//------------------------------//
// three 
// Story: Quit Hitting Yourself 
// by Technicolor 
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She came inside the house. She wouldn’t leave. And nobody seemed to notice her, not even Bon Bon—or if they did, they weren’t alarmed by her presence.

And it followed her, the way she followed Lyra. Walked right next to her through market. Nobody said a peep. She was afraid to ask anybody, for obvious reasons. Everyone knew she was an only child, and after the Wedding, no way she’d have a changeling for a pal. Which meant, most likely, she was just going crazy.

“You’re seriously paying five bits for those sour-ass apples?” she remarked as Lyra put them in her satchel. “Ugh… you are such a chump.”

Or maybe being driven crazy.

She shoved the bag shut and stomped away from the stall, glowering.

“You can’t hold on to money at all. That’s why your girlfriend has to support you.” Lyra didn’t look at her. “It’s not even your own bits you’re pissing away. If you actually wrote something, you might make some. When are you going to do that, by the way? You can’t marry her if you don’t have any money.”

Lyra wanted to cry and run home and sock her in the stomach all at the same time.

Her doppelgänger didn’t follow happily. She dragged her hooves all the time, looked around. It was really obvious she wanted to leave, that she didn’t want to be around Lyra or crowds or anyone at all, or at the very least she’d rather be hiding. And yet, she never tried.

She checked her list and went up to the lettuce stand. Bon Bon wanted three heads—it was almost summer, she had said, it was about time to start on summer salads.

“If you had married that guy, your family would have paid for it.”

She sucked in a breath and took two heads of lettuce.