cordelia blake | one ; fin

if ur reading this rn pls note that it is 3 am and have not proofread and that's very brave and sexy of me


The world would be a much more enjoyable place if everyone would just be a bit more honest. It's an under-valued trait these days, honesty. Each day is more duplicitous than the next. More delusional to boot. I've always been honest. Say what you want, (people usually feel free to,) but you can't say I don't tell it how it is. Or at least how I think it is. Sometimes I'm a bit of an unreliable narrator when my anger gets the better of me. But I'm honest no matter what.

For instance, I look like a rich bitch. I  f u c k i n g  hate it, but I know it's true. I mean look at me. I look like I'd be a level five vegan, whatever that is, or like I would consider yoga a sport. I look like I had a live-in nanny and toys made of wood, you know? Everyone gives me shit about it, all of us poor little war kids marching along. We're poking the sleeping monsters with sticks because whatever horrors they might possibly have in store could never be worse than what we have all been through. What we have all seen. What we have all done.

Until four months ago, it didn't make any kind of a difference what any of them said, because it's true: I look like a rich bitch and that was always funny because, well, because until four months ago, I wasn't even close to rich. I was sharing a room with my three year old sister, and my little brother slept in the living room. My mom and whoever she had with her stayed locked up in the back most of the time. But things have changed, and now it isn't funny when they make the jokes, because it's true: I am a rich bitch now. Because four months ago, my Mom was killed, and she wasn't supposed to have been.

Yeah, if you think this story is going anywhere good, you got another thing coming. Things don't get better in the badlands. The sun doesn't shine on the junkyard, so much as it attempts to start a fucking brush fire. Oh, and if you're thinking, just fuckin' leave! I got news for you: you can't. I tried. Lots of people do. It's confusing, it's hard to- It's like... It's like it's a part of us. It's like we're branded, or we smell of it, or something. No matter where we go, how far we run, how good we do for ourselves, that shit don't matter. We're junkers.

I'm an orphan junker now, I guess, though it doesn't feel too terribly different from when I wasn't one.

Roughly the same level of parental supervision. She was actually better when she drank, that's the fucked up part. I got to where I actually... preferred it? I told her that, too. Shouldn't have. I was just a twelve year old though, I guess, and she was on her latest sobriety kick, and she'd already given the twerps and I the whole I'm ready to be a parent talk for the billionth time. Meanwhile, Molly's diaper rash was so bad she was walking funny and Lucky's black eye was so swollen he couldn't see, and I was-

Angry. I guess I always am, on some level. You would be too, don't flatter yourself.

Since I'm so honest, I guess I'll just say it: My Mom was a fuckin' narc. Should've figured when she laid off Lucky's adderall but go figure, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. She was informing on some drug operation for some old guy and he found out and... yeah. Mom was supposed to be under peacekeeper protection. That's a lawsuit out the ass, my guy. Ramsey called her a cunt once, my mom. Eh, I could kid myself and say he was right about her but, to be fair, he called everyone a cunt. He was an interesting creature.

Creature. That was a good word for him. He was like a wild animal. People think its as simple as getting it while it's young, raising it to love humans. And sure, maybe when they're little they're fine, but it's out of necessity. They don't bite the hand that feeds them until they're certain the hand can be what feeds them.

Or so they say. I got a leopard named Prissy two months ago and she hasn't attacked a single person so far who didn't deserve it. The new house I bought had a straight-up hedge maze/rose garden in the backyard. Stone fence, ten feet high. Right at the center is where I keep all my shit, and when my asshole friends find out and try to go snooping, well... Prissy steps in. She just understands, you know? We're both women trying to make it in a male-dominated power structure. I keep sending her the riffraff trying to steal, she helps me weed the fake friends from the real ones.

Haven't found a single real one yet. Wish I wasn't being honest now.

I met a real classy lady at the laundromat whose husband is a lawyer. I know it's legit cause she had to cash in a twenty for some quarters and she smelled like lavender. She took in Molly. I go visit on the weekends sometimes. Little brat is sprouting like a weed. And Lucky went to stay with the family of his best friend back in the badlands. I try to reach out but he don't really pick up so much these days. Prolly just, you know, typical twelve year old attitude shit. Like, I remember when I was twelve, I stole my mom's purse and went clubbing and then the girl I was with started wigging out and we ended up arrested. Mom burned my fuckin sketchpad for that. Threw a glass bowl full of potato chips at my head, too. Kids gotta learn, I guess.