Turmoil

F.U.N

Lorraine

"Hey"
And her voice smashes a hole through my brain. I can feel my whole steely resolve, my resolve not to punch her unravel like a ball of string.

It was dumb, I suppose, to expect some sort of loyalty from her. Any kind of loyalty. I mean, our acquaintance had been stretched thinly across a number of brief days, illuminated by flashes of jealousy and crazy plans.
You should never expect loyalty from people like Atlanta. They're too unstable, too slippery, too wrapped up in themselves to notice the pain of others.

Atlanta Savage belongs to the highest category of self centred jerks.

"Hey," she tries again, and I can see her moving in my peripheral vision, wavering.

I ignore her. My eyes fix on Donna, who has stepped out into the field, stance wide and full of loose aggression. She opens her mouth and she speaks, lips moving, closing in around words I can't hear through all the gushing of blood and pounding of tension in my brain. Atalanta is like a test, if you ignore her long enough, wish hard enough, she could just disappear. Just maybe.

And for a second it works and Atlanta backs off, vanishing from the corner of my eye.

I give myself a second to breathe, the risk of a confrontation brushing by me and my shoulders slump a little bit. I hate fighting. I always have.

The whole yelling and loss of control is both bemusing and ungraceful when watching from the sides. It's stupid, just two people, sometimes more, bleating out hate and all the tiny calluses they have kept inside. It's like arguing gives them a chance to say all the things that have been kept under lock and key, with the secure excuse of being controlled by anger later, should they regret their words later.
I've never seen a reason to transition from being anything but a casual onlooker.

She pops up again, like a pimple on an important day. This time, in front of me.

I almost punch her perfect eyebrows off her face.

"Lorraine," she says, peering intently up at my face, and the way she says my name with such tragic pity makes me rethink my position of the casual onlooker in fights. I have a powerful urge to go full cat woman on her.

Atlanta is so incredibly small that I could sit on her and squash her tiny lungs, cutting all the tiny alveoli off from the oxygen supply. The pleasure of watching her suffocate would be great.

Instanly, I am horrified by my process of thoughts. I am not like this. I am not bloodthirsty or resentful. I do not partake in acts of violence.

So that leaves me to ignore her.

There is an advantage, in being taller than everyone else. If you look straight on ahead and avoid eye contact, you can also evade conversations. But with her, it has to be different. She demands attention like something so grotesque that it's hard not to stare. She is maggoty flesh, putrid and rotten, pulsing in front of my eyes.

And I look.

"What do you want Atlanta?" I sigh and rub my eye with my fist. I can feel myself giving up on everything. The poor nights sleep and empty stomach is starting to get to me. Lethargy seeps through my bones, claws at my brain and grasps my eyes. I am tired.

Exhausted.

There's this look that zaps across Atlanta's face faster than my weary eyes can follow, something that may be along the lines of relief.

Ha. I must have underestimated how tired I am.

I stare. She bites her lip. The action looks forced on her face. Such a fake.

"Look I'm not really good at this so I'm going to get to the point," she says " Look I have no clue what came over me last night, and I'm really sorry about this mess. It was only a bit of fun, and it meant nothing,so are we cool?"

I stare at her outstretched hand.
Incredulous. That is what I am.
Incredulous.
Incredulous and suddenly very furious.

"No we are not cool,"

And then I pounce. Atlanta falls down with the ease of a trampled flower and I'm on top of her, fingers in her hair yanking hard.

She kicks out, and one of her tiny hands claws into my face, the other grasps at my throat, pushing me away. For such a tiny person she carries a lot of strenght.

There is pain and then there's this blinding, white rage furry, searing through my limbs, forcing my whole body to move to it's beat.

She growls and let's out the wail of a wounded animal. Some part of my mind is horrified. I punch that part mentally with the same strenght with which I scratch Atlanta's face.

Suddenly, there's nothing. Strong arms pluck me up from my post atop of Atlanta and I see Phoenix, face drained and rubber, bending down to help Atlanta up. The rage imprinted on her miniature chihuahua face would be hilarious if I didn't want to claw her eyes out.

"Stop struggling God damn it, " Tim's voice grunts in my ear. It takes me a moment to process the fact that I'm still trashing.

Then I'm limp.

"What the actual fuck ?"
Atlanta is standing up, trembling and furious, brushing of Phoenix's arm, trying to steady her. Tim stands between us, tense, his face saying that he half expects us to pounce and tear at each other.

I want to tell him not to worry. My whole rage has been used up in that brief flaunt of power and now I can barely stand.
I can feel everyone staring.
Donna is walking over.
Atlanta's whole presence demands an answer. So I give her one.

"It's all about fun with you, isn't it? But what about other people Atlanta, what about them?"

I don't get her reply.
"The hut, all of you"
You can hardly argue with someone who has the authoritx of a general.

We follow Donna , leaving a trail of open mouths behind us.