A/N: So I came with this while trying to pretend to be asleep so my parents would just leave me alone and shut the hell up. :/
(No, I'm not "Emo", okay? They're just really annoying.)
Anyways, Shinedown was on downstairs and the song Crow and The Butterfly was on… and this sort of popped into my head. The title is lyrics from them. ;)
You can also consider this the Bade gift for the voters on my poll… and it's still open. Just saying.
He is her innocent prey.
He grins at her, leaning on the locker next hers. He's a pretty little butterfly.
She'll give him a small smile and say, "Hey.", back. She's an evil black crow. She knows this. Too bad he doesn't.
"Who were you with?"
We'll fast forward a few years, and the crow and the butterfly are all grown up in the pretty little world full of beer and lies and a blurry, blemished, love. The crow is so protective of her butterfly, but at the same time she's getting ready to swoop down and snatch her prey. You can't really blame her, though. It's instinct.
He purses his lips and runs a hand through his hair exasperatedly.
"She's my costar, Jade!"
"She loves you!"
He scoffs, "As if!"
She seethes and clenches and un-clenches her hands. He's so damn oblivious. But then he gets tired. He's oh so tired.
"Why are you doing this, Jade…?"
She licks her lips and turns around, stalking off.
Her hand is on her stomach, the other is holding a little white stick. She inhales and exhales through her mouth and gulps. She's pregnant.
She hears the doorknob turn and he's standing there in his flannel shirt and pajama bottoms, holding a spatula suspiciously covered in mix, with his hair in a messy, low, ponytail. She scrambles to the wall, holding the test behind her back, hyperventilating. He sets the spatula on the sink and steps closer to her. She pushes up farther against the wall.
"Jade? What's wrong?"
She licks her lips and gulps again, a thin layer of sweat forming along her body. Good god, she's so nervous.
"N-nothing's… nothing's wrong, Beck."
He looks at her, unconvinced.
"What's behind your back?"
He's says it softly, and she just wants to crumble into his arms and tell him everything. But she can't. She wouldn't dare, so she stuffs the deadly plastic up her tank top. It falls out when she removes her hand. She curses, and the clack of the plastic against the tile seems to ring out through the whole home.
He walks over and picks it up, reading the two, pretty little lines.
She nods and her skin begins to get clammy. He drops the test and takes her in his arms, twirling her around. He smiles and then she tries to laugh. And then he kisses her, with more love and passion than ever. She relishes in the feeling, knowing it'll all go away soon enough. Just wait. With a snap of slim, tanned, fingers, it'll all go away.
(She tries not to think about it.)
It's a girl. A pretty little girl. She cries when she finds out, and he smiles down at her, sniffing loudly, a hand on her small baby bump. She'll curl into his side as the doctor talks and talks. She feels so loved. Oh so loved.
They shop all around the cement city, looking for the best cribs and clothes, the softest diapers, and tons of toys. All the while the paparazzi is watching the scene, taking pictures, they're cameras a symphony of snaps and flashes. She smiles when his arms wrap around her waist, when she feels a little kick in her stomach, and when she steps obliviously into the deadly cab. Things are finally going alright for her. She should've known it wouldn't last long.
It happens so fast. They get in the cab, carrying tons of pink shopping bags, he kisses her cheek and tells the driver to go to their huge loft. But then they drive away, right into an intersection. A drunk driver hits them, right on the side. The side where she is oh so sadly sitting.
Annabel Leanne Oliver dies on December 1st, two months before she was supposed to be born. Pictures of the ruined cab are everywhere, not that they can see. She's in the hospital. Her baby girl is dead.
(It's downhill from here, darling.)
She's a Broadway star. She's famous. She's broken. All at twenty five.
She numbs the pain with alcohol, not giving a damn about what the doctor's or he says. She's so fucking depressed. She stops going to rehearsals and barely gets out of bed. He'll yell at her, telling her she's just a shell of a human being, of what she once was. The butterfly is getting farther and farther away. And the crow can't handle it. So she'll drink some more beer, take another shot at the cigarette.
It's all okay.
(That's what she tells herself.)
His costar is Tori-fucking-Vega.
He's in this movie, and he's a spy and she's the criminal—it's some twisted love story that was always meant to be.
While he's out shooting his movie and partying, she's alone at home. She dreams of little girls and car crashes and the perfect, ugly, life that she once had. And she'll wake up screaming, with no warm arms wrapped around her waist, wondering where the hell it all went.
She's not stupid. It's not like she didn't realize he was coming home later and later and later, or how his shirts always seemed to have a new shade of lipstick on them every week. She binges on beer and drugs and he doesn't even notice. She realizes that she's just like her mother, but she never really expected anything else. She also wonders why he doesn't care anymore, but the crow is so tired. The butterfly was always too good for her anyways.
He's stopped making pancakes. She knows it's a stupid, small, thing, but it's also a wonderful, huge tradition. He should be in his pajamas with a spatula in hand and his hair in ponytail, and she should be reading stupid books and magazines on parenting. But he's passed out on the couch, with red fingernail marks trailing up his body, and she's got a beer in her hand a cigarette in the other.
Actually, scratch that. She wants tequila instead.
They fight constantly, over small things, over big things. There is a huge crack in their relationship. And he leaves her.
She looks up at him and the beer seems to taste better than ever.
"What?" Her voice is slurred.
He grabs his car keys and walks out. No goodbyes or apologies. He just leaves. She knew he would.
The magazines talk about his one-night stands, and her alcoholic ways. They make her seem like the bad guy, but she has no idea what she is anymore. She takes another swig of beer, and pulls out another cigarette, knowing it's over.
She knew it would always lead up to hell.
The butterfly flies off with the other, the yellow and red mix together, making a beautiful, fucked up orange. The crow watches them flutter away, until they are long gone. And then she flies off into the night, her wings flap, flap, flapping. The backdrop is the city of dreams and smoke and lies. She is alone. Good god is she lonely.
(It was always meant to be this way.)
A/N: That's a wrap!
Lol. I don't know.
I keep on writing really dark stuff… I'm not very good with easy-going, light hearted fics. I wonder what that says about me…. Anyways, The Crow and The Butterfly is like one of my favorite top songs, but this isn't exactly a song fic either, it's just based off of the song.
Please vote on my poll, and review!~