Title: "Over the Rainbow"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, Faith/Zander-ish, general.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine!
Summary: If happy little bluebirds fly...

There is a whole section of her closet that looks like Dorothy just stepped into Oz. Technicolor. Horses of a different color throwing up in shades of bright blue and yellow and red. Pink. She has a whole series in pink. Pink suit like Jackie Kennedy with the pillbox hat. Pink negligee like a blushing virgin bride. Pink vinyl pants like the roller derby girl she never was.

It all hangs in plastic, crisp, untouched, with a thin layer of dust muting the glow and she takes care not to disturb that end of the rack, make it sway, when she slides through her selection of designer black. Black suit like a widow. Black negligee like a whore. Black leather pants like the vampy bar fly her newest employee has invited out for pool and beers.

He doesn't seem to understand that she prefers expensive wine and candlelight. Or maybe he looks at her and he sees the teased hair, smells the acrid scent of too much Aqua Net, and knows that before she wore fishnets, she had six different pairs of leg warmers that went with the multi-colored laces on her L.A. Gears.

Before. That was all before. When she missed Scarecrow most of all and knew all the words to "Ease on Down the Road." Now...now she's the Wicked Witch and she drapes herself in mourning veils the color of permanent night as she cleans and loads her .38.

Sometimes, she thinks she might actually wear something polychromatic again. Something flashy that brings out her eyes and her skin tone and looks like laughter. But then she remembers a red dress being ripped from her body... remembers how Roscoe always liked her in this little blue mini skirt that made her legs look a mile long...and she reaches for black satin panties and steps into them one foot at a time.

"Be gone," she whispers, as she glances back at her bedroom mirror and checks the seams on her stockings, "before somebody drops a house on you."

When Zander comes to pick her up, she makes the executive decision that they won't be playing eight ball and downing brewskies. She slams him up against the door, laughs when silk rips beneath his hands and his pulse jumps under her teeth. "Hey...Faith...whoa...what are you doin'?" he murmurs, confirming her belief that he's not the brightest bulb in the box...but that's all right... because she doesn't want bright.

She wants dark. Black. Death.

She clicks her heels together as she angles between his thighs.

There's no place like home.

There's no place like home.

There's no place.


November 12, 2003.

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