[oneshot] Poorfag Trixie


                                            >You are Trixie, and today is a thoroughly good day, if you do say so yourself.

                                            >A lost quarter in the vending-machine return slot.

                                            >Two unused postage stamps in the trash bin of the copy room you managed to trade for actual money.

                                            >A couple of returnable bottles in a bathroom stall.

                                            >All in all, enough to yield you a small handful of coins that could actually buy a sandwich from the cafeteria’s lunch menu.

                                            >For the first time in days, you don't have to go through the returned food trays to try and pick out some edible bits.

                                            >You can buy your meal like a regular teenager.

                                            >You can sit at a table near the other students instead of hiding in some empty classroom with a stack of yucky leftovers.

                                            >The cherry on your proverbial sundae is a pudding cup you just had enough money left over for, and the thought of the creamy sweetness alone is enough to make you squeal.

                                            >You probably look like a dunce, grinning to yourself while munching on your food, but you don't care.

                                            >It’s not like anybody is acknowledging your presence anyway, let alone striking a conversation, but the ambient chatter allows you to at least pretend to have something that could be considered a normal social life.

                                            >If you close your eyes, you can almost feel that soft, fuzzy sensation you never manage to hold on to in your dreams.


                                            >For what it’s worth, you saw the cup of iced tea coming your way even before it was thrown.

                                            >You saw the arm pulling back to hurl it in your direction, saw it arcing over the heads of the sniggering onlookers only to hit you square in the chest a second later.

                                            >The drink seeps into your clothes immediately; an icy blanket sticking to your skin.

                                            >The half-mumbled insult following the beverage is just loud enough for you to hear.

                                            >You don't really know which hurts more between the two.

                                            >Taking another bite of your soaked sandwich, you try to keep smiling, if only to force the feeling of fake happiness to linger for just another moment.

                                            >It's a losing battle, you know as much, and you can feel the familiar sting pulling at the corners of your eyes already.

                                            >You stand up, shakily, and try not to start running while making your way towards the blurry exit-sign.

                                            >A few more French fries and crumpled-up paper towels are thrown your way, but you barely even notice at this point.

                                            >It's not like the greasy stains they leave on your clothes stand out much.

                                            >Only when you reach the safety of the hallway do you allow yourself to cry freely, sobbing so loudly that it's threatening to spill out from behind your jacket sleeve.

                                            >Your stomach is complaining violently over having to abandon the first real food you've been able to offer it in weeks, let alone the far-away prospect of an actual dessert.

                                            >You’d probably be throwing up already if you had eaten anything at all today.

                                            >If your clothes weren’t a filthy mess to begin with, the spilled drink would’ve most likely ruined them for good.

                                            >Your soul would probably be breaking right now if it hadn’t done so years ago.


                                            "Excuse me."

                                            >The words actually taste bitter in your mouth.

                                            "Do you… Could I borrow fifty cents for the vending machine?"

                                            >The guy continues to push coins down the slot before fiddling with the buttons, and he’s rewarded with a bag of chips dropping into the compartment at the bottom a moment later.

                                            >"Get lost."

                                            >You mumble a quick apology for bothering him, sinking back down against the wall.

                                            >It’s been about half an hour since you set up camp next to the snack machine, and your stomach is starting to complain about every clatter of the take-out port’s lid, every crinkle of a candy wrapper being thrown into the adjacent trashcan.

                                            >You’d be above this, normally, above chatting up strangers like a beggar.

                                            >No matter how much you may look like one.

                                            >No matter how low you sink, you’ve never been one to ask for charity.

                                            >Unfortunately, your hunger surpassed whatever had remained of your pride a while ago.

                                            >Might as well accept the facts.

                                            >You act the part, too, checking the coin return slot every time someone walks away after buying something.

                                            >On the bright side, at least no one chased you away so far.

                                            >No one spat on you.

                                            >Yet.


                                            >"Jeez, how much shit are you gonna get?"

                                            >You hadn’t even noticed the two girls approaching.

                                            >"Do you wanna get fat or what?"

                                            >"Stop breaking my balls, Amethyst. I’m hungry, alright?"

                                            >The girl punching number after number into the machine’s keypad stuffs another bill into the slot while her friend gives the whole thing a good whack to the side.

                                            >If the thumps and thuds coming from the bottom drawer are anything to go by, they must be close to emptying it.

                                            >"What? What you looking at, hobo?"

                                            >You must have been staring.

                                            >Quickly turning away, you focus on the wall ahead.

                                            >Or the floor.

                                            >Anything but your rumbling belly, really.

                                            >You’re pretty sure they can hear it anyway, judging from the sharp snickering.

                                            >You don’t know the girls—it’s not like you have any acquaintances at all, really—but you know their type.

                                            >And you know that, even if they cracked the machine’s safety glass right in front of you and emptied its contents onto the floor like a metal piñata, there’s no way in hell asking them to share would in any way end well for you.

                                            >"It’s alright," the girl with her arms full of snacks grins down at you. "Want one?"

                                            >She nods to her giggling friend, who pulls a pack of gummy bears from the heap and holds it out.

                                            >"Here. All you gotta do is say ‘please.’"

                                            "May I please–"

                                            >You’re cut off by the plastic bag being smacked across your face.

                                            >"Again, bitch! Properly!"

                                            "Can I–"

                                            >Another hit, this one leaving your cheek stinging.

                                            >"C’mon. Don’t get shy now, you fucking freeloader!"

                                            "Pl…"

                                            >You would have begged again if your voice hadn’t given out.

                                            "I…"

                                            >Rough laughter erupts from the pair, and you hide your face in your jacket to not spur them on any more by letting them see you cry.

                                            >"Fucking hobos," the girl with the bag of fruit gums chuckles. "Hey! Take it."

                                            >Carefully peeking out over your arms, you can see her offering the sweets again.

                                            >Just as you’re about to reach out, she quickly rips open the pack and dumps them all into the trashcan.

                                            >"S’not like you’re not used to eating garbage, right?!"

                                            >More howls of laughter echo down the hallway as the girls strut away.

                                            >You wait until they’re around the corner, and then even longer, until you can’t tell whether their giggles are in your ears or just your mind anymore.

                                            >Pulling yourself up, you bend over the trashcan and start picking out the gummy bears from between used napkins and grubby plastic cups.