pepper veneble | eleven; fin

Miss hot-to-trot, no nonsense, no time for mistakes. A firecracker, just like the plant for which you were named: spicy from the first bite until the last. You are not for everyone, you've realized that. You've accepted that; everyone is not for you, either.

They can say you're controlling, or that you're hasty, or that you're proving all the myths about redheads true and you don't care. Because here is the thing: you get it done. You've been blessed with your mother's natural administrative abilities and cursed with your father's boastful claims. The result is that you often say you know how to do things you do not actually know how to do, and then, when anyone else would crack under the pressure, when anyone else would come tumbling down, lose, get caught, fail: you rise, Pepper Veneble.

That's what has landed you a management position, poor pale thing- your early twenties were just one big sunburned blister thanks to those god damn orchards and you were certain for a while that the skin damage was irreversible and you were doomed to look old and wrinkled before it was your time. Luckily enough, though, you saw to it that you wound up inside soon enough, making more money, affording more food. Rising through the ranks from there was easy: it was all common sense work.

The sunlight is too harsh for this time of the year and the plants are burning: cover them up.

It's raining too much and the plants are wilting: create drains, store the excess water for later.

They treated you like a miracle worker and you let them. You let them move you closer to the square, all alone but with more space than your entire family had growing up. You let them buy you nicer clothes: nothing fancy but a step above the laborers for sure. You let them look to you with questions, and you always gave them answers.

And now, here you are: thirty-something, accomplished, well-fed, respected, and still utterly miserable. You lead a lonely existence- for ripred's sake the closest person in your life is your assistant and he's ten years younger than you and, to your private dismay, only interested in men. You have become an adult, yes, but a joyless one- the kind you always swore you'd never become.

You were just like the rest of them: carefree, hell-bent on being special. Looking for an escape from reality, lying to yourself so that you could sleep at night, saying that you would be different from your parents. You would be happy. You would make your own decisions and build the life you wanted.

And then, of course, brick after boring brick, you did just that. You built a fortress for yourself, Pepper, but what you wound up finding is that you never got around to building a door so that someone else might come in and share it with you. Not that you need someone else to feel that you are leading a full existence- you feel whole and proud of what you've done. But, and it has taken you a lifetime to realize this, it is not so terribly wrong of you to not want to be alone forever.

So, you make a decision. Not to search for someone: you have class for Ripred's sake, but to be open. To trust. To not assume everyone wants your money. To be forgiving. To be understanding. To try to allow the person showing you interest to be a human, and to not be disappointed when they are less than perfect no matter what. Well, most of the time.

Sometimes.

Maybe, you decide, you'll judge it on a case-by-case basis. That sounds better.