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Once, at the tail end of her time in Boston, Faith had been patrolling around the “bad” side of town (the part that felt most like home to her). Stray animals were everywhere - mostly cats, but also dogs in varying shapes and sizes and physical conditions. You would see them flash across the street at night, trotting on the side of the road, fur matted and falling out in clumps. At once pitiful and repulsive, something you felt worse for laying eyes on because it reminded you how helpless you were to the enormity of suffering around you.
Once, just once, she had made the mistake of giving the time of day to a big, dumb, brindle-striped dog with floppy ears and goofy, smiling jowls. She didn’t even feed it or anything, just gave it a pat on the head when it came up to her, and it spent the entire night trailing alongside her, perking up its ears whenever Faith so much as glanced its way. Eager, pathetically happy for even a scrap of attention. That had been a lonely time in her life, sure - when hadn’t she felt alone, really? - and she had always wanted a dog, but she wasn’t trying to bring that mangy stray home with her. And no matter how much she ignored it, it didn’t get the message. What would she have fed it, the box macaroni and cheese that she lived on? She could barely afford to feed and house herself as it was. And anyway, the dumb dog was definitely crawling with fleas.
Faith pitied the thing as it scratched itself outside her door, knowing it would never kick its parasites, would probably die on the street covered in itchy red scabs when winter fell. She grew angrier at the stupid animal the longer it stuck around. At the end of the night she couldn’t help but feel guilty, as she shut the door to her shitty walk-up without a second glance back. And in the morning, she felt relief like a kick in the gut when she opened the door and confirmed that the dog had gone.
Anyway, Faith felt exactly like that dog. Tara had given her the barest scrap of kindness, and Faith couldn’t stop following her around pathetically, begging at her heels, whimpering for more. It was degrading, self-flagellating. She was rolling over onto her back and showing her soft underbelly, tail wagging hopefully. And she just couldn’t stop.
It was counter to everything Faith had ever learned - her whole life, as soon as she looked something she wanted in the eyes, as soon as she gave it her attention, it saw her for who she really was (trash, whore, loser, murderer) and turned away.
Tara was different.