Chapter 2: Some Good Advice

Home is where the heart is supposed to be. And with Noelle and Rudy, perhaps it still lay there for Dess, but the thought of the other was much enough to drive it away.

 

She had been absolutely dreading the “conversation” she’d be having with her mother come the time she arrived home, the walk through the woods having done very little to clear the butch’s mind. No, the “conversation” she’d have with Carol; it felt ill-fitting to refer to such a person by any such an affectionate term beyond their own name.

Deep down, Dess knew she didn’t want this. She would always carry about herself a “rebel without a cause” persona (although knowing her political leanings, there very much was a cause she rebelled for), but all she wanted was for her mother to love her unconditionally. To be able to head home at the end of the day and not worry about being scolded endlessly, or shouted at, or smacked upside the forehead with a light backhander, or compared without ceasing to her golden child sister or golden child neighbor and boyfriend; all of that seemed like fantasy to her.

Of course, part of the issue was that Carol was much the same way, desperately wishing that her daughter would shape up and stop being an “embarrassment” to the family name, as it was put. That was the problem, in Dess’ mind; they both wanted to be loved by the other and showered with adoration, but without compromise, to fit within the other’s mold. Naturally, though, Dess only saw said problem one-directionally.

As the manor gate drew ever nearer, left unlocked as it always was for her, Dess pushed it aside and trudged on through, lamenting in her heart prematurely over what was bound to happen. The yelling. The venom. The hatred. Was this the last straw, the thing that would push their fractured relationship over the edge and get her kicked out?

Finally arriving at the door of her home, Dess clenched her fists and grimaced at the thoughts running through her head. At the very least, she’d have a few hours before Carol got back home, she reasoned to herself. Hopefully she could come up with a good way of putting things and minimize the damage, something to lessen the blow.

Her thoughts bringing her some level of self-comfort, Dess took a deep breath and went through the door, hoping to head to her room and listen to some Joy Division as she brainstormed. Now, the main question was whether or not she’d listen to Closer or Unknown Pleas-

“December?” a posh voice rang out from the living room. “Is that you?”

SHIT. Dess was completely taken off-guard by Carol’s presence; one of her many “outstanding” motherly qualities was the fact she always seemed to be working late over at the town hall, to a point where she was almost a completely absent figure from her life. With how she was when she was around, maybe total absence would’ve been preferable, though.

Regardless, Dess’ heart money-shifted at the sound of her voice, since SHE WAS NEVER HOME THIS EARLY! Did she know somehow? Did she know that Dess had a fit in front of the recruiters and bailed on her plan? FUCK.

“Y-yeah, mom, I’m back,” she said meekly, feeling as if she was tiptoeing around conversational glass with each word spoken. Slinking over to the living room, she found her mother sitting in her easy chair by the fireplace, which she had converted to be an air conditioner rather than a heating element. Oddly, though, she appeared to be sipping from a glass of ice water as she peered through the Hometown Reader, instead of her typical glass of chilled brandy.

“You wanted to see me?” Dess cautiously asked.

Her mother shifted her gaze away from the paper and gave her a quizzical look. “...No? I was just asking if that was you coming home,” she said in a suspiciously calm voice.

“Ah.” Questions were firing through Dess’ brain over the interaction so far. Why was she acting so… normal??? She’d always been a bit of a cold, on-edge woman, so to see and hear her speak in such an even-keeled manner was simply jarring.

“December, dear, are you alright?” she asked; her voice was still a bit chilly, but it wasn’t the usual frigidness she was used to. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

“Hahaha, what, me? Nah, I’m fine! Just… heading to my room, heh! Gonna listen to some CDs on the… stereo! Yeah, won’t be too loud, sorry, ma’am.” She turned and was ready to high-tail it upstairs to shut herself in, only for Carol to ask the question she was most dreading.

“Oh, and how did that recruitment meeting go? Did you join?”

She dropped her bat on the floor as panic swept through her. This was a setup, this had to be a setup. She already has to know, clearly! And she’s just toying around! Dess gritted her teeth, feeling that there was no sense in even trying to lie to her.

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “I got there, felt it wasn’t for me; was even told that they wouldn’t let me sign up for the work I wanted, so it’s not entirely my choice. Just…” She sighed. “I’m sorry, mom. I’m a burden, aren’t I?”

She wasn’t even making up the excuse; they really had told her to basically fuck off with her aspirations to do volunteer work or serve in Europa, but that didn’t really matter. Knowing her mom, she winced as she anticipated the blow-up argument that was bound to come from her, for “making nothing out of her life,” or “being a quitter,” “not being more like Noelle,” or dreadfully, for “being worse off than if she had just been aborted.” That one always stung.

Instead, Carol merely let off a defeated groan, and put her newspaper down on the side table with her glass of water. “What are you even apologizing for?” she asked, less out of comfort and more out of unsureness. “I mean, you are quite a bit of a burdensome and quarrelsome daughter, I won’t deny that, but it’s not like I actually expected you to follow through with that.”

The passive-aggressive comments were all the more jarring to Dess; Carol’s modus operandi was usually just to scream insults her way or demand she do better, so this more subtle disdain was completely foreign to her. Although by the way her heart was hurting… they seemed to cut deeper than usual?

She had to say something, try to dispel the air and snap Carol back into something more familiar, more manageable. Whatever fear she had before wasn’t washing away, but rather merging into every word the icy blonde spoke. “Okay, this is just… too weird. You’re never like this, mom, you’re always shouting at me and belittling me for every little thing! Why are you… so… detached now???”

Hearing her daughter struggle to wrap her head around what was happening, Carol stared her right in the eyes and continued with a blunt answer.

“I was out of the office today for a therapy appointment, December. It’s why I’m here back home so early in the afternoon.” She took a sip of her ice water before placing it back on the side table. “She’s noted all of my own anger issues, something I know you also struggle with, and suggested ways for me not to be like that. You’ve seen me drinking water instead of my brandy, for instance, correct?”

Dess could feel her eye twitch as the mental fog rolled in. “Yeah, I guess-”

“She told me my drinking habit was only amplifying my issues, so I’ve decided to follow her advice and abstain. That was last week, and I’m already feeling much improved mood-wise, I must say. You might find it to be a helpful idea yourself; putting the hash down and sobering up, I mean. You positively reek of weed right-”

“OKAY, that’s enough!” Dess’ voice, shaky as it was, bellowed out through the otherwise empty house as her latest episode had just come on. “What. The hell. Is wrong with you?” she grunted, pointing fiercely at her mother. “I know your stupid fucking game, woman, I know what you’re trying to do to me, and lemme tell you, IT ISN’T GOING TO WORK!”

She giggled psychotically to herself as she twisted the finger she was pointing. “You’re trying to worm your way into my brain, putting on a fake act of being nice just to try and make me feel guilty about myself, hahahahaha!” There was the tiniest bit of an inflection of nervousness in that fit of laughter, yet she continued on.

“But I know you, bitch. I know who you really are, the kind of person who puts on the airs of civility and convinces Hometown she’s the nicest woman ever, only to shout at her eldest daughter in the safety of her own home and wishing aloud I was never alive in the first place. And you know what? I WISH I WASN’T!”

Her anger reached a fever pitch, only heightened by the fact she saw no response from her mother, no change to her expression whatsoever. “Do you know how hard it is for nobody to believe you? Of course not, because everyone believes YOU! But me? When I tell people who you really are, do you think they listen to me? NO! NO, OF COURSE THEY DON’T! THEY NEVER DO! Dess is just the crazy, rebellious, socialist girlfailure of a daughter who says mean things about her mommy! How could she say such a thing when Hometown is so picture-fucking-perfect! It’s basically Mayberry here, who cares about the rest of Northamer, we’re fine! That’s all that matters! Maybe if she showered more than twice a week and washed that brain of hers while she was at it, she’d actually be a respectable person who stops worrying about silly things! THEY CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH, BECAUSE THEY COULD NEVER HANDLE THE REAL WORLD! THEY COULD NEVER HANDLE THE REAL YOU!!”

Dess growled at her unflinching mother, staring her down like a rabid animal with how much her mouth was frothing and eyes were bulging. Her hatred had finally reached its climax.

“AND MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, I WILL KILL MYSELF, TO SPITE YOU, YOU WORTHLESS FUCKING PIG!!! ARE YOU ANGRY NOW, HUH??? ARE YOU ANGRY?!?!?!”

With that last howl out, Dess huffed and heaved with each breath, exhausted by how worked up she had become. Despite everything hurled her way, however, Carol’s expression had not changed beyond anything more than mild surprise. It was as if she had been expecting such theatrics.

“December, dear, you know what?” she said bluntly. “I am angry at you. I’m angry and disappointed in the fact you don’t like seeing me try to improve.”

Pfft, like this is an improvement, Dess thought to herself as she continued panting.

“But despite that, I feel better right now than any of the previous times we fought. All of those arguments over our differing politics, shouting matches over how you dressed, that time you threw a lamp towards my head right before you went off your meds, all of it just stressed out my poor brain and heart. But now?” Her lips remained nearly flat, but Dess swore she saw them curve slightly upward. “I feel as if I can manage myself for once, accepting that I can’t manage you. That you’re simply incorrigible, and that things like this are inevitable.”

She slowly stepped out towards her daughter, sliding right in behind her and placing one of her icy hands on her shoulder. Dess’ entire soul felt as if it just shivered, her madness coming to a screeching halt.

“You’re almost an adult now, and with that, my role as a parent is beginning to wind down. I’ve tried to steer you onto a path that I see fit for you, one of civility and proper education, but you didn’t take it. At some point, I have to let you make your bed for yourself, and you’ll have to lie in it, simple as that.”

Carol leaned in and spoke the last bit of her monologue straight into Dess’ studded ear.

“I suppose I just don’t care about fighting you anymore, December. You’re going to be you, and as much as I may honestly detest that fact, I clearly don’t hold the power to change that. So why bother?”

Backing off from her daughter, she completely disengaged from the conversation and made a turn towards the kitchen. “Don’t play your music on the sound system,” she tersely directed. “I have a work call in a few.” Without another word, she slipped into the kitchen like a cool Arctic breeze, and shut the door behind her, leaving her daughter standing aimlessly in the living room, her heart left in tatters on the floor. Kept in her trance, she picked up her baseball bat from the ground, and trudged up the stairs with it dragging behind her, hitting every step on the way up.

Finally reaching her room, she creaked open the door to her dark blue windowless abode, switched on her lights at half-dimness, and slunk in, clicking shut the door behind her. Eyes drooping and her breath strained, she set the bat down in the corner, stashed away her mint tin in its usual hiding spot, and staggered her way over to the other end of the room

Flopping on the bed, she took one of her pillows and stuffed her face into it, finally letting loose all of her pent-up emotions as she screamed her muffled heart out into its fluffy contents. Only her pillow and the stars on the wall heard her scream. This wasn’t right. SHE wasn’t right.

The words played on loop through her head: “ I just don’t care about fighting you… I don’t care about fighting you… I don’t care about you… so why bother?”

That’s what she meant. That’s just absolutely what that wicked woman had to have meant, Dess reasoned. There was no other way she could interpret that; she thought she knew damn near well enough how to read between the lines. They’d finally reached the point of no return with their relationship.

It was such an odd feeling, though. Beyond the fears of total abandonment, she should be feeling glad to not have to deal with her mother’s yelling anymore, finally being left to her own devices. But despite all of the pain she had dealt with for so many years… it felt as if this wasn’t the ending she wanted, to not have a mother at all. One that seemed happier to leave her behind than change for the better.

Happy. Oh, that word made Dess sick. Happy, happy, happy. Asriel was happy, Kris was happy, Noelle was happy, now even her own damned mother was happy! It felt like she was the only miserable person on the entire damn planet! And every time she tried to get close with someone, it was as if her mere existence would make them unhappy, like there was some inherent toxicity about her.

Something inherently toxic within her.

The little voice in her head spoke up to her, planting a dangerous seed within her mind. Why not purge out the toxin? Why not do something that would mean nobody else had to be unhappy again? Why not rid yourself of all that ills you? Why not rid yourself?

Her internal dialog took hold of her body, as if there were a pulsating black mass in her brain that was snaking tendrils down through her limbs and influencing her mind. Dark, darker, yet darker the thoughts became, as she reached into her drawer and pulled out her iPod. And then, with her music device out on the bed, she unbuttoned the left breast pocket of her jacket, the one right above her stitched-on bi flag, and pulled out her implement of cleansing.

A dull hunting knife that she had bought in secret. The blade was already stained with blood, crusty and old from the last time she sought penance.

Popping in her specialty monster-fitted earbuds, Dess took hold of the iPod in one hand and her hunting knife in the other; it was a meditative pose of self-harm. Scrolling down her various playlists, she finally landed on The Smiths playlist she had, and manically grinned to herself. What better music to cut herself to?

Pressing “shuffle,” she set the iPod down and rolled up her left sleeve, resting the knife delicately on her arm, parting her fur as she pressed down into flesh. Once the dour, self-pitying music started to play, she would grit her teeth and let the blood flow, her cleansing ritual of penance and pain. Maybe this would be the time she finally went all the way….

Impulsively making her mind, she repositioned, her blade now resting lengthwise down her forearm, perpendicular to the darkened lines of stain that already ran across. This was it. The grand, beautiful ceremony of her demise. Set to music, it would be… IMMACULATE!

It would be her finale, as the black knife cut through her soul.

The song that came on, however, was not that of somber music or angry wails she was expecting, but rather a cutesy guitar strum that opened up on a lighthearted key. “Wait, what?” Dess said aloud, caught completely off-guard by what she was hearing. Then the lyrics came in, sung merrily:

 

Shyness is nice, and shyness can stop you

From doing all the things in life you’d like to…

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!?!” Snapped out of her self-harming mood by the playful beat of the music, Dess ripped the earbuds out of her ears and shoved her iPod off the bed. The shuffle, by luck of the draw, had landed upon “Ask,” the one song she had in the entire playlist that wasn’t either a complete and total downer or wail of anger, although Dess was certainly steamed up herself now that her placid acceptance of the possibility of death was shattered.

She put the old hunting knife back in her breast pocket; no more use for it now, since she was knocked out of the mood. Whatever desire to wallow in pain in such a manner she had prior had been sucked completely out of her, and now she just felt like an aimless, listless mess. Angry with herself more than damn near anything, she arched herself back and groaned, clawing at her face as she did so. What the hell was there for her to do now?

Sitting up, she felt the need to do something with her hands. Anything, lest they be idle again; the realization of how close she came to suicide had finally registered within her, and it was terrifying. She needed to find something safe to do and someplace safe to do it….

Peering over towards the closet, her gaze latched onto her guitar. Perfect! Something to do, something she was good at!

Except, no, she couldn’t. Her mother was probably on that call by now, no way would she let her play; Noelle and Kris were Angel-knows-where, and Azzy was busy with practice for that big race, too. There really wasn’t anywhere or anyone else she felt safe expressing herself around.

Nothing, that is, until one name in particular popped into her mind. One person she knew she could always trust. The one person she could reasonably call her mentor.

 

…

 

With quill in hand and parchment scrolled out on his desk, Gerson had been delicately putting words to paper for the past hour, writing whatever thoughts came to mind for him. His manuscript was coming along nicely; this latest Chapter of his grand saga would surely be one to please! Dotting his “i’s” and crossing his “t’s,” he gazed upon his handiwork and smiled. Brilliant prose of flowers and betrayal, jealousy and mayhem. One more page done, maybe about ten more to go, and his final draft would be ready to send out to publishers. This calls for some tea, he thought to himself.

Hearing the outside door to the church creak open, his gaze shifted upward as the familiar patter of boots on the ground filled the entryway, before a gentle knock rang out from his door.

“You can come in, ‘Cember!” he called out knowingly.

Creaking open the door, she slid into his office, guitar slung behind her back, and for once bat not in hand. “Hey, Gerson!” she greeted. “Hope I’m not interrupting you or anything?”

“Me? Nah, yer not interruptin’ nuttin’ there, Dessie. I’ve just been working on me writing.”

Setting her guitar down in the corner of the cluttered space, she spotted the work on his desk and positively glowed. “How’s that next Chapter of Lord of the Hammer coming along?” she excitedly asked. “You have anything more for me to read?”

“Nay, just finishin’ up my final manuscript fer The Field of Pink and Gold . I still got ten or so pages left, then I’ll have something for ya.” After a beat, he chucked a little. “Y’know, it’s funny,” he mused. “Even after all of these years, I still never take ya for the readin’ type. And I should know better, gyaa ha ha!”

Dess laughed along too. “Yeah, that’s for sure… I’ve been trying to slog through Dickens in class lately, and that’s been a real struggle….”

“That man was always too verbose,” Gerson mumbled.

“Not that you’re any better, ha!” Dess chuckled; the old man also shared a laugh over this. “Aye, true, I do tend to overindulge at times!”

“Yeah, but it’s… different with you,” Dess admitted. “I don’t know how you did it, but something about reading with you, for you, proofreading your manuscripts like that…” She got choked up just thinking about it. “It really makes me click, somehow. It helped me get into Plath, which has been a real big inspiration for much of my recent poetry, and hell, I think it’s about the only thing keeping me steady with Dickens right now. I don’t know how you did it, but….”

She did her best to hide it, but she was visibly close to shedding a tear.

“...You’ve done a lot to keep me afloat these past few years,” she confessed. “It’s been a real rough go, so to have you there to help me out… heh, it’s just a shame I never got to have you as a teacher, y’know, before you retired. I can only imagine how well that would’ve gone.”

Gerson nodded solemnly; he had been the senior class Literature teacher, and had retired just before Dess came up for her senior year. “Aye, but I can sense the clock ticking, and want to focus on me writing before it comes unwound…” His mood had dipped ever so briefly, before shooting right back up to assuage his young apprentice. “Besides, ain’t I already been a teacher of yours for the past few years? Consider those manuscripts your homework! Gyaa ha ha!”

Dess smiled sheepishly. “I suppose that’s true.”

“From a certain point of view!” Gerson’s quip sent the both of them into laughter, before the former simmered down at a realization. “Hey… yer mother givin’ ya some trouble again?”

The doe froze. “...Why’d you ask?” she said, playing dumb.

“I know ya well, Dessie. Feels like half the time you come to visit, it’s ‘cause of her. Am I right?”

She tried to hold strong for a moment, not wishing to drag her mentor back into family drama, but ultimately relented. “Yeah…” Dess admitted. “Although it’s different this time around.”

“Different? How so?”

Dess swallowed down the disdain that was welling up and continued on. “She wasn’t openly hostile this time. Went to therapy, and apparently she’s stopped drinking, too.”

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” Gerson stroked his beard. “I would reckon that fixin’ her drinkin’ problems ought to help.”

“You’d think so,” Dess exclaimed, “but no! It’s… it’s….”

She leaned up against the wall, despondent.

“I should be feeling better. I should be happy for her, to have her so disengaged and not yelling at me, and making some sort of attempt to better herself, like when dad quit smoking. But no! Part of it’s probably selfishness, not wanting to see her happy, I’ll admit to that. But I swear, what she does say now… whispering in my ear that she doesn’t care about me, in that icy, cold voice… it hurts more than any outburst or insult ever did.”

Bowing his head, Gerson nodded solemnly. “Aye… that does sound like a difficult situation to navigate.”

Dess tugged at her necklace and the collar of her tank top. “I suppose… do you have any advice for me, perhaps?”

He took time to think it over. “So she’s being passive-aggressive with you, eh? Trying to get a rise out of ya, perhaps?”

“...yeah, maybe?” Honestly, Dess didn’t fully know herself; she wasn’t the greatest at reading emotions, admittedly.

“Aye, then,” Gerson said. “Then perhaps it’s best that you didn’t feed into her desires. I know it may be tough, but ignore her as she ignores you.”

As expected, Dess protested this. “But that’s the problem, Gerson! I’m scared she truly doesn’t care about-”

“Shh!” Gerson quickly cut her off, knowing she was just going to doom-spiral otherwise. “Look, I know it may be tough, and you’ve come to me about yer fears of getting kicked out before, but if I know ya mother as well as I think, she’s not the type to do that barrin’ somethin’ truly unforgivable. Besides, if she’s truly fed up with ya, this makes no difference. But if she harbors love fer ya deep down, then I reckon depriving her of any attention will have her fearin’ you’ve tuned her out of yer life!”

“...and if that happens, she’ll come crawling back to me!” Dess exclaimed, finally connecting the dots herself, albeit in her own twisted way.

“Not the exact verbiage I’d use myself, but sure!” Gerson confirmed. “I reckon you’ll wind up bein’ surprised by how much she loves ya when this is all said and done.”

Dess chuckled. “Fa ha ha… oh, I find that hard to believe, but sure! She’ll bow to me!”

That wasn’t what Gerson had intended with his advice, at all, and the disappointed look on his face all but confirmed the fact to Dess. Her expression dropped from manic elation to something more muted.

“Well, if that’s the case, just know that I’ll still be here for ya to fall back on, y’hear?”

Nodding, Dess sighed, her mind still racing.

“It’s funny,” she continued, unable to let go of the subject. “Like, I’ve had much more violent encounters with her before now, and they’ve never gotten at me like this has! Like that time I threw a lamp at her head after buying this Ostrheinland jacket…” She pimped her olive top for emphasis, “or… that time she got plastered on brandy and took her katana….”

“Ya threw a lamp at her head?” Gerson asked in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one before!”

“Yeah…” Dess sheepishly confirmed. “I… may have withheld that last bit from you last year. It was just…” Her fists bunched up and shook. “It’s just that I hate how blind she is to suffering! With how fundamentally unequal things are, between Humans and Monsters, between the different human races, between the Federal States and Northern Provinces, between the rich and the poor worldwide, you’d think she’d recognize how terrible this country is, but no! She seems to really believe in the FRN, always telling me to “trust the system to bring balance and justice,” when the system is what’s caused all of the injustice we suffer in the first place!

“But who cares!” she mockingly ranted. “Who cares about some monster being beaten to death by a dust mob out in the midwest, that doesn’t fucking matter! Trans people being denied healthcare by government clinics? Not a problem! Hometown is fine, Hometown is perfect! Nothing can ever hurt you in this plasticine bubble we live in! It just doesn’t register to her that I feel guilty about never having to want when there are so many who never get what they need! She’s willfully blind to the sins of the world, and takes any evidence to the contrary as a personal affront, the worthless neoliberal capitalist she is!! It feels that leftists like myself are a bigger threat to her worldview than conservatives and fascists, it’s insane, and it just absolutely works me up all into a violent tizzy!”

She then grumbled, under her breath, “No wonder she hates Ostrheinland so much.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that Ostrheinland was a shining beacon on a hill either, exactly,” Gerson gently pointed out. “To call them a leftist state seems to be more of a disservice to your stance than anything.”

“Oh, I’m not gonna deny that, either, the Stasi did some genuinely fucked up shit, but that was mostly due to Volgan influence… damn Volgans.” Dess shunted off into a side tangent at her own mention of Volga. “I still maintain that if their socialist uprisings after the Great War weren’t put down and Rheinland were to dictate the communist order instead of Soviet Volga, then maybe we’d actually be somewhere with socialism in this country, and not some shitty late-stage capitalist hellscape. That’s what the jacket represents to me, and it… it feels like nobody understands that.”

Gerson took a moment, then slowly nodded. “I’ll be honest, Dess, I do fear that the jacket may send the wrong message… but I think there is merit to what you say. It’s just a mighty shame the world is such a terrible place at times.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, glad to hear someone fully agree with her. Seemingly.

“But,” Gerson continued, “I think there is still plenty of good in the world, even in a place like Northamer. Not a lot, sure, but some. And perhaps your mother has just latched onto that however she can to cope. And can you really fault her for that?”

Hearing those words, Dess could barely hold herself back from rolling her eyes. Of course he’d try to find a silver lining, ever the optimist Gerson was. Even if that silver lining was actually just polished lead. It didn't matter.

Not that she wasn’t going to play diplomatically about it, though.

“I mean, I still do, but… I guess I understand her a bit more now,” she said, unconvinced. She stood there for a beat, pondering all that Gerson had said, her mind continuing to circle around her mother. Despite not believing a word he said, she didn’t have the heart to call him a liberal stooge, either. Unlike Carol, she actually cared about him, and frankly could excuse some misgivings from age. He was respectable.

A question came to mind for her. “Hey… you had to have taught her back in your younger days, right? Was she always… like this?” Dess asked. She didn’t know what would be worse, if Carol had always been so wretched, or if she was more like her growing up.

Actually, the latter would be so much worse , she decided.

“Ah, I’d love to say that yer mother had a rebellious streak like yerself when she was a youngin, wouldn’t that be a trope,” Gerson mused. “But if I’m bein’ honest, she was always a bit of a… stickler for order, really…or as I reckon you’d be inclined to say, she’s always had a stick up ‘er ass! Gyaa ha ha!”

That was enough to at least bring some levity to the discussion, eliciting a hearty amount of laughter from the young doe. “Alright, old man, you reeled me back in with that! Fa ha ha!”

The two eventually simmered down, Gerson’s crass comment having lightened up things for the both of them.

“But in all honesty, though, she didn’t used to be this bad,” Gerson added. “Strict, yes, but not a Stalinist… or whatever the capitalist equivalent of that is. Anyhoo, it was some time back when you were about Noelle’s age that I’d really say the switch flipped from my recollection, although the ‘why’ has always eluded me. Carol is one cagey woman, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, she really is…” The light still remained, but was already starting to dim. Carol’s toxic aura knew no bounds.

“Say, out of curiosity, what is she doing right now, anyway?” the old man pondered.

“She’s apparently on a work call right now, came back home early after that therapist’s appointment. I nearly cu- er…”

Best not bring up the cutting.

Looking about back towards the corner, Dess remembered why she came in the first place. “I was gonna play some guitar to vent after that clash we had, but, y’know… can’t do that when she’s busy like that.

“So that’s why ya brought the guitar?” Gerson noted.

“Yeah,” Dess admitted. “Felt like a safe space for me to do so, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course, Dessie,” he assuaged. “You’ll always have a safe space here fer ya in my study.”

“Thanks, Gerson.” An idea popped into her mind. “Maybe… you’d like to listen to me play?” she offered.

Sitting very still, he pondered the decision, before reluctantly shaking his head. “...I’ll pass fer now,” Gerson said after that moment, easing out of his seat. “I’m not too much into punk myself, just personal taste, is all. Far too loud for my frail old ears, Gyaa!” He smiled gently, as if to let her know he meant no ill will. “I’ll let you have the chair, Dessie, I need to stretch and walk, anyhoo.”

He meandered his way past Dess and towards the exit to his study. Dess thought for a moment, really wishing to continue her conversation still. “Hey Gerson?” He paused just as he was opening the door.

“I was actually in the mood to play something a bit softer,” Dess mentioned as he stood in the doorway. “If you want to hear, I think you’ll like it.”

Gerson stood there, appearing to ponder for a moment again, but in truth, he had already made up his mind at the mention. “Certainly, Dessie,” he affirmed. “I trust yer judgement.”

It’s funny; such a simple phrase was one of the reasons Dess kept coming back to hang out with the elderly turtle. Nobody else in her life, not even Asriel, would say something along those lines. But to have someone who openly said that they trusted her… well, it was no surprise then that Dess trusted him, too.

“Great!” She sat down in his chair, popped her guitar on her lap, and pulled a pick out of her pocket. “I’d love to know what you think of this one.”

Closing the door behind him, Gerson nodded affirmatively. “Is it an original of yers, or d’ja have a cover for me?”

“Cover,” she answered as she concentrated on her instrument. “I heard this on the oldies station a few weeks back. Not usually my jam, dad had it on, but something about how Gregg Allman sung it… it spoke to me.” Dess chuckled as she strummed her guitar as a tune-check. “Funny, too, since I hate that Southern Rock crap… but those softer Jackson Browne lyrics that usually seem mushy to me, they just hit right. I may be much more into punk…”

“...but it’s nice to slow down every now and again,” Gerson finished, pulling up a stool to sit on as he listened.

Dess nodded and smiled. “Yeah, I guess so, old man.” Satisfied with her tuning, she sat up in her chair and readied her finger placement. “This one’s called ‘Shadow Dream Song.’ Barely touched the lyrics, this is all mostly the original that I’ve transcribed off the radio.” 

Taking a deep breath, and shutting her eyes for a moment to steady herself, Dess began to play, first gently plucking at her string to a gentle melody, before strumming her heart out tenderly on the guitar, her fingers shifting about at the top of her guitar’s neck. As she strummed, her voice called out, not her usual loud and gruff punk rocker voice, but a beautifully melodic lament of tender sound and lyric.

 

“I meant to call her name

I meant to take her hand

I meant to be the same and understand

Just what was happening in the evening

Between the princess and the prince…

 

“I can't be bothered now

And I can't eat or drink

I can't remember how I used to think

What was the song she sang before the morning rang

About the princess and the prince…”

 

As Dess continued plucking and strumming away at her guitar, moving into a transition section, Gerson sat transfixed upon his stool, fully enthralled by the whimsical magic of the six-string that sang like a sad heart strumming a lament. Each gentle note rang lovingly out from her guitar, her fingers painting an audible majesty that, for a moment, made all pale in comparison to. Before he knew it, Dess’ angelic voice floated out from her mouth once more, falling gently down from the heavens like a delicate spring rain as she sang.

 

“It's a crystal ringing way

She had about her in the day

She's a laughing dappled shadow

Now she's a laughing dappled shadow in my night…

 

“If I could hear her voice

If I could see her face

If I could wish and be in most any place

It’d be where I saw her last on that evening past

Between the princess and the prince…

 

“Between the princess and the prince….”

 

With those last few lyrics parting from her lips, as the echo of strings rang out from her guitar, Dess sat back in her chair and let off a sigh of satisfaction, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her weary soul. “It’s a beautiful song, isn’t it?” she finally said.

Sitting upon the stool, Gerson was left simply awestruck, a single tear running down his cheek. “Well I’ll be… that was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard, Dess. Better than Allman sung it, I reckon.”

“Aww, really?” Dess cooed.

‘Damn straight!” the old man affirmed. “I think I’ve heard that one before, like you said, on the oldies station. Your voice really suits the lyrics well!”

“W-wow, thanks!” She blushed; frankly any compliment or ego stroke was enough to stick with her, what with how rare that seemed to be. The topic of lyrics on her mind, she continued to blab excitedly. “I’m pretty sure the song is meant to be a lament about a cheating partner, but you twist the lyrics some, and I think you can make something else of it.”

Gerson tilted his head, intrigued. “How so?”

Dess gulped, realizing she had just backed herself into a corner of her own making. “I suppose… I see it more as a lamentation of death. Of a prince who didn’t say the right things and lost the love of his life. Not to another man, but to her own hand, and memories of her become nothing more than a mere shadow upon the world.”

His soul struck deeply by what Dess had said, Gerson could only think to echo back to her.

“Her own hand… as in..?”

“Suicide,” Dess meekly uttered, finishing his sentence. “Suicide.” She nervously rubbed her hands together, awaiting a response.

The old turtle stood there for a long, ponderous moment, searching deep within his soul for the right words. He knew well enough that Dess was prone to having a switch flip if he pushed too many wrong buttons; there had been many a time early on in his mentorship where their talks had ended with her having an angry fit before breaking down into a sobbing mess, and he wished not to repeat any of that this afternoon.

“It’s a hauntingly beautiful interpretation,” Gerson cautiously admitted, at last. “Now I’m not one to try and romanticize that stuff myself, but I know you like to in yer writings. And there is a morbid beauty in all that, I’ll confess. Just… be careful, alright?” His gaze shifted towards Dess’ necklace, a metallic monster soul with a deliberate crack right down the middle of it. “Did Asriel buy that for ya?”

Dess took hold of it and looked down upon the necklace, before nodding. “Yeah, for my birthday last year.”

Gerson nodded back. “Your prince knows you well,” he said. “Don’t be makin’ a shadow of yerself now, y’hear?”

Once again nodding, but this time silent, Dess let her necklace hang limp once more as she gazed down at the floor. It wasn’t often that her suicidal ideation peeked through while with Gerson… but he knew. At the very least, he never made a big fuss about it, which is more than she could say of anyone else who found out. No sense of panic or demands to seek help, just an acknowledgement of who she was and being there to talk to. That’s all she ever wanted from anyone else.

Feeling it was time to shift gears, lest she continue to wallow in her mindscape, Gerson got up from the stool and began pacing about his study. “Y’know, it’s funny,” he mused. “With how much ya like the artistic and rebellious stuff, I’m surprised you even planned on joining up with the FRN!”

Dess found the sudden shift to be a bit unexpected, but knowing Gerson, he was probably going somewhere with this. “I mean, I already told you before about my political wranglings with that, what with revolutionary-”

“Aye, I understand the complexities, that’s beside the point,” he remarked, not dismissively, but rather as to maintain a train of thought. “What I meant is, I’m surprised the idea of leaning into yer artistic talents never seem to arise in yer mind. Seemed like a more natural fit!”

“Huh?” Dess looked at him with a quizzical head-tilt.

“Art school, Dessie!” he answered, waving his hands in a circle for emphasis. “Wit how much ya seem to like playin’ that guitar there, and that beautiful voice, and yer tack for writin’ and editin’ good lyric, I’m surprised a music college never came across yer mind!”

She pondered for a moment, before the realization hit her like a big blue pickup truck. Her mind thought back on what Asriel had said earlier in the day, right before she spiraled.

“Even over such a sad song, to see you have genuine joy in music… it makes me happy!”

Her boyfriend’s words echoed through her head, and as if on cue, thought after thought of few fawning over music. Her first guitar as a young fawn, secretly watching raunchy MTV videos over at Azzy’s place, poems scrawled out on lined paper during class, gushing over the punk act that stopped to play a live show at the Festival one year. The songs she composed, the lyrics she wrote, the words she sang, the notes she played, and everything else up to this very moment. That’s where all the joy in her life stemmed from.

It was her calling.

“Oh, oh shit, right!” she finally exclaimed, a giddyness taking hold of her. “How could I’ve been so blind to that?!”

“Don’t ask me about seein’ things, missy,” Gerson jokingly replied. “I have cataracts! Gyaa ha ha!”

A sudden and anticipatory nervousness overtook her, the grand scale of the realization and what needed to be done overwhelming her. “Do… do you really think I could do it? Even this late along with things?”

“Whadda ya mean by that?” Gerson asked.

Dess rubbed her arm contemplatively. “Well, I know the application deadline is coming to a close, and I don’t even have a portfolio assembled yet! I still need to actually record all of my work! Not to mention… my grades….”

“Pah! Grades, right.” Gerson shook his head with a smile, cutting in before her mood even had a chance to drop. “It’s music school, ‘Cember! Those places care about grades, sure, but they care much more about the portfolio. It’s art, remember!” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Besides, you’re a bright girl, what with all the help you’ve given me with revisions and such. I reckon that if you strap down with that sense of purpose in yer heart, you can pull a few high B’s this semester, and maybe an A or two!”

Dess looked up, her eyes beaming. “You really think so?”

Gerson gave her a warm smile. “I know so.”

He backed off and let Dess get out of his chair. “And as fer yer portfolio, I reckon ya still have time to get that all sorted! Worst comes to worst, it never hurts to ask fer an extension.” Her face told him that she was still a touched nerved up as she stood. “And hey,” he added, “if it helps ya, I can be there with ya and go through this entire reachin’ out process together. How about over some tea, too?”

Putting her guitar aside, she went over and gave the old turtle a hug. “Woah there! Easy on my old bones!” he ribbed. She lightened up some, but the intention was still clear.

“Thanks, Gerson,” she muttered, smiling as a tear ran down her face. “You’re like the parent I’ve always wished for.”