true disaster :: [ taggerty + danger ]
Mar 18, 2021 16:57:46 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Mar 18, 2021 16:57:46 GMT -5
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i said, come on, give zero fucks about it
come on, i know i'm gonna get hurt
come on, i know i'm gonna get hurt
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It has been two hours of the waitresses silently pitying her as Tags furrows her brow and stacks another plastic spoon on top of the tower of utensils, boredom, and rejection that she's been building in the center of the table. It's the kind of shitty burger joint that caters almost exclusively to drunks and burnouts — the kind of place where people don't judge because they've seen the worst of the worst and the most pathetic of the pathetic. Less than twenty minutes ago everyone here witnessed a guy stop midway through his meal to pop open the lid of his super sized soft drink and publicly puke into the watery pink ice, but she's still the one they're staring at out of the corner of their eyes as if they've just never seen anything sadder than this.
Tags tells herself that it's not a big deal to get stood up by her best friends and reaches over the back of her booth to empty out the service station of plastic forks. Again. One of the employees tries to belatedly stifle a sigh as somebody smacks the back of a hand against his arm while giving him a don't-be-an-asshole glare. He pulls a face and grabs a cardboard box out from beneath the counter, wordlessly restocking all of the utensils for the umpteenth time tonight. Something crazy important must have come up. Caly swore she'd take a break from her Definitely Not Romantic distraction and that she'd convince Thea to unplug her guitar for the night. It's been ages since they all hung out together and finally — maybe — Tags wasn't the only one bothered by it. The three of them would meet up here for a bite and catch up on the last few months before going to a delightfully suspicious sounding party that Tags had been hearing rumors about. That was the plan.
The tower comes tumbling down and Tags doesn't have hands enough to catch the wreckage, so it skitters every which way across the floor. The guy who had been sighing at her throws his hands fully up in the air, surrendering to his annoyance. It doesn't bother her. She couldn't care less right now. He could stomp over and give her a hard time to her face and even that wouldn't bother her. What does bother her is that the two people who promised to always protect her from anyone giving her a hard time aren't here; what bothers her is that she doesn't know what to do upon realizing that the very people who promised to protect her from hard times are the ones troubling her most.
Plasticware everywhere, she gets up and casually steals a coat from the rack by the door. It's a bright yellow child's rain jacket, comically tight across her shoulders with sleeves that end inches before reaching her wrists. Clearly it's as forgotten as she is. She makes direct eye contact with the guy losing his mind over her as she puts it on and begins stuffing the pockets with spoons and forks, knives and pepper packets. He gestures with exasperation, but everyone else mutters at him to shut up and leave her alone. The pity drives her mad and she continues shoving useless crap into her stolen pockets until the fattened seams could burst.
Wild eyed, she steps out into the late night rain and trudges down street after street until she can feel the asphalt pulsing to a heavy bass beat. Rain puddles shiver from the vibration as the low roofs of dive bars and smoke shops give way to warehouse buildings tall enough that the bricks disappear into the dark blur of a starless sky. Systematically placing her hand on the wall of one building after another, it's not hard to follow the rumble of trouble to the source, even with the music dampened by the storm. By the time she finds the right place her sopping curls look like dreadlocks plastered to her bright yellow back and she rolls her shoulders, cracking her neck to the left and the right before pushing a heavy steel door open into an elusive world she's always chasing, but never quite catching.
The air is damp and alive, heady with an array of smoke and alcohol fumes. Overbearing music pushes people around whether they came here to dance or simply to holler over the babbling tongues of pillheads and anarchy. Everything is noise. No one really notices her and for the first time tonight she's okay with her ability to be ignored and blend in. Even her ridiculous child's jacket is a bland smudge in a crowd as colorful and unhinged as this.
Taking advantage of the way everyone who accidentally makes eye contact with her immediately writes her off as mostly harmless and moves on, she snatches a whiskey bottle right out of a girl's hand and takes a few speedy swigs before handing it back with a shrug. Slickly pulling a palm full of pepper packets from her pocket, she slaps them into the girl's other hand as if tipping her for the kindness of sharing, giving the hand a momentous shake for good measure. "Appreciate it!" Tags shouts at her over the din, waggling her eyebrows before bouncing backwards into the dancing crowd.
Cheap warmth shivers down her spine as she throws her arms up and screams, flipping her wet hair back and forth as she begins hopping up and down to a questionable rhythm. Flinging secondhand rain everywhere, the people around her are out of their minds enough to cheer for a moment as the water droplets splatter their faces and clothes. With each head-banging jump plastic silverware tumbles out of her pockets, dozens of forks and spoons and knives clattering and bouncing across the cement floor. If it were perfectly quiet then maybe the stolen cutlery would sound like its own kind of storm, tinkling prettily in the moments before Taggerty's combat boots inevitably stomp them to pieces.
The plastic splinters as she does the world's worst Roger Rabbit, knees flailing and arms punching around haphazardly. People back off slightly to avoid her incoherent thrashing and soon enough she's going wild in a buffer of emptiness. The plastic splinters and the plastic splinters and the plastic splinters and she bubbles with laughter. She looks crazy and she knows it, just like how everyone around her knows it, but the more people size her up and begin laughing along with her, the more she feels like herself for the first time in weeks.
Tags tells herself that it's not a big deal to get stood up by her best friends and reaches over the back of her booth to empty out the service station of plastic forks. Again. One of the employees tries to belatedly stifle a sigh as somebody smacks the back of a hand against his arm while giving him a don't-be-an-asshole glare. He pulls a face and grabs a cardboard box out from beneath the counter, wordlessly restocking all of the utensils for the umpteenth time tonight. Something crazy important must have come up. Caly swore she'd take a break from her Definitely Not Romantic distraction and that she'd convince Thea to unplug her guitar for the night. It's been ages since they all hung out together and finally — maybe — Tags wasn't the only one bothered by it. The three of them would meet up here for a bite and catch up on the last few months before going to a delightfully suspicious sounding party that Tags had been hearing rumors about. That was the plan.
The tower comes tumbling down and Tags doesn't have hands enough to catch the wreckage, so it skitters every which way across the floor. The guy who had been sighing at her throws his hands fully up in the air, surrendering to his annoyance. It doesn't bother her. She couldn't care less right now. He could stomp over and give her a hard time to her face and even that wouldn't bother her. What does bother her is that the two people who promised to always protect her from anyone giving her a hard time aren't here; what bothers her is that she doesn't know what to do upon realizing that the very people who promised to protect her from hard times are the ones troubling her most.
Plasticware everywhere, she gets up and casually steals a coat from the rack by the door. It's a bright yellow child's rain jacket, comically tight across her shoulders with sleeves that end inches before reaching her wrists. Clearly it's as forgotten as she is. She makes direct eye contact with the guy losing his mind over her as she puts it on and begins stuffing the pockets with spoons and forks, knives and pepper packets. He gestures with exasperation, but everyone else mutters at him to shut up and leave her alone. The pity drives her mad and she continues shoving useless crap into her stolen pockets until the fattened seams could burst.
Wild eyed, she steps out into the late night rain and trudges down street after street until she can feel the asphalt pulsing to a heavy bass beat. Rain puddles shiver from the vibration as the low roofs of dive bars and smoke shops give way to warehouse buildings tall enough that the bricks disappear into the dark blur of a starless sky. Systematically placing her hand on the wall of one building after another, it's not hard to follow the rumble of trouble to the source, even with the music dampened by the storm. By the time she finds the right place her sopping curls look like dreadlocks plastered to her bright yellow back and she rolls her shoulders, cracking her neck to the left and the right before pushing a heavy steel door open into an elusive world she's always chasing, but never quite catching.
The air is damp and alive, heady with an array of smoke and alcohol fumes. Overbearing music pushes people around whether they came here to dance or simply to holler over the babbling tongues of pillheads and anarchy. Everything is noise. No one really notices her and for the first time tonight she's okay with her ability to be ignored and blend in. Even her ridiculous child's jacket is a bland smudge in a crowd as colorful and unhinged as this.
Taking advantage of the way everyone who accidentally makes eye contact with her immediately writes her off as mostly harmless and moves on, she snatches a whiskey bottle right out of a girl's hand and takes a few speedy swigs before handing it back with a shrug. Slickly pulling a palm full of pepper packets from her pocket, she slaps them into the girl's other hand as if tipping her for the kindness of sharing, giving the hand a momentous shake for good measure. "Appreciate it!" Tags shouts at her over the din, waggling her eyebrows before bouncing backwards into the dancing crowd.
Cheap warmth shivers down her spine as she throws her arms up and screams, flipping her wet hair back and forth as she begins hopping up and down to a questionable rhythm. Flinging secondhand rain everywhere, the people around her are out of their minds enough to cheer for a moment as the water droplets splatter their faces and clothes. With each head-banging jump plastic silverware tumbles out of her pockets, dozens of forks and spoons and knives clattering and bouncing across the cement floor. If it were perfectly quiet then maybe the stolen cutlery would sound like its own kind of storm, tinkling prettily in the moments before Taggerty's combat boots inevitably stomp them to pieces.
The plastic splinters as she does the world's worst Roger Rabbit, knees flailing and arms punching around haphazardly. People back off slightly to avoid her incoherent thrashing and soon enough she's going wild in a buffer of emptiness. The plastic splinters and the plastic splinters and the plastic splinters and she bubbles with laughter. She looks crazy and she knows it, just like how everyone around her knows it, but the more people size her up and begin laughing along with her, the more she feels like herself for the first time in weeks.
true disaster by tove lo.
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