𝗠𝗬 𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗩𝗘 | ❛ 𝗐𝖾'𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅. ❜
Rue Rivera was pretty sure she didn't die a brave, heroic death - at least not one worthy of Einherjar. She died doing what she did for most of her life, keeping h...
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DECEMBER SEVENTEENTH, 1995 — PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA
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(tw - mugging, death, drowning.)
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RUE RIVERA couldn't look away from her hair, blue eyes going from the bathroom mirror to the dyed strands laying on her shoulders. Her hands were stained bright pink, thanks to the Manic Panic of the same colorlying open on the sink.
Her hair had never been actually dyed before, only that crappy Kool-Aid dyes her and her old friends used to do as children. She could remember how quickly it faded, how mad her mom was, how freeing it felt to do something that she wanted.
A loud knocking interrupted her thoughts. She moved away from the sink, wiping her hands off on her jeans -- she knew they were clean, it was a habit she had gained over the years -- and opened it.
There stood ten-year-old Holly Rivera, her blonde hair braided in two dutch braids (very messily, obviously done by herself). it was often said that Holly was just the younger clone of Rue, with their mom's light blonde hair and blue eyes. They even had somewhat similar facial features, just like their mom.
