Chapter Text
The story starts with a child. An awkward child, too loud and too quiet and too much and not enough, never enough. Always pushing pushing pushing the bounds of what they should be.
The story starts with you.
"Ladies cross their legs in dresses." Your mother says, sharp as a knife. You're folding your legs before she even reaches for you but it's too late, it's always too late and she smacks your leg.
"If you can't behave, you can leave." She adds, motioning towards the door. It's supposed to hurt, and it does, being outcast once again, but staying hurts more.
You disappear within a minute, the stupid stupid stupid skirt only a mild hinderance once you yank it up to your thighs. It's weirdly satisfying, balling the pretty, expensive fabric in your fists.
Your mother most definitely meant for you to go back to your room, to think about your actions, but that's no fun.
You pile clothes up under the blankets, making it sorta kinda look like you're being good. And then you slip out onto the backdoor, over the patio and the sorry excuse for a backyard, and run .
You aren't too far from your destination, but you know it's not good to go alone. You're not good anyways though. So. Who cares.
The beach is nice.
The beach doesn't hurt.
You tuck your skirt into your panties so the edges don't get wet as you edge further and further out, the cold water already soaking through your shoes.
Pretty rocks are worth the minor inconvenience. The dress didn't come with pockets though, which makes things a little more difficult.
"Wassss your mother being meeean again?"
You don't look up, too focused on deciding which rocks to keep. The white one is sparkly when tilted correctly, but the green and grey one has pretty banding.
"Do you wanna play with us?" Another voice asks, offering you a hand– pale yellow, with gray-ish green spots that blend into the water.
You're not sure if your friend wants the rocks or your hand, but you abandon the rocks and lace your fingers together, mindful of the claws. "Can we color?"
"Of course, my dear–" The mer (because that's what they are, your friends) says your name with love, with the utmost affection, but it still makes you frown.
Your mother gets you a bracelet made of silver bells, and it's… nice.
Until it's not.
She laughed when you expressed your displeasure, and you can't get the– the hook thingy and–
Sharp claws wedge in between the chains the moment you say you don’t want it anymore, it’s loud and— It's broken before you can blink.
Huh.
Your friends don't have names (not yet , we don't pick our names until we reach maturity, the cheery one explains), and that strikes you as very odd.
It also makes you terribly jealous.
How much fun it would be, to just… choose your name. Maybe even change it, sometimes, when it no longer fits.
You tell them as much, laying on the beach and letting the sand and salt ruin your outfit. You can already hear your parents screaming, but the water feels nice.
Make-believe isn't for young ladies like yourself, but you like to pretend it's purifying all the gross (sad, angry, sick ) feelings in you. But you don't know if taking away those feelings would make you calm or hollow.
You try not to think about that part.
"Issss it naptime?"
You open your eyes, finding your mer friend, unsurprisingly at this point, very close to your face. They're both so touchy.
"I'm not sleeping. I'm just… thinking." You say, and if they're allowed to be touchy, so are you, so you bring a hand up, gently cupping the mer's face.
The one under your palm is gray, gray and sharp edges, a smile revealing razor sharp teeth, but it's the other one who says, "About what?"
"Nothin important." And that's a lie, but neither of them call you out on it. Instead, you get two pairs of arms wrapping around you, both of them making that weird bubbling growly laughing noise when you whine about how slimy they are.
You don’t get to say goodbye. Well. Maybe you could have, if you kept the dates straight, they told you you were leaving this week but you didn’t remember and it’s
all
your
fault.
Just like everything else.
You fold yourself up, small as possible in the backseat, and wonder if they’ll forgive you, next year. They shouldn’t. You’re bad. Your parents are right.