chapter 7

Blossom's phone was staging an insurrection.

Ping. Ring. Ping-ping. BZZZZZZZ.

It rattled against the coffee table like a possessed insect, vibrating across the surface with tenacity. Blossom didn't even bother to check the screen anymore. She just glared at it with the silent contempt of someone watching a mosquito plan a heist.

"It's like your phone has rabies," May mumbled, eyes half-closed, perched upside down on the armchair with her legs flopped over the backrest and her head hanging like a bat. She was nursing her third joint of the morning, and judging by the smell, it was called something tragic like "Cursed Volcano" or "Widowmaker Sherbert."

Blossom sat curled up in a corner of the couch, knees tucked under her, buried nose-deep in a battered hardback May had pulled from the dark abyss of her bedroom closet. It was titled Dust and Decay: Victorian Funeral Rituals, and May had tossed it her way with all the flourish of someone handing over a cursed artifact.

"I didn't want it," May had said. "So you're legally obligated to read it and tell me if it contains hidden necromancer spells or instructions for how to summon a rich sugar daddy with gout."

Now Blossom flipped through pages of sepia-toned drawings—coffins lined with lace, mourning dresses that cost more than rent, and disturbingly detailed etiquette guides on how to cry fashionably at a wake.

"This book is weirdly... educational," Blossom muttered. "Apparently if you didn't cry pretty enough in 1887, they'd send you home with a pamphlet on 'emotional refinement.'"

May snorted. "Ugh, emotional refinement sounds like something my mum would've tried. Before she turned into a taxidermy-loving vodka fountain."

Blossom raised an eyebrow without looking up. "Taxidermy?"

"Oh yeah. My mum stuffed a rabbit once. Not even one she hunted—just one that died in the garden from fright. She named it 'Mr. Bonbon' and used it as a wine bottle holder."

Blossom blinked. "That's... poetic."

"It's disturbing," May cackled. "She also used to blend everything. Carrots, vodka, sadness, loose change—blender supremacy, she called it."

Blossom squinted at her. "Loose change?"

May blew a lazy puff of smoke at the ceiling. "Said the pennies added 'zinc depth.' She was also a raging lunatic. I inherited her blender and her lack of emotional filters."

The phone buzzed again. Blossom ignored it. Her mum had now moved on to frantic voicemails. One of them had lasted exactly six minutes and fifty-two seconds. Blossom had muted it at "BABY COME HOME OR I'LL EAT GLASS."

May twisted herself upright with the grace of a stunned sea lion. "You know... I think Paul once called me his 'blender baby.' He said I had the personality of a smoothie filled with Red Bull and regret."

"Sounds like love," Blossom deadpanned.

"Oh, it was. Until I found out he collected fingernail clippings. From other people."

Blossom closed the book and blinked slowly. "You dated a serial killer with hobbies."

"He said it was for 'spiritual alignment.' I said it was for therapy."

They sat in a beat of silence. The joint fizzled softly in May's fingers. Blossom's phone buzzed again. Neither of them flinched.

"I think my mum's trying to emotionally blackmail me via ringtone," Blossom mumbled.

"Mine tried to summon me once using a seance and a crockpot."

Blossom looked up. "A crockpot?"

"It was on sale."

They both erupted into laughter. Not pretty, not dignified—just messy, cracked giggles that curled into the space between them like smoke.

May rolled over and dangled her arms off the edge of the couch like a dead moth. "Bloss, you ever think about becoming a nun?"

Blossom blinked at her. "...I feel like this is going somewhere dangerous."

"Because you have nun energy. Like, tragic background, dramatic lighting, amazing bone structure, a closet full of sins you haven't confessed."

Blossom snorted. "I just don't like boys."

"That's nun-lite behavior."

"My mum would probably bribe the Pope to disown me."

"He'd accept. With coupons."

Blossom buried her face in a pillow to muffle the laughter.

"Okay, but real talk," May said, pushing herself up, eyes strangely clear. "You saved me last night. You gave up... something. You were terrified, but you still stood up. And that was hot."

Blossom flushed. "Don't say things like that when you smell like ten dollar weed and the ghost of Christmas trauma."

"I speak my truth."

"Your truth is haunted."

They sat again in silence, the cigarette haze swirling like thoughts neither wanted to speak aloud.

Blossom picked the book back up and flipped to a passage about mourning dolls made from human hair.

May leaned over and whispered, "You think Paul uses his nail clippings to make art?"

"I think Paul uses them to summon eldritch gods and file restraining orders against compassion."

May nodded solemnly. "Same."

Then her eyes widened. "WAIT. I just remembered. I used to have a dog named Bolognese."

"No," Blossom said immediately. "You did not."

"I DID! He ran away because I fed him actual Bolognese sauce."

"May."

"Bloss."

"That's animal cruelty."

"It was performance art."

Blossom stood up. "I need food."

May pointed to the kitchen. "I have expired ramen and an unopened bottle of cough syrup."

Blossom blinked. "How do you survive like this?"

"Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss."

Blossom sighed. "God help me."

Blossom's stomach betrayed her with a low growl that vibrated beneath the blanket like a wolf demanding dignity. She sighed, kicked off the covers like a disappointed Victorian widow, and dragged herself toward May's kitchen—mentally preparing for expired noodles and possible asbestos.

Behind her, May still lay horizontally across the sofa like a discarded mannequin. Smoke drifted lazily from her fourth joint of the morning, curling into haunting shapes. She looked blissfully stoned and emotionally loose.

"I think my parents once tried to baptize me using tequila," May announced casually, not even looking up.

Blossom paused at the fridge. "I'm sorry—what?"

"Yeah. My mum was dressed like a disco ball and my dad was in ski goggles. They poured the tequila over my head while reciting the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody backwards."

Blossom blinked. "That's not baptism. That's a cry for help."

"Or spiritual innovation." May grinned and took another drag, exhaling dramatically. "It explains why I sparkle when stressed."

Blossom yanked open the fridge with reluctant courage. Inside: a half-dead cucumber, almond milk three months expired, a single slice of pepperoni stuck to a shelf, and something that looked like congealed pudding but might've once been alive.

"You have the diet of a raccoon who went to college and dropped out," Blossom muttered, already regretting her life choices.

May cackled. "Don't disrespect my fridge—it's curated chaos."

"You should curate your trash instead." Blossom slammed the fridge shut and turned to the pantry. There, by some cruel twist of fate, she found instant oats. Actual food. Hope flickered.

May twisted upright like a sleep-deprived moth. "You know, Paul once made me dinner—spaghetti. Except he used ketchup and shredded beef jerky. Said it was 'prison-style gourmet.' I still have PTSD from chewing that."

Blossom glanced over. "Romance is dead."

"Nah," May winked. "It's just deranged."

They moved to the stove. Blossom lit the burner and poured water while May shuffled over, clinging to her joint like a sacred relic. She leaned against the counter, eyes half-lidded, and stared at the pot like it owed her money.

"I think I dreamed about Paul last night," May mused. "He was dressed like a priest but had devil horns. Tried to baptize me again—this time with marinara sauce."

"That man needs therapy, exorcism, and a restraining order."

"Don't forget a lobotomy," May added, just as she attempted to grab the kettle and immediately dropped it sideways, splashing water across the burner and igniting a hiss of flame.

"Jesus May!" Blossom lunged with the reflexes of someone who'd survived one too many domestic disasters. She grabbed a towel and batted at the flame like it was possessed.

Smoke curled upward like laughter.

"Oops," May giggled. "That's what they call culinary flair."

"No, that's what they call arson. You and kitchens are a public menace."

"I think I'm allergic to responsibility," May shrugged, still puffing on her joint while Blossom wiped down the disaster zone. "Also eggs. But only emotionally."

Blossom snorted, then froze—her eyes caught something beneath May's collar. The dim light exposed dark bruises creeping along her neck. Finger-shaped shadows that seemed almost etched in ink.

She frowned. "May... your neck."

May glanced down, nonchalant. "Ah, this old thing? Paul's love language is strangulation."

Blossom's face fell. "That's not funny."

"Depends on the kink." May winked, but her voice had a tinge of bitterness buried beneath the casual veneer. "It's not the first time he's gotten grabby. Usually just in bed. Bedroom judo, y'know?"

"That's not judo—it's assault."

"Well he never punched me," May shrugged. "Just manhandled me. It's like foreplay for psychopaths."

Blossom didn't laugh. She couldn't. Her mind replayed the grip Marko had around her—the bruises that bloomed across her arms like sick tattoos. The ache she'd ignored. And the memory of David's icy stare.

She lifted her sleeve. Purple-blue streaks painted her skin, subtle but deep. Bruises she hadn't even processed in the chaos.

May caught sight and went still.

"Oof. Marko hugged you with full demon intent, huh?"

"More like grabbed me with full demon intent."

May sighed. "Boys in Santa Carla don't know the meaning of boundaries."

"I don't think they know the meaning of humanity."

They stood in silence—one nursing bruises, the other puffing smoke like a ritual. The kettle whistled like a scream.

Blossom poured the water into the oats, stirring slowly, eyes scanning May's neck again.

"You should see a doctor."

May took another drag. "What's a doctor gonna do? Prescribe me boundaries?"

"Or a taser."

May grinned, leaning against the wall, eyes dreamy. "We should go hunting. Like rogue vigilantes with glitter and trauma."

Blossom cracked a smile. "We'll call ourselves The Bruised Banshees."

"I want matching jackets," May said. "And tasers shaped like lipstick."

Blossom plated the oats and handed May a bowl. "You don't get a taser until you learn not to burn kitchens."

"Rude. You're suppressing my growth."

"I'm suppressing your fire hazard."

They sat side by side, bruises glowing under the morning light, eating half-burnt oats, one sober and scarred, the other stoned and laughing.

Outside, the wind howled softly.

Inside, two girls held themselves together with sarcasm and smoke.