I Know The End

Mother is a blade that never stops cutting.

Can the killer in me tame the fire in you?

Is there nothing left to do for us? I am sick of the chase but I'm hungry for blood and there's nothing I can do.

KILLER, PHOEBE BRIDGERS

I know the end.

    The relationship between Mother and Daughter is a hard one. Especially when Mother is a micromanaging maniac with a victim complex who likes to scream her throat raw in arguments and remind Daughter of her status as Mother. Mother & Daughter's bond most times is saccharine and fun—she's the Cool Mom, and lets her drink a glass of wine from time to time, and watch the films with swearing in them, and eat unhealthy food, and butters her up with all these nice little things... Stuff she'll throw back in Daughter's face in fights. Stuff that seems trivial when Mother doesn't let Daughter go to the party the cute boy, who's just one year older, is throwing, and starts to comment on how much she's eating.

    Mother's belligerent and cries a lot and believes a little too much in astrology and shouts until her body's abraded and hot, and the walls shake. And Daughter can be just as mean, because after all her body—her good bones, and her wide eyes—is a haunted house and the ghost is Father... and Mother hates Father.

    And then Mother dies and Sydney Sommers didn't know if she could call herself a daughter anymore.

    Hawkins was a small town but Sydney was lucky enough that she never really crossed paths with her so-called 'dad' much. She begrudgingly went to the station once to report her bicycle missing—but her jaw ached from clenching it so hard by just being in the same room as him that she eventually stormed out. She'd bump into him in an aisle at the supermarket sometimes—he'd probably be juggling armfuls of Budweiser and microwavable meals—and he'd try stammer a sentence together, like how've you been, kiddo? or ignorantly ask how her mother was doing, but Sydney never dignified him with anything indulgent or more than 5 syllables. A few times, he had been known to send birthday cards—always a few days off, the glittery age on the front most likely wrong and his handwriting was so shit Sydney just knew he had stomached a few whilst scribbling his half-hearted attempt at fatherhood in a pen stole from work.

    Chrissie Sommer's death shattered the estranged Father/Daughter bond they had going, one Sydney liked, one Sydney was used to.

    Sydney had to move house. Sydney had to cram all of her belongings into the tiny, spare bedroom in her dad's shitty, decrepit excuse of a home. Sydney had to mourn her mum whilst getting to know a man who'd been a supermarket-aisle parasite her whole life. Sydney was livid and hollow and wanted to douse the world in kerosene and strike a match and watch it burn.