Grudges are a thing, alright, and Firecracker lets it dictate her life.

Call her a cracker? Good luck slumbering tonight with her braindead minions rushing to your window. Blatantly omit her presence since pageantry-era? Fine, she'll spit insults and smear dirt to your name on live television.

Like, oh, maybe yap about how your holier-than-thou, anti-Vought charity is dooming bottled water with gay chemicals. Sure, it's bullshit her ass pulled at a whim. Could say the same about the godawful-career-breaking scandal you fed like a buffet to others about her. Mind you, at the premature age of thirteen.

Will you go treading with a bowed head? Shoulders low? All because the world's populace (moreso, Americans) have jibed at you?

God, what attention will you indulge your ex-fan and ex-friend with? Attention you've put off, overdue, and decors in her room vouch for.

Images, some broad, others teensy, pancake the quartet walls, coating the boring crannies with what is uniquely you. Yes, how fucking ironic.

Patriotic hands-on-hips stance. Fresh out of the shower. Your candid bare back she wagers (and hopes) you unnoticed her capturing from a safe distance. Then, there's that palpably-slept with life-sized pillow. Let the mind wander whereto with that information.

However, sighting you, erect at the core of her, uh, fanatic territory you weren't invited to peep into has her clawing for the frayed threads of calm.

"Well, pardon me, who said you could be in here?" with a strained grin and all, hoping to God there's little waver.

"I thought I made it clear in public I couldn’t care less about ya. Why show up here of all places?" she forces a hollow laugh, like it'd veil obsessive on the spreaded renditions she put of you.

Burning this place suddenly is a good idea.

“This here's a private area, and what I do in here ain't none of your business.

But if you’re so doggone curious—" she points to the posters, "I was usin' it for target practice."

Just don't ask about the pillow.