tocarthage
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"If Trinity was going to assess her life it would go as follows: one pan, one fork, dust. Then: Ibuprofen, NyQuil, Sleep-Aid, Sleep-Gels, Melatonin. Stained glass reflection on her thread-bare carpet in synthetic blues. Hail Mary."
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Trinity gets better, gets worse.
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"They sleep on the side of the road because she can't drive any further. Tiredness kills. Vic takes the backseat and Bianca considers suicide. They were a stranger again, which was her fault for leaving them so long, like a houseplant, or a bad dog. Without a camera, nothing could keep its shape. Without LA, Vic had come apart again."
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Vic comes back for season three, Bianca copes.
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"Their head hurt something violent but they kept walking. There was no friendly place to rest here. They'd fallen asleep outside of Thomas's once and woken to the shot as it was fired in the dirt next to them. Vic was little better than a stray and little worse than a boy."
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Vic at thirteen. Bianca and Vic at thirty-one and thirty, respectively.
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"And what does Bianca do, anyways? Hold their leash, choke them by the collar? Jesus christ, Jocasta, learn a gentle touch. There’s still a scar, actually, on her collarbone, puncture mark. Barely noticeable unless you’re looking. You have to train it out, that habit to bite. Vic never loved anything they didn’t want to sink their teeth into."
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Vic, Bianca, and a death.
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"As June sets in, the A.C breaks. Frite appears once, then twice, and then enough that it isn’t coincidental. Small waves through the glass. Outside, the lilies have begun to bloom."
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Tater, Frite, and one long, hot, summer.