rolling stone girls only wish for gold.

You met her when you were seven and she had pushed you into a pool.

You'd claimed to hate her since, and you'd pulled at each other's hair and pushed each other on the playground whenever you could. In middle school, seventh grade specifically, she'd punched you in the face and you hadn't done anything back to her. You say you can sue her for battery and she just snorts, pulling her bag over her shoulders tighter and walking away. Your friends ask you where you got your bruise, and Karkat offers to punch the person who did it to you even though he can't fight for shit. When you get into the car with your sister, she asks where you got the bruise from and you tell her from a girl at school. She says she's going to tell Mom and you shrug lamely, you don't feel like fighting back right now. Latula, true to her word, does tell your mom, and when she walks into your room right before you go to bed she asks if you're okay. You shrug again, not really feeling up to talking. She nods, a tight smile gracing her face before she leans over and kisses the top of your head, smoothing your hair over and wishing you goodnight.

When you're fifteen, she shoves you into a locker.

You kick her in the shin and she stumbles backward. You grab your bag off the ground and march your way down the hallway, but she recovers quicker then you thought she would and she's got you by the hook of your bag. The pull jerks you back and it hurts your shoulders. She doesn't seem to care what happens to you. Somewhere deep down, you think that hurts you a little. Latula's packed off to college, and your mom is increasingly becoming a workaholic, spending less time around you. You've learned to make yourself dinner, but you've only done it twice. Most days, you don't want to get out of bed after school gets out so you order takeout instead. You think your mom would be ashamed of your unhealthy eating, but she hasn't spoken up about the pizza boxes and other take-out boxes littering the apartment and nearly overflowing in the trash can.

You're sitting on the stairs of your apartment complex when she walks by. Her hair is in double french braids. You hate that the navy blue of her hair looks good, that it suits her. It makes you want to punch yourself in the face. You stand, getting up to go into your building before she can notice you, but maybe your movement is what attracts her attention.

"'Rez," she says, her voice lilting towards the end. You huff and clench your fists. You've made it three years without punching her, but you don't know if you'll be able to not do it this time.

"Don't call me that," you say. The words are spiteful, and when you turn to look at her, she has a hand pulled up to her heart.

"You wound me, Pyrope, truly," she says, sarcasm dripping through her voice. You clench your hands again, your nails create little crescent moons in your palms. You're saved, by some grace of God, by your mother who had taken off today.

"Dinner's ready," she says, approaching you. You nod and follow her, but you don't miss the look she gives Vriska.

She finds you in the locker room one day, sitting on the bench. You're the only one in there, and you don't think it would hurt if you punched her right then and there. She's wearing a blue sweater, and you notice that the roots of her brown hair are growing in. Her nails tap against her phone as she almost, almost, walks past you. She smirks when she notices you, and you want to curl up in a ball and die. You're tired, you're just fucking tired of everything. You miss your sister, but you had an argument with her a week ago and she's refusing to talk to you, and your mother hasn't taken off from work in almost two months and she's been working over.

You're fucking tired and hate everything.

"Don't even say a fucking word," you say when she opens her mouth. She quirks an eyebrow up at you as you pack your bag.