The past. Stephie (Sophie, Tasha). PG13.

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Stephie remembers watching Sophie sleep. She was silent and still, the only sign of life was the gentle breath escaping her lips. She remembers watching and feeling afraid.


They were both fourteen and, in the way of selfish teenagers everywhere, had built the world up as their own personal hell. Everyone was an enemy; every law and restriction set against them personally- set to squash them. And maybe if it had been Stephie alone the world would have molded her into an easier shape, but Sophie would have none of that. The pair of them grated against society in every given way, proud of it, proud of themselves and the new trail they were blazing, let those who dare follow.

There were times- not often, mind- where Stephie looked back and wondered just what things would be like if they hadn't beaten up that other kid, if they hadn't keyed that car, if they hadn't bullied that teacher, joyrode across town in the back of some guys car and wasted themselves on beer afterwards. Would people smile at her instead of shy away or send her disgusted looks in the hallways? Would she have passed those exams? Would her parents hate her any less?

But Sophie had a vision of how the world could be; just the two of them, alone in some big old city in America, ruling it, partying all the time, never running out of cash or boys or fun or beer. And Sophie was the only one who understood her, accepted her for just who she was, loved her anyway. And Sophie was the one who looked her most beautiful shining in the light of those burning bridges, never looking back. So Stephie was compelled to set her eyes on the future, ignore the faint tugs of regret at the back of her mind and live for herself, for Sophie. Addictive confidence. But there were times like that night where Sophie was nothing more than a dark haired beauty asleep on the couch, and if that was all Sophie was, then what was Stephie? Just some angry girl lost in a world too big for her, or did she have the strength to tackle it on her own? That was the question that scared her; her own potential, or lack thereof, was something Stephie did not want to think about. She told herself she was stupid to even contemplate it: Sophie wasn't going anywhere. The pair of them had cut their palms, shared their blood, sworn endless friendship to each other. Nothing was going to tear them apart.

Sick of her own thoughts, Stephie had reached out and shoved Sophie in the arm, rousing her. “I'm bored. Let's go out.”

Sophie opened her dark eyes and looked at the alarm clock sitting next to Stephie's bed. “It's four am,” she commented, then grinned at Stephie in the glow from the street lights outside, “I like the way you think.”

And Stephie didn't have to think about anything any longer.

Now it seemed almost the same with Tasha. This violent, whirlwind, addictive relationship was never something Stephie intended to have twice. Oh, she knew the rest of the world would soon enough see it as stupid, unhealthy, even, but that just made it all the more appealing. Things like this spat in the face of society and stalked off, all smug.

And she knew she was putting herself in the hands of someone who could easily tear her life down if she so desired. After all, Sophie had stolen six months from her life. Still, she blamed her. Still.

So why she was letting herself fall back into this kind of friendship, she had no idea. There were differences, of course. Ry, for one. Jude, Scarlett, Deirdre. And these days she liked the world, more often than not, and so the rebellion was where? Maybe it was just habit. But habit was a strong thing.

She knew that somewhere near there was a point of no return, but past or still to come? Stephie rested her cheek against Tasha's bare arm and closed her eyes. She didn't care. She didn't want out. If her friends were going to hate her for this... let them. True friends would understand. (Sophie would understand...)

The sex, too, that was different, but no less dizzying than the cocktail of drugs she'd played with in Sophie's hands. Maybe the two were interchangeable. Who knew? But she was warm and drunk and naked and spent, and the wine was dragging her into sleep. She smiled, and let it.

Soon enough, she didn't have to think about anything any longer.