"If you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best." Marilyn Monroe The quote was written in some frollicky-looking cursive at the bottom of the poster, headed by the black and white beauty herself beaming at you with her million-dollar smile and half-lidded eyes brimming with that feline, know it all sort of charm that'd launched her size zero-ass to stardom. It occupied the space on the wall between the chalendar and the shattered mirror - Miss Cheesecake of 1951 smiled upon a bedroom that looked as if it'd been lifted straight out of a crack den and then dashed with shards of broken glass, like the icing atop an exceptionally shitty donut. A cupboard lay overturned on its side, spilling clothes onto a dirty carpet soggy with spilt beer and a few wayward specks of blood, and the drawers where you kept all your underwear had been relieved of a couple of its trays, which by the looks of things had been overturned onto the floor, right next to the crumpled heap of sheets that'd been cast from the bed. You wonder: how bad had Monroe been at her worst? Because this? This was Charlotte on a good day. The literal elephant in the room was sprawled out across a king-sized bed that was supposed to be big enough for the two of you, her limbs spread-eagle like some monstrous grey starfish and the drooping cable of her trunk dangling limply over the side of the bed, still coiled around the cheap bottle of chardonnay she'd snagged from the convinience store on the way home on that indignant drunkard's impulse of hers. The black vest she used to contain her considerable mass was still sodden down the front from where she'd choked on the shardonnay in her fervor to consume it, drenching both herself and the carpet in stains that you were all too certain would be a bitch to get out. The rumpled ship-sails of her ears twitch as if they could hear your mounting displeasure, and the pink fleshy slab of her tongue lolled out from beneath the root of her trunk as she made sound caught somewhere between a yawn and a groan. Impatiently you wait for her to come stumbling back into the land of the living, crossing your arms and drumming your fingers against your elbow in a stern display of unamusement, intending to flay Charlotte's leathery backside with your tongue the moment she cracked her eyes. This was the last time she'd be pulling a stunt like this. Some upturned chairs and tipped tables you could deal with, but the decimation she'd dealt upon bedroom last night went far and beyond the line in the sand you'd drawn and re-drawn only God knows how many times over the past five months or so. By your count this was the third time in the last two weeks that Charlotte had came home in a drunken stupor, and you in all your infinite wisdom had gone and started an argument over the fact, toppling the first of many dominoes that'd led to this heaping mound of carnage that'd been your once pristine bedroom. It'd started out innocently enough, with you making an... Admittedly pointed suggestion that perhaps she should relegate her boozing to the weekends, but inevitably it'd spilled out onto broader subjects, just as it always did. Soon your not-so-friendly spat had erupted into an uncivil war of cursewords, slammed doors and, evidently, broken mirrors. You scoured the wanton destruction with your keen decorator's eye, summing up the costs of Charlotte's latest tantrum. The tipped furniture and strewn clothes were a non-issue that could be fixed in perhaps an hour, and you pessimistically gagued that purging the carpet of its latest stains would extend that hour into an entire afternoon of busywork. There was nothing to do about the broken mirror though - mercy knows why Charlotte chose that of all things to vent her frustrations on. Judging from the lacerations on Charlotte's hand, it'd gotten its own back on her. A few bandaids masked the cuts across the beefy gauntlets of her hands, dilligently applied by yours truly whilst the elephant slept off her latest hangover. A measure of your righteous fury dissapates as you look at that bloodied hand. No, you weren't afraid that she'd gone and hurt herself; her skin was akin to a hide of tanned leather, and you doubted a few wayward shards of glass would be enough to cause any serious injury. But still, it might sting once she woke up. You'd caught the little winces she'd made in her sleep whilst you'd dabbed her knuckles with antiseptic. Maybe you should go dig some aspirin out of the cupboards for when she woke up, just in case those cuts still smarted a little- No! No. Angry face. No more Mr. Nice guy. This was the last straw. Tossing some trinkets about like a fussy child you could endure, but breaking your mirror? Spilling drink all over your carpet? Emptying out you drawers in some infantile spite like a horny teenager on a panty raid? This had to stop. The line in the sand had been crossed, and this time you weren't drawing another one. She'd shape up her act or... Or you'd kick her out onto the road! You'd like to see how she'd fare WITHOUT somebody to clean up behind her or cook her meals or do her laundry! A week in a motel or shacking up with one of her work friends should sober her up nicely, you'd reckon. Then again, you'd feel awfully lonely with all this house to yourself... And the nights would be cold without your lovely lumbering lady to snuggle with... And she'd gone out of her way to get you that adorable teapot for valentines last month, the one with the kissing bunny rabbits on the front. Like, she'd tied this cute little red bow around the spout and put those paper rose petals in the packaging - oh, it'd been so cute... You know what you're doing: you're rationalising. Whenever she had one of these rages of hers there'd always be that one part of your brain that'd leap to her defence no matter the severity of her transgressions. Ever since she'd moved in with you, it'd had its plate full. She came home tipsy and smelling of beer? Well, it'd been a long day at work for her, and we all had our vices. She wouldn't help out with the chores? Of course she didn't, those lengthy shifts of hers tuckered her out something dreadful. She never cooked dinner? That's because she knows you're the better cook, It's a complement if you think about it. You hated that part of your brain, how it ignored the insurmountable mountains of evidence which piled against its claims but held fast to the small shreds of alibis and excuses Charlotte fed you. You hated how acclimated you were to sheepishly heeding its advice and bringing yourself around to its broken way of thinking and you hated how it was still trying to do just that even now, after all THIS. Charlotte stirs, pawing at her wide midsection with fingers about twice the thickness of your thumb. Gradually the fingers scratch their way up her body, the generous padding of pudge around her otherwise muscular frame yielding beneath the assault of her nails as they chased an itch up across her chest to the thick column of her neck before finally settling on an ivory foot-long tusk, picking absent-mindedly at the tip. Laboriously she peeled her lids back from bloodshot eyes, only to close them with a sharp hiss of pain as a slat of sunlight emanating from between the venetian blinds played harshly across her pupil. "Hnnnguuuuhuhuhh..." she articulated in a sound you could only describe as an impersonation crying sea lion. She rolled off of the mattress, away from the light, and hit the floor with a thump that might've been classified as a small earthquake in some states. A pang of sympathy hamstrings the simmering temper you'd kept burning since last night, and grudgingly you let your arms uncross themselves and fall to your sides. When you sum up all the costs you... Suppose a terrible hangover was punishment enough for the upturned drawers and messy carpet. The mirror was a step or two over the line to be sure, but, well... Charlotte mumbles some miserable nothings into the beer-sodden patch of carpet she'd landed on, digging her bulky fingers into the unkempt raven locks of her hair in a futile attempt to snuff out the hot coals of agony smouldering in her brain. Dammit, you couldn't start another argument with her now, not like this. It just wouldn't be fair. You resolve to go and hunt down that box of aspirin and leave the berating for another day - maybe tommorrow. Yeah, you'd have a couple words with her tommorrow and talk her around to your way of thinking. Chances were she'd feel like an absolute jackass once the fog lifted from her mind and be stumbling over herself to apologise. That was usually the way these things went. She was a sweetheart really, once you got past the imposing size and all. Still, you weren't about to go letting her off scott-free. When you'd told yourself that this had been the last straw, you'd meant it. let's see how she liked cooking her own damned breakfast for a change. - The omelette hissed as you flipped it effortlessly in the pan and the coffee stoked up a fragrant, invigorating smell which rejuivinated you in what felt like just the right way after your long night on the couch. You split your attention between your breakfast and the wallclock hanging over the oven. Pretty soon you'd have to head off to work, and Charlotte soon after. You itched to get out of the house, if only to get away from your mess of a bedroom and the woman who'd caused it, perhaps put it all out of your mind for a couple of hours. Some might call it running from confrontation, but you called it a momentary escape from reality. Listening to them side by side, they kind of sounded like one of the same. More often than not Charlotte was your ideal girlfriend: a large-hearted lover with a crude sense of humour and a clumsy sort of affection that melted your heart in just the right way. But everybody had a dark side, and her's just happened to become more pronounced when she was under the influence. On most days she was as gentle as could be for someone of her size, but get a couple of drinks in her and she became downright destructive. You can recall one of her earlier drunken escapades in which she'd gotten into some pointless argument with a driver on the way home from a party. She'd ended up driving her fist into the hood of his car and costing herself a month's worth of wages in covering the guy's expenses. Gentle as she might be most of the time, Charlotte was every bit of the bonafide wrecking ball she looked. But dammit, she was YOUR wrecking ball. Sure, she might break some things when she's angry, and yeah, it wouldn't kill her to help out around the house a little more, but there was more good to her than bad, and you loved that good enough to put up with the latter. ... Did the latter really have to be an issue, though? Like, you're not asking for too much when you tell her to wipe down a table or do the laundry or something, right? Maybe swap out the neat shots of whiskey for an iced tea on weekdays? If you can forgo watching your weekly episode of Berford Manor so she can hog the TV for an hour and catch up on all her stupid sports, then maybe she could lift a finger or two to keep this place in working order. The bedroom door creaked open behind you, and the heavy thump of of footfalls belied Charlotte's uneven gait as she dragged herself over to the table and pulled up a chair. You feel her eyes on your back, but you made a point not to turn around, or say hello or even acknowledge her presence. You refused to be the one who made the peace offering and smoothed things over this time around, not after all she did. Let it be known that you weren't COMPLETELY spineless, God forbid. After a moment of deliberation, she made the first move. "So, interesting night, huh?" You peel the omelette off of the surface of the pan with a couple of angry jabs from with the spatula and flip it in the pan again. "Very." She seethes a frustrated sigh, obviously hoping you'd contribute a bit more conversation than that. Well, too bad. This was a mess she could clean up herself. There's a brief moment of silence breached only by the sizzling of breakfast and the cranking gears in Charlotte's head as she plotted her route through the minefield of emotions last night had left between the two of you. Eventually she settled on flattery, the safest of options. "You're looking real good today, you do something with your hair?" You had, and you hated how happy you were that she'd noticed. Hair dressing was something of a part-time hobby of yours; something you'd picked up from working at a barber's through your later teenage years in order to cover the costs of your education and never really dropped. From time to time you'd try out a new style on yourself or Charlotte or a friend from work looking for a fresh head of hair, just to keep your skills sharp. "Thanks and, uh, I did." you reply, running your fingers across your meticulously gelled hair. "I like it. Kinda reminds me of one of them guys from Grease. Real cute." She knows that Grease is your favourite movie, and she knows that you know that she knows. It's a cheap shot at your heartstrings that couldn't be more blatant, and the way it charms you so well, despite knowing all that, brings your blood to a boil. A bolder man would've told her to shove her compliments up her plus-sized ass and save the niceties until after she'd fixed the goddamned mess she'd made of your bedroom, but the ugly truth of it was that you weren't that man. Oh, you'd tried to be - multiple times, in fact - but on every occassion your fickle conscience would reel you back in. Last night's shouting match was a waste of time; all Charlotte really had to do was squeeze out a tear, and your hair-trigger guilt complex would've done the rest. It was your greatest weakness, and thankfully Charlotte had too much pride to exploit it on a regular basis. Just, you know, only on the occassions when she'd done something to REALLY piss you off. Looking over your shoulder, you realise that this is one of those occassions. Charlotte's slumped into one of the chairs at your dining table with elbows propped on the furface, her head resting in her palms and her shoulders hunched together in a way that somehow made her look as small and as fragile as a field mouse despite her nine foot tall stature and imposing mass. Her drooping trunk, usually so evocative and playful, lays curled in a sad heap between her elbows like a grey cobra suffering from a nasty bout of depression. The twin sails of her ears are furled behind her cheeks, and the unkempt mop of her raven curls plays across her damp, bloodshot-hazel eyes in a way that makes that blasted puppydog look she's giving you all the more heart-wrenching. "You're looking pretty good yourself." you bite off the compliment grudgingly, unable to shake the feeling that you were giving ground by doing so. "Pfft, yeah, right." she made a sad sort of laugh, running her fingers through her hair. "Thanks. For the glass of water, I mean. And the, uh...?" "Aspirin." "Right! Right. That's what those tablets were. 'Course." she cleared her throat roughly, squeezing her eyes shut and kneading her thumbs into her temples as if to supress a headache. A fresh burr of pity finds its way into your heart, and you leave the stove for a moment to pour her a fresh glass of water. She forces a grateful smile through her grimace of pain as you pass it over the table. "Thanks," she says, fixating on the glass in a sad, pensive kind of way and turning it in her fingers. "And... I'm sorry."