Hey guys! :) Sorry I haven't done ANYTHING in a while, life has just been crazy with school and all this other jazz :P I saw the Psych finale tonight (had to Ti-Vo it) and was inspired by Yang-she's just one of my favorites characters and is portrayed amazingly by the wonderful actress (who was also in one of my favorite movies, the Breakfast Club). So here's an one-shot dedicated to the lovely Yang.
Disclaimer: I wish I owned Gus... *sigh* But I don't.
Special. That's what she was called when she was growing up. She was called special by her father. Special by nervous onlookers into her life, reaching for the appropriate term. From the tip-top of her curly black locks to the bone-white color of her toes, special, special, special. Her father trained her when she was growing up to be merciless—but taught her with the benevolence and kindness of a vulture. The kind that smiles at you before it picks the scrawny, remaining flesh off your winter bones.
Weird. That's what she was called in her later days, where in biology class she relished in the dissecting of field mice and frogs. She was called psychotic when she squealed in delight in history class, when her teacher spoke of bloody massacres and body counts. The way she became aggressive when colorful Jello was placed in front of her. How she'd lash out and growl at anyone that came too close.
Psychotic. That's what she was called when her father killed the people she watched harmlessly being slaughtered. She was good at mind games—in fact, she was amazing. But she could never watch her father shoot or hang or drown a victim. She could never watch her father's merciless hand. Not after she watched her mother strangled to death when she was five years old.
Kind. That's what family and friends called her mother. Until the night her father, Mr. Yin, strangled her. Alice Mendel-Haggard was beautiful, with long, black tresses that cascaded down her back, and sparkling gray eyes, and radiant white skin. She baked amazing snicker doodles, and every night when her father would lash out, Alice would sneak into her daughter's room and share snicker doodles and fairy tales with her only daughter.
Childish. That's what people called Shawn Spencer. She still remembered his younger days—cute, little brunet riding his bike down Grayson Street. Mop of hair flopping around, as he'd help her unpack the groceries she was forced to buy for her father's latest deadly injection or bomb or drug. She remembered his father Henry, and his mother, Madeleine, and himself would all ride their bikes down to the local gas station every Saturday afternoon and would buy Slushies or pops and drink them on the way home. She longed for a childhood like that; a childhood that seemed so perfect and endless, without witnessing murder and hate and spilled blood.
Beautiful. That's what people called one Juliet O'Hara. With her long, perfect locks (that never seemed to be tangled or misshaped like her own) and light eyes, there was no denying that fact. Juliet was something that she knew she could never be. And something Shawn would never love.
Yang. That's what people called her. The mastermind of curses and rhymes; the killer of innocent people. The cat to the mouse that liked playing with her kill whilst they were alive. What her father called her. What the victims called her. What Shawn Spencer called her. The curst name she loathed. More than any other name she had ever been called.
Grace. The name only her mother used. Even her father, even the little moments when he acknowledged her existence, wouldn't call her by the beautiful, first name Alice had blessed her with. Maybe if more people called her Grace while she was growing up, she would be more beautiful and sane, like that Juliet O'Hara. Or perhaps names were just names, and she was pondering something that meant nothing at all.
But maybe, just maybe… she'd even be loved.
Hope you liked it! :) If you review, I'll give you wonderful pineapple pancakes!