Just holding that thing made her feel filthy.

The smooth, firm plastic of Pippi's ball felt like it was burning Anne's hand off. It was necessary, but that knowledge hardly made any of this any better, especially when it came to underlining the reality of the power dynamic between her and her best friend. Was the fairy even able to be her friend? Could she ever considering Anne owned her to the full extent of the law, no less so than her guitar or her fencing foil? Friendship in which one party does not have the ability to cut contact and walk away hardly qualifies as such, that's more so...

Anne had so many different words swarm her mind in an attempt to complete that thought, and most of them just made her want to throw herself into the nearest garbage bin head first.

It was excessive, and it was self sabotage, and she knew it- and yet it remained so very strong. Nobody in the world was anywhere near as critical of her for this as she was, not even Pippi, especially not Pippi. Just being aware of the nightmare of lack of consent involved with anything to do with these balls put her way ahead of the curve. Reality might've told her she was way, way into the first quintile, but compared to the standards she had for herself, for others, the standards everyone should be abiding by, the literal bare minimum? Barely grazing the mean, and not from the right side.

The only thing she could remember more instances of than her mentally asking Pippi to forgive her was Pippi physically asking her to forgive herself.

The loathing was all consuming, inescapable, a lake of tar she could never escape from and could only avoid. Her innermost part retained just enough rationality each time to smugly point out how even that despair was a sign of privileged whining. How it merely signaled her boundless virtuosity in thinking of living, breathing, thinking beings as people to an audience of one. She knew that framing was wrong, but she knew it was right. What next, wanting a standing ovation for other instances of narrowly reaching the bare minimum?

How did Pippi even put up with someone being this vain? How did Pippi even put up with someone so hellbent on ripping into herself for her every self-perceived lack?

Anne knew not, yet was glad for it all the same, even if she didn't deserve it. Blink, another, glance around. Must've turned the wrong corner at some point. She knew this place, she grew up in this place, it was the most familiar maze in the world. Never quite felt like home, never quite felt safe to be in outside of her room. Her home was the four walls she shared with her Clefable. Everywhere beyond was a borderlands through which demons and ghosts occasionally roamed.

One of which had just caught her in their sights.

"Where are you taking this ball to?"

Why do you care? Why is this the only thing you've said to me this week? Why is my immediate reaction anger at such an innocent question on the face of it? Why does it all hurt?

"I'll be taking her to the vet, time for her checkup."

She knows it's a lie, of course she does. She'll fall for it anyway, much too much household chores on her mind to even think of digging deep into anything her weirdling of a daughter was doing. She isn't even listening.

"Mhm. Once you're done with that-"

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Household chores.

"-could you vacuum the top floor,-"

Father.

"-prepare something nicer looking for your dad's showmatch today,-"

Personal health.

"-and go for a longer walk? I swear you've been holed up in your room non stop for this entire month."

Like clockwork.

"Yeah, yeah, I will."

She knows this too is a lie, or would've if she was listening. Neither of them listen anymore, neither can remember the last time they did. All lies, all pretense, muttered nothings obscuring silenced shouts. Anne hoped beyond hope that the Mom she used to love was in there somewhere, buried behind layers upon layers of patterns and habits.

Was too late to make a difference even if she was.

She loved her, she hated her. Everything was fine, must've been fine, do not pay attention the bleeding wounds on the walls. Anne couldn't even get it in her to really loathe her.

Only pity remained.

Poor migrant struggling to make ends meet, working nights in a sleazy bar. Fittingly sleazy patron eyes her out, lures with sorely missed stability. Wraps her around his finger, wraps himself around her. No way out but legal hell in which she would get nothing. No way out but onto the streets. Chained at his mansion, chained to household duties, chained to making him kids. Chained to looking attractive in that slightly "exotic" way, to receiving backhanded compliments with the words "for a" somewhere in them.

How could she loathe someone who had turned to brain numbing routine like that to protect her soul?

It hurt too much to acknowledge the reality around her, and her daughter could acutely relate. Tied down in an abusive relationship knowing that when things came down to it, his lawyers would be able to effortlessly prevent her from even receiving a cent? More routine. Oldest child is a deadbeat who looks suited to follow in his father's abuse of his wealth and prestige with less than a third of IQ to back it up? More routine. Middle child suffers obvious psychotic breakdown and is never quite herself afterwards? More routine. Youngest child has extensive learning problems and is permanently anxious because of all the aforementioned reasons?

More routine, more helpers, until nothing underneath remained.

Anne could probably shake her down and scream in her face, break down in front of her while begging for the mother she vaguely remembered to come back and she'd just say something throwaway and go back to doing the laundry. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd asked any of them how they were feeling. Not the kind of question she could ever ask anymore, not with all the potential answers being liable to send the whole pretend castle of stability crashing down.

Would she even realize she'd left?

Blink, another glance up, still in the same spot. Mother long gone, only the most distant noises echoing through these walls anymore. Get a grip. Down the stairs. Down to her room. Finally put the ball away lest it burns through all the muscles and sinew. Feels like it's not even her walking anymore, like she's controlling a puppet of flesh and bone and spite and shame, all with two layers of rubber gloves. Turning to the right corridor, one turn, another, her room finally in sight. Another blink, right in front of the door, glance her shoulder just in case.

Segmented tail, violet and lavender, disappearing behind a corner in the distance.

Free hand reaches up to her neck out of reflex, feeling the thin, long scratch on its side. So many years, still there, never quite went away. Heart speeds up to ungodly speeds, breaths draw no air. Body shakes, feeling the scar that never left. Or maybe it did. Maybe she's feeling nothing. Never got a good look, nobody else ever did either, not even Pippi. Nobody needs to know, burden's hers to bear.

Burden is only ever hers to bear.

Door creaks open, body must've opened it on its own. It steps in, Pip takes her time before even noticing the big of colder air creeping in. Her body's almost immobile on its own. 10:13 AM.

> "There you are! Almost thought you got lost in there, ha! Was it that hidden?"

Pause, long pause, uncomfortably long pause. The item is put down, hands clumsily lifted up, each word slightly disjointed in its signing-

> "Had a lot on my mind."

Blink, she's here, already hugging her front. Acutely familiar with how much was a lot in case of her human, well aware of how much effort it took to truly return to one's self afterwards. How much effort, how much strain, how much time.

The alarm goes off at six.

They had the time.