Why, Bitch wondered, are they happier than me?
…did I speak too soon?
Maybe it’s just because I’ve been getting more and more into MLP:FiM fandom stuff recently, but it seems to me that if this is actually the case, the answer may be friendship. Human friendship.
But with the way Rachel’s brain works, shouldn’t dog friendship be about as good, if not better?
Unbidden, the answers came to mind.
She remembered living with her mother. She couldn’t even remember the woman’s face, but that was little surprise.
Ouch.
Mom had worked anywhere from three jobs to none, but she spent little time in the apartment. When she was home, she was either drinking in her room or partying with friends.
Ahhh.
I guess Rachel had to largely take care of herself even before she became homeless, then.
Little Rachel’s questions or attempts to get attention were met with anger, rejection. She would be pushed away or locked in her room.
Ew. This is the kind of parent whose face doesn’t deserve to be remembered.
Better to stay quiet, watch for an opportunity. If her mother passed out drunk, bills could be taken from her wallet, secreted away for later purchases of bread, peanut butter and jam, milk and cereal or orange juice at the corner store.
…not a bad idea, honestly, when it’s like that. Until it gets noticed, of course.
Then it becomes trouble.
If there was a party, and if she was successful in keeping from getting underfoot, she could often snatch a bag of chips, a box of ribs or chicken wings, to eat under her bed or on the roof.
I like the mental image of rooftop Rachel, even though the circumstances prompting it are unfortunate.
