I Slept With Someone In Aurora High School, And All I Got Was This Stupid Thread Written About Me

[GameMaker†]

(OOC Note: For all you non American football fans out there, this is the play that Megan and her brother are going nuts about: The Play)

"YES! Run it Marshawn! Push that motherfucker down!" Megan was on her feet, screaming. She couldn't believe it, but at the same time, she had kept her faith the whole time. So what if the Seahawks had been 7-9, first team to make the playoffs with a losing record in 20 years? So what if they were taking on the Saints, the reigning world champions? They were up 40-30, and Marshawn Lynch had just propelled them to a win. And Megan couldn't be happier. She loved the Seahawks, and she loved Marshawn Lynch.

"My god, Megan, that was fucking ridiculous." It was her brother Patrick who said this, and if it was one guy who she thought an Irish man was supposed to look like, it was her brother. A massive man, towering over her and seemingly made of muscle, with short cropped red hair and a well groomed orange beard. He was wearing a Marshawn Lynch jersey like her, and let out a loud belch as he finished off his beer. "They doubted us all, and we just proved them wrong."

Megan got up from her seat, putting down her own beer, and grabbed the football that was sitting on the table. Her brother got up, grinning, already guessing what she was going to do. She took the football, and ran at him, first cutting one way and then the other, putting an imitation juke move on him. He wasn't fooled, and picking her up in his giant arms, he held her over his head.

"And here comes the bone crushing tackle!" Both of them laughing, him with a deep booming chest laugh, and her with an infectious giggle. He pretended to slam her down into the couch, and for some reason, she was laughing harder than ever now. Tears of laughter streamed down her face, and her brother's was on his knees pounding the floor and guffawing

"Can you two be quiet?!" It was their mother, and although she said it loudly, she was smiling. "Your father and I are about to go out, and the whole damn town's gonna think a murder's going on in here! I thought I'd have to worry about Johnny and Danny with this shit, not you two..." She just shook her head, a thin smile on her face.

"Well, whatever, you two do what you want. And if you want to run around and act like jackasses, so be it. Just remember you're paying for it if you break anything." Their father walked down the stair, dressed in a nice suit. He wore a blue tie, complimenting their mother's blue dress. He smiled, gave his wife a quick kiss on the cheek, and then opened the door for her. She walked out of the front door, and smiling, he took a look back at Megan and Patrick.

"Patrick- two things son. One, if you ever want to pick that football up and take on someone your own size, I'll show you I still got a thing or two from my rugby days. And two, if you guys have a party here, watch fucking Danny and Johnny. They're old enough to drink, but they don't know their limit. I don't want to come home to find five different places of the house smelling like puke." He then proceeded to brush something off his sleeve, and leave, slamming the door behind him.

Megan looked around her, looking at an empty bag of chips, an empty 12 pack, couch cushions strung nearly everywhere, and an empty box of pizza with one slice basically torn to shreds in the middle of it. Pretty understandable when you saw that while her mother would be a little afraid- her and Patrick, the human disaster. She started laughing again, and somehow, the thought struck her as hilarious. Patrick just looked at her quizzically, and finally just shook his head laughing.

He sat down on the couch next to her, and while she finished giggling, they watched the post game interviews. They jeered when they saw Brees and the Saints come on, and they cheered for the Seahawks, particularly their interview with Lynch. She loved all of her brothers, but Patrick was the one who really got her. He was the oldest, and he had the most similar interests to her. For one, they both loved the Seahawks. There was other stuff, but as far as Megan was concerned, that was reason alone to love someone.

"So uh... Dad was right." He laughed, and threw the beer cans into the garbage can. "I'm gonna have a bunch of people over, and Steve and I are probably gonna leave to go on the run pretty soon, if you want us to grab anything for you. Trust me, it's not gonna be anyone you dislike here."

"Umm.. Patrick, I can't. I actually have to go up to change, I'm going to someone's house soon." She got up from the couch and started walking upstairs, wondering what she would change into. A dress was a little too nice, but she didn't want to look sloppy... it would be a tough decision.

"Whose house, Megan? Another one of your 'fuck buddies'?" So there it was, out in the open. They hadn't ever talked about it, not before today, but Megan knew he had known. Word got around. She just hadn't known how he'd felt about it, although it looked like she'd get her chance now.

She turned around, and saw him, standing there. He was holding the pizza box in his hands, the bag of chips and the empty box of beer inside. His face was unsmiling, but it wasn't a look of anger. A look of, what then? Pity? Sadness? Worry? She couldn't tell, and she didn't like it.

"I'm a big girl now, Patrick. I'm 17. I don't give you shit about what you do, and I don't expect you to give me shit about what I do." She was tempted to just walk away then, but she couldn't. As her father would probably have called them, what she had just said was fighting words. She had said them, and she had known what she was saying. Now she had to stay and deal with the consequences.

"Well, Megan, you know I've never been one to speak about what you-"

"Then don't." She snapped back at him, in a second wishing she had taken the option to walk away. His face wasn't angry. He wasn't looking to fight, he was just worried. He wanted to protect her, but she didn't want it, she didn't want him to, couldn't he just fucking understand that? She was her own fucking girl, and she didn't need anyone to protect her.

"Megan, you're gonna get hurt if you keep doing what you're doing." He said this as he stepped towards her, putting the pizza box down on the table. He kept walking, speaking as he did so. "I'm not talking about physically being hurt, I know you're a smart enough girl to avoid that. It's just... when you meet a guy you actually like... You don't want him to think you're a bad sort of girl because of what he's heard about you."

He put a hand on her shoulder, reassuringly, softly, and she slapped it. Hard. She slapped it, and she stepped back. He looked down at her, wide eyed and shocked.

"A 'bad sort of girl'? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" She was pissed now, and Megan Collins pissed was a different sort of girl. Megan Collins could be the sweetest, funniest girl you ever could want to meet. She could be, when she was in a good mood. But when Megan got pissed, which wasn't often, she was completely different. She had an anger that would make Mongolian barbarians look like pacifist monks. "Is that what you fucking think of me, Patrick? You think I'm a fucking slut?!"

"Well, when you go around fucking everyone in your fucking high school, what the fuck am I supposed to think, Megan?!" Patrick shouted this, and he had the Collins anger too. He didn't get angry often, but when he did, it was bad. And very often, especially when he was drunk, he said things he regretted later. "I mean, Jesus, Megan, you've slept with two of my fucking friends! Have some damn respect for yourself!"

It felt like she had gotten slapped. It felt like she had gotten gut punched. She felt her eyes beginning to tear up for the second time that night, except this time it wasn't laughter. She saw his face crumple, the anger wiping from it like chalk off a whiteboard as he saw her reaction. His shoulders collapsed, and his face was a look of shock and horror.

"Megan, I didn't- You know I" No. Megan didn't know. She knew that she couldn't do it now, she couldn't let him get away that easy. Wouldn't. She knew what other people said, but to think her brother thought the same... Her eyes started to blur.

"I do have respect for myself, Patrick." She said, her voice thick with emotion. "Obviously I can see that you don't."

She turned, and she ran. It was absurd now, but she didn't want to see him cry. She didn't want to look weak in front of him, not after what he had said. She never wanted to look weak. He wouldn't say that if she had been his brother, fucking a bunch of girls. He'd been giving her high fives, talking about how she was a fucking player. But no, no, she was a girl, and all of a sudden, that meant it was the fucking worst thing in the world.
She threw herself on her bed, slamming the door shut behind her, and the tears started to flow. How it had gone from so good to so bad so quick? Was this what all of her brothers thought about her? She thought that Patrick had understood her... but was she wrong? Had he really thought that...

She picked a book up off her table, and flung it at the wall. Fuck him! How the fuck did he have the fucking right to say things like that to her? And to say that he was looking out for her, while he was sitting on his fucking high horse, handing out judgments on her! The fucking nerve!

"Megan... I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that at all." Her brother's voice, coming in from outside of the room. "I am so fucking sorry. Can I please come in? ...Megan, I love you."

"No! Fuck you! Fuck you, Patrick, I don't need your fucking help, and I don't need your fucking advice!" She picked up a pillow off of her bed, and threw it at the door. It hit loudly, and dropped to the floor next to the door. It didn't help her to feel any better. "Don't ever fucking try to help me again! I don't fucking need you!"

"...Alright, I understand Megan. But I still love you." She heard heavy footfalls as he walked away, and part of her wanted to walk out, and grab him, and hug him, and tell him she accepted his apology. But she couldn't. She couldn't look weak in front of him.

As she sat at her bed, she remembered a brother that had helped to put a band aid on her knee, after she had fallen off her bike and sat in the dirt, crying from a pretty bad scrape on her knee. A brother who had taken her out for ice cream after a pretty nasty argument with a boy in her grade. A brother who was always at her soccer games, always cheering her on. A brother who had, after seemingly every bad experience, been there with a joke and a shoulder to lean on. A brother who had always been there for her, whenever she had needed him most. A brother who, that one statement excluded, had been a pretty fucking good big brother.

He loved her, that's what he had said. And as much as she hated to admit it, even as her anger at him pulsed through her body, in a very fierce way, in a primal, essential way, she felt the same thing.

She loved him too, and she always would.