#she also has the personality of a feral cat in a wet sack

[onbearfeet]

No, Microsoft Word, upon consideration I don't think my audience will be offended by my use of the word "fuck". My intended audience is queers, teenagers, and queer teenagers, all of whom seem to be absolutely fucking delighted by my use of the word "fuck".

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Blue Shoes, CH1

Genre: wlw, urban fantasy, supernatural

Words: 3.7k

Summary: A story of a werewolf that is becoming more wolf than girl and a witch with no powers waitressing at a local diner.

How do you save someone from them self when both parties are particularly hard headed and prone to pouts of self-destruction, a study

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Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Chapter 1: The Girl at Table 12

warning for mentions of past injury and puking

-

When I was seven I passed a cat huddling from a thunderstorm under an old brown truck. It was a gnarled brutish thing with wet fur plastered to it’s back and mud caking it’s side. It must have been caught in a small mudslide or maybe crawling through the trenches of Vietnam. One or the other.

It had deep cuts on its forearms, stark indents that stood out against it’s grey fur, I couldn’t tell if they were new or not. Some of its whiskers looked like they were singed off- by fire or bad kids or a world that threw cats to the devil and locked the door.

Under the mud there were obvious mats and tangled fur that weighed heavy on it, making it look beefier than it was.

It’s eyes were angry slits and teeth bared like a barbed-wire fence, at the time I approached the battered cat because that was the sort of girl I was back then. I put my hand out and looked at it’s huddling mud streaked body, I waddled closer to the car and peaked underneath, “The rain will stop soon.” A promise. The cat hissed softly, it’s lips pulled back against sharp yellow teeth and eyes glowing amongst the dimness. I adjusted my little pink raincoat and don’t even cry when I hear another thunderclap far away.

The cat doesn’t budge, I stick my bottom lip out.

“Come on kitty,” I reached out under the truck, maybe I planned to grab it by the scruff like I’d seen mama cat’s do with kittens. Maybe I thought it needed a hug.

It’s hard to remember exactly why I wanted to touch the mangy thing, but the pain was hard to forget. A red hot sticky shock that shot across the center of my hand, a long bloody gash across the back that tore deep into the skin. I screamed and jumped back, reeling from the attack, the cat hissing loudly and arched it’s back as it stayed in place.

That’s the day I got my first rabies shot.

That cat was mangy, wretched, and looked like it had gone through basic training with a wind storm. I remember that cat when she walks through the door that night and a single thought goes through my head: she looks worse.

-

It was 3am, closer to 4, and I my eyes were unfocused on a TV monitor as an ad for a bowflex machine comes on. Just 29.99, order now.

We had been watching Comedy Central a second ago but Bernie had heard a word bleeped out and reminded us this was a family establishment. I snorted, because it wasn’t like any kids were hunkering down with us right now.

She came in just as the bowflex lady stretched her muscles and smiled into the camera, sparkling. I was in an ad-induced stupor by the counter at the time- still sulking from having lost the rock-paper-scissors tournament 3 hours ago.

It had almost turned into a knife-fight when Bernie had announced one of us could go home early, meaning avoiding the curfew and not being trapped in here until sunrise.

Of course, I would have been here anyway, I needed the extra shift, but it was the principle of the matter. Being forcibly locked into your place of work with customers was probably one of the rings of hell.

The girl who walked in through door probably had seen some of those rings and then some. I could have gotten her in trouble for escaping around past 11, but I wasn’t about to call the sheriff or curfew hotline or whatever it was they set up.

I blink a couple times and go very stiff.

My mouth hung open and one of the few patrons in the joint gasps lowly. It was the heavy-smoking lady who had been murmuring to the busboy about her lousy husband and last divorce and bad hay fever for hours now.

She falls silent, I blink again.

The figure’s clothes are torn from Sunday to Tuesday, long strips of dirt-caked fabric trailing on the ground after them and hanging loosely off the person’s body, like mummy wrappings. Under the clothes is muddy-cracked skin and visible small cuts.

Her posture was loose and weighted, like something immense rested on her shoulders tops and unbalanced her spine.

She sagged at every corner like a tattered doll filled with sand, her face was covered by chin-length dark hair that was also full of dirt clumps and at least 2 twigs and a couple crumpled leaves. Her head hung almost to her chest and I can’t make out her expression.

I squint my eyes at it all, of course this would happen at 3am. It was always something.

“Are you... okay?” I ask cautiously and wait for something,

She was barefoot and limping toward the counter, I stand up straight and summon up the ancient words: ‘sorry ma’am, no shirt, no shoes, no service.’ But the words don’t come and she keeps walking. I catch her eyes for just a moment as she passes, the briefest heart beat as she glances up through her dirty  bangs. Her gaze is dark and bloodshot, veins as bright red as hot irons.

Red as harlot’s lipstick, red as a cardinals breast, red as sin and every time I cut my knee in gym class.

“Fine,” she says in one breathless tired word, finally answering my question and then turning away. She didn’t look fine.

She limps toward the very distant corner table and collapses into the booth, I’m remembering that damn feral cat that mauled me.

“Ronnie,” I turn around in tight circles and try to locate the busboy on duty, he’s standing slacked jawed at the other side of the room. I bustle over in his direction. “Where’s Bernie?” I hiss at him, moments like these made me grateful for a manager.

Ronnie just looks at me dumbly and his eyes dart back over to the new customer. “Casey...”

“Excuse me,” I hear a ragged thin voice croak across the small diner, it sounds like it’s been dragged across the ocean floor- full of salt and brine.

The two homeless men and Dolores eye the newcomer. She seems to sway back and forth in place, “Could I have a water?”

I turn my head slowly, the red bloodshot eyes coming for me again. They are hazy and sunken into her head, like shadows of themselves, I flinch.

“Uh,” I clear my throat.

“If you could… please,” the voice says faintly, I hear someone moving before I do.

Ronnie pivots toward the kitchen and quickly brings out a glass of tap water, he always was a better person than me with his small face and large round blue eyes. He flashes me a look that says he’s not going to be covering my tables all night though.

I take a deep breath and turn toward the kitchens, “Bernie,” I call out and make a beeline for the freezer, “Bernie, we have a thing.”

I wander in past the grills where our one chef on duty is filing her nails down to a blunt point, we ignore each other. Sam immersed in trying to rid herself of fingertips and me in trying not to get lectured on etiquette at just that moment. I hear coughing from the back room and make a sharp turn, kicking a box aside as a reach for the door.

I yank the pantry open, “Hey!” I say loudly as an older woman with a pinched look on her face sits up. She has tight steel gray curls and a flat-iron mouth that didn’t lend itself to smiling.

She shifts her generous body toward me, turning on the floor and facing the light. Her curls are flat on one side where she must have been napping on a sack of potatoes.

“It’s my fucking lunch break,” she says waving her hand in the air, “go handle whatever it is on your own.” I set my jaw, “someone just walked in from, I dunno, the set of a disaster movie,” I shift from foot to foot, “she might be tripping or something.” That should get Bernie’s attention, I would bring up the bloodshot eyes in a moment I needed to.

“Casey,” Bernie says slowly, pitchedly, “you can either handle it or handle my foot up your ass. It’s been eight hours since my last break.” The ‘fuck you’ energy was very high in the air and I take a deep resigned breath.

“If I get stabbed tonight I’m suing,” I say with my shoulders hunched and back straight, Bernie chuckles.

“Duck and weave my girl,” she shakes her head, “it’s not like we haven’t had transients in here before.” Bernie was closing her eyes again, I only sigh. “Handle it.”

“Yeah, but most of them don’t have ‘murder scene’ written all over them.” The rabies shot in the ass feels like a phantom pain right then. Bernie rolls over and starts ignoring me.

I reluctantly wander back into the main area and try not to look into the corner, Ronnie is still eyeing me. His chin is jutted out and he doesn’t stop looking very fixedly in my direction.

“What?” I finally ask and Ronnie raises his eyebrows and his eyes dart over to table 12.

“That’s your table.” He says in his pale, quiet voice.

I grind my teeth, “You’re the one that served her!” I murmur lowly to him and he wrinkles his nose. “You want me to tell Louis you’re shirking your tables again?” It was a threat, his huge eyes shrinking into darts. He reminded me of a little brother threatening to tell mom and I straighten my back.

“Whatever,” I turn away and clench my hands, “fine.” It’s not like I hadn’t handled worse, it was Gilford.

I meander my way back over to the war-zone victim and raise my eyebrows.

She lifts her head slowly and I see thin cut marks along her chin and cheeks. I take my place next to her and lift a notepad up and give a smile, “Welcome to Sue’s Diner, can I get you anything?”

I input the usual phrase and watch curiously to see what would come out.

The girl was already done with her first glass of water, I made a mental note to go get another one along with filling up Arthur’s coffee cup on the way over.

She seems to swallow dryly and I wait for a good minute before anything actually happens. Her eyes are dull and distant, like looking off into a dark ocean. I have a strange memory of one of my classmates having this same look on his face when he was trying an experimental drug called ‘Eevee’ for the first time.

She swallows again and her head tilts to the side, “are you Sue?” I make a face, I had gotten that question before. I lean over her instead, “nope,” I put on The Usual Smile, “jus’ the next best thing.” The girl gives me a lost, almost desperate look, her eyes glaze over and I wait another long moment. “Casey.” I glance down at my employee name tag, “that’s me?” It was a question. Somehow her demeanor was making me feel a little lost too, was I Casey? Was I in purgatory? Was a stuck in a diner with a bunch of strangers and someone probably on the worst drug-trip of their life? Possibly.

It was Gilford.

She reaches out and I take a mild step backward, I don’t know what she’s reaching for, but she comes up empty and then slumps over again.

“Uh,” I take another step back, she reeks of fresh earth, blood, and something I might describe as ‘fungus.’ I consider really calling the cops, she was out past curfew and… up to something, but I’m also not in the mood for making a statement to the cops.

She retracts her hand and takes a deep rattling breath, she looks around, “Can I have an omelette with… eggs?” I take it as a good sign she’s still talking, a bad sign that she was about to make Customer of the Month (a little award among the staff to counter ‘Employee of the Month’).

“What type, hun?” I ask slowly while her looks like her head is about to spin, I wait. “We have Denver Omelette, Vegetarian Omelette, Egg-ceptional Omelette, Pennsylvania Delight, and Mexican omelette.” She nodded her head up and down continually as if processing that and I was afraid it might get stuck in that motion. Another long awkward pause descends.

“What was the first one?” She finally asks.

“Denver Omelette.” “And second one?” She was definitely winning Customer of the Month. I smile instead, “Veggie.” She lulls her head back and seems to contemplate the ceiling, this was taking a lot of waiting.

She clears her throat, “What’s your favorite?” “Oh,” I pretend to think, “If you’re looking for eggs, the Egg-ceptional one is the one for you.” The girl looked ten seconds away from passing out, “can I have that… and pancakes. And hot chocolate. And bacon. And another omelette.” I write that all down and I have feeling I was about to experience Dine and Dash or Dine and Die on Me. “How will you be paying today, cash or credit?” I should at least check.

I raise my eyebrows when the girl pulls out a muddy wallet from God knows where, she yanks out a filthy fifty from the front pocket. “Cash.” She puts her down on the table. “And just… call my name when it’s ready.” “And what’s your…?” The girl’s head was on table, “What’s your name hun?”

She had stopped responding, her messy hair was splayed out on the table and forehead pressed down into the wood.

I consider poking her to check her vitals or something, but touching a sleeping Dirt Monster was also a good way to get stabbed (pictured: waitress, listening to bowflex commercials, pictured: waitress making headlines as ‘cute latina girl in a tragic dirt-and-knife-and-poking accident’).

I turn around and go stiffly back to the kitchen, I knock on the walls as I walk in, “We got an order Sam.” Sam Honey sticks her head of the kitchen window, done with her nail business it seemed.  “Lovely!” She was always way too cheery for night shifts, I had a few theories on this but none of them held much water. “I was getting so bored back here.”

I hand over the paper, “don’t spit in it or anything. This ones a livewire.” “Never, I would never,” she looks actively appalled at the idea, giving me the Come to Jesus look and then disappearing with the order.

I hear the shuffling of feet and Ronnie makes it to my side again, like a little shadow that was happy to appear and disappear according to the rules of Social Anxiety.

“Did she say anything weird to you?” He asks curiously.

I shrug, “like what? ‘My shower broke and hey, a diner seemed ideal right now.” “She on something,” He frowns, “cocaine?” I give a thin smile, “My money is on acid.” Sam comes out in a few minutes and she bets on really strong weed. I roll my eyes at that and we get a small pool going.

---------------------

I was shifting from foot to foot.

Hrrrrrnk

I wince, a loud snore fills the restaurant.

Hrrrnk

I hold the plates of hot food a little higher. “Okay,” I breath deeply but not through my nose, “alright.”

Hrrrrnk

She sounded a little like she choking on a piece of wet paper while snorting a packet of koolaid (something I had done and was not proud of).

I bump the side of the table with my hip, “hey,” I bump a little harder, “foods here ma’am.”

I don’t get so much as a wiggle from her, I wrinkle my nose, I didn’t plan on touching her at that exact moment. I put one plate of food down and reach for a sugar packet.

“This is for both of our own goods,” I shake the sugar packet, “so like… you should still tip.” I throw the sugar packet directly at her nose, she twitches.

“Hey lady!” I say again and throw a second sugar packet at her. “Come on.” Third sugar packet.

“Ah!” The packet bounces off her chin and the girl startles awake, throwing herself completely backward and her red eyes darting around quickly. Her chest heaved as she look back and forth, “where the hell am I?” I take a deep steady breaths, maybe she was better now. “Foods here.” I deposit the large tray of eggs and pancakes and a hot chocolate in front of her.

She blinks a couple times, seeming to process this. “Thanks.” I just nod, “there you go hun. Take your time.” It was almost 5am by then, one more hour of the curfew and then I could go home.

She just blinks one more time and picks up a fork with her dirty hand, I contemplate pointing out we had a perfectly good bathroom to wash her hands in.

The girl was already shoving food into her mouth, “it’s June.” I pause, the girl was halfway through choking down one of her omelettes, she mumbles, “June.” “Okay?” “For my name,” she says slowly, “when waking me up. You could have called June.” I just nod ever so slightly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” I turn my back on the odd girl and let her continue eating or whatever it is vacuuming up eggs into your mouth is.

I fill up another coffee cup for Arthur and slip back behind the counter, I exhale deeply as I see the back of Bernie’s head, finally come from her lunch break.

“Looks like we have a full staff again.” I say loudly and see Bernie whip around to look at me.

Her mouth is a hard line, harder than usual, “Get rid of that one.” My heart drops into my shoes, my brow folds in, “you told me to handle it.” I feel like a five-year-old stomping her feet at her mom. “I did. Plus, she does have money.” “I can’t expect you lot to take care of anything, can I?” Bernie was keeping a fine curdling glare on her face, “bunch of incompetents!”

I imagine retracting my hands around the older woman’s throat, “I handled it.”

Bernie keeps going, “She’s not wearing shoes!”

Ronnie shifted back and forth, “she’s got money.” Bernie tuts, “no shirt, no shoes, no service, how hard is that? And what if the sheriff comes in, we’ll have to explain letting in curfew-breakers.”

I make a face, “it’s not like we have to tell them.” Bernie was still mumbling to herself, “and what were you betting on with Sam? Cocaine? Whiskey? Weed? I don’t need that nonsense here.” I could have groaned so loudly my soul left my body, “look, she’ll just eat and leave.” I fold my hands over my chest, feeling the need to defend my choices. “It’s not a big deal.” Bernie grumbles at me, “Casey, what did I tell you? Handle it, did you? No.” I push my sunflower-yellow hair away from my face, “seriously?” She folds her arms over her chest, “seriously.”

I growl, “what do you want me to do?” Bernie jabs her fingers toward the table, “get her out, call an ambulance, do something like you should have done before.” I groan loudly and get torn between making money and joining a ‘punched your boss before you starved on the street’ club. It we weren’t all stuck here and if I wasn’t one of the few people who was long-term at this job I might have had a go at her. Instead, all of our sleep-deprived asses mentally flip each other off and go our separate ways.

The girl is still eating.

Bernie pokes my side before she leaves, “now.” I push my hair back in frustration and go little by little back to table 12. It takes all my willpower not to just take my apron off and declare myself jobless.

I creep up to the same table again, she’s eating slowly, taking one huge bite after the next, stripping pieces off and chewing meticulously, like it hurt her. She is just as worn and malaise as before.

I clear my throat and wait for her to look up.

Like before, she takes a clean minute to lift her head. “Hello?” She seemed lost again, I huff tiredly. “We’re closing in a few minutes.” It was a good a lie as any.

The girl, June, looks back in a daze. “I have money.” “I know.” I itch my wrist, “we’re just… closing.”

“Can’t go.” She keeps eating, “I need… this.” I rake a hand through my split-ends, which were plentiful after too many dye jobs and not enough conditioner.

June was still taking even ginormous bites, I square my shoulders.

“I can get you like… five more minutes, but you do have to leave. The pool should have local showers? Only a few bucks. You could go there.” She shakes her head, “where is this?” She asks in her same cracked, weary tone.

I tilt my head to the side, “the pool is down Warring street and-” “No.” She pauses and covers her mouth, “where is all of this?” “Uh,” I scratch the back of my neck, “Gilford.” She raises her eyebrows, “oh,” she says slowly, “good.” I make a face, I rarely ever heard someone be happy to get stuck in Gilford. I examine her one last time, “the sheriff comes around at 6.” She takes another long moment, “Cool.” “You might want to head out before then.” Her big hazy eyes look back at me and we exchange a very long look, maybe I’m looking for white powder under her nose or the smell of skunk. She covers her mouth again.

“I don’t feel well.” “I know,” I try to sound soothing, “do you need to call someone? We could get you someone.” You just need to go.

She just shakes her head, “Waitress, Casey, I.” “Yeah?” I ask cautiously, June sways back and forth, I prompt again, “yes?”

She looks up at me, eyes empty and distant. “You’re beautiful.” Her face was pale and empty. I tilt my head, “You don’t look so g-”

The girl violently jerks forward and a loud retching wet sound follows, I don’t have a second to react as warm lumpy liquid cascades down onto my blue converse. Eggs and pancakes and hot chocolate slurry hits my shins and my entire body seizes up.

My face contorts, “fuck.”

That’s how I learn the lesson about large feral cats all over again.