{ cold against the skin ; denny/styx blitz

I swiped my mother's lipstick from her dresser and bolted up the stairs to my bedroom. I threw the cap onto the floor and watched it roll beneath my bed, and then I turned to the window and pressed the tip of lipstick against its glass pane. It comes out in smooth crimson rivers against my harsh hand. I glide it up and down and left and right, until I have scrawled the word FRAY onto the glass in bold letters of lurid red.

Backing away from the mess I've made of the window, I pluck a pinkish granite rock I collected from the side of the road and thrust it at my new surname. Cracks spider from the center of the attack to the edges of the window upon impact of the hit, and I grin at my masterpiece. I can imagine how my "mother" would shriek if she saw the blasphemy I've carved into her windows with her precious lipstick. But fuck her lipstick and her savages for children, too, because they can all be replaced when you've got all the money in the world.

Yeah. Fuck the Frays.

"I'll never be one of them," I promise to the empty air, resting my hands on my hips in defiance.

I will never be a Fray, not my blood, not by heart.