dedicated to Homely8 and autheras because they're super sweet [and patient] and their stories are beautiful. ily

WARNING/DISCLAIMER: I do not support gun violence. 

YEAR: 2015

"UH, BRADLEY," GREYSON says, looking down at her blood-crusted fingers. "Where'd this come from?"

He looks down at her hand, and takes it in his, frowning. "Huh. Must've gotten it from the bird, then," he says, before taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the blood from her fingernails. She watches as the dried flecks of blood fly onto the grass.

"The bird?'

Bradley gives Greyson a lopsided grin, tucking the handkerchief in his back pocket. "Yeah. You're a natural at hunting."

A frown ripples against her face as her eyes travel to the haversack thrown casually over his shoulder. "Can I – can I see it?" she asks softly, wondering whether a small bird lay inside the bag, feathers coated in its own blood – a red so dark that it's close to black.

His eyes bore into hers for a split second, and she wonders if the question was too much, if she shouldn't have asked. Her lips part for her to apologize, but he swings the haversack and plops it to the ground, a twisted little smile on his lips.

"What's with the look?" she says uncomfortably, staring down at the leaves gathered around her feet.

He unzips the bag and tosses out a couple of handguns. "You're just so ... never mind."

"C'mon, you don't get to say never mind like that," she complains playfully. Her eyes are trained on the guns on the ground, and the smooth leather grip of it. The shine on the barrel seems to call out to her, whispering, gesturing, calling for her to pick up the gun – pick up the gun and feel the trigger, control and powering resting against her palm.

"You're just so much like me. My family's never really supported my hobby, y'know? It's just so crazy to think that you actually take interest in all this shit too," he says, looking away from his bag and into her eyes, the twisted smile morphing into something else – a wry, boyish grin that makes Bradley seem more normal.

He pulls out a large, dark towel with something wrapped in it. He lays it delicately on the ground, which Greyson thinks is rather ironic, considering the bird's already dead. He unfolds the towel with skill and practice, veiny, delicate hands moving almost artfully. As she watches, her gaze again travels back to the gun.

Unable to help herself, she bends down and picks it up. It feels perfect in her palm, the weight is just right, balanced in her hand. It feels beautiful and perfect, the cool metal under her fingers, pure control. She could fire a bullet into his tanned head, and he would bleed red, just like the bird. Dark red oozing, close to black, down his forehead and into his eye and sliding down the slope of his neck, just like the bird – feathers oiled with blood, a dove transformed into a raven.

"Greyson? Greyson?" Bradley asks, and she blinks – Bloody Bradley is gone. She's not pointing the gun at him, and he's perfectly fine, unharmed. They're both doves now, innocent and fine and safe.

He smiles at her. "Nice, isn't it?" he asks, nodding to the gun in her hand.

She blinks and nods. "Yeah. Really nice," she replies, turning the gun to examine it.

"You can have it, if you want."

"What?"

Bradley rubs his neck awkwardly. "Yeah. I have a couple of those at home. You can have that one."

Greyson raises her eyebrows. "No way."

A grin tugs at his lips. "And you can bring it with you the next time we go hunting," he says.

The gun tumbles from her hands and falls to the ground, as she jumps up and hugs him. Greyson feels him stiffen at her touch, but she doesn't recoil back. This is the first time that she's shown affection to a guy, and she misses it, strange as it sounds. Bradley's made her forget about Kadence and Xienna, and even if she can't remember half the time she spent with him, she's half-sure that it was the best time she's had in a while.

She pulls away, a shy smile on her face and her fingers laced together. "Thank you."

Bradley beams at her. "You're welcome."

She tugs at her hair slightly, swaying. "Is there anything I can do? To thank you?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, it's cool. There are absolutely no strings attached."

Greyson takes a step forward. "Surely there's something you want," she coos, and she doesn't quite know what she's doing. She can feel it again – the urge to be loved just like her friends are. She begins to change under her own skin, and she can feel Kadence and Blaire all rippling beneath the surface. But perhaps, this is her, just another one of the facets to Greyson Chandler. She feels her lower lip jut out into a small pout and her shoulders pull back, accentuating her chest.

His eyes go wide at the insinuation, and she wonders if he's ever been laid. His cheeks turn bright red, as his eyes flicker between the orbs of her eyes and her chest. "I guess, you could stay for dinner tonight?" he asks, taking a step back, lowering his eyes and shoving his hands into his pockets.

A small laugh escapes from her lips and she steps backward. She thinks about telling him the truth – that she promised Blaire that she would have dinner with her, and then she decides that Blaire can wait. She's been ditched plenty of times for Maverick or one of Blaire's other boys, anyway.

She won't mind.

She bends down and picks up the bird. Strangely, she thinks that it looks more beautiful dead than alive. Greyson wrap the towel around it and passes it to Bradley, a smile playing on her lips. "Where're we eating?"

= = =

For the first time, Blaire Dumonte left The Ryce household without her best friend. She presses her phone to her ear, with one hand still steering.

"Hey, it's Grey. Leave a message after the beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep," the other end says, and Blaire can vaguely make out the giggling of the other girls. She remembers when Greyson recorded that. It was before Greyson fucked up, and all of the girls gathered together while the guys went to some camp thing. They were all slightly more than tipsy, just the right amount of drunk to make them feel unstoppable. She remembers those days, and that night, specifically. She and her friends were all together, talking about boys (and girls), while the sipping fancy wine they stole from Orianna's parents in crystal glasses that they bribed the maid to give them. The wine made them light-headed and drunk, and Greyson – of course – brought her vodka.

"BITCH, where are you? I'm worried sick. Call me back, kay? Ignore Kadence and Xienna, they're assholes. See you tonight," she says into her phone, while pulling into her driveway.

She grabs makeup wipes from her bag and scrubs the makeup from her face. She slips out of her skirt and blouse and changes into the outfit her mother insists she wears – a pair of dark jeans and a white sweater. It's not that she doesn't like wearing those kind of things, but she has an image to maintain.

With the pen cap stuck between her lips, she changes her A- on her Economics paper into an A+, before sliding out of her car.

Contrary to popular belief, Blaire isn't filthy rich. Her parents own a small advertising agency, but they get most of their money from her grandparents. They were the ones who bought their house and Blaire's car. They invested in Dumonte Advertising. They owned the cabin the woods, where Blaire and her parents would go to on holidays.

She barges into her house – a big Victorian house, slightly smaller than the Ryce house, complete with a courtyard and a swimming pool. "Mom, I'm home," she yells, throwing her schoolbag onto the dining table and heading to the kitchen for a snack.

And that's when she sees her mother, a carbon-copy, 40-year old version of Blaire – with her hands on her hips, and her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits – a look Blaire knows only all too well. "Why, look who finally decided to show up," her mother remarks sarcastically.

Blaire frowns and grabs an apple. "What're you talking about?"

Cheeks flushed with anger, her mother seethes, "I'm talking about this." She yanks the fake copy of Blaire's timetable from the fridge and throws it to the floor, all the other magnets flying to the ground with it. "I know this is fake, Blaire. And I know that you've been going out with your friends when you could've been studying. And you don't think I don't know about that boy? Maverick Fawkes? How much of an idiot do you think I am, Blaire?"

The apple tumbles from Blaire's hands, and lands on the floor with a thud. "How?" she asks softly, voice hoarse. With her strict, albeit occasionally loving, parents, she does everything she can to avoid the rules. She has two phones – one for friends, the other which her parents insist on screening. She has two timetables – her actual timetable in school, and a fake one so that her parents think that she ends class later.

"Because I'm not fucking stupid," her mother exclaims, pounding her fist against the island in their kitchen. "Give me your other phone, Blaire, and go to your room and get all your books because you're not going to go out until you graduate, do you understand me?"

And that's when something in Blaire snaps. It's like there's a cord within her that held on for just so long, but her mother stretched it beyond breaking point. She tugged and tugged, even if the rope was already taut. And it snaps.

"Why? Why don't you let me have lives like my friends? Why do you insist on invading my privacy again and again and again? Newsflash, mom, I have my own life! And you can't control me forever because soon enough, I'll be out of here and in college and you won't be able to fucking control me anymore," she screams.

"These rules are in play so that I can protect you, don't you get it? You're my only child and I want you not to have any regrets!"

Blaire runs a hand through her hair. "This life is mine, not yours, okay?"

"I want to protect you, can't you see that?"

She kicks a chair, eyes wide and purely enraged. She can't believe her mother. She controls her and she micromanages her and she thinks that she's helping her through tough love and all that bullshit – but she's not. "From what?" she screams, matching her mother's tone. "What are you protecting me from – death? Has it ever occurred to you that I don't need you?"

Her mother stands speechless. Eleanor Dumonte has always prided herself in having plenty of things to say, but when those words ring through the air, it hits her harder than anything ever has. She feels herself breaking, crumbling.

Before she can say anything, Blaire is storming out of the house, her hair whipping furiously behind her. She snatches her backpack from the table and opens the door with a dramatic flourish.

"Wait – Blaire!" Eleanor screams, running outside and grabbing the sleeve of her daughter's blouse.

Blaire snatches her arm away, tears streaming down her face. "What? What do you want?" she asks in a painful, strangled voice. She tries to control it from breaking, to keep it from crumbling as she has from all the pressure that her parents have laid onto her. Be the best, Blaire. Be a doctor. Cure cancer. World peace. No boyfriends. Don't eat so much. Stay beautiful and demure. Protect your image. Have a successful future.

"Please, sweetie, listen to me – "

She knows that the next words will break her mother, and so she doesn't know why she still says it. Maybe it's because she's a bitch, or maybe it's because she actually wants to hurt her own mother. "Just leave me alone," she whispers, eyes bearing into her mother's.

Eleanor falters, tears prickling her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.

Blaire runs to her car, and sets the engine. She backs out of the driveway and just steers. She drives and drives, letting out strangled screams and cries. Tears stream down her face and she wonders what's wrong with her. She's a terrible person. She's a stone-cold fucking bitch, and she hurt her own mother – but that doesn't stop her from driving. She doesn't turn back, she just drives aimlessly, with tears clouding her vision. She doesn't know where she's going. There's just one word in mind – away. Go away. Drive away.

She hears her phone ringing, and she looks down.

She hears it before she feels it.

A scream.

A sharp honk.

The airbag crushing her body.