Hello Steemit! My Least Favorite Life - iZombie Fan Fiction

thefinalgirl (62)in #introduceyourself • 8 years ago

This is my first post on Steemit. My name is Jackie and a teacher by trade, but a writer by heart. I love writing fan fiction about iZombie, Agents of Shield, and Pitch Perfect. I do have some original work that I hope to post soon! This is my original work and I have posted this work on another site. I hope you enjoy it! =-)

Summary:

Peyton calls you a monster. You aren't entirely sure you disagree with her.

(AKA the story of how Gilda didn't die at the end of the finale)

Notes:

So I am madly in love with Gilda du Clark and it's a "problem." I refuse to believe that she's actually dead because apparently I live in a state of denial and the only thing I love almost as much as I love Gilda du Clark is ladies loving ladies. So you know I was all about the Liv and Gilda train. This story is canon divergence, set after the season 2 finale. The title comes from the song of the same name by Lera Lynn.

The brain you're on right now makes you want to clean all the time. And not in the way that old-Liv brains made her organize the silverware drawer by the height of the prongs on the forks but in the way that makes your fingers and hands always smell like disinfectant and bleach and the thought of dirt and disorganization sets your teeth on edge. Peyton comes in one evening and finds you on your knees in the kitchen, scrubbing a spot with Lady Macbeth like intensity and she only rolls her eyes at you, scowling as she gets a beer and leaves you to your madness.

You know she resents you for being here. You know she's a little bit mad at Liv for inviting you to the stay. You know Liv is more than a little bit mad at herself for giving you back your old key and letting you sleep on the couch. It only makes you scrub the spot harder.

A part of you thinks that Liv might have given you this brain as a little bit of payback, some twisted form of punishment that is as malicious as the saintly Liv can provide. Or maybe she just wanted someone to clean her apartment.

But you're grateful anyway, even though you're edgy and desperate and you feel like your skin is too tight. It's better than having your father in your head; it's better than having the remnants of his mind twisting around inside of you, bombarding you with memories. The worst part is that his thoughts and yours weren't entirely that different.

Thankfully Liv finds you in the bathroom one evening, soaking the showerhead in Rust-Away for the tenth time that week and hands you a smoothie. You can smell the secret ingredient clearly, even over the sharp bite of the bleach and cleaner. She looks almost sorry to see you in your rolled up sweat pants, your newly dyed hair a tangled mess, pulled back from your face in a too-tight ponytail. You look away from her eyes, wordlessly sipping from the straw. You don't want to see the pity in her eyes because you're pretty sure that you don't deserve it.

It's almost too easy for you to allow yourself to give in completely to the brains. You aren't entirely sure who you are anymore, who you ever were. In a way, you think you were always a product of your father's brain; he made you into exactly what he wanted and you allowed yourself to be molded so easily. You aren't sure there's a personality of your own to salvage beneath the influence of the dead.

Underneath it all, Liv is still Liv. Major is still Major. They deserve each other, you think, the two golden children of the budding zombie apocalypse.

The brain you're on now belonged to a loud-mouthed idiot who you're pretty sure was killed because he didn't know how to keep his mouth shut. It doesn't endear you to Peyton or Clive, who tolerate you only because Liv told them to and because Liv swears that once you're reformed, you can be an asset to Team Z.

"I don't need to be reformed." You tell Liv bluntly thanks to the filter-less brain in your head. "I didn't do anything wrong."

In a way, you do believe this. You never did anything to hurt anyone, not intentionally anyway. Being a zombie only makes you hate them a little bit more so it's difficult to truly feel bad for what you helped your father do, keeping them locked in a basement and experimenting on them like cranky rats. You only wish your team had made as much progress as Ravi; it only figures that Vaughn couldn't do anything right, not even this, not even with his millions.

"Maybe not." Liv tells you and you can tell that she's saying these words begrudgingly and maybe only to assuage some of the tension that seems to follow you wherever you go now. "But you could work on being a little more pleasant."

You want to blame it on the brain because Liv always gets away with this particular ploy but you aren't entirely sure that it's the brain's fault.

But you're totally willing to blame it on the brain later that night when you're standing in the kitchen with a glass of wine in your hand -which you can't taste- watching Liv cook herself a stir-fry of recent murder victim brains.

"You're too good for Major." You say, leaning your hip against the side of the counter. "He's an idiot. A liar. You're better than he is."

Liv whacks the edge of her wooden spoon on the pan before looking over in your direction. "No one asked you."

You give her a saccharine smile. "It's the brain." You tell her. "He never shuts up."

Liv gives you a look that is a very good imitation of someone sucking a lemon. She turns back to her dinner; it makes your mouth water. The dinner, not the look on her face.

"Major and I are taking a break anyway." She says and judging by the weight of her words, you think this is the first time she's said this out loud. "There's just too…much. He doesn't want to be a zombie and I just feel all this guilt…"

Liv stops herself and you lift a perfectly teased eyebrow in response to her sudden silence. "Let me guess: over-sharer brain?"

Liv doesn't answer. Instead, she says, "You're a liar too. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black."

You shrug, tightening your grip on the glass in your hands. "Takes one to know one." You say breezily, like the recitation of your crimes doesn't bother you. "And I never claimed to be a good person."

Liv only looks at you and again you find yourself looking away first, ashamed to be on the receiving end of a look of compassion you know you don't deserve. "Doesn't that make you sad?"

You scoff. "What has being nice ever gotten anyone?"

The conversation pretty much tapers off after that and you kind of miss it. You're starting to find that you like talking to Liv.

The next brain is a doer. It's a breath of fresh air, all that motivation coursing through your veins all of the sudden. You're up at dawn to jog, making coffee with hot sauce instead of cream and sugar. You're finally done with hanging around the apartment all day, waiting for Liv to come home or summon you down to the morgue for some purpose or another. You get a job at a book store, a small, privately owned place that you think would make your father sneer at you in a mixture of horror and disgust. It's probably the whole reason you walked into the place to apply for the job. You think you've spent too much time trying to be Vaughn du Clark's daughter.

The motivation doesn't leave when you eat a new brain, though you do decide to jog after work instead. You've never been one for the rising-before-dawn lifestyle. And sometimes Liv joins you, though it turns into more of a lazy stroll instead of anything that might increase your heart rate. Or, whatever it is that zombies have.

"This is nice," Liv says brightly as you take another turn around the park closest to her apartment building, "isn't this nice? Being outside is always great. It makes everything seem better, even if you're having a bad day."

She's on pre-school teacher brain. You've been teasing her mercilessly about this fact for the past several days but it doesn't seem to matter to her and it just makes you feel terrible for trying to dent her bubbly armor.

"Yeah, great." You reply dryly. "I've always said that all life's problems would be solved if people just went outside."

Liv doesn't seem to realize you're only being caustic. "Exactly." She smiles. "There's always so much to see and discover."

You roll your eyes so far that you're impressed you don't see the inside of your skull. Which is probably for the best; there are already too many threats lurking around up there. "Right. Baby birds, flowering plants, rocks…who could ever have a bad day around all this."

Liv's brow furrows and you think you might feel bad if you were capable of such a thing. "Why do you always have to be so sarcastic?" She questions. "It only pushes people away."

"Exactly." You tell her flatly. "You figured out my plan."

"Gilda, the sun always shines brighter with friends." Liv tells you. "An ant can't build an ant hill all alone."

"Ooh, let me write that one down." You mime a shocked face, bumping your forehead with the heel of your hand. "How silly of me. I should have known the mystery's life of could be solved with platitudes."

Liv shakes her head. "You'll see." She sing-songs, only to become distracted in her efforts to turn you into a regular human being by what she thinks is a robin's nest in a tree.

You want to tell her not to bother or waste her time with you. Her sunshiny persona is better suited for her friends, the people who already love her for her usual brightness and vigor. Someone like you, well, you've never had friends to love anything about you.

For the first time, you discover what it's truly like to experience the brain of someone killed before their time.

You wake up screaming, too consumed by the fear of the memories to be embarrassed about your reaction. It had all played out like some horrific dream: the sound of someone invading your space, the realization that the call you'd just placed to the police would never make a difference, the first flash of pain-

The light in the living room flicks on and it does little to help ease you out of the state of panic that you feel. You see a figure and roll off the couch in your effort to distance yourself from the intruder, cowering on the floor as though that might somehow make a difference, might actually save your life.

The hand on the curve of your back is soft and gentle, the voice whispering against your ear familiar. It's easier after that to come back, to remember that you are more than just the memories in your mind, that you're alive despite the feelings and terror you just experienced.

When you look up, Liv is already staring down at you, her expression sympathetic. "I know." She says quietly. "It's terrible."

You don't fight Liv when she moves to put her arms around you, pulling you to her. It's unfamiliar, this embrace. It's the touch of someone who doesn't expect something in return; it's the compassion of a person you didn't manipulate into feeling exactly how you wanted them to. It's only Liv, who knows exactly how you feel in that moment.

You find her crying in the kitchen one afternoon. Peyton is gone, tied up at work and it seems like it's a slow day at the morgue if Liv is already home. You set your things down, approaching her cautiously, as though she's a wild animal and you've just wandered off the trail.

There are Halloween decorations scattered all over the floor, an overturned box beside them, like she was so overcome by the idea of sticking some plastic pumpkins on the door that she just burst into tears and hasn't been sure how to stop.

Of course, you know that's not true. This new brain of hers has been far from kind to Liv. You wish someone else would die so that she could take a step closer to being herself again.

"What's wrong?" You question blithely, like such a thing is commonplace. "Did they cancel Zombie High?"

Liv covers her face with her hand and you feel like a terrible human being for not doing what Peyton or Ravi would have done and try and make her feel better. But you often feel this way, especially around Liv.

"I'm just so sad all the time." She cries and you clench your jaw, watching her. "And I don't know why. I can't stop it. I feel like I'm completely alone."

You feel a bit like you're imitating a functioning member of the human species when you step closer to her, putting your arms around her. But Liv falls into you instantly and you feel like you've finally done something right for once. Your father would laugh at Liv's tears, call this whole exchange weak and embarrassingly useless. The only emotions he had time for were the sly and sneaky ones, the ones that used intelligence like a knife.

It feels good to do something you know Vaughn would hate.

Liv lifts her head to look at you, her eyes shining with an endless reservoir of tears. "Do you ever just feel lonely?" She asks softly. "Cut off from everyone else?"

You don't answer because you think the question is rhetorical anyway and besides, who doesn't?

When she kisses you softly, you let her because you know it's only the brain and the desperate need for human contact.

And because you need a little connection too.

You don't talk about the kiss, even after she's on a new brain and so are you and the Halloween decorations have come back down. You never think about it. Of course.

You do. But it doesn't matter.

You think that wanting to kiss Liv again is a little bit like the moon wanting to be close to the sun when the sun is so bright and the source of life and growth and the moon is only dead, dark and lonely.

You're on poet brain. It really sucks. You're tired of scribbling down your thoughts about your childhood and Vaughn and being a blank canvas.

Which is honestly a great metaphor, when you think about it. You're going to need to explore that one later.

But for now you're only sitting at the kitchen table, watching as Liv cooks dinner and she looks like a sonnet, like some ridiculous romantic dribble that you would never think in if it wasn't for this idiotic brain in your head because you know that you would never describe Liv in rhymes and metaphors and couplets. They don't suit her.

There's a fierceness to Liv that would cow the Victorians.

You put aside your pen and get to your feet, stepping toward her. The chef's brain she's on keeps her focus on the work of art she's preparing and can't even eat and she jumps in surprise when you put a hand on the small of her back.

She lifts her head and you kiss her like you've done it a thousand times before.

And maybe you have. In another life.

Stupid poet brain. Way to ruin the moment.

Neither of you talk about the kiss. But it becomes a constant anyway, an action unfueled by whatever brain you're on.

It's nice, you think, if this is one of the truths you know about yourself.

You hear her talking to Peyton in the living room when they both think you're in the shower, which you would be if you didn't realize that you'd neglected to grab a change of pajamas before you stepped into the bathroom and started running the water. It provides the perfect excuse to eavesdrop and teenager brain is all about eavesdropping.

"I can't believe you." Peyton's voice is stuck in lawyer mode, like a lecturing parent instead of a friend. "You know it's not like I expect you and Major to just put aside your differences and ride off into the sunset but her? What's the deal, Liv? What brain are you on? Self-destructive, bi-curious college freshman?"

You almost laugh because you didn't know Peyton had it in her.

"Peyton, don't be ridiculous." Liv is the type of patient that feels like nails on a chalkboard to you thanks to her psychiatrist brain. "You know I'm still myself just…with more personality swings."

Peyton barks out a laugh. You step further away from the bathroom, curiosity on overdrive. You're pretty sure no one on this godforsaken planet could resist the urge to overhear people talking about them.

"So yourself wants to fuck Gilda du Clark? The same person who was sleeping with Major behind your back, became your roommate to spy on you and worked for the guy who pretty much created all of Seattle's zombies?"

You suddenly feel like crying because you definitely don't miss the teenage angst of churning hormones and overripe emotions. You don't disagree with Peyton because you've done everything she's accusing you of. But you can't help but wonder if you can ever truly be someone other than the first version of yourself.

"Peyton," Liv chides, an underlying sharpness to her patience, "don't talk about her like that. If you ever got to know her-"

"I don't want to get to know her." Peyton interrupts. "You're my best friend, Liv, and that will never change. But she's…a monster. And that has nothing to do with the fact that she's a zombie."

A monster. You aren't sure you disagree with that either.

"She's not a monster." Liv replies evenly. "Can you imagine having Vaughn du Clark as a father? She's only acting in the way that she was raised, following the only role model that she had. It's her nurture versus her nature."

Your mouth goes dry and it's hard to swallow around the tightness in your throat. You aren't sure you want to listen to anyone talking about you anymore. You never signed on to be psycho-analyzed.

Pretty much for this very reason.

You will always be Vaughn du Clark's daughter.

"People can change." Liv says as you start to retreat back into the bathroom. "There's more to her then you think."

Whatever is said next, you don't hear. You don't want to hear. You just step beneath the spray of the shower and hate being a teenager all over again.

You don't sleep, not like Liv does. You're envious of her for this, for the easy way that her body allows itself to shut down, providing her a few hours' reprieve from the world that continues on outside.

You watch her as she sleeps beside you, your mind still playing over the conversation you overheard between her and Peyton. It was easy to pretend like nothing was amiss, like you hadn't been eavesdropping; your father taught you all his tricks.

"Gilda," Liv grumbles softly, surprising you, "go to sleep. Or at least stop staring at me." She cracks open a single eye. "It's creepy."

"Sorry." You turn away, putting your back to her. You can watch the city from seven stories up until the sun starts to rise again.

Liv puts a hand on your shoulder, pressing against you from behind. The gesture is so effortless, so simple and uncomplicated. Why does it seem like the most complex thing in the world?

"What's wrong?" Liv asks and you know it's not just the therapist in her but the Liv, the truth of her.

You swallow and there's a part of you that wants to twist away from Liv, to shed her as easily as changing a personality. There's a part of you who remembers your rule of never spending the night, of never allowing yourself to truly become entangled with someone else. Even with Major, it was ultimately about business. Your father needed him, needed him pliable and stupid, blind to the game in which he was only a pawn. You never wanted anyone to get close to you, to realize how tangled and fucked up and hollowed out you were. If no one else saw you as a puppet of Vaughn's than you could pretend that you weren't, that you only acted as his lapdog to inherit the company when he was gone.

But there's another part of you that feels the weight of Liv's cool hand on your shoulder and enjoys it.

"Did you mean what you said?" You ask, turning your head back to look at her. "You think I can change? That I'm not a monster."

If she's surprised that you know of her conversation with Peyton, Liv doesn't show it. Maybe she's not surprised. Maybe she always knows more than she lets on.

"You're not a monster." Liv tells you in the quiet of her bedroom. "There's someone good inside of you, you just have to stop being afraid of her."

You still aren't crazy about this whole unwarranted therapy session. But at least this makes you feel somehow hopeful.

Liv kisses you again, even though you still haven't decided if you're going to find this someone good. You aren't sure that she exists but, right now, you're fine with letting Liv believe for the both of you.

"You're on my side."

She's been gone, working late into the night with Clive on some case that you hope isn't going to result in her using the excuse to do something stupid and reckless. You open your eyes, trying to feign grogginess so that she doesn't realize you've just been waiting for her to return.

"Sorry." You grumble, watching as she sheds her thick winter coat and everything beneath. "I didn't realize."

You did. You know the scent of her pillow, sweet of the smell of her shampoo, versus the sting of the smell of hair dye that sticks to yours.

She gets into bed beside you and you think this isn't so bad after all, this letting someone in thing. This staying the night thing.

This trying to be a better person thing.

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