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Lana del Rey knew what she was doing when she wrote Ultraviolence and whoever invented strawberry milkshakes at Denny’s knew what they were doing too. The one who probably doesn’t know what she’ll be doing is the tacky waiter if she stares at you for five more seconds.
What’s her deal? Has she never seen in her shitty workplace a 6’2 foot tall Middle Eastern woman with a big, facial scar drink a milkshake alone at 2:38 in the morning? She should use a proper foundation that matches her skin tone and then maybe have the audacity to look at you—ugly hag.
You’ve been here a couple of minutes already, staring at the strawberry milkshake, mostly untouched because it looks too pretty to be finished. Perhaps if you were as beautiful as this strawberry milkshake you would be with Mortum right now, in his lab, as if nothing had changed between you. Maybe he wouldn’t have asked you for a week in order to think about it. Would have called you already because he loves you and misses you. Treat you with the same care he treated Corina or the way you’re treating your milkshake. Wouldn’t have looked at you with the fascination you would look at an experiment.
No, that’s not true. You could never be as lovely as this milkshake.
He is not talking to you because you have deceived him. You have lied to him for months, pretending to be someone you were not. Maybe your feelings and actions were genuine but you were not thoroughly honest with either, catfishing him with the younger, better human version of you. You slept with him in a body that was not yours and that was wrong, you can see it now. You have hurt him, and this is on you. Time to assume the consequences of your actions and face them for once in your life.
You snuggle in your hoodie, getting cozy in your seat against the window of the diner. The Other Woman is playing on your MP3, and you take a long angry sip of your milkshake, ruining its immaculate aspect.
Nine years ago, you wouldn’t be sitting here alone. Anathema would have kept you company across the table with a milkshake of her own, having deep late-night conversations or just rambling about what she did that day. Were Ortega at her side, the attention digger would try to make everything about himself but you wouldn’t mind, satisfied to listen and to be between friends. Christ on a stick, you would have even dragged Ashfall if the day had been as depressing as today.
‘Come on Ash, join us, pretty please? Won’t you do this for your favorite buddy?’ He was always fussy about his sleep schedule but could never say no to your puppy eyes.
Would you be capable of making those puppy eyes to him again? To smile without a care for Ortega? To sit down, laugh and enjoy the company of people who are no longer your dear friends while the countless eyes of the people murdered with your own hands sneak accusatory glances at you from the corner of the room?
You are not that girl anymore. Your hopes and dreams were shattered like the glass of the window you flew through the day of the Heartbreak incident. Your heart is as filthy as the sewer waters, your smile crooked and wicked, like a witch’s that got out from a children’s fairytale.
Your face twists into a grimace, so you pick up your milkshake and continue drinking. The road you’ve decided to walk is a solitary one, behind you a bloody path of corpses and ruined lives. At first, you were convinced that they deserved the rampage of murder and chaos that was coming for them but every time you wash your hands, the blood is still there and you’re not that certain anymore.
Their hands are gripping your ankles, sinking their nails in your scarred skin, heads raised at you, one single question hissed: “Was it necessary?”
You don’t know. And you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel slightly remorseful about your actions, but they are pushing up daisies, so it’s not like apologies or regrets will bring them back. Your fallout with Mortum is the actual relevant matter.
A solitary tear rolls down your cheek in mockery and you quickly wipe it, as if it never slipped in the first place. He’s the only person you have left. You have been on your own for too long and now that you know what it’s like to be loved and treasured, you don’t want him to take that from you. Being alone is frightening and you hate that feeling almost as much as you hate yourself. You never get to keep nice things for yourself before life takes them away from you.
“Excuse me.” You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t notice the waiter at your table, with a new strawberry milkshake.
“I didn’t order this.” You take off your earphones, annoyed you had to pause the music.
“This one is on the house,” she replies quickly, leaving no room for debate and putting the drink in front of you. “Do you mind if I keep you company?”
You scan her mind for threats, finding none. She thinks you’re lonely, and judging by your scars, that something horrible must have happened to you. She’s not wrong on that one; plenty of horrible things have happened to you. A broken heart being perhaps the only story you can share; not that you're going to. She also thinks that such beautiful eyes shouldn’t be filled with tears and that gorgeous women shouldn’t be so sad.
“Okay.” You mutter, flustered and embarrassed, because you wish you hadn’t heard those last thoughts. In normal circumstances, you would have given her the brush-off but she means well and you crave human connection, even if it’s superficial and with a stranger who won’t remember your name tomorrow.
The lady goes back to the bar to prepare a milkshake for herself, oreo-flavored based on the color, which matches her lively attitude. Makes sense, sad girls like you drink strawberry milkshakes.