❝ 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘪'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 ❞
when monse's life takes an unexpected turn, she goes to drastic measures to get it back on track
[season 1-2]
[jj x fem!oc]
[slow updates]
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╔═══════☼═══════╗ VII FORESHORE ╚═══════════════╝
MONSE HAS NEVER been this exhausted in her life, and that's saying a lot.
Monse has stayed up all day and night with her friends, she has competed in the hardest surf competitions on the island, and she has gotten chased by the police throughout the town multiple times, yet today takes the cake. Monse couldn't even begin to list everything, just from the past 24 hours, that has made her so ready to drop.
Her mind starts to drift to John B. After he gave the compass to sheriff Peterkin, he was quiet. Scarily enough, it reminded Monse of when Big John went missing. It took him weeks to actually talk to her about anything. She hates seeing him like that.
John B, in very limited words, said he wanted to go home. Monse and him split off on their street, retreating back to their own houses with nothing but silence between them. John B has officially given up.
Monse shakes the worries away and opens the front door to her house. Immediately, the worried face of her mother is before her. She notices her grandma sitting on the couch with her own worried expression painted on her face. Monse subtly hides her bruised arm behind her back.
"I was about ready to call the police, Monse. Where the hell have you been?" Elsie demands, arms folded over her chest as she pointedly flowers at her child.
"Helping JJ with yard work. You know how strict his dad is about that stuff, maman." Monse feels horrible for using JJ's asshole father as a scapegoat, but it's the best lie she could come up with to explain her disheveled appearance.
"Really? I can hardly get you to pull weeds from your grann's flowerbed," Elsie snickers, unconvinced, "I'm curious, what yard work did you do exactly?"
"Picking up after Agatha, really. A tree fell down in his yard."
"A tree?"
"Yeah, but it wasn't, like, a big one. It was a birch tree, I think. I don't know my trees very well," Monse rambles and starts to walk off towards the steps, "I'm actually really tired and I have to surf in the morning, so I'm gonna go to bed—"
"What's that?" Elsie questions suddenly.
"What's what?" Monse plays plays dumb, her footsteps cut short by the conversations continuance.
"On your arm. Looks like a bruise..." Her mother worries, reaching out to gently hold her daughters arm.
Monse feels her heartbeat pick up as her mom inspects the bruises. The marks are clearly hand-shaped, there's no denying that. She racks her brain for a viable excuse.
