The Weight of These Sad Times

2025

Adelina's standing there in Germantown, hands shoved into the pockets of her too-thin hoodie, reading the inscription on the Pastorius Monument like it's gonna tell her something she doesn't already know. The stone's old, carved deep with names, and the wind cuts through the park, rattling the half-dead leaves still clinging to the branches.

Carrie Delvecchio, never one for long walks in cold weather, slows as she approaches. Kicks a stray acorn out of her path. Hands jammed in her jacket pockets.

She doesn't say hi. Just tilts her head and mutters,

"And we couldn't do this on the phone, why?"

Adelina doesn't look over. Just smirks at the monument.

"You don't pick up when I call."

Carrie snorts. "Yeah, well. I thought you were dead. Or, like, got a government job or something."

That gets a laugh--soft, but real.

"Right," Adelina says. "I'd make a great civil servant."

She finally turns, and for a second, Carrie sees it--the weight, the time, the years gone by. Adelina's still Adelina, but the edges are sharper now. She's not a ghost, not yet, but she's been close.

Carrie swallows. Kicks another acorn.

"So what now?" she asks.

Adelina takes a breath, lets the wind carry it away. "That's what I'm figuring out."

And for once, Carrie doesn't have a smartass remark. She just stands there, waiting.

Carrie tilts her head, hands still stuffed in her pockets. The wind whips at her hair, loose strands brushing against her cheek, but she barely notices.

"And?" she prompts.

Adelina shifts her weight, shoulders tight. She doesn't fidget--never has--but there's something in the way she stands that tells Carrie everything she needs to know.

"I got trouble. Money."

Carrie gives her a look. A slow, knowing look.

Adelina sighs. "I don't need a handout or a loan or any of that shit."

That's when Carrie really hears it--not just the words, but the weight behind them. The way Adelina bristles, the way her jaw tightens like she's already waiting for an argument. This isn't charity or pride--this is fear.

Carrie's stomach twists, but she doesn't say anything. Not yet. Just lets the silence sit between them.

Adelina exhales hard, looks away.

"I already owe a guy."

And there it is.

Carrie's breath catches, but she keeps her voice steady. "What kind of guy?"

Adelina shakes her head. "The kind that doesn't take IOUs."

Carrie chews the inside of her cheek, staring past her, staring at the monument, at the names carved into stone. Some of those names belonged to men who probably thought they were doing the right thing at the time. Who probably didn't think they were marching toward something they wouldn't come back from.

"How much?" Carrie asks, voice low.

Adelina hesitates. Not because she doesn't know, but because saying it out loud makes it real.

"Six grand."

Carrie lets out a slow whistle, tilting her head back. "Oh, you're in it."

Adelina doesn't answer. She doesn't need to.

Carrie watches her for a second longer, then pulls her phone from her pocket. Starts scrolling.

"What are you doing?" Adelina asks, suspicious.

Carrie doesn't look up. "Texting Valeria."

"For what?"

Now Carrie does look up, eyebrow arched. "For options, dumbass. What, you think I'm about to rob a bank with you?"

Adelina exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. "I shouldn't have called you."

Carrie shrugs. "Yeah, probably not."

She sends the message, then shoves her phone away and crosses her arms. "But here we are."

Adelina looks at her, like she's trying to figure out how much of this is a joke.

Carrie meets her stare head-on.

"We're fixing this," she says.

And for the first time, Adelina looks just a little bit relieved.

2017

Water slaps against mildewed tile, washing over their bare shoulders. The showerhead spits weak, lukewarm streams, but neither of them moves to adjust it. They just cling--Carrie's arms locked tight around Adelina's back, Adelina's fingers digging into Carrie's ribs, both of them shaking like the cold is inside them, deep under the skin.

They're barely 19. Wrapped in each other, pressed so close it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Adelina's face is buried in Carrie's shoulder, her breath hot and ragged against wet skin. Carrie can feel her crying, little jerks of her body, but she doesn't say anything about it. Doesn't try to pull back.

She just kisses the side of Adelina's head, soft, gentle. "It'll be all right."

Adelina makes a sound. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

"Don't lie to me."

Carrie exhales, forehead resting against hers. The world outside is chaos--credit cards maxed out, gas station food for dinner, a shitty motel room on some endless interstate where the only people who check in are running from something.

Maybe they are too.

But right here, under the dull flickering bathroom light, wrapped around each other under weak motel water?

This moment is safe.

Carrie tilts Adelina's chin up, kisses her--slow, desperate, like maybe if she does it right, she can make the world stop for just a little while.

Adelina kisses her back.

Because there's no one else.

Because they don't know if they have tomorrow.

Because right now is the only thing they can hold onto.

The motel room stinks of bad choices and worse decisions. The carpet's rough under Carrie's knees, the flickering glow of the TV casting jittery shadows over the walls. The air's thick with something unspoken, something dangerous, but right now, it's just this.

Adelina's small under her hands, all sharp angles and restless energy, like she doesn't quite fit inside her own skin. Her blonde hair's a mess, damp from the shitty motel shower, dark roots creeping in like the past catching up. It's too short to grab, just enough to tangle fingers through.

Carrie pins her down anyway.

"Still with me?" she mutters, voice low, mouth brushing against Adelina's jaw.

Adelina makes a noise--not quite a word, not quite a gasp, but Carrie feels her shudder, feels the way she arches desperate and wanting into the press of fingers pushing inside her.

She's soaked, trembling, her hips stuttering as Carrie's palm grinds down against her clit. Carrie should go slow. Should tease, should take her time.

She doesn't.

Because this isn't about teasing. This is about staying here. Staying real. About Adelina gripping Carrie's wrist like she'll vanish if she lets go.

Carrie watches her--really watches. The way her chest barely moves when she breathes, nearly flat, the way her green eyes shine too bright in the dim motel light, sharp and unreadable. The way her lips part, slick and red, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip like she's holding something back.

The thought is gone before it lands, lost in the way Adelina clenches around her fingers, the way her thighs squeeze tight like she's trying to pull Carrie in, like she needs more, needs everything.

Carrie leans down, bites at her collarbone, just to feel her jerk. Just to hear the way her breath catches, sharp and desperate.

"God, you're a mess," Carrie mutters.

Adelina lets out a breathless laugh, too close, too wrecked. "Like you're not."

Carrie doesn't answer--just curls her fingers, just presses deeper, just listens as Adelina falls apart beneath her.

The sound she makes when she cums? Carrie swears she'll hear it in her bones forever.

2025

The wind howls through the alley, funneled between rusted chain-link fences and crumbling brick. It whips at their clothes, tangles their hair. Trash skitters across the pavement--crushed beer cans, old newspapers, a plastic bag that flutters like a dying bird before getting snagged on a fence.

Adelina and Carrie walk in step, shoulders hunched against the cold. The warehouse looms ahead--shady as hell, tagged up with graffiti, the kind of place where bad things happen and worse things get buried under concrete. A rat scurries across their path, vanishing into a pile of busted pallets.

Adelina glances over. "You know how you're handling this?"

Carrie doesn't slow. Doesn't hesitate. Just keeps walking, eyes locked ahead, wind pulling at the loose strands of her hair.

"Only one way to handle it."

Adelina exhales, shaking her head, but there's something almost amused in the way she does it.

"Of course that's your answer."

They reach the warehouse door. Rusted metal. Paint peeling. A thick chain looped through the handle, padlocked. Carrie cracks her knuckles, then pulls something from her pocket--a tension wrench, a pick, the same tools she's been carrying since she was old enough to know how to use them.

Adelina watches, arms crossed. "You sure about this?"

Carrie fits the pick into the lock, works it with the kind of ease that comes from habit, not hesitation.

"Nope." The lock clicks. She smirks. "But that never stopped me before."

She yanks the chain loose. The metal groans. The door swings open.

Dark inside. Silent. Waiting.

Carrie steps forward. Adelina follows.

The warehouse swallows them whole.

2017

The toilet in the motel bathroom is already clogged, water swirling sluggishly, threatening to spill over the chipped porcelain rim. Carrie doesn't care. She keeps dumping, ripping open little baggies with her teeth, shaking powder, pills, whatever the hell this shit is, into the bowl. Adelina stands over her, hands braced on the sink, watching, breathing heavy.

Outside, the neon glow from a busted sign flickers through the dirty window. The room stinks--cigarettes, mildew, something worse underneath. The TV is still on, low volume, some late-night infomercial droning about kitchen knives that can cut through cans.

Across the river, barely visible past the stretch of cracked parking lot and chain-link fence, the USS New Jersey sits, silent and looming. Like a patient hunting dog. Like something that's seen worse than this.

Adelina finally moves, kneels next to Carrie, grabs a plastic dime bag full of white powder and tosses it in after the rest.

"We could sell it," she mutters, voice tight.

Carrie snorts, grabbing another handful of baggies. "We could also fucking die." She shoves them into the toilet, punches the handle. The water rises, chokes, starts to go down.

Adelina exhales hard, scrubbing a hand down her face. "They're gonna kill us."

Carrie stands up, grabs her by the shoulders. "Then we don't let them."

Adelina stares at her. The room is dim, shadows playing tricks, but Carrie can still see the fear under her bravado, the little crack in her armor.

Carrie tightens her grip. "We walk out of here, we disappear. We never touch this shit again."

A beat. Then Adelina nods, just once.

The toilet makes a wet gurgling sound, then finally swallows the last of it.

Carrie grabs her by the wrist. "Come on."

They slip out into the cold night, leaving behind the stink, the fear, the wreckage of another bad decision barely outrun.

2025

The place is dark. Silent. The kind of empty that isn't really empty--just waiting. The air smells like oil and dust, like the ghosts of bad deals and worse outcomes.

At the far end, in a pool of golden light spilling down from a single hanging bulb, a desk. Two Armenian goons, broad and mean, standing just outside the glow, their eyes sharp and unreadable. And behind the desk--Manukyan. Suit cheap but pressed, hair slicked back, mouth set in the kind of line that says I don't have time for this shit.

They don't move when Carrie and Adelina step out of the shadows.

They just stare.

They don't know how the two of them got in here. Don't know who the loudmouthed one with the tits is. But they recognize Adelina.

Carrie can feel it--the shift. The weight in the room tilting as Manukyan leans back in his chair, slow, tapping his fingers against the desk like he's rolling a thought around in his head.

"Well," he says finally, accent thick, voice smooth, "I'll be damned."

One of the goons steps forward, cocking his head. "You got balls coming here, Graziano."

Carrie grins, hands still stuffed in her jacket pockets. "That's funny. 'Cause I was just thinking you don't."

The goon's face hardens, but Manukyan lifts a hand, stopping him. His eyes flick to Adelina.

"Didn't expect to see you again." His voice is casual, but there's a sharpness underneath. "Didn't expect you to be breathing, either."

Adelina doesn't flinch. "Disappointed?"

A small smirk, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "That depends." He leans forward, folding his hands on the desk. "Tell me, what's the plan here? You two sneak in, think you can talk your way out of a six-thousand-dollar problem?"

Carrie shrugs. "There's only one way to handle it."

Manukyan gestures loosely. "Enlighten me."

Carrie grins wider, stepping forward, all confidence, all teeth.

"Simple," she says. "We make you a better offer."

2017

They're back in the shitty motel bed, the shower didn't take, the mildew smell is still in the air. The room's dim, flickering TV glow bouncing off cigarette burns in the carpet. Their bags are packed, ready to run.

Carrie's breathing hard, still wired, still tasting the bile of almost getting them killed. Adelina sits on the edge of the bed, hands on her knees, staring at the floor like she can see the whole fucking mess playing back in her head.

Carrie steps between her legs. Tilts her chin up. And for a second, it's just quiet.

"You still with me?" Carrie asks.

Adelina blinks. Swallows. Then nods. But it's a slow, shaky thing.

Carrie should say something smart. Should crack a joke, lighten the mood. Instead, she just leans down, presses their foreheads together.

And that's all it takes.

Adelina moves first, fingers twisting into Carrie's shirt, pulling her down, pulling her close, pulling like she needs something to anchor her to this world. Carrie lets her, lets herself be dragged, lets their mouths crash together like this is the only thing keeping them both upright.

It's fast, messy, all teeth and breath. Their hands don't stop moving--gripping, grabbing, yanking at clothes like the fabric itself is in their way, like getting skin-to-skin is the only thing that matters.

Carrie's on top of her, pressing her into the bed, pressing until she feels Adelina arch up against her, legs wrapping around her waist.

"Fuck," Adelina gasps, and it's not even from what Carrie's doing, it's from how much she needs this, how much she doesn't want to feel like she's disappearing.

Carrie doesn't tease, doesn't hold back, just gives it to her, rough and sure. Hands slipping down, mouth moving against her neck, fingers pressing where they know she'll break apart.

Adelina doesn't beg, but it's close.

And when she comes, it's not quiet.

Carrie follows her down, buries her face in the crook of her neck, breath coming fast, body still humming from everything. Adelina's fingers stay tangled in Carrie's hair, gripping like she's afraid to let go.

For a long time, neither of them speaks.

Finally, Carrie exhales, rolling onto her back, staring at the ceiling like it's got answers.

Adelina turns her head, watches her. Then, voice small, voice careful--

"You sure we're gonna make it?"

Carrie doesn't answer right away. Just reaches over, laces their fingers together on the bedspread, squeezes once.

"We gotta."

And that's enough.

2025

The place smells like oil and bad decisions. The kind of air that clings to your skin, gets in your lungs, makes you feel like you need a shower even if you didn't do shit. The warehouse is dark, cold, too fucking quiet, the kind of quiet that means things are about to go sideways.

Garen Manukyan sits at his desk, suit cheap but pressed, fingers steepled like he's pretending to be patient. Vartan and Armen--his two meathead bookends--flank him, watching Carrie and Adelina like they're already deciding where to dump their bodies.

Carrie doesn't flinch. Doesn't slow. She just steps up, smirks, and lets the silence stretch.

Then, loud as hell--

"I'm the loudmouth with the tits, Carina Marie Delvecchio. Carrie to my friends, and you ain't my friends."

Armen snorts. Vartan shifts. Garen just raises an eyebrow.

Carrie grins, all teeth. Tilts her head like she's appraising them and finding them lacking.

"Now, since introductions are outta the way, let's get to the important part--how y'all are about to fuckin' embarrass yourselves."

Armen's hand twitches toward his waistband.

Carrie flicks her gaze down. "Oh, you gonna pull a gun? That how you handle getting clowned on? Jesus, bro, no wonder you're still a fuckin' goon. That's baby shit."

Garen finally sighs. Raises a hand, stopping the tension from snapping.

"Enough," he mutters, looking at Carrie like she's a fly he hasn't swatted yet. "You got a reason for wasting my time?"

Carrie smiles. Puts her hands in her pockets, rolling onto the balls of her feet like this is just some casual fucking Tuesday.

"Oh, I got plenty of reasons," she says, voice lazy. "Mostly? I just wanted to see the look on your face when you realized you lost before we even started."

2017

The alley stinks of piss and old beer. A police car rolls by slow, its headlights sweeping over damp pavement, over garbage bags torn open by rats, over the crumpled figure of Adelina Graziano, passed out against the wall.

Her cheek's pressed to the brick. One knee bent, the other leg sprawled out like she got halfway through standing and just gave up. There's a bottle near her fingers, mostly empty, but Carrie knows that's not what dropped her.

Carrie crouches next to her, dark hair falling over her shoulder, gold hoops catching the streetlight glow. Her hands move fast, pressing to Adelina's face, her shoulder, checking for anything worse than just unconscious.

"What the fuck are you on?" Carrie begs, voice sharp, breath hitching.

Adelina's eyelids flutter. She barely focuses, mouth curling into something that almost looks like a smile.

"Somethin' good," she slurs. Then she passes out.

Carrie exhales through her teeth, panic flaring in her ribs. She looks up, watches the cop car turn the corner, disappearing into the city.

Then she grips Adelina's jacket, hauls her up.

"Not like this, Lina. Not fucking like this."

And with a grunt, she throws one of Adelina's arms over her shoulder and starts dragging her away from the flashing lights, from the stink, from whatever nightmare almost swallowed her whole.

2025

Silence, thick and waiting. Manukyan smirks, one of the goons cracks his knuckles, and Carrie--Carina Marie fuckin' Delvecchio--takes one long, slow look at the three of them, then flicks her gaze back to Adelina like is this the best they had?

Then she exhales, shakes her head, and lets it rip.

"Yeah... you three go fuck yourselves. Or each other. I don't give a fuck."

And then--then--she lays into them.

It's peak Delvecchio.

The words pour out fast, sharp, brutal--like a Japanese chef at a hibachi grill, slinging invective instead of shrimp.

She goes for their haircuts first--because what is that? Manukyan is rocking some Great Clips special, slicked back with what is either pomade or literal fucking motor oil. One of the goons has that Eastern European buzzcut-meets-receding-hairline situation--a tragic look, really--and the other? Oh, the other is trying to rock a fade, but whoever did it clearly fucked up the blend, and now he looks like a low-budget video game NPC.

Then she targets their suits.

"Y'all walked in here lookin' like Spirit Halloween ran out of stock and sent you to the funeral home instead. Who the fuck tailored these? A blind nun with arthritis? If I flicked your lapel, the whole cheap-ass weave of that fabric would unravel like a goddamn magic trick."

She doesn't stop. She pivots--hitting them with the personal shit.

"And you--yeah, you, High-Forehead Harry--how the fuck are you supposed to be intimidating when you look like a default FIFA character? I could build a better thug in The Sims, and they wouldn't clip through the goddamn scenery like you do."

One of them moves--steps forward like maybe he's gonna shut her up--but Carrie just leans in.

"Try it, motherfucker. Please. Give me a reason. Because I promise you, when I'm done talking, you're gonna be questioning your whole goddamn existence."

Adelina's standing beside her, arms crossed, not interfering. Because she knows--this? This is the Delvecchio Special.

Manukyan exhales slowly, rubs a hand down his face, and just nods.

One of the goons--the one with the fucked-up fade--looks visibly wounded.

Carrie sniffs. Adjusts her jacket.

"Anyway. Now that we got that out the way, let's talk business."

2017

The rain comes down cold. Not in sheets, not in some dramatic downpour--just steady, unrelenting, the kind that seeps into your clothes and stays there, the kind that turns the streets into dark, glistening mirrors.

Carrie stands in the middle of it, crying. Not sobbing. Not wailing. Just standing there, fists clenched at her sides, tears mixing with the rain, streaking down her face in silent betrayal. Her hoop earrings catch the dim streetlights, little glints of gold against the wet black of her hair, sticking to her cheeks.

Adelina doesn't fight.

She doesn't pull, doesn't twist, doesn't even turn to the cop holding her arm.

She just stares.

Through the strands of hair clinging to her face. Through the damp, through the cold.

She stares at Carrie.

And Carrie? She can't look away.

Because this isn't supposed to be happening.

They were supposed to run. They were supposed to disappear. They were supposed to get out.

But now Adelina's wrists are in cuffs, the metal biting deep, and Carrie can already see the bruises forming under the red-and-blue glow of the cruiser's lights. She looks too small like this. Like someone has reached inside her and taken something out--the fight, the fire, the part of her that always moved forward.

And still, she doesn't break eye contact.

The officer mutters something. Tries to push her into the back seat. But Adelina turns her head, keeps looking, as if she's trying to burn something into Carrie's skull.

Remember this.

Remember me like this.

Carrie swallows, throat raw. She wants to move. Wants to run up, wants to do something, wants to tell them to stop, to tell Adelina--

"I'll fix it."

It comes out too quiet. The words stick to her tongue, barely reaching over the rain.

Adelina shakes her head. Just once. Slow.

The way she looks at Carrie--God.

It's not angry. Not pleading. Not anything Carrie can name.

It's final.

The cruiser door shuts.

Carrie flinches, watching as the red taillights smear across the pavement. The rain keeps falling. The city keeps moving.

But Carrie?

She's still standing there, soaked, watching the only person who ever had her back disappear into the night.

2018

The kitchen is small. Too small. The kind that barely fits a table, barely fits the weight of a life folding in on itself.

The overhead light hums, flickering every few seconds like it's thinking about dying but hasn't quite made up its mind. The walls are yellow--not painted yellow, just stained that way by time, by cigarettes, by everything that's ever happened inside them.

Carrie sits at the table. Staring.

The pile of letters in front of her looks like nothing. Just envelopes. Just paper.

But she knows what they are.

She's been getting them for months.

Postmarked from Muncy. A neat, familiar scrawl across the front.

She hasn't opened a single one.

The top envelope is already curling at the edges from where she's thumbed at it, traced over her own name, her own address. But it stays sealed. Like all the rest.

Carrie exhales. Her stomach twists.

She grabs the whole stack, shoves it aside.

Then she stands. Walks away.

Doesn't look back.

She doesn't throw them out.

But she doesn't open them either.

2025

Manukyan leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying them.

The two Armenian goons still look pissed, still look like they're waiting for the signal to crack some ribs. But they're not moving yet. Because their boss hasn't said the word.

Carrie sees it. Feels it. The pause. The gap where things could go either way.

So she steps in.

She slides forward, plants her hands on the desk, leans in just enough to make it clear she's not scared, but not enough to make it a challenge.

Then she smiles.

Manukyan blinks.

Because there's something about that grin--the way it lingers, the way it doesn't quite match the situation. It's wrong.

Carrie sees it click for him. He knows something's coming. He just doesn't know what.

She lets the moment stretch. Lets him feel it.

Then she tilts her head, voice smooth, almost amused.

"So. You got a problem with Adelina."

Manukyan exhales slowly. "Yeah. Six grand's worth of problem."

Carrie lifts a shoulder. "And you'd rather break her kneecaps than be reasonable?"

The goons shift. Manukyan just watches her.

"Business is business," he says. "You want reasonable, go to a bank."

Carrie clicks her tongue. "See, here's the thing. I did some banking. And you know what I found?"

She leans in just a little more, drops her voice to something deadly.

"A fuckton of missing money."

Silence.

The goons go still. Manukyan's face doesn't change, but she sees it. That flicker. That half-second where the mask almost slips.

Carrie smirks. Got you, asshole.

She stands back up, stretching like she's bored.

"Couple accounts. Off-the-books shit. Big chunks of cash vanishing from your operation. And before you get any bright ideas--no, it wasn't me."

She lets the words land. Lets them sink in.

Then she cocks her head. "But I know who it was."

Now he moves. Sits forward. Just an inch, but it's all she needs to see.

Adelina shifts beside her, arms still crossed, waiting. Carrie can feel her--tense but trusting. Letting Carrie do what she does best.

Manukyan exhales through his nose. "You don't know shit."

Carrie grins wider. "Don't I?"

She reaches into her jacket pocket, slow enough to keep things from going sideways. Pulls out her phone. Flicks the screen. Turns it around.

A photo.

A guy. Familiar. Sitting at a bar, laughing, money on the table that he shouldn't fucking have.

Carrie wiggles the phone. "Say hi to your accountant."

Another silence. Thicker, heavier.

Manukyan stares at the screen. Stares at Carrie. His jaw tightens just a little.

Carrie watches every muscle in his face. Watches him put it together.

Then, casually as hell, she drops the hammer.

"You got bigger problems than six grand. And unless you wanna spend the next month figuring out how much of your money is already gone, how much of your operation is already fucked--

She pockets the phone.

"--then I suggest we start fresh. Call it even."

Manukyan is silent.

One goon blinks. The other looks at his boss, waiting.

Carrie just smiles. Waiting.

Then--finally--Manukyan exhales.

"You're a real pain in the ass, Delvecchio."

Carrie beams. "And yet, here we are."

A pause. A beat. The tension still hums in the air, but she knows.

She won.

Manukyan leans back, rubs his temple, waves a lazy hand.

"Fine. Debt's gone."

Adelina exhales slow. Carrie keeps the grin on her face but doesn't relax. Not yet.

She tilts her head. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Manukyan shakes his head. "Get the fuck outta here, Delvecchio."

Carrie salutes. "Pleasure doing business."

Then she and Adelina turn, walking back into the dark.

Adelina doesn't say anything until they're clear of the warehouse, stepping out into the cold night air.

Then--soft, almost disbelieving:

"You're a goddamn menace."

Carrie grins, hands in her pockets, walking like she owns the whole goddamn city.

"Yeah, well." She flicks cigarette ash from her jacket. "I wasn't about to let you owe those motherfuckers a dime."