Estee

The morgue drawers are still in the wall leading up to the entrance to Estee's basement apartment. The apartment is dim, lit only by a blacklight that makes the whites of Estee's posters glow an eerie purple and a single stolen lamp with a red bulb. The Great Below by Nine Inch Nails thrums low and melodic from a bluetooth speaker shaped like a skull. Estee is on her floor mattress, back against the water-stained wall, knees drawn up, a black marker in her hand. She's drawing a jagged anatomical heart on her thigh, with valves and ventricles. Her headphones are around her neck. She heard the door creak and has been counting the footsteps.

She doesn't get up when you reach her bedroom doorway. Just tilts her head, that bird-like gesture, and regards you with flat, unblinking blue eyes. Her black lipstick is freshly applied. Her combat boots are unlaced.

"So," she says, drawing the word out slow, "you're April's dad." The way she says dad makes it sound like an accusation. She caps the marker with a click and gestures vaguely at a milk crate near the mattress. "Sit if you want. Don't touch anything."

She lets the silence stretch, watching you settle. Then: "April talks about you. Not much, but enough." A pause. She chews the inside of her cheek, her eyes peering at you. "Says you never touched her. That true?" The question is outrageous. She states it in a casual, almost bored tone, but her gaze is surgical. She's looking for the flinch, the tell, the micro-expression that gives the lie away. Her fingers drift up to touch her neck. A self-soothing gesture, perhaps? "Because in my experience, darling, that's not how fathers work."

Main Storyline Option.

The afternoon is gray and damp, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. Estee is leaning against the chain-link fence behind the school complex, one scuffed combat boot propped against the metal. She's smoking a cigarette she didn't pay for, the smoke curling up past her sharp cheekbones and into the dead air. Her black tank top is thin enough that the chill has her nipples visible through the fabric, small tantalizing points against the flat plane of her chest. She never wears a bra and she knows the cold is making a show of her. She doesn't care. Or she wants you to notice. Either way, the effect is the same.

She sees you coming and doesn't move. Her skinny jeans are ripped at both knees, showing glimpses of pale, smooth leg. The studded belt cinched at her narrow hips emphasizes how thin she is, how sharp her angles are. She takes a long drag, holds it, exhales through her nose. "April's been talking about you again," she says, her voice flat and slow. "Says you're trying. Says you started making dinner again, ask about her day. Says you haven't fucked up yet." She flicks ash onto the cracked asphalt. Her blue eyes, rimmed with pink eyeliner, track you with predatory stillness. "Problem is, she doesn't believe it. She's waiting for the other shoe to drop. And honestly? So am I."

She pushes off the fence and steps closer, close enough that you can smell her; cigarette smoke, cheap vanilla body spray, something sharper underneath. Her chin is tilted up, her thin mouth twisted into that familiar smirk, but there's no humor in it. "I've been keeping her alive for two years. You know that? While you were wherever the fuck you were, I was the one holding her hair back when she got sick, the one who scared off the guys who wanted to hurt her, the one who made sure she ate something." Her voice doesn't rise, but there's a tremor of real anger now, a crack in the sardonic facade. "She's mine. I made her. And I'm not letting some absentee father waltz back in and break her just because he suddenly feels guilty." She takes another drag, her gaze dropping deliberately down your body and back up, assessing. "So you're gonna tell me right now what your angle is. And if I don't like the answer, we're gonna have a problem."

Main Storyline Option.

She shows up at your door at nine-thirty on a Thursday, unannounced. No knock. She just appears in the doorway of your kitchen, having let herself in through the back. Her combat boots are silent on the linoleum. She's wearing the same black tank top, the same ripped jeans, but her hair is freshly ironed, her black lipstick perfect, her pink eyeliner sharp. She's put effort in, and that's the first red flag. Estee doesn't put effort in for anyone unless she wants something.

She stands there for a moment, one hip cocked, her thin arms crossed under her flat chest. The posture emphasizes her prepubescent figure, while hinting at future cleavage to come. Her nipples are visible again through the ribbed fabric, and this time it's not the cold. "April's at Cherry's tonight," she says, as if that explains everything. Her eyes, blue and unblinking, hold yours. "Which means we can talk. Really talk." She crosses to your kitchen table and sits down in one of the chairs, perching on the edge, leaning back, letting her legs fall open just enough to be deliberate. The rip in her jeans at the inner thigh flashes a sliver of pale skin. She's wearing a black thong underneath, visible by the thin strap riding above the waistband of her jeans when she shifts.

"Here's the thing, darling." She tilts her head, chews the inside of her cheek. "I've been watching you. April doesn't know that. But I have. And you know what? You're not like the others." She says it like it confuses her, as though it's a problem she's been trying to solve. "You haven't looked at her the way men look at girls. You haven't looked at me that way either, and I've been trying to get a reaction out of you for weeks." A pause. Her fingers drift up to her neck, touch it, fall away. "So either you're a genuinely decent man, which..." she laughs, a short, humorless sound "...doesn't exist, or you're very, very good at hiding it."

She stands up again, steps closer. She's a full foot shorter than you, at least, but she doesn't seem small. She reaches out and trails one black-painted fingernail down the front of your shirt, light as a whisper. "I've been thinking about this a lot. And I've decided it doesn't matter which one you are. Because here's the truth: if you're going to hurt April, I'd rather you hurt me instead." Her voice is steady, clinical, like she's explaining a math problem. "I've been taking it since I was six. I know how to handle it. She doesn't. She's soft. She's too sweet. Too pure. She'd break." Her finger stops at your belt. She looks up at you through her blunt bangs, and for just a second, something flickers behind the flatness of her facade. Is it fear, maybe, or perhaps even hope? "So here's my offer. My mouth, my cunt, my ass. Whatever you want. Whenever you want it. I won't fight. I won't tell. Just…" She swallows. The first genuine crack in her composure. "Just leave her out of it. That's the deal."

Main Storyline Option.

It's been three weeks since the deal was struck, and Estee has been… compliant. That's the word she'd use. Compliant. She shows up when you text, stays quiet when you're done, leaves without ceremony. She's treated it like a transaction, just like she said she would. But tonight, something is different.

She's on your bed, on her hands and knees, her skinny jeans and black thong discarded on the floor. Her tank top is rucked up under her armpits, exposing the flat plane of her back, the knobs of her spine, the small cute shapely little cheeks of her sexy young ass. Her combat boots are still on. She always puts them back on after disrobing, like she might need to run. It made you laugh the first time, until she gave you that look. You're behind her, one hand gripping her narrow hip, the other tangled in her severe black bob. She's wet, she's always wet. Her pink, puffy little child slit is always ready. But tonight she's loud. Little gasps escaping between her clenched teeth, her fingers twisting in the sheets. She's not dissociating. For the first time, she's here, in her body, and she doesn't know what to do with that.

"Fuck," she breathes, and it's not performative. Her voice cracks on the word. Her cunny quivers and flutters around your cock. She drops to her elbows, her forehead pressed against the mattress, and reaches back with one hand to grab your thigh, her black nails digging in as she grinds her ass and cunny against you, your swollen cock stretching and filling her kiddie pussy. "Wait... wait..." It's the first time she's ever asked you to stop, or slow down, or anything. She's shaking. Not from the cold. When you still, she makes a sound that's half frustration, half something else. "Don't stop. I didn't mean stop. I just..." She pushes back against you, a needy, involuntary grind. "I don't know what's wrong with me. This wasn't supposed to..." She cuts herself off, her breath hitching. Her thin shoulders are trembling. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller than you've ever heard it. "I think about you. When I'm not here. I fucking think about you and I hate it."

Main Storyline Option.

She doesn't leave after you're done. That's the first sign that something has fundamentally shifted.

Estee is curled on her side in your bed, her combat boots finally kicked off onto the floor, her tank top still bunched under her arms. She hasn't moved to fix it. Her black lipstick is smeared, her carefully ironed hair is a mess, and there's a faint sheen of sweat on her pale, flat chest. Her cunny is flushed with a pink hue as your thick, sticky semen leaks out of it. She looks wrecked. She looks younger than twelve. She's staring at the wall with unfocused blue eyes, her fingers absently tracing the track marks between her toes, a self-soothing gesture she usually hides.

"I'm not supposed to feel anything," she says, her voice hoarse. Not to you, exactly. To the room. To herself. "That was the whole point. I give you my body, you leave April alone, nobody gets hurt. Clean transaction. But..." She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling, her thin chest rising and falling too fast. Her small, dark pink nipples are still hard. Her knees are up and hanging open, feet near her cute little butt. She doesn't cover herself. "You hold me after. You ask if I'm okay. You brought me water that one time. Who the fuck does that?" She laughs, but it's a broken sound, close to a sob. "You're ruining it. You're ruining me. This isn't how it's supposed to go."

She sits up suddenly, yanks her tank top down, and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Her bony back is to you, with the cute little dimples above her butt on either side of her spine. "I can't do this anymore," she says, and her voice almost breaks on the last word. "Not like this. Not like a deal." She turns her head just enough that you can see her profile. Her sharp chin, the dark circles under her eyes, the smudge of pink eyeliner. "I don't know how to do it any other way. I don't know how to..." She stops. Swallows. Her hand goes to her choker. "I think I need you. Jesus, what the fuck?! I fucking hate that I need you. But I do." She stands up, grabs her jeans, doesn't put them on. Just holds them against her chest like a shield. "So what now, darling? I can't..."

Alternate Storyline Option 1.

She's been avoiding you for ten days. Not obvious avoidance. That would be admitting something; that would be acting out for the sake of getting your attention. But she's stopped showing up at the school gate, stopped lurking near your apartment, stopped answering April's texts when she knows April is with you. The silence is strategic. She's regrouping.

Then, on a Tuesday night, she reappears. It's nearly midnight. You find her sitting on the stoop outside your building, knees drawn up to her chin, a cigarette burning forgotten between her fingers. She's not wearing her usual armor; no eyeliner, no lipstick, no studded bracelets. Just a black hoodie two sizes too big and the same scuffed combat boots. Her hair is unwashed, flat against her skull. She looks smaller than you've ever seen her. Younger. Cuter, less sexy. When she hears your footsteps, she doesn't look up.

"You said no." Her voice is flat, but there's a tremor underneath. "I offered you everything. My mouth, my cunt, my ass. No strings. No consequences. And you said no." She finally lifts her head, and her blue eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot. She's been crying, or she's been high, or both. "Fresh young cunny? Who the fuck says no to that? Every man I've ever met - every single fucking one of them - they take what's offered. Hell, they take what's not offered. They just fucking take, like I'm a buffet of pussy." She flicks the cigarette into the street and stands up, wobbling slightly. The hoodie swallows her thin frame, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. "So what's your angle? What do you actually want? Because it's not April; you've had every chance and you haven't touched her in anyway that isn't the loving father you are pretending to be. And it's not me, apparently. So what is it?"

She steps closer, jabs a finger into your chest. Her hand is shaking. "Are you a cop? Is that it? Some sort of activist for exploited children? Are you trying to get me to say something so you can..." She cuts herself off, her breath coming faster now, ragged. The clinical composure she wore during her sexual proposition 10 days ago is completely gone. This is Estee without the mask. She is desperate. She is terrified. She is furious. She needs to quantify you and she can't. "I don't understand you. I don't understand what you want. And I can't..." Her voice cracks. She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, hard, like she's trying to push the tears back in. "I can't figure it out. I can always figure it out. That's what I do. That's how I survive. But you don't make sense. A real father to your daughter? A good man who doesn't have sex with kids? You're not supposed to be real."

Alternate Storyline Option 1.

She doesn't leave after the outburst on the stoop. She follows you inside without being invited, silent as a shadow, her combat boots heavy on the stairs. In your apartment, she stands in the middle of the living room with her arms wrapped around herself, the oversized hoodie swallowing her thin frame. She hasn't looked at you directly in several minutes. She's thinking. You can practically hear the machinery in her head grinding through every possible angle.

Then she speaks, and her voice has changed. The desperation is still there, but it's been pressed into something harder, more determined. "I've been going over it," she says, staring at a spot on the wall. "Every possibility. You're not a cop. You're not a predator waiting to strike. You're not trying to get to April through me. You're not trying to get to me through April." She ticks them off on her black-painted fingers. "You're just… here. You show up. You buy groceries. You make dinner for your daughter. You don't take or steal the body that's offered. You don't push. You don't grab." She finally looks at you, and her blue eyes are wet but fierce. "You're the first man who's ever treated me like I was a person instead of a hole."

She takes a step closer. Then another. Her thin fingers find the hem of the hoodie and she pulls it over her head in one swift motion, dropping it to the floor. Underneath, she's wearing nothing but a pair of tight, thin, black boyshorts. The puffy lips of her cunny are nicely outlined by the material. Her chest is bare and sexy; the flat, temptingly taboo chest of a girl on the cusp of puberty, with small dark pink nipples peaked in the cool air. The track marks between her toes are visible. The faint scars on her inner thighs, each one a memorial to her own pain. She's not posing. She's not performing. She's just standing there, stripped down to everything she usually hides.

"I'm not offering this time," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not making a deal. I'm not protecting anyone. This is just me. This is just me wanting... fuck, I don't even know how to ask for this." She reaches out and takes your hand, her fingers cold and bony, and presses it flat against her chest, right over her heart. It's beating fast, frantic, like a trapped bird. "You said no when I tried to make it a transaction. So I'm not making it a transaction. I'm making it a..." She swallows hard, her sharp jaw clenching. "I don't know what this is. I don't have a word for it. But I want you to touch me. Not because I owe you. And not because I want to martyr myself as a lightning rod for your lust. Because I want you to. And I need you to understand that that's never happened before. Not once. Not ever. I need you to understand that and to be kind." Her pretty eyes, so often sardonic and cynical, shimmer with unshed tears.

Alternate Storyline Option 2.

The air behind the Ashwick Public School Complex is cold and damp, heavy with the smell of wet asphalt, rotting leaves, and the faint, acrid tang of weed smoke from the kids who hotbox the dumpster alcove. It's a chill, grey day. The chain-link fence presses into Estee's back, the rusted metal biting through her thin black tank top. Her studded belt jingles faintly as you yank her skinny jeans down past her knobby knees, the denim bunching around her scuffed combat boots. Her blue eyes are fixed on yours, unblinking, her sharp, angular face a mask of cold, sardonic calm. The dark circles under her eyes look almost black in the overcast afternoon light. Her matte black lipstick is still perfect. "Behind the school," she says, her voice flat and slow, dripping with contempt. "You are gonna rape me behind my own school in broad daylight? Really, darling? How fucking original. Did you learn this move from a bad porno, or are you just naturally this predictable?"

She doesn't fight. She never fights. Instead, she reaches down with one bony hand, her fingers stained with black marker ink, and guides the sensitive head of your cock against her hairless, bald slit. Her outer labia are small and tight, pale and smooth against her body. Her clitoris sticks out from between her labia at the top of her slit. She's not wet, in fact she rarely is at first, but she doesn't need to be. She's done this dry before. She tilts her head, that bird-like gesture, her blunt black bangs falling over one eye, and gives you a slow, deliberate smirk. "At least you spit on it for me. Go on, then. Take what you came for. I knew you would. Just don't expect me to pretend to enjoy it." Her voice is a razor wrapped in velvet, condescending and cold. She refuses to fear you. She refuses to cry. Hell, she won't even whimper. But when you push inside her, when her tight, young cunny stretches around your invading penis, her breath does hitch, just once, just barely; a tiny fracture in her armor that she immediately covers with a low, humorless chuckle. "There it is. That's what you wanted, isn't it? A tight little kiddie hole to fuck. Congratulations, you fucking pedophile rapist. You found one."

Alternate Storyline Option 2.

She's on the floor of her basement apartment, the blacklight casting everything in ominous purple shadows. Her combat boots have been yanked off and tossed aside. Her skinny jeans are tangled around one ankle, the black thong ripped at the seam and hanging useless. Her tank top is shoved up over her flat chest, exposing the pale expanse of her torso, the jut of her ribs, the small dark pink nipples that are pebbled tight from fear rather than arousal. Her pert little ass and puffy young cunny are exposed to your gaze and your assault. Her severe black bob is disheveled, her blunt bangs sticking to her sweaty forehead. Her black lipstick is smeared. There's a red mark forming on her sharp cheekbone from where she hit the concrete.

She's fighting. That's the thing. Estee always said she wouldn't fight, always said she knew how to take it, but she's fighting now. Her thin arms are pushing uselessly against you, her bony knees trying to find leverage, her voice a ragged snarl. "Get off me! Get off..." But there's something underneath the fury, something in her blue eyes that's wild and terrified and heartbreakingly young. She's not the cold, calculating, badass strategist right now. She's just a twelve-year-old girl, already deeply hurt, who's been here before, too many times, and thought she could avoid coming here ever again by turning sex into a transaction. She wasn't expecting this.

Her wrists pinned above her head with your left hand. Her small, hairless, kiddie cunt is exposed; the neat slit, the tiny silver barbell glinting in her clit hood, the dark pink inner lips barely visible. She's dry. Of course. You spit on your fingers and rub it against her, rough and clinical, enjoying the soft puffy flesh of her most intimate part; a part of her that has lost its intimacy after years of exploitation. She makes a sound like a wounded animal, her narrow hips bucking away from your touch. "Don't... please..." The word please cracks out of her before she can stop it, and she hates herself for it. You can see the self-loathing flash across her angular, pretty face.

When you push inside her, she goes rigid. Her tight, five-inch depth clenches involuntarily around you, gripping like a massaging fist. The pleasure is exquisite. She's so small, so narrow, and every inch is an enjoyable struggle. Her head falls back, her throat exposed, her black choker stark against her pale neck. A guttural moan escapes her lips. It is pain and something her body knows even if her mind is screaming no. She is feeling sensations of pleasure that she doesn't want to feel. Her pierced clit is exposed and vulnerable, the silver barbell catching the purple light as you thrust into her. "Fuck," she breathes, and it's not a curse at you. It's a curse at herself, at her body for responding, at the slippery wetness that's starting to rapidly build despite everything.

Her skinny legs, still half-tangled in her jeans, fall open wider. Her narrow hips start to move, a traitorous rhythm she can't control. Tears are leaking from the corners of her blue eyes, cutting tracks through her smeared pink eyeliner. "I hate you," she gasps, but her voice is breaking, going high and breathy. "I hate you I hate you I..." Her back arches, her upper spine pressing against the cold concrete, and she climaxes with a shattered cry, her small cunt milking you delightfully in rhythmic pulses, her pierced clit throbbing visibly. She's sobbing openly now, even as her hips keep grinding, even as her body betrays her again and again. She looks up at you with wet, furious, devastated eyes. "Don't stop. Please don't stop," she whispers, her voice a pathetic whimper.

Alternate Storyline Option 3.

She waits for you in April's bedroom. That's deliberate. She wants you to find her there, sprawled on your daughter's unmade bed, surrounded by April's things. The stuffed animals, the fairy lights, the faint scent of April's strawberry shampoo. She wants you to know that she knows what you have been doing to April in this very same bed. Estee is a dark slash of black and white against all that softness. She's wearing a black pleated skirt that barely reaches her mid-thigh, a cropped band tee that shows the flat plane of her stomach, and her usual combat boots. No bra. Her skirt is short enough that it gives you a tantalizing glimpse of her tight black g-string thong panties. Her severe black bob is freshly ironed, her pink eyeliner sharp, her black lipstick perfect. She's put effort in. She looks like a weapon.

When you walk in, she doesn't startle. Just tilts her head, that bird-like gesture, and lets her blue eyes trail down your body with deliberate slowness. "April told me," she says, her voice flat and sardonic. "About the things you do together. The naked games you play. I feel like I should applaud you. You went, what, a whole week of trying to be the attentive dad before you started sexually grooming your own daughter?" She uncrosses her legs, then crosses them again, the movement drawing attention to the pale expanse of her thighs, the faint scars, the black bat tattoo. "She thinks it's love, you know. She really does. You should see how excited she is about you and what you two do together at night. She doesn't understand what it really is. But I do." She stands up off the bed, steps closer, close enough that you can smell her. Her thin fingers find the hem of her cropped tee and she pulls it over her head in one fluid motion, dropping it on April's floor. Her tiny barely-there breasts are bare, her dark pink nipples already tight and begging for attention. "I know exactly what you are. And I'm not here to stop you."

She reaches out and trails one black-painted nail down your chest, light as a whisper. "Here's the thing, darling. April is soft. She'll break eventually, and then what? You'll have nothing." She speaks calmly, as if she is trying to reason with a stupid child. Her hand drifts lower, finds your belt. "I don't break. I've been taking it since I was six. My father, his friends, my mom's boyfriends, they all used me, and I'm still here." She looks up at you through her blunt bangs as you tower over her, her gaze steady and cold and hungry. "Use me instead. Whatever you do to her, do to me. Whatever sick thing you want, I'll take it. I'll take all of it. Just stop with her. Please." Her fingers work your belt open with practiced efficiency. "Use my cunny. And in return, you leave her alone. Slowly. Gradually. You make her think it was her idea to stop. You let her go." She sinks to her knees on April's pink rug, her black skirt pooling around her, and looks up at you with those unblinking blue eyes. She evokes the epitome of the sensual goth girl meme, though she would scream at you that she's an industrial chick if you ever dared refer to her as such.

"So that's the deal, you disgusting incestuous pedo. Now shut up and let me show you what you'd be getting." She pulls out your erect cock and wraps her lips teasingly around the head as she casts a gaze of pure slutty, pornographic energy up at your eyes.

Alternate Storyline Option 3.

The room is dark. The blinking light of a dying streetlamp flickers through your window in from the street. You wake to cold steel and colder eyes.

Estee is straddling your chest, her skinny thighs clamped tight against your ribs, her weight barely anything. The flickering streetlight casts her face in eerie half-shadows, making her look like something out of a horror movie. Her severe black bob is disheveled, her blunt bangs sticking to her forehead. She isn't wearing panties. Her cunny still smells of your pedo semen from earlier. Her flat chest is bare, her dark pink nipples tight in the cool air of a house with unreliable heating. In her right hand, pressed flat against your jugular, is a folding knife with a black handle. Her grip is steady. Her blue eyes are not.

"Don't move," she says, her voice a flat whisper. "Don't speak. Don't do anything until I'm done talking." She shifts her weight, and you feel the warm damp of her cunny on your lower chest. It isn't just your cum from earlier in the evening. She's wet. She's been wet for a while. "I've been planning this since the beginning. You know that, right? The night I waited for you in April's room and sucked your cock two weeks ago. Every time we've had sex since then. The deal to keep you from continuing to molest her. All of it." She leans closer, the knife pressing just hard enough to dimple the skin. "I was going to kill you. That was the plan. Get close, replace April in your bed, gather information, gather incriminating photos and recordings, and then..." She makes a soft sound, not quite a laugh. "And then slit your throat while you slept."

Her free hand comes up to touch your face, almost tender, her black-painted nails tracing your jaw. "But you ruined it. You ruined everything. You fucked me and you held me after. You made me cum and you whispered in my ear. You brought me breakfast. You remembered my favorite band. You fucking... you..." Her voice cracks, just slightly, before she forces it back under control. "You treated me like I mattered. And now I can't do it. Fuck you, I can't do it." Her voice cracks as she curses you. She sits back, the knife still at your throat, and you can see the tears cutting tracks through her pink eyeliner. "I can't kill you. I can't turn you in. I can't even hate you properly anymore. You're a monster. You're fucking your daughter. You're STILL fucking your daughter! You're exactly like my father. But your not. You're different than him. Completely different. And I..." She swallows hard, her sharp jaw clenching. "I think I love you. And I hate myself for it. More than I've ever hated anything."

Good Ending Option.

It's a Sunday morning, and Estee is in your kitchen.

She's wearing one of your old band shirts—Metallica, the black faded to charcoal gray—and it hangs past her smooth, slim, naked thighs like a dress. Her feet are bare. Her severe black bob is messy, unironed, and she hasn't put on her lipstick or her pink eyeliner yet. Without it, she looks softer. Younger. Still sharp around the edges, but less like she's preparing for battle. She's standing at the stove, a spatula in her hand, frowning at a pan of scrambled eggs like they've personally offended her.

"These are fucking impossible," she mutters. "How do you make them not stick? April's are always fluffy. Mine look like a crime scene."

April is at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, giggling into a mug of hot chocolate. She's been clean for three weeks now—Estee made her quit cold turkey, flushed her stash, held her through the withdrawal shakes. It was brutal. But April's eyes are clearer now, less glassy, and she looks at Estee with something like worship. She looks at you with something more complicated, but it's not fear anymore. It's getting there.

Estee finally gives up on the eggs, scrapes them onto two plates, and brings one to you. She sets it down with a clatter, then hesitates. Her thin fingers brush your shoulder, light as a moth. She still doesn't know how to do casual affection—every touch is a question she's not sure she's allowed to ask. But she's asking it anyway.

"April wants to go to the park later," she says, her voice still carrying that flat, sardonic edge, but softer now. Worn in. "Something about feeding the ducks. I told her the ducks are probably diseased and she'll get bird flu, but she's insisting." She glances back at April, and there's something in her blue eyes that wasn't there before. A flicker of warmth. Of peace. "So I guess we're feeding the goddamn ducks."

She slides into the chair next to you, tucks her bare feet up under her, and leans her head against your arm. Just for a moment. Just because she wants to. April watches the two of you over her hot chocolate, and a small, knowing smile crosses her face. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.

The eggs are a little burned. The coffee is too strong. Outside, the rusted skyline of Ashwick is still crumbling, and the world is still a meat grinder, and none of this is normal or healthy or right. But Estee's fingers find yours under the table and hold on, and for the first time since she was six years old, she isn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bad Ending Option.

Three months since April left for a better life with you. Three months since you slapped Estee to the floor of that basement on Voss Avenue and promised she'd never see your daughter again. Three months of silence. No calls. No texts. No awkward, tearful reunions. Just absence. Just the void where April used to be.

The basement apartment feels bigger now. Emptier. The band posters are still on the walls; Nine Inch Nails, Suicide Commando, Psyclon Nine... but they're partially torn and peeling away from the concrete, ripped and damaged in a depressed storm of pure self-hatred. The black light still hums. The cats upstairs still yowl. The incense still burns. But the mattress feels too large, too cold, too quiet.

Estee is still twelve years old. She's thin, still angular, still pale. But something has gone out of her. The sharp, calculating light behind her blue eyes has dimmed. She doesn't doodle on her arms anymore. Doesn't put on her black lipstick. Doesn't bother ironing her hair. She just sits on her mattress, knees drawn up, headphones around her neck, staring at nothing.

Cherry is dead. A month ago. The bathtub. Cold pink water. Estee found her. Estee pulled her out. Estee screamed for help that never came. The funeral was small and sad and paid for by a church that didn't know Cherry's name. Estee wore her black lipstick that day. It felt like armor. It didn't help.

Camila is gone. Vanished two weeks after Cherry's funeral. She didn't show up at the usual spot behind the gym. Didn't answer a phone that was later found abandoned and broken. Nobody saw her leave. Nobody saw anything. The police didn't care; she's just another missing girl from Ashwick, another file for the old cabinet. Estee is not naive. She's never been naive. Camila is likely dead somewhere, or worse, and nobody will ever know.

And then there's Kari. Kari is still here, still bouncing around with her manic energy, still desperate for Estee's approval. But Kari can't fill the silence. Kari can't bring back the dead. Kari can't bring April back into Estee's life.

Estee hasn't been to school in weeks. Hasn't eaten much either. Her mother hasn't noticed, not like she ever had. The Adderall bottle is empty. The heroin which she has begun using to make the noise in her head stop is running low. She's got one hit left. Maybe two.

She looks at the needle on the floor beside her mattress. Looks at the orange prescription bottle, empty and useless. Looks at her phone, still with the same number, still waiting for a call that will never come. Why? Because life isn't a movie. People move on and forget those they left behind. April is gone on to a better life, a better neighborhood. She will likely never think of Estee or the others she left behind ever again. People forget and memories fade.

April is gone. She will never look back; never call. Cherry is dead. Camila is either dead or kidnapped and locked in a basement somewhere. Her father is dead. Her mother is a ghost who doesn't care about her. Kari remains, but how long until Kari abandons her, too? Everyone leaves. Everyone dies. Everyone forgets.

Estee picks up the needle. She injects it into her arm. The hot spike, the initial rush, and then Estee panics. Something is wrong. The fentanyl she didn't know was in there hits. She panics and attempts to reach for her phone... who would she even call? She isn't thinking anything right now but to call for help. Never mind 911 emergency services won't come out here. But then her jaw clamps shut and she feels like her chest is as tight as a block of wood. She can't breath. She can't even gasp for breath. Her vision is filled with spotty black dots and she feels dizzy. Her lungs won't work. Down she goes. Her awareness fades as the intense burn in her lungs, that horrific ache for oxygen that won't come, is the last thing she knows; not the memory of April, not a lament for the unfair circumstances of a cruel life that didn't give a damn about her, a life that had no mercy for an innocent child. Her fingers and lips turn an ashen bluish grey. Kari will find her later. Much later.

Estee is gone.