Cherry Pies, You and I (P.S the Devil Lies)

Berettas

If there was one thing Sabrina had learned in her nineteen years of life, it was that there were all kinds of people in this world. 

First, there were good people. There were people like her Aunties, Ambrose, and Marie, who took in orphans, runaways, and other lost lambs. They gave them places to rest, did their best to fill their lives with laughter and happiness. They were always there for the people who needed them and loved with every fiber of their being. Some people donated to charity and were activists and volunteers, like Roz and Theo. Sabrina would like to include herself in this category of good people, she loved fiercely, passionately, and always tried to stick up for others and be empathetic, but recent events had made her question whether or not she belonged in it. There wasn’t just one kind of good person. There were also people like Detective Dupont, who dedicated their entire lives to the pursuit of truth and justice. He never married and never had a family. To him, it was just another sacrifice his job required. Then there were the tight-rope walkers.

The tight-rope walkers walked a line between good and, well, other. Prudence, Dorcas, and Agatha were the best examples of this. They were people with good hearts, but sometimes they had to be ruthless to survive. The Weird Sisters, as they had been dubbed, had to be vicious in order to survive in the foster homes they were in. Once Sabrina had officially befriended them, she began to hear stories about their lives before they came to Greendale. Agatha would steal food from grocery stores and gas stations to get enough to eat. Dorcas pilfered jewelry from unlocked gym lockers to sell, and Prudence would stay awake for days on end so no one would come for her in her sleep. Sabrina didn’t know what Prudence was scared of, and she never asked. It all changed when they became such nuisances that they were all assigned a new social worker, the same social worker, and placed in the care of a recently divorced Constance Blackwood.

Next up were the fallen stars. People who were once something else, usually tight-rope walkers, who leaned too far to one side and went plummeting to the earth. Nick was a fallen star. He fell after his Aunt Amalia died and landed at the bottom of a whiskey glass. Someday he would get back up and keep walking, but he would do it without her by his side. 

And then there were just people. People like Harvey and Mrs. Lavigne were just people. Mrs. Lavigne always used two creams in her coffee and never tipped. No one bothered her, and she didn’t ask anyone for anything. Harvey was just well… Harvey. They never would’ve worked. She liked her music loud, and he’d turn it down. She’d want to dance, and he’d cut her off. 

In her next category, which was quickly becoming one of her personal favorites, was the people she hadn’t figured out yet. Like Caliban. He had come in several times since his initial visit, but she still couldn’t get a read on him. He was polite, funny, a good listener, and it sharply contrasted with his cocky, confident tone and intense aura.

Lastly, there were people like Lucifer, who dared to appear on the eleven o’clock news on the Soulfood Shack’s old clunker of a TV and interrupt her pleasant thoughts of her handsome new acquaintance.

“Convicted arms dealer, Lucifer Morningstar, was released from prison three months ago. There is little to no information on why he was released. Many suspect blackmail was the reason for his release and others suspect that he traded valuable information about others involved in the illicit trade of small arms. On the steps of the courthouse, he was bombarded by reporters who demanded answers. He simply said that he was being rewarded for his ‘good behavior.’ Morningstar is suspected of-”

Sabrina reached for the remote on the counter. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to know how he was known for trading semi-automatic pistols, mortars, and light machine guns. She didn’t want to be reminded that five hundred thousand people a year were killed with small arms. She didn’t want to think about the pictures of him in Africa talking to known mercenaries and gang leaders. He had been in Somalia, Libia, Sierra Leone, and even Ethiopia, where he visited Lalibela and looked down at its famous rock-hewn churches from above. He was even as reported as being in the Middle East for a time. One of the absolute last things she ever wanted to consider was his preference for hand-tailored Dolce and Gabbana suits, and just how many lives it cost to pay for one.