Frankie left the pawn shop the same way she had come in; sullen, angry and nearly crippled by her own self-hatred. 400 dollars. 400. Fucking. Dollars. For the pair. She was expecting upwards of at least 1000, hell she went in with the resolve to offer one for no less than 600. The owner (an old goat with a thick Russian accent) took one look at it and offered her an even 200. 400 for a pair. Non negotiable. Take it or get the fuck out of my store.


The rat girl was a vision of punk defiance. Industrial piercings adjourned both ears, two in the left and one in the right. Her hair was styled into a mohawk, the sides shaved down and the remaining, normally black hair dyed a fiery red. She wore a tattered black leather jacket, a patchwork of material new and old. Emblazoned on the back were the words “New Damage” above a yellow anarchy symbol. Numerous safety pins covered the front, with a Minor Threat patch on the breast pocket. Underneath she wore a thin black tank top, tied together at the shoulders. She had on a pair of dark red jean shorts cut high in the back, showing quite a bit of her boyish butt and the band tattoos across her legs. Frankie hated most shoes, but she couldn’t resist the allure of a pair of Doctor Marten boots as a way of silently saying “don’t fuck with me.” 


Not that a pair of boots would intimidate a retired Spetsnaz officer like Viktor. He would just as quickly snap her neck and leave her in a dumpster than buy jewelry (probably stolen, from his words) from her. She had convinced him they weren’t hot, and as a result he lowballed her. Hard.


Frankie snaked her paw into the pocket of her shorts and grabbed the wad of 20s the goat had counted out. Again a wave of hatred slammed into her and she squeezed her eyes shut to stop the sudden flow of tears, clenching her teeth so hard they ached as the realization washed across her psyche.


You’re so fucking stupid. You actually went through with it. You saw the sign right? No Refunds? You know what that means don’t you? It means you’re fucked. What’s Tess gonna think when you tell her what you did? And for $400 to boot! They bought them for $1,200 each you dumb cunt! 24 karat gold! You remember! Tess used to ask for it as a fucking bedtime story every week!


Tearing her thoughts away from her self-destructive introspection, Frankie opened her eyes to see that people were starting to stare. Feeling her stomach drop out, she dashed into an alleyway, taking refuge behind a dumpster. Crouched down among the filth and refuse, the rat girl pulled her tattered leather jacket off and draped it over her head to cover her face. Wrapping her arms around her knees, Frankie lowered her head, sighed deeply and let the tears flow.


The sobs came soon after, great hitching gasps that left her breathless. Then the thoughts came again. Dark. Brutal. Unrelenting.


This is it, bitch. This is your breaking point. There’s no going back after this one. You think Tess will ever forgive you? I mean you’ve hurt her before, sure. But not like this. This is a whole new level of fucked up, even for you. At least you have clear memories of them. She only has the memories of an 8-year-old and their leftover things. And you sold the most important ones.


Frankie balled her paw into a fist and struck the side of her head as hard as she could, as if she could simply beat the thoughts out. All it really did was give her a headache. Still the thoughts raged.


There’s no getting rid of me, you know. Well, there is one way. But you already know that. Tess sure does. She hopes for it sometimes, I’m sure. Who wouldn’t if they had an embarrassment like you for a sister? Why do you have to torment her so much?
        
Frankie stuffed a sleeve of the jacket into her mouth, bit down and screamed. Her paws gripped her head as hard as she could, fingers digging in with her nails trying to rip her skin clean off. The end result just made her skin burn, the scratches not even visible through her grey fur.
        
“Excuse me? Everything alright back there?”
        
Frankie’s head jerked up at the voice, seemingly coming from the other side of the dumpster she was crouched next to. Yanking the sleeve from her mouth and pulling her shorts and panties down, she resumed her crouching position and began urinating.
        
“Yeah, I’m fine! Just taking a piss back here, nothing special to see! Unless you feel like coming back here and helping me with this?”
        
“What? Uh n-no that’s ok..”


Frankie could hear the note of disgust in the speaker's voice and smiled. If she was good at one thing, it was grossing people out to get them to leave her alone. Eating bugs as a kid, to hocking loogies as a teen, and now here she was, fully grown and 
pissing in public.


Mom and Dad must be so proud, huh? Their little Frances pissing behind a dumpster and selling their wedding rings for 400 fucking dollars. I wonder if they’re looking down on you bemoaning at what a fuck-up you are. Maybe they’re taking bets on how much 
longer you’ll last? I mean, heaven is just a concept-


In a fit of desperation, Frankie raised her right paw and brought it down on her cunt, cupping it to get more of a surface area and flattening her clitoris. The blow knocked the wind out of her; her mouth opened up in a silent, breathless scream as her knees gave out beneath her and she crashed to the filthy concrete, shorts and panties still around her ankles and paw tenderly cupping her bruised vagina and clit. It was an extreme measure, but then again the self-destructive rat girl always seemed to choose the extreme option.


At least the thoughts were silent, if just for a little while. She laid there for several minutes in the filth and her own piss, the stench working its way into her ripped tank top, her cutoff shorts, her fur and mohawk.
This is what I deserve, thought Frankie. I deserve to live like a feral animal. Kept in a cage, taken out to be used and abused then thrown back in. Forced to live in garbage and my own piss.


As much as she would hate to admit it to anyone, the thought made her horny. She groaned as her bruised clitoris throbbed, desiring to be touched but still in so much pain.


I have to get up. I have to get up and go home, and I have to-


She felt a primal fear, seemingly radiating down her spine through her tail all the way to the tip.


I have to tell Tess that I pawned Mom and Dad’s wedding rings for 400 dollars so that we can pay the 1,000 dollar rent and late fees and oh my god we’re so fucked I’m so sorry Tess-


Instinctively, Frankie raised her paw to once again slap herself but stopped on the downswing, her paw just inches from her reddened, soon to be black and blue vagina. There was acceptance in her eyes. She sat up, shakily got to her feet and slowly, gently pulled her shorts and underwear back up her legs. 


She winced and hissed through clenched teeth as she settled the rather tight fitting material into place, trying to loosen it up to no avail. The crotch of her shorts cupped the curve of her mound tightly, pushing her panties hard against her bruised labia and clit. In normal circumstances, Frankie found the feeling of her panties rubbing her cunt wonderful. Now it was simply painful, no enjoyment, no fun.


Picking up her jacket, she tried her best to shake the moisture out of it. Finally deciding that she can’t get any more out, she lays it on top of the dumpster and shrugs out of her tank top. She wore no bra, seeing as she barely even had enough breasts to jiggle and finding them unduly uncomfortable. Her nipples were equipped with barbell piercings, the cool air of the alley quickly making them perk up and harden. Frankie ignored them. 
If she started playing with them, she’d play with her cunt. Not only painful, but bound to get her charged with indecent exposure or public indecency. No thank you, Ma’am.


She wrung the tank top as much as she could but it was still wet and smelled. She struggled into it no less, feeling that she deserved to be humiliated for her idiocy.


For her crimes against her sister. Tess. The only person left who seemed to be willing to put up with her bullshit. No matter how many times she fucked up, fucked THEM up, Tess always forgave her. After the accident. After the hospital. After the lies. She still forgave her.


Frankie collapsed into sobs once again against the dumpster, able to keep her feet under her this time. At least there were no thoughts. Just tears.


Finally, seemingly out of moisture to produce, she stood up straight. Grabbed her jacket and shrugged into the damp, stinking material. Began walking bow-legged to the other end of the alley. She didn’t want to be seen by any rubberneckers trying to get a look at “the pissing girl.” Luckily nobody had thought to come around this way and ambush her.


Slowly, Frankie began to walk home. To confess to her sister. That she fucked their lives up again. Like always.