A Welcome Death

by Flying_Pinneaple

Summary:

In her final moments, as her death draws ever closer, Jennifer Check has a few moments to think about her actions and reminisce. And she comes to a conclusion as her heart is pierced and her strength starts failing her:

She deserves this.

 

A collection of stories and prompts focusing on Needy and Jennifer as their lives converge and diverge across different universes.

 

Chapter 3 up:
First time smokers generally fail to take their first hit properly. They breathe in too hard, too fast, the heat of the burning herbs and acrid smoke much too new a sensation for their lungs. What generally follows is a coughing fit that every casual user takes no small measure of schadenfreude from. 

First time smokers are also generally not enhanced by a demonic soul-parasite courtesy of their dead, formerly possessed girlfriend.

Chapter 1

Notes:

Because Jennifer is not a good person, even pre-demon-possession.

Because Jennifer knows this deep down.

Because even then, she and Needy deserved better than what they got.

Jennifer knows she deserves it. 

Not the brutal torture and murder or being possessed by an ancient flesh-eating demon invoked by a bunch of rapist, murderous indie artists trying to make it out of Minnesota. No one, not even queen bitch of Devil's Kettle herself, deserves that. 

But the second Needy rips her BFF necklace off Jennifer's neck, she knows she deserves that if nothing else. 

Needy was always... there.

Jennifer's earliest memories revolve around dragging a stuttering, nervous blonde little girl around to help Jennifer in her adventures of stealing candy and trying to escape nap-time to play in the sandbox a little more. 

Needy never offered a rebuttal, never raised a question or complaint. At least not one that Jennifer couldn't overcome in the span of a couple of seconds and some eye-batting and thus not one that really mattered or was meant truthfully in her eyes. 

Jennifer always assumed that Needy didn't mind.

And then, Jennifer realizes as she's falling down onto her bed with Needy's boxcutter poised to strike over her heart, Jennifer realized she didn't care even if Needy did mind. 

What followed was years of Needy playing second-fiddle. Years of Needy putting things off because Jen asked her to, of going to things Needy hated because Jen was going, of Jen demanding she look cute and appealing without ever overshadowing Jen. What followed was Jennifer being selfish and a total bitch while Needy dutifully followed her every whim. 

Long story short, really, she was a shitty friend and the fact that it took a demon-possession for Needy to drop her ass surprises Jennifer more than the fact that she's about to die. Well, die again. 

Then again, maybe Jennifer's horrific manipulations are to blame here. 

They played boyfriend-girlfriend a lot as the years went by. And while Jen did feel her heart-rate pick up and her face pick a healthy blush when they did, Needy always had this look in her eyes afterwards. This little glint of... something that Jennifer never could figure out. At first it was easy to spot, after a quick peck on the lips followed by childish giggling Needy would just stare at Jen with an emotion that made Jen's heart flutter a tiny bit. As time went on that small glow would be shuttered away but Jennifer always caught it, for a split second after her lips left Needy's she would see it glow bright before Needy hid it and looked away. 

Every time Jen fucked up, every time Needy actually denied her something or, God fucking forbid, put someone above Jennifer for a day. Boyfriend-girlfriend time. And Needy would be back under her spell, Needy would always agree with her again, Needy would worship the ground she walked on again... 

She does deserve this. 

The pain in her chest has nothing to do with the knife currently in it. 

Jennifer looks into Needy's eyes and what sees her absolutely breaks her. 

There's rage. There's a bright burning fucking hatred that the demon inside revels in as it fades away back into Hell. Needy's eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed and by the moonlight they nearly seem to glow crimson. 

There's pain. As Jen's blood starts pooling around her on the bed, the tears start falling from Needy's eyes and a pitiful sob drops from her lips. Years of sleepovers, years of staying by her side, years of late nights locked in each other's arms. Jennifer sees Needy as they grow up, perpetually treating Jen as though she were a goddess come to life and throwing her adoring glances that Jennifer would always bask under. Remembers Needy coming to every cheer practice and expo just because Jennifer was in the squad. She sees Needy holding her body close to her, whispering how beautiful she is even though Jennifer can only hate what she sees in the mirror every single day. And Needy must be remembering all that too because her eyes shine bright with pain and...

There it is, its nearly hidden away by the homicidal rage and the agonizing pain but Jennifer has spent years looking into those soft baby blues and sees that final emotion. That bright glow in Needy's eyes, like a flickering candle that refuses to die away.

Here is Jennifer Check, dying of boxcutter to the heart thanks to bespectacled badass Needy Lesnicky and all she can think about is how that little glow in her killer's eyes makes her impaled heart flutter. Thinks that even though her body is cooling and her breaths are becoming shallower that that flash of emotion makes her feel warm and content. 

Like a soft blanket draped over her dying body. As though that bright glow represented everything Jennifer wanted, as though it was safety and comfort personified. It's that feelin that she tried to chase every time she brought someone to bed, that same rush of warmth and safety that, no matter how many boys sang her praises, she never could quite capture unless Needy looked at her. 

Looked at her like a missing piece of a puzzle. Looked at her like the answer to her problems. Like a lifelong partner. Like a lov-

Oh

Of course

God, she deserves this

Jennifer is breathing her last when she stops accepting her second death and starts actively embracing it. 

Because each second that Needy looks at her with that swirling maelstrom of hatred, pain, and love is a second that Jennifer realizes how many missed opportunities she wasted away. How many nights she spent in some asshole's bed, enjoying herself but feeling utterly unfulfilled when she could have had Needy instead. Its a second where she thinks back on how many years Needy loved her and followed her around believing Jennifer never would return her feelings. Its a second she realizes how, subconsciously, she stringed Needy and her undying devotion to Jennifer along. 

Its another second that she spends wanting to say how sorry she is, how much she loves Needy, how much she wants to take everything back and start over again and treat her beautiful little nerd right. 

It's agony, and when the veil of death finally claims her and Jennifer realizes this fade to black will be permanent all she can feel is grateful. She'll take whatever punishment comes after this, she'll burn in Hell as she so rightfully deserves to for however long eternity can last. She'll take anything but Needy's broken gaze for another second. 

Notes:

Back in 2009 I remember watching this movie because the studios and PR had said it was a horror movie with Megan Fox boobs and eleven year old me was sold. And while it is a horror movie, and while Megan Fox is very hot, even pre-pubescent me could gather that this movie was much more than just boobs and gore.

Everything, from the dialogue to the framing and lighting, was perfectly balanced to match this film's horror/comedy roots and the underlying sapphic tension between our protagonist and deuteragonist was something that thrilled and intrigued me back then and which I'm positive has ensured this movie is now gaining the respect and cult-classic status it deserves.

This little piece came to me after rewatching the movie and needing to put myself in Jennifer's Body for a second, try to grasp what her thoughts would be as she comes to mere seconds away from dying.

I hope you all enjoyed it, and cried almost as much as I did while writing this.

P.S There is a draft hidden away at the moment focusing on Needy as she goes on her murder-rapist indie band killing extravaganza, would anyone be interested in that being added as another chapter to this?

If so, leave a comment if you can. Hell, maybe suggest something else you'd like to see written up. My muse is currently enamored with sad lesbian feelings.

Chapter 2: Hitchhiking, Murder, and Philosophy

Summary:

While being demonically enhanced is not the same as being demonically possessed there are still certain... side effects, to Needy's condition.

 

 

 

Where we take a brief look at Needy as she's on her way to commit murder.
She wonders about philosophy, the nature of her being, and pines for simpler times.

Notes:

Been a while, I missed you more than you missed me.

Probably.

Ready for some Needy thoughts?

Needy Lesnicki is dead. 

If that’s not the case then someone owes me a better fucking explanation. 

She stares out the window of the car she hitched a ride on, wondering about a trillion things that saner spirits would question. 

 

Because she can’t figure out any other explanation. She’s Jennifer Check Two Point Oh… or maybe Oh Point Five since she wasn’t sacrificed for fame and fortune at the altar of indie band egocentrism and half-assed occult knowledge? But she does have demon blood running through her veins, courtesy of a bite mark that still itches to this day, a notorious lack of care for the sanctity of life, and an axe to grind that’s gonna get a merry band of murderous pricks painfully murdered.

 

Point is: Needy Lesnicki had never wished death on other people. Let alone actively seeked to impart death with her own two hands. 

 

Then again, Needy Lesnicki didn’t have to watch the light fade from her best friend and unrequited love’s eyes mere hours after watching another person close to her heart die in her arms. 

…

 

And she didn’t speak about herself in the third person either. 

It was a real Ship Of Theseus dilemma. 

 

If every preconceived moral value Needy had was gone. If she hadn’t felt a single human emotion that was not anger or regret since she murdered Jennifer. If she now harbored a demon from the depths of hell that granted her superhuman abilities. Just what was left of the original Anita “Needy” Lesnicki? 

 

Was this just an evolution of herself, some trauma and heartbreak with an infusion of demonic energy and Bam! New Needy is born?

 

Is this hollow, angry, murderous being something that supplanted what Needy used to be? A fragment left of the girl that loved so desperately only to have to tear that love to pieces with her own bloodied hands? Did whatever didn't shatter to pieces with Chip die along with Jen, in some fucked metaphysical Shakespearean tragedy? 

You did always say you wanted your death to be super extra. Didn’t you?

 

First time you died was in the woods, butchered in a ritual sacrifice to the hosts of Hell. Second time you were killed by yours truly after destroying every hope of us being happy together. 

 

You got your wish, didn’t you Jen?

Needy lightly shook the thoughts away. 

 

No use getting angry when she was still hours away from Madison. She didn’t have criminally insane patients or nosy, bitchy orderlies to unwind on. And while she could kill the dude driving her, he hadn’t tried anything on her that would warrant it. 

 

 

And I don’t want to drive myself around. 

 

 

Her hand unconsciously curls around the knife hidden away in her hoodie and went back to staring out the car window. 

 

So, Needy Lesnicki was either dead or changed so drastically that she might as well be dead. Wonderful.

And they said insane people couldn’t have deep thoughts. 

 

 

Take that stupid fucking insane asylum staff. I knew I was in the right kicking you around the place. 

 

 

She would come back to that train of thought later. Right now she had a couple hours to plan and gather her energy. And the original Needy might be dead but whatever she was now, she sure as shit wasn’t lazy. 

 

Now, best way to commit quintuple homicide…

Notes:

Hello.

My muses abandoned me rather quickly for quite some time, as is their want, and I was left quite uninspired.

Luckily I have been getting into the habit of daily writing and, while the muses yet remain rather aloof, some times the creative inspiration strikes and I return to write yet more sad lesbian stories.

This little ditty came from those daily writing sessions and while I feel I could yet offer up more in terms of the character and stories, I feel its better to share what I made then to try and perfect it and ultimately be too afraid that it wont be enough and hide it away. I feel every creative mind stumbles across that particular issue and I've resolved to deal with it in my own way.

But enough about me. I hope you enjoyed this!

And please, if you have any ideas or comments feel free to leave them. Maybe one of you might force the muses to return to me.

But better yet, I'm curious as to what you want Jen and Needy to get up to in this little drabble collection.

Until next time, which I assure you won't take nearly as long as last time.

Chapter 3: Addictions, Reminiscence and Regrets

Summary:

What happens after? When the pricks are dead and all that's left for you is long, long years of existing with a demon imbedded into your soul?

What is left for Needy when there's nothing left to lose?

Notes:

A loving thank you to @UnknownMagik for their comment that inspired this little ditty,

A Demon!Needy Monster Hunter for you guys sprung from their recommendation.

Fair warning, there was another version of this story that I began writing at 8:00pm last night, was about to finish at 2:00am this morning, and lost due to my computer crashing before my progress could be saved. (Last time I ever use AO3 drafts again)

What you see before you is an attempt to recreate the better, much more polished, version that was lost, on much less energy and sleep than is probably recommended.

Hope you enjoy it.

(Relationship tags updated because Bi, Poly Needy and Platonic Soulmates Jen and Chip caught my interest and could not be shaken off.)

She remembers once upon a time she could not tolerate smoking. 

 

The acrid smoke, the noxious smell, the bitter taste. Whether it be cigarettes or rolled up joints made no difference to her she could not stand it. Jen tried to get Chip into it but she began to put a stop to that right quick after a couple of weeks. Bad enough that she had to stock up on mouthwash and scented candles when one of them slept over. Her meagre allowance and Summer job savings could ill afford it if they both got into the habit together. Needy had her own addiction to expensive chocolates and graphic novels digging a hole in her wallet already.

(They still snuck away every now and again to indulge in their little shared habit. It happened rarely enough that she let it happen.)

If the choice ever came down between those things and late-night smooches then god preserve them because Chip and Jen would be kicked out of her bed without remorse.

 

Now? Now she can't go a week without burning through a couple packs. 

Well, okay that was bullshit. She didn’t need to. 

Even if the demon within hadn't confirmed that she was beyond the need for mundane sustenance, beyond the reach of illness and less susceptible to the cruel, inexorable march of time, Needy could feel it in her bones. She could feel the blood in her veins burn away the more pernicious effects of her little cancer stick, the death and addiction that had claimed so many before her failed to take hold in her body and she felt the Reaper's grip loosen the second she exhaled a cloud of thick smoke. 

Only to tighten once more as she took another long, deep drag and allowed the smoke to rest in her lungs again. As the cherry glow of the cigarette flared with newfound intensity her features were revealed against the darkness that permeated the alleyway. Her face caught in the soft glow of her little deathstick. 

And what a face it was.. 

Gone was the youthful appearance of a naïve little High School girl. The one with soft baby blues, with that shy little smile that always graced her lips, gone the visage of a schoolgirl whose worst worry was getting a zit on her face. The eyes were supposedly the windows to the soul, or so they said, if so she fears the hollow pools of ice she now levels at strangers fit her rather aptly.

Needy has forgotten a myriad things as the years crept up on her. She can’t remember the weight of a genuine smile, the warmth of a kind look, the feel of a playful glare. She’s made faces in the mirror for some time now, trying to rebuild from memory a suitable facsimile of the joy she used to throw around so freely. She usually ends the exercise with a grimace, not once having succeeded. 

The bloodcurdling, bloodthirsty grin that stretched across her face gave even her demon pause.

But even if she could somehow manage to capture that foolish, hopeful vigour again the lines of jagged scar tissue would give the game away right quick. 

She knows she could get rid of the scars if she truly wanted to at this point. She could channel the demonblood in her with the right amount of focus, or even ask the Beast within to do it for her. If she played her cards right she could have an unmarred body within a day at the latest. And the evidence of her self-imposed penance would fade away. 

She won't, of course. 

She may not hate the demon within her as much as she used to, by extension doesn't despise herself as much either, but to use it or ask a favour for it outside of battle is simply beyond the pale.

 

Jen and Chip were always proud of their scars. Something that perplexed Needy to no end. She didn’t see the appeal of being reminded with an indelible mark of one’s own frailty, of one’s own mortality. Needy was raised by a nurse, she was reminded plenty well of how easily one could slip into the void without the scars to go with it. 

"They're Battle Scars, they’re cool!" Chip exclaimed proudly as she laid on the bed with him, running her fingers on the savaged flesh that had knit itself back together on his right shoulder. A reminder of the time he went hunting with his Uncle Tommy and learned personally why wild boars crossed so many names off the census on a yearly basis. 

"They're reminders, to do better" Jen muttered, sitting beside them on the bed and finishing her AP Lit assignment, amusedly wiggling the thumb and index finger that never settled properly into place after she took a nasty spill when they were younger. Her face twisted into a half frown, a small, nearly imperceptible smile gracing her lips.

 

The trio of thin, pale lines running down from just above the upper right corner of her mouth all the way down to her chin are a trophy she earned in her first hunt. A clawed strike that would have torn half her face off had she not thrown herself back and rolled away from it in the nick of time. She had not wanted to test how effective demonic healing could be, as much as her demon claimed it could stitch and regrow her flesh back without issue; she'd much rather that remain a hypothetical scenario for as long as she could. In time she grew to appreciate the silvery lines of blemished skin. 

A firm reminder to never underestimate her prey, that stronger fish than her lurked around every corner and that appearances could and would always be deceiving.

And if her face would sometimes twist into a half frown, a small imperceptible smile on her lips whenever her eyes landed on them? Needy never noticed

The diagonal slash across her face she didn't earn until much, much later. Starting near her hairline it cleaved down to her right eye, through it god had that burned and kept going just below her nose the pain of losing it was nothing compared to the agony, the blazing conflagration of pain that followed through her lips until the blade exited to the right of her chin as her demon stitched the gore and regrew torn flesh.

Demonic healing as it turned out was quite effective, if unbearably agonising

That one she earned when she was rudely reminded of one of the most fundamental rules of any battle: Never turn your back to the enemy, even if you think you've beaten them.

And if she sometimes feels a foolish burst of pride when she thinks on how Chip would find the scar incredibly dope? Needy never acknowledges it

Needy tastes the filter by the end of her last drag. A rueful grin graces her lips as she throws the stub on the ground and crushes it underfoot, once again disappearing beneath the weight of shadows. 

 

She picked the habit 3 months after. 

After Low Shoulder had paid back their dues to her in spades. 

God did they ever owe her a weighty debt. They earned the dubious honour of being fed to the beast within, ceding control entirely to its infernal urge to maim and gorge itself. What followed in her wake that night was an orgy of snapped bones, torn flesh and disembowelled pleas for mercy. She let herself go, stopped fighting the demon and instead worked with it and found herself without pity and an excess of malicious creativity that night. 

Their screams of terror, their blubbering supplications for mercy, and, much later, clamoring for the sweet release of death were her personal orchestra of debauched violence. Low Shoulder's last moments on Earth were long, an agony Needy has not seen fit to recreate.

But even now she feels her smile sharpen and her eyes burn with bloodlust when she thinks back on it. 

She never regrets it. 

Still, she had to leave Minnesota after she got her revenge. 

Being on the run and on stolen funds --dead rockstar instruments could fetch a pretty penny as it turned out, provided no one was stupid enough to ask too many questions-- granted her a heightened sense of excitement that gifted her a couple of weeks of dreamless sleep. 

And then that stopped. 

And she awakens just before the witching hour strikes. 

She awakens from a memory nightmare to the sound of her own anguished, broken screaming. She awakens from the feeling of two corpses pressing down on her body, from the feel of blood in her hands, from the visage of two sets of eyes staring into nothingness and the sensation of her heart shattering to pieces as the people that held it together were torn away from her life. 

The stale motel air feels thin, every breath tinged with the scent of copper that is not broken by her own desperate sobbing feels too faint for her. 

The pounding in her head only grows as she can't get the oxygen into her lungs fast enough. 

The beast within rages, it senses its host's distress, the screaming in her head only grows with its enraged demonic howling. 

She needs out, 

she needs to get the fuck out, 

SHENEEDSOUTRIGHTFUCKINGNOW. 

So she does. 

She scrambles out of bed, stumbles and falls as she haphazardly grabs her jacket and wrenches the door open hard enough to tear it off its hinges. 

She doesn't notice. 

She's still sobbing, she's still trying to hold herself together but her head is abuzz with memories

of his smiles,

of her kisses,

of their bloodstained lips,

their begging,

their blood on her hands

andshecan'tf uckingbreathe

imsorry

imsosorry

please

imsorry  

as they crash against the walls of her skull. The weight of her blood soaked past is threatening to drown her and no amount of deep breaths and hugging herself can fucking fix her. No amount I love you's and I’m sorry’s can bring the dead to life 

she knows

she tried.

She runs. 

She surrenders herself to the animalistic need to just get away. As though she can outrun her past, her tragedy.

She runs until her lungs are white hot burning leads. 

She runs until her legs scream in agony, her arms protest every push to propel herself forward.

She runs until her bare feet bleed against the concrete and asphalt. 

And she keeps running. 

She runs even as the city fades around her. 

She runs even as the roads fall further into disrepair, until they revert back to dirt and scattered stone as nature reclaims what humanity abandoned. 

She runs until her body breaks apart and sows itself back together.

And she keeps running. 

 

She hears them before she sees them. Their obnoxious yelling, laughing, whooping and hollering reaches her alley even without her heightened senses needing to kick in. They burst through the doors of the rundown bar they just finished playing at, most of their gear in tow, and begin packing everything away in their beat-up shitmobile of a van. 

Show time. 

She takes a moment to herself, closes her eyes and lets herself feel the thrum of her tainted blood as it pumps through her veins. 

She wills it to awaken under her command. Barely a breath passes before a growl vibrates in her chest as the Beast picks up the scent of dark magic. That’s confirmation enough but still her right eye darkens to pitch-black as she does one last unnecessary, but routine, soulsight check.

Sure enough all the little warlocks have auras tainted by demonic influence. 

The usual muted shadows of soul contracts were to be expected but occasionally one demonic enhancement or rune would flare up, it happened when they were lifting and stowing away gear twice their size and that easily outweighed their lanky forms by a hundred pounds or more.

That seals their death sentence then. 

Closing her eyes she focuses once more, allowing her demonic taint to take hold just a bit more as her left eye mirrors its sibling, the rest of her senses beginning to sharpen in response. 

Her body embraces the parasite within its very soul and changes its vessel accordingly. Her irises lose their pale blue hue and grow ever closer to a deep scarlet, her teeth sharpen and elongate minutely, she can feel her flesh ripple and bulge beneath her Hunting gear ever so slightly as the Beast craves the bloodshed to happen. 

Lastly she brings her hands up to her face, palms facing away. Claws were always a bit tricky with her and she'd rather not accidentally gouge herself or her clothes apart, monitoring the change in her nails as they hardened and grew about half an inch before she snapped the leash taut on the demon within

This band of warlocks, to their vanishingly small credit, decided to play it safe by not asking for the graces of a big deity or demon lords. Rather, they curried favour with a host of lower demons to get their way. It was longer term and needed a lot more bodies than Low Shoulder, but at least there was no botched up sacrifice that would result in the horror show that consumed Jen and the town of Devil's Kettle. Fame and fortune for the low, low price of over three dozen murders! It was even working for them, their gigs were getting progressively better and their music was getting further around. Given a month or so they'd get their big break and start raking in the cash. 

If Needy wasn't about to kill them and feed her demon with them, of course.

It's as Needy begins to step out from the shadows of her alley, as she lets her bloodlust begin to blaze into an inferno from the fledgling embers, that the groupies come out. 

She feels the physical weight of heartbreak sucker punch her.  

She has tried, oh by the blood that binds her, has she tried to forget. To move on and heal. But at each and every turn she has failed for two decades running. Utterly incapable of letting go, utterly incapable of not wondering what could have been and it is no more apparent how thoroughly she has failed by the way she can feel her lungs freeze and her chest constrict painfully in heartache.

The raven mane of hair, the beauty and confidence and allure, the razor-sharp blue eyes and wild smile. The scruffy mop of brown hair, the soft-spoken warmth and understanding, the gentle brown eyes and kind smile. And there, nestled between them as though she was always meant to exist between those two souls. Golden locks, the nervous fidgety energy, the soft baby blues and shy smile.

And for a second, she sees them. She sees them as they could have been, in a world that didn't end in ashes and blood. A kinder world where she didn't lose everything dear to her heart in a single night. She sees herself talking to a band after a show, holding hands with her boyfriend and girlfriend as they lend her their strength and support.

She sees Jen and Chip sneaking away to their apartment balcony for a smoke where they think she won’t notice. Fighting with Chip over comics while Jen reads a book on the opposite side of the living room pretending she isn’t interested in their argument.

Pulling all-nighters together as they struggle through their studies and the horror of finals.

Quiet evenings spent on their shitty, yard-sale couch planning for the future together just as they did when they were children.

Not going to bed alone, the empty space around her threatening to swallow her whole. 

Waking up every morning in the arms of the people she has loved since before she knew how to read. 

The sorrowful whine that leaves the hollow space in her chest, much to her shame, does not stem from the beast.

 

She collapsed stopped running somewhere south of Des Moine just outside of some no-name town in the boonies. 

Her body was in tatters, protesting every movement with a choleric scream of agony. Her muscles spasmed and twitched against her will with every minute shift in balance, scarcely holding her body upright through the strength of pigheaded stubbornness. Her feet bled, her legs bled, the inside of her clenched fists bore half crescent imprints on them that wept scarlet.

She was Icarus, the glory of her fall and thrill of the downward spiral long behind her.

She was Icarus, had Icarus flown head-first into the Sun’s embrace just to feel the purity of fire burn them away.

But her head was blessedly quiet. So many neurons were devoted to cataloguing the extent of the damage she wrought upon herself that it could not spare any to remind her of the depths of her failure. Even the beast seemed content and docile, some instinctual part of it understanding the need for silence and satisfied with Needy's show of strength and determination. (She would later count herself lucky there were no cameras out in the wilds to catch a waif of a teenage girl outrun cars at fifty miles an hour at a dead sprint.)

A neon sign caught her attention blinking lazily under the shadow of night. 

It was busted to high hell, able to convey nothing but   E  T S    P. But Needy saw a gas pump, a convenience store, and a motel all huddled together. Who was she to look a gift Rest Stop in the mouth? And so she forces her battered body to stumble in that general direction, her gait a puppet with its strings cut. 

The rest stop must have fallen on hard times back in the 50s she muses as she unsteadily stumbles walks closer. The gas pumps certainly look to be that old and the layer of rust covering every surface hinted at how often they were maintained, or used in any capacity for that matter. A short distance to her right would bring her towards a single story four room motel that impressively managed to look even more run-down and dilapidated than her shitty room back in the city. Not that Needy could even begin to contemplate the idea of sleeping anytime soon, she was not strong enough to face their broken, bloodied corpses the nightmares again. 

So she makes way for the convenience store, which, staying in theme with the whole Forgotten Shithole aesthetic, straddles that thin line between abandoned shack and cannibal family farmhouse perfectly, bloodied footprints trailing behind her.

The screen door creaked with a vengeance on worn down hinges as she stepped into the store. What a sight she must've made as she walked onto the cracked, filthy linoleum floor with her frazzled, windswept hair, her bloodshot eyes, her tear-streaked face, her bloodied legs, wearing nothing but a sports bra, boxer briefs and leather jacket on her back. 

A silver lining of being in the middle of fuckall, no one was there to notice but the attendant manning the register behind a clear glass pane who was rather occupied with the Playboy he had his face dug into, much too preoccupied with the playmate of the month to even acknowledge her existence. Fine with her, she uses the opportunity to scout around the store, thumbing the spare change she found in the jacket pockets.

Immediately the probability of her finding something edible, let alone good, crashes into the ground. Opposite the entrance sat a wall of fridges in various states of brokenness, housing nothing but bottom-shelf beer and one solitary bottle of coke that even from this far she could see was stale and lukewarm at best. The pitiful array of three shelves between her and the fridges were better stocked, which was to say they were half empty and what little food was present seemed to have expired somewhere between the Great War and her birth. (She swears she saw a bag of chips move on its own)

Finally the coup de grace was a small collection of cigarettes stocked in front of Porno Mag by the register. 

And there, in front of the massive frame of the man sat a little packet that she'd seen so many times before. 

Pall Malls.

Her thoughts cease, her brain leaving her with one solitary static burst that brings a memory to her before shutting down.

Jen loved Pall Malls.

---

She sits on her living room floor, pretending she's still working on her Science project but in reality she's enraptured with them as they settle in on her front porch for a quick smoke break.

Silhouetted against the setting sun Jennifer is sitting regally on the railing, emulating the etiquette classes Mrs. Check insisted they take all those years ago, hair loose and flowing gracefully down her back, her smile soft and gentle, the waning beams of sunlight passing through her hair grant her an ethereal halo that models and photographers across the world would murder to capture so effortlessly. It's as though nature itself recognizes the ease with which Jennifer personifies beauty and grace and can only highlight the perfection of her form. In her left hand she daintily holds her cigarette as she takes a long, deep pull. She lazily angles her head back as she passes the cancer stick to Chip, blowing smoke rings into the still summer air.

Chip who is leaning back against the same railing, silhouetted against the same setting sun and exuding for all the world the mien of a man at peace with the universe, which only serves to highlight the quiet joy with which he's conversing with Jen. His hands are wildly gesticulating, only pausing as he takes a small puff from the cig, as his attempts to convince Jen to change her decision on the movies they'll watch tonight are doomed to fail. As he turns to Jen his face catches the light of the sun. Needy is struck by how much his eyes seem to glow with kindness even now and how his smile brings about her own muted grin without even trying.

She's struck by their growth.  

Jen had grown into her curves, something that still escaped Needy, settled into her body with an ease and fluid grace that she envied from time to time. Jennifer Check was a champion of Aphrodite, the frightening talent with which she wields her charms could put Helen of Troy to shame and Needy needs to remind herself that somehow that same avatar of the gods choose to be with her. Gone were the childish insults and temper tantrums of youth. Jennifer had honed her tongue to a fine edge and her temper had yielded to follow her will and not the other way around. On more than one occasion she had seen Jennifer wait for the perfect opportunity to strike in a verbal spar and proceed to tear apart grown men until they were reduced to tears.

And while the town was content to dismiss Jen as some dumb airheaded bimbo with no future Needy knew the lengths to which Jen pushed herself to keep her grades up, knew the love Jen had for reading and the passion with which she honed her wit against the musings of poets across the ages. Often Needy would catch Jen reciting Tennyson, Neruda, or Goethe without taking a pause. It wasn't uncommon for Jen's mind to wander and address Needy in German or Spanish before her brain would catch back up with her and she would sheepishly revert back to English with a dusting of red across her cheeks. Needy was privy to Jen's smiles, the genuine ones that light up her eyes and set the heart of one Anita Lesnicky aflutter. She saw Jen's eyes flash in a fiercely protective rage when someone dared to try and put Needy or Chip down. She heard her arguments with Chip over how they'd organise their collection of graphic novels and literary works together. The plans she made for one tabby cat to guard the apartment they would all share together once they moved out into the greater world. 

Chip himself had outgrown the lankiness of his youth. Football practice had suited him well, even if Coach Randall refused to let him play. While he could not go toe to toe with the meatheads on the team he had earned enough definition, grace and agility to outpace the lumbering walls of muscle trying to run him down. A sprinter's body suited him best in any case. 

Gone was the child that would hide from conflict, bow his head in submission when faced with adversity. More and more Chip found the strength of his own voice, less and less did Jen have to stand up for him until eventually he held the confidence with which to hold his own. The confidence with which to show without remorse the love he had for those he held dearest to his heart: It's in the baked goods he makes for her every week. In the way he supports the love she and Jen share and the fiercely protective way in which he defends them against the endless wave of small town bigots that are a constant in their lives. It's the way he stays up late to help his little sister with her homework. It's how he wakes up early in the morning to make his mother and sister breakfast. It's the whispered conversations in the dark he has with Jennifer when they think she's fallen asleep, talking about how scared they are to lose her, about how beautiful and messy and scary and wonderful their life outside Devil's Kettle will be.

For the love poems she finds scattered around her house, reminders of their devotion to each other. For the gentle way she holds Needy at night, as though she fears she will wake one day and Needy would have shattered under the force of her love. For the quiet moments in the setting sun spent planning their futures together in her lumpy living room couch. For all that and more, Needy can't fathom a world in which she does not fall hopelessly in love with the wild girl she met in the sandlot.

For the songs he writes for her and Jen, and has the gall to perform in her living room, for the fact he learned Spanish just so he could understand Jen whenever she recited foreign poetry, for the way he prepares cuddle ambushes against her, for the way he and Jen will climb to the roof of her house pester her until she lets them in, for how he will always find the pieces of herself she hates and tenderly kiss and cherish every broken aspect of her being, For the way he can silence the shadows in her mind with a gentle smile a and a passionate kiss. For all that and more, Needy can't fathom a world in which she does not fall hopelessly in love with the kind-eyed boy with a heart of gold..

She’s broken out of her reverie to the sound of Jen giggling, of Chip chuckling along as his eyes burn with happiness. Needy can't help but gasp because christ, she's realising how irrevocably head over heels she is for them. The sound catches their attention and the memory fades from her grasp with them catching her gaze, eyes glowing brightly with the same lovestruck adoration that Needy can feel in her gaze. 

---

Porno Mag swipes away her money with one hand and slides the pack across to her without care or restraint, his eyes not once leaving the tits on the centrefold. Had it been any other night, she might’ve felt angry. Tonight however, Needy simply swipes a lighter on the way out as thanks. She's opening the pack and lighting the little cancer stick before she's made it more than a dozen steps outside. 

First time smokers generally fail to take their first hit properly. They breathe in too hard, too fast, the heat of the burning herbs and acrid smoke much too new a sensation for their lungs. What generally follows is a coughing fit that every casual user takes no small measure of schadenfreude from. 

First time smokers are also generally not enhanced by a demonic soul-parasite courtesy of their dead, formerly possessed girlfriend.

The smoke burns down her throat, settles painfully in her lungs and is quickly expelled from her body in an uncomfortable hiss. 

There is no coughing fit. Within seconds the discomfort is gone, the pain in her lungs disappears and the rush of the nicotine buzz that enslaves so many others wilts away pitifully just as soon as it comes. Nothing remains as the cloud of smoke fades into nothingness and she’s left holding the cig in the dark.

And yet. 

She can still feel the ghost of the acrid smoke in her lungs, can still smell the faint scent of menthol and tobacco hanging in the air, still taste the faint, bitter, nicotine residue on her lips even as her blood is burning it away. 

If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine a faint summer breeze, almost pretend she can feel the warmth of laughing voices in the darkness, almost feel the loving gaze of two people whom she knows without a doubt will always be her home.

She brings the cigarette to her lips and takes another hit. 

She has found a new form of addiction.

Notes:

Alas, the cycle of writing something and then spending months after editing and rewriting a piece because you are dissatisfied with it reared its head once more until I decided to just sit down and hammer something out already.

Granted, misfortune and poor timing on my computer aside, I am rather happy with this little ditty. For how long it turned out, if nothing else. Hopefully my exhausted brain didn't produce trash and confuse it with gold in its delirium, when I wake up this noon I'll have to go over it and fix whatever mistakes have remained.

Please, any criticisms, mistakes, recommendations, or just greetings and well wishes are deeply appreciated. Also let me know how the relationship between Chip and Jennifer felt like, I tried to make it ambigous enough that it could be interpreted however the reader wanted it to even if I just pictured it as a purely platonic bond.

Who knows, maybe you might inspire the next update?

Take care everybody.