who was gonna love me? who was gonna touch me?

[Somersault]

((Tonya Collins, continued from Rakshasa Country))

Even now, more than fucking ever, Tonya still wasn't gonna face the cameras. Still wasn't gonna let them see her. She wasn't a weak bitch. Wasn't a pussy who'd just roll over and die. She was strong, wasn't she?

God, she'd never felt more like a weak-ass punk.

At no point in her life had Tonya had this much free time. There was always something to do-customers to usher in, meals to cook, babies' cry to quiet. Constant action, sure, but a constant routine, one more hamster wheel going 'round just running and running, never stopping so the hamster'd never know he was still kept in the fucking cage. Still fenced in by indifferent eyes and white-ass hands, watching for some shit.

She didn't know what kinda shit, really, so she was just gonna leave it like that. Wasn't as if she was able to guess at it before, and so what point was there at trying now? Boiled down to the old shame, quirks in eyes or in lips, always rounding another corner to end up back in Shitsville.

She breathed. Her nose felt clogged, her eyes felt crushed.

She wasn't, no, she wasn't, because she -

Out of the ramshackle house, a scream echoed out, waves of pure anger rushing through, until it slowed, steady drip just like the tap.

Little shouts, little ones to distract from the sniffling. Sneaker-covered feet slowly straightened themselves, bringing legs back up standing, just like that.

Tonya grabbed a bandanna from her bag, tied it as a headband, light fingers making light work when every single other fucking thing was stone. Patty. Patty. Patty.

For her, right? For her. For her.

With a shaking step, machete handle almost burning in her hand, bag slung back on, Tonya stepped back out into the rain, into the night. She knew who she was walking for now.

For her.

For the girl who never got a chance to be a kid.

She'd be damned if all these sons o' bitches understood that.

((Tonya Collins, continued elsewhere))