Blurbs and Snippets

Madeline Rose

I am both proud and annoyed that attached to my name is the idea that I saved Finley Paxton.

Proud because Fin's my best friend. He was deemed a lost cause before anyone had even bothered to try helping him. The rebel, the stray kicked one too many times; I was too young to be wary of the emotional strain that is sometimes inevitable after an outspoken boy turns into a reckless young man. That is, when his mother died and left a tender twelve year old alone in the world.

I know him now.

I know how unbalanced he is, know of the jagged pit in his chest that threatens to swallow up the scraps left of his identity. I'm familiar with his simplistic, innocent way of speaking when he's comfortable, and the fact he can somehow turn that pleasantry off when he needs to transform into a self-assured, condescending asshole.

He's the one that taught me that sometimes you need to be that way in order to survive.

Not everyone knows that I was there, behind the scenes, as the Paxton line unraveled. His mother was especially fond of mine; she was there every step of the way. A very present and necessary figure; my mom had me when she was nineteen years old and still very new to the world herself. In my mother's eyes, she holds a debt that will never be fully repaid. She tried, though, with Fin.

He hated me at first. I was a year younger, and curious about everything. I opened my mouth and said what I thought, and poked at all of the sensitive wounds he tried to hide. Of course, nobody expected me to turn out how I did. Finley especially. I'm extremely proud of the fact that I'm the only one that can render him speechless. Somehow, after all these years, he still manages to be surprised by the things that fly out of my mouth, sharp and unapologetic.

I like to challenge him.

I think he welcomes it.

Sometimes I swear that I'm going to punch him where it hurts, though, because I'm slowly losing my face to his shadow.

We spend a lot of time together; over and over again,  some pristine social connoisseur  turns her nose up at me and mutters something along the lines of "Paxton's whore" when I'm walking to class. I've started to question myself, and with every question, you lose sight of fleeing this small, dirty old town.

I cannot risk that.