Stephanie Brown

Everyone leaves.

Steph's not getting out of bed today. Not like there's any reason to, anyway. It's grey and dull outside, and grey and dull inside, and everything just sucks.

Everyone leaves, and you can't stop them, and it's always going to hurt.

No, that's not true. She is getting out of bed. Bed sucks too. Restless, irritable, dismal, she pads bare-foot out to the living room and glares at the TV's blank screen. Fictional characters never have to deal with this kind of thing. It sucks.

Because you care about everyone.

The couch is kicked over and the door to the balcony slammed open, leaving a crack spidering across the glass pane. It's cold and gusty outside today; the wind catches her hair and chills her all over. The floor's icy to her feet, and her pyjamas consist of tracksuit pants and a sports bra, but who cares? It's only weather. She's dead anyway, and people are just going to keep leaving. They always leave. What's physical cold matter?

Everyone leaves.

Even Billy. One day he'll want out, too. It's too good to last. She's too screwed up, and he's too normal, and he's a real hero, anyway, not just a wannabe like her. What's she really got to offer? Not enough to keep anyone. Just enough to catch their interest, and then get hurt by them.

Everyone.

The wind, at least, catches any tears before they fall, and whisks them away from her already chilled cheeks.

Steph's sprawled on the couch, watching Wendy the Werewolf Stalker - old episodes, but they're always good for a re-run. There is popcorn nearby. Also, chocolate.

And the door's invitingly open, spilling sound and light into the corridor. Stop by, if you're passing. Her flatmate's randomly vanished, and she could always use company.