can't it be new // lily & haze

can't it be new // lily & haze Apr 20, 2021 23:28:06 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Apr 20, 2021 23:28:06 GMT -5

Looking back it's all the same
Another planet inside my head
that seemed so perfect at the time
Got pulled again by November state of mind

She shouldn't be spending money.

It's on her guilt, every time she forks the cash out of the envelope, "you said... how much?" Girl, we don't need this, don't buy it -- c'mon, save the money; Hazeia wants to convince herself so badly. Flicking her thumb between each ten and five, loose quarters banging around the paper folds.

"Uhh, $75?"

"Fuck," it's not that good. Seventy-five dollars worth, that's a week of pay, she thinks of how her abuela will ring her ear out for it 'til she bleeds. How much food that could put on the table, all for a goddamn portrait of a water bank -- the Caracol Creek. "It's for my 'buela okay? Can't we do $45?"

"You're fucking kidding."

Pinche culero- "I'm not."

You know, she'd like to tell people that that worked out for her. Somewhere along the line, that greasy dumbass with the fucked up waves is $30 short, but she didn't have the backbone. She set the envelope back into her fanny pack, both hands holding the portrait in her hands; the yellow and brown hues felt like home.

It's something important to her abuela, the creek runs near their home, right past the corn fields. They'd always take Haze down there as a child, she'd count the snails by hand and bring the shells to the bank as her grandmother wove. There was a time she'd put the snails in her abuela's basket, just for a second, and she saw Ripred that night.

You can only get away with so much.

Haze scratched her thumbnail into the trade mark in the corner, squinting to read the letters -- "R- Rhodes?" Lightly pressed still into the paint, straining to read out the first name. "Oh, no way," she caught her pace more once she realized she was taking a detour.

Lily Rhodes, this is some double sales shit, Haze knows all about it; on top of that, she knows this girl. Jogging with the portrait in her hand, all the way down Wayward well past the side vendors on the way. You have to understand a thing to live in district eleven: you fight for every dollar you can.

It doesn't matter she's an Izar now -- she's made her mind up on that whole debacle: she doesn't need them. Her family's done well enough before their help, and Haze knows how to bag a coin better the best of them, "SHIT- AHH," inhale, exhale.

Ay dios mio, goddamn cramps. She walks her last sweaty minutes, que me jodan la puta vida; there's too much walking in this damn district. Her hair sticks to her forehead, shoulder sore from carrying the portrait tenderly. Ain't a way in hell she's damaging this thing if she can catch a rebate.

It's all about the coin.

Haze makes it to the Rhodes' door step, huffing as she knocks on the wood paneling. It's a well spent journey at least, she's proud of herself for the grit. Patting herself on the back until a large man comes to the door, asking who she is and she says, with fatigue, "Haze Rose! Is Lily home?"

"Who the fuck is Lily?"

"Uhh, Lily Rhodes?"

"Across the street, dumb whore," oh. The door slams in her face before she gets a chance to look over her shoulder.

"Fuck you too, asshole," she tosses her middle finger to the eyehole, enough spite to leave the message, and she picks her portrait up off the wall it was resting on. You're with me, buddy, she pulls her hair off her forehead on the way over to the Rhodes'.

Haze catches her breath this time, peering into the blinds for any hint she's at the right place. What's the worst that could happen, really, it can't be any worse than the last guy. She hums to herself as she knocks on the front door, placing her hands back on the portrait resting on her shoes.

Singsong, she knocks a second time as well. For good measure, of course.

(table inspired by: rook)

can't it be new // lily & haze Jun 3, 2021 8:04:31 GMT -5

Post by lionel estrada d5 ᥫ᭡ kiah on Jun 3, 2021 8:04:31 GMT -5

l i l y .

* * *

He'd been out all night again, stumbling in as the sun began to rise. He was loud, slamming the door as he walks into the coffee table, cursing loudly a moment before falling onto the couch, arm draped over his face. I stay in my room a moment longer, waiting for him to pass out in his own puke, before I sneak from my room, quickly making my way into the lounge room. Suppressing a sigh, I slip off his boots and tug a blanket over him.

Rocking back on my heels I study him for a moment, the greys in his hair, the ageing spots of skin on his cheeks. He looked older than he was, years of alcohol abuse ageing him beyond his years. As I stare at him I can't quite stop the feelings of hate that rise within me. I hated that he was doing this to himself. To me. To Ma. I hated that I hated him. I hated him for giving up. I hated him for making me what him slowly kill himself. I hated him for leaving me alone night after night. I hate that each morning I would still take off his shoes and cover him with a blanket because even though I hated him, I still loved him.

Tears begin to well and I angrily wipe them away, storming from the room I slam the door, hoping that it woke him from his stupor. He would deserve it. Stepping off the porch I head over to the shed, tying my long blonde hair back as I went. I was working on a commissioned piece, one of my first, and I was really excited about it. I had been working on it for three weeks now. It was a mermaid on a rock, she was crying her face buried into her hands. It was a piece that was as emotional as it was beautiful.

Pulling upon the shed I grab a dirty apron from the desk, slipping it over my head I wrap the ties tightly around my waist. I push the thoughts of my father to the back of my mind. I tell myself that I would have some stern words with him this afternoon, knowing full well that I wouldn't, that instead I would kiss him goodbye, a basket on my arm as I went to see Ma. In the past I would have invited him, but I don't waste my breath these day, knowing that the answer would be a grunt and a frustrated wave of the hand.

As I study the piece I notice some movement from the corner of my eye. Looking up I notice a figure peeking into the windows of my home a moment before knocking on the door. Abandoning the piece I jog over to the porch, "be careful, there a drunk old man in there who would not take kindly to loud knocking on his front door-

Hazel?" A smile pulls my lips back into a wide grin. It had been a long time since we had had visitors, the rumours of my father enough to keep the curious away. "How are you? What are you doing here?"