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You, Me and Shania Twain
by Hostile Seventeen
Summary: Soliloquy by Faith.
Author Notes: Originally appeared on dymhpna.net, part of a "pick a
character, kill them, write their last words" thing.
Warnings: none
--flip--
--they say your life passes in front of you. I've got a blur of New
Mexican desert and sky, and the smell of some kind of auto fluid, and
Shania Twain's childhood flashing in front of me? What's up with--
--flip--
--yeah I broke my mom's heart by leaving, I used to say, sure, but more
importantly, I broke her arm and three ribs on the way out. No, I guess
it's not funn--
--flip--
--it was that magazine I was reading, back at the gas station, yeah that
was it. All about how Shania had this sad-ass childhood. There she was at
the age of eight, shaken awake in the middle of the night to sing and
dance in some lame truck-stop club, the novelty act between country and
western acts, singing and dancing and shaking her eight-year-old butt in a
rhinestone costume, Mommy Twain working her daughter for twenty bucks.
You know why that story's in the paper? You know how something creepy and
sad and sick like that becomes a feel-good story? Because she made it and
she's famous and she's got a husband and a big-ass house and about fifty
million fucking dollars in the bank, that's why. Good for her.
I was just throwing the magazine down on the pile when the guy came back
in to say he'd fixed the problem with the steering. He hinted that I could
get the work for free if I'd take a little walk in the bushes with him. I
pulled out my wallet and, you know, why not, my knife, and told him I'd
pay cash. Maybe he didn't do such a good job, either, because I took that
corner pretty fast, and as I did, there was a real serious, low-down clunk
under the hood, and then--
--flip--
--"You can't do that." "It's wrong." "You can't do that, because it's
naughty." "Because it's wrong." "Because it's wrong." "You can't do that."
"It's wro"--
--flip--
--a blur of New Mexican desert and sky, and the smell of some kind of
auto fluid, and gentle grinding noises as parts of the car unsettle and
complain, and--
--flip--
--You know, B, you know how your mom was a pain in the ass? All moral and
shit, but you know, she was consistent? She was the same kind of pain in
the ass in the morning as in the night. She wasn't a sulky grouchy mess in
the morning and sobbing over you by lunchtime and catatonic in front of
her stories at three and then get a wild look in her eye if you looked at
her wrong when she got home from the bar.
You never had to wonder who was home, or who was coming home, and pretend
to be asleep because of it, or hide out on the fire escape as she slammed
drawers and broke bottles. Your mom was--
--flip--
--so if you take away the fifty million dollars and the husband and the
hit records and the fame and the fortune and you take that story away from
the good old heartland and put that little dancing girl in the dirty
kitchen of a house in South Boston, and she's dancing for her mother and
her mother's "friend", under a flickering fluorescent light, dancing for
the roaches she can see in the corner of her eye, yeah now it's not such a
heartwarmer is it? She would come home drunk and make me sing a little
song and dance for her boyfriend, and I never grew up to be a star, I grew
up to be a Slay--
--flip--
--There's supposed to be only one Slayer, but just for those few weeks,
you and me, B? There was someone else in the world like me. That was good.
I mean, you're not like me, but... that was--
--flip--
--oh no, it's not going to be one of those stories. Not one of those. I
mean, she made me dance for the guys, but not like, not like a, you know,
opening act, to get them hot, did she? I was just to make them laugh.
There was this one time, when I woke up, I was eleven or something, and
one of mom's friends had his hands under the blankets and I could smell
his breath...
...even at eleven, though? I was wicked strong. I hurt him, and I
screamed. Mom hit me, of course, for telling lies about her friend, but I
think she knew, because he never came back. I let her hit me. I had to. I
mean, she was my mother. I mean, I was only eleven. Later when I finally
took a swing at her? I really--
--flip--
--I found out too late, you know? I found out too late how I was strong,
and could look after myself, and the people around me. By the time I knew
how powerful I was? I was already so used to being--
--flip--
--a blur of New Mexican desert and sky, and the smell of some kind of
auto fluid, and gentle grinding noises as parts of the car unsettle and
complain and a whistle of wind in my ears, and--
--flip--
--you know what this is like? One time I was living back east and this
guy used to give me these pills? Damn if I know what was in them, but I
could stay awake, once for seventy-five hours, but you knew, when it was
over, the crash was coming? The crash was like not being me any more, not
being anything any more. There it all still was, TV, couch, boy, but it
wasn't there any more, because I wasn't there any more, because it was all
like ... glass.
In a way I liked it. I liked the hangover almost as much as the high, can
that be true? I wonder if that's what it's going to be like, being--
--flip--
--you and me, B, you and me. Opposites, blonde and dark, good and evil?
Too easy, but you and me? I found out I was strong too late, after all the
people in my life had taught me to be weak. I didn't know how to stop, I
wanted, not revenge, but I couldn't: I didn't know how to stop, I didn't
know how to grow up. I didn't know how to -- weakness doesn't prepare you
to be strong.
--flip--
--a blur of New Mexican desert and sky, and the smell of some kind of
auto fluid, and gentle grinding noises as parts of the car unsettle and
complain and a whistle of wind in my ears, and the engine stops screaming
and makes a sound like whooompf!--
--flip--
And you, wherever you are? You started from the strength, and you were so
full of mom's apple pie and orthodonture and vitamins and skating lessons
and good old American can-do? Poor baby, you didn't know how to be weak. I
loved you, and pitied you for that, and I hated you for how you pitied me,
for what I... Nobody prepared you for loss, for disappointment, for being
alone, did they? You've got all that ahead of you. That's why we're
opposites, B. Feel sorry for me if you can, but you and me, B, you and
me..? Which of us is the saddest? Plus, you know you're alive, and I'm--
End
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