harley, district seven | finished

Roslyn — 

do you remember
when your mother died?

You don't. She died before you could gather any memories of her, and for all the tragedy that came with being a girl without a mother to call her own, you shrugged off the pity that was given to you. She was a sad woman from a broken home, who gave herself to a man with bad intentions and alcohol on his breath. A paper person from a paper neighborhood who thought it wise to fall in love with someone built out of matchsticks. In your dreams, you can think of a better life for the woman who gave you yours. One where she was wiser, where she was happier — where she chose a man who could actually support her; not damn her.

She didn't deserve what she got, but it's what she ended up with. The least you could do as her daughter was to pretend, so for a time, that's exactly what you did. You pursed your lips and you pretended that the bottles crashing against your walls were just thunder, and when your father begged to know if you still loved him on nights when he was sober, you nodded with a smile and said 'Of course.' White lies and white lines — you could become addicted to both. You lied through your teeth until the day that he finally drunk himself into oblivion.

An orphan without relatives, you rose from the ashes of two burning fools — and you went on to carry their names without ever truly knowing who they were. Your parents taught you to expect the worst; that being a pessimist would always be the safest option. You were grateful to have been hardened by something better than circumstance, but you never bothered to visit their graves long enough to thank either of them. You took to the streets and you stopped lying. You had no one left to be soft for. You owed nothing to no one, and there were no chains to hold you down.

Not until you chose to be anchored. You found solace in a group of wild things that were much like yourself. Fucked up and lonely and bitter. A lost girl and her boys, and you found a place in the gang right alongside the rest of them. Fists that could throw a punch just as fast as any other, a throat that could handle the burn of a drink better than your father's could, and a mind more clever than your genes should have allowed — you were bred for this life, or so you liked to let yourself believe.

You climbed your way up the ranks and you chose your family. No one in the group ever saw you as poor little Roslyn, who lost everything she had and ran away before the community home could claim her. You were just Harley to them. Not because it was your surname, but because it was what you wanted to be called. It felt familiar, but it also had an exciting taste when sliding off your tongue. It became your home. Because much as you loved your brothers and the renovated warehouses you'd take shelter in, your greatest love would always be yourself. Always. Because your parents never learned that secret — and because you promised to love yourself enough to make up for their lack of it.

But even your brotherhood could invoke your wrath if they crossed a line. When news came of Kae Summit splitting from the gang without a single word of parting to be with his father, you found your fists curling up at your sides and just begging to be thrust out. It was assigned to you to track them down and talk some sense into them, specifically the younger of the pair. You were always the gang's greatest force of intimidation; a pretty face smiling just long enough to draw someone close — and then your knuckles would crash against their jaw and you'd wipe the blood off onto your sleeve. You were never a storm. Not one of those pretty metaphorical girls who were like hurricanes wiping out an entire village, just to fade away when the time came to be gentler.

You weren't fire, either. Burning down forests and hurting everything around you just because you could. The tragedy is that you're just a girl; just a kid on the streets trying to find herself. No one wanted you, but you wanted yourself, and now you have something. Something to protect and to guard and to fill all the holes in your chest. You just want to belong to something more than a crumbling house with beer stains on the the walls; to be more than the daughter of a fool and a drunkard. You just want to be — so you are. You exist. You make mistakes and you curse and you pick fights with bigger people, but it's okay. It doesn't matter. You're just living your life until it's time to go. Until it's over and finally time to sleep.

Bargaining with the devil can wait; 

you have enough time.