side and the music stops, someone screams, there’s shouting and sounds and noise, loud noise that hurts her head. The crown she’d been gifted with, the crown she’d fallen in love with as much as she’d fallen for the person who’d presented it, slides from her head and rolls on the floor, gathering her blood until it glistens red. It takes strands of her hair with her, drenching long brown locks in thick red blood and Rebecca’s breath stutters, her head lolls to the side, and Rebecca stares up at the ceiling light with blood trickling from the corner of her mouth from where she’d bitten her cheek to stop herself from screaming.

                   At least her dress was already red.

                               HAPPY BIRTHDAY, INDEED.