runt of the litter, a pokémon fanfic

warning: i don't own pokémon. mentions of parental negligence.

notes: misty is my forever girl.

You are enough.

You remember the slap vividly. The scent of her rose perfume, the jingle of her 24k gold bracelets against her thin wrist and her angry, kohled eyes welling up with tears staring down at you like a beast intimidating its next meal. You knew you weren't supposed to be prey, you were her cub. And mothers are supposed to love their six-year-old daughters, not leave marks. You were more taken back by the look in her eyes (your eyes) than the stinging, pink welling up on your cheek.

All because you tripped during your ballet performance. All because you didn't win the beauty pageant (you never wanted to do it in the first place). All because Daisy, Lily, and Violet never lost.

But you? You lost. You failed her. And as you watched your mother from the center of the stage, watching her snarl in her seat, failing her and your family legacy, you see her mouth those four-letter words over and over.

Your sisters are young and impressionable, so they giggle in their seats. Something feral in you wants to scratch at them—to scream at them for playing along in the game where young girls are supposed to be beautiful to matter. They win and you lose and are left wounded.

You read:

Ugly. Runt. Ugly. Runt. Ugly. Runt.

Over and over.

That night, you cried in the shower so no one could hear you. Blush and lipstick and Vaseline washing down the drain—they didn't belong on your six-year-old face. No amount of Marill Magical bubble bath could ease you.

You wanted grandma and warm milk tea and to go swimming in a pool far away from Cerulean City.

You never want to see a ballet slipper again.

You called for your mommy through the tears but all you could hear is the runt.

. . .

The next day you cut off all your long hair with kitchen scissors. You zig-zag the sheers through your bangs and chop off the rest in a rapid mess. You feel energetic and feral and know how upset she is going to be. All you leave in your wreckage are locks of tangerine.

. . .

Mother doesn't even look at you. She orders Daisy to do something with the mess. So, Daisy puts you in front of her vanity. Your sister, one of the most beautiful people you have ever seen, gently wraps your jagged hair in her hands and softly brushes it to the side of your head. Daisy grabs a purple elastic from her wrists and wraps it around your side pony over and over. When she finishes, she kisses the top of your head and you stare at the mirror for what feels like an eternity.

. . .

Your mother hasn't stepped foot in Cerulean City since you were eight.

Your father makes a living of sucking on the Leagues teat and when all that is dry, he leaves and goes and writes postcards for you and your sisters. He is a spineless man—handsome but spineless.

You don't speak to either of them. When Lily shows you the phone and you hear the jingle of gold on the other side, you dive head first into the pool hoping your skull cracks against the bottom so nothing but red and blackness are left. The pool is too deep and seel would never let you hurt yourself. Your skull (protected by that carrot color you hate) never does falter and you remain completely coherent.

Coherent enough to know that no child should be called ugly. That society is cruel enough to place its beauty standards on you when you never had a choice for your freckles or hair or the way your canines aren't completely straight.

Your dream is to battle—to be an elite trainer. What do freckles have anything to do with that?

You understanding this does not keep silence that starved part of you that wished she would call you pretty. Just once.

Instead, you take your bike and you run it through the city outskirts and soak your shoes in mud and filth and breathe.

. . .

Some kid in class calls you lanky and creatively mixes the words fuck and ugly to describe you. You were almost impressed. Then he says something along the lines of that he can't believe someone that looks like you can be related to the Sensational Sisters.

After school, you push his cheek against the iron gate and yank his arm so far behind his back that you could feel a crack coming. His snot and tears make something carnal in you sneer. You warn him, let him go and kick him off like prey that is so measly it isn't even worth it—like a pidgeot sparing a caterpie.

Your legs (long and lanky and pale) take you so far, straight past home and right to the sea.

You sit on the sand, knees to your chest and breathe.

. . .

Grandma is sick. She accidentally calls you by Daisy, Lily or Violet but none of that stings as much as her looking you in the eye, smiling her rose-petal soft smile, and calling you by your mother's name.

You laugh through for her as you drink green tea together. You pour her a cup and blow on it, so it cools down. It's getting late and you have to bike home, but another cup wouldn't kill you.

"It was nice seeing you," you tell her, holding her hand and noticing how blue her veins were. The women of your family (all but you) had ivory soft skin. You are the color of a freckled peach covered in tan lines.

"It was nice remembering you," grandma says, putting her free hand on your tear-stained cheek.

"You—you remember me?"

She looks at the vase of baby's breath by the windowsill then turns to you once again. "I don't remember your name, but I remember that I love you."

. . .

At ten-years-old, you claim your dream of being a Master of Water.

Your sisters, bikini clad and giggling, don't take you seriously. No battling trainers for you. Cascade Badges are taken like mints and it sickens you. The ocean fights and loses and survives—that was once the Cerulean City Gym. Now it's sensationalism and failure and a joke. Home to the three Sensational Sisters and the runt of the liter.

Your complaints and yelling don't get through to their heads.

You're just a runt, Misty. What do you know?

Ugly. Runt. Ugly. Runt. Ugly. Runt.

It plays over and over. You almost shed a frustrated tear, but you don't even let them see.

So, instead, you run away.

Staryu, Starmie and Goldeen are all at your hip. Your fishing rod is packed and you have enough fire in your belly to keep you full for days.

Your pokémon speak to you. They say the kindest thing in their star and sea languages, and it makes up for the giggles and classic music ringing in your ear.

Pokemon don't care a rattata's ass about how humans look. They see humans for what they are. They call you loving and passionate and beautiful in their tongue and it's enough.

. . .

Your arms (strong, long and aching) pull a trainer out of a fishing hole and something in your snaps.

You slap him so silly that you imprinted your hand on his face. You see red and a blob of yellow barely laying incoherent in his arms that you switch fast. Insolent, reckless trainers make your blood boil.

He takes off with your orange bike and you turn furious.

As you watch him leaves, that voice in your head speaks for your soul and reminds you that you aren't her. Your skin and bones may come from her, but don't let it consume you.

This lesson is difficult to learn. You look down at your hand, calloused and dirty, and feel the past. You clench your palm closed, digging your nails into your skin.

To hurt someone, you think to yourself, what an ugly thing to do.

. . .

Your bike? Charred. Your patience? Thin. Your journey? Crowded.

You find friends out of two strange boys, Ash and Brock.

They don't know it but sharing bowls of stew and rice by the fireside under the moonlight together made you kind of forget what it is to be alone.

Pondering with the coincidence that both the stew and love are both four letter words, you poke Ash's forehead as he dozed off while sitting up. Brock and you giggle at him and call it a night.

. . .

Ash and you are in constant brawls. The name-calling and raising your voices at each other become common. He jabs you with his elbow, you punch his gut. He calls you scrawny, you call him small-fry. You both wrestle and yell over who ate the last rice ball or who was the worst navigator. You've both have driven Brock mad with the number of times you shout, "Do not!" and "Do too!" at each other on the daily.

Brock has put you both in a chokehold more than once.

Sometimes, the boy knocks down your looks and says you are delusional when you compliment yourself. He hurls the world ugly when his temper is at its peak and you've said something that hurt his ego about him never achieving his dreams.

Sometimes you let those words slide off you but other times you swallow them, almost believing them. Most of the time, you both get up and apologize.

You are aware that you are as nasty to him as he is to you.

And then there are times that you both apologize. Moments that you help him with battling tactics or serve him a plate of curry before serving yourself at dinner time. Moments that he holds your hand when the path through the forest is bumpy or when he gets pouty when a guy is a little too friendly towards you.

Eventually, he becomes someone you care about. Someone you want to protect and guide. Even if he stills owes you a bike.

. . .

On the day of the Maiden's Peak annual summer festival, you and the boys watch as the lantern boats guide any wandering spirits out at sea. The traditional Kantonian drums beat as the festivities heighten.

Tonight, you drape yourself in a shell-pink yukata with a pattern of swimming goldeens and bubbles. You let your hair down from its ponytail and use rose-scented salve on your lips.

You feel beautiful.

Your summer yukata reminds you of your collection of hand-me-down seven-tiered Hina doll sets. Their silken kimonos and the cracks on some of their painted faces from where your sisters carelessly dropped them. None of that matters now though. Tonight, is for dancing, fried dough and laughter.

You reach Ash, wearing his own dark jade yukata, and Pikachu.

He looks up from his Pokedex, stops and stares at you. For a minute, he is unexpectedly quiet. You want to say something but then they are playing that folksong your grandma used to play for you.

You take his hand in yours and the two of you dance the entire night.

. . .

The little cream-colored shell, covered in precious red and blue triangular shapes, cracks and you meet Togepi. He becomes yours and you are his. You've only known Togepi for a day, but you'd kill anyone who dared laid a finger on his spikey little head.

. . .

Daisy, Lily and Violet guilt you into starring in their underwater ballet when you and the boys visit Cerulean City, your hometown. You are presented as Misty the star of the Magic Mermaid, an original underwater ballet. It's comical—that you're a Sensational Sister when it works for them.

And then suddenly it's hair extensions and makeup and costumes. It's rehearsing and listening to the pitch of Lily's squeal when you miss a step.

You never really mind dressing up or makeup when it's on your terms but looking into the mirror, you see her. Long tangerine hair and shells for jewelry. Lashes coated in waterproof mascara.

She looks like your sisters. She looks like your mom.

Even with her nerves surfacing, the mermaid steals the show and wins the hearts of the audience.

When you leave Cerulean City and head back on the road, your sisters tell you that they are proud of you (and that they love you).

You don't say it back (but they know you do).

You hear from your sisters later that mom called. She asked for you. She praised you.

You just send her a postcard with no words. It's enough for now.

. . .

It's Kanto then the Orange Islands to Johto then back to Kanto.

You've grown on the road and it shows in inches, stretch marks and wisdom.

You would be lying if you said you weren't heartbroken. That biking away from those boys on that country road didn't bring you to bittersweet tears. You'll always have them but now, you're back at the Cerulean City Gym as leader alone and you only have photographs and memories of your journey.

It takes time but things become easier for you.

It starts with self-respect and taking care of yourself and your pokémon. Things like healthy diets, mopping the tiles with bleach and always welcoming trainers with open arms and fierce competition. You train not only your body but your mind. You swim regularly (you remember how your mother use to criticize championship swimmers for their mannish shoulders), practice yoga and meditation, and make time for trips around the region.

You sometimes get stress pimples and your limbs are often sore but when you see a newbie trainer win their first badge, it's all worth it. The best part is that the Cascade Badge has gained its honor back. You don't hand them out like tokens—they are to be earned by defeating you, and you, don't go easy.

With confidence, you declare yourself leader and protector of Cerulean City. The citizens love you. At first, you're taken back but the praise from the league and how locals will greet you happily on the streets. Sometimes your face is on magazines, websites and television.

It's a weird feeling seeing yourself in media. It's a norm for Daisy, Lily and Violet but it's new for you. Even DJ Mary from Goldenrod is dying to interview you.

You've always been confident (you'd break if you weren't) but now you don't want to run away from anything anymore. You pick up the phone when mom or dad calls but you keep it short. They congratulate you and you say a small thanks before hanging up.

After, you pull back your hair; you grab the mop and bucket of watered-down bleach and scrub away the grime.

. . .

Seasons change and time goes on. You received an invitation to a special festival and before you know it you are in Hoenn being created by your boys and their new companions.

May and Max are made of balls of sunshine energy and you like them a lot. May seems to admire you—she's a coordinator with the bluest eyes and clings to your arm like you are old friends. You like her. Max asks you a million question in a framework of three minutes and he impresses you.

Ash and Brock haven't changed (Pikachu too, of course), and it warms your heart. They will forever be your boys.

Hoenn feels right for you.

. . .

Hoenn takes Togepi away like fall takes away summer. Togetic is a protector and a leader. He is like you now and you are so damn proud of the pokémon you raised.

(The tears shed when you are alone.)

When you are back home, you shed your clothes before you even greet anyone, diving into the pool you scream your heart out. No one can hear you.

. . .

Tracey sees your heartbreak. He gifts you an egg from his Marill. Days go on, and then, you meet Azurill in the middle of the night. You hear a crack coming from the egg beside you and out comes a bubbly bundle of cerulean blue and soft fur; a baby with tiny little ears and a mousy smile. You hold the baby to your chest while on your bed, crying bittersweet tears. Only a slither of moonlight from your window gracing you both.

You think of all that you've lost and all that you've gained.

You sing him a lullaby that your mother once sang when guilt touched her, and then he is fast asleep in your arms. Sleep overcomes you soon after.

. . .

Your mother was unloving but that didn't mean you had to be. As a little girl, criticized for her existence and ignored and stifled, you had to learn so much. You were never smart or pretty or acceptable enough to deserve success and happiness, yet you knew, you were all that and then some. A voice often speaks to you. Because if you really were worth affection and respect, the voice in inside whispers, your mother would've given them to you. You try your best not to listen because you know it's not true.

You are loving and you are worthy of love.

Which is why when you see a tattered, half-sick water-type pokémon you're not familiar with abandoned by an old construction site at a murky man-made pond, you immediately rush to the nearest center. She is a grayish brown thing with ragged and tattered fins and a melancholic look in her eyes. She is limp in your arms—barely even flailing. You promise her that she is safe now and bike as fast as your legs could.

You slam your way through the doors of the pokemon center and call for Nurse Joy. You quickly learn from Nurse Joy that it was released months ago and abandoned with no way to reach the sea or a river.

The pokémon is barely responding due to lack of nutrition but Nurse Joy assures you that because of its durability in poor conditions, that Feebas will be fine. You've never seen one before and you figure that she probably came from a traveling trainer that had no use for her anymore. You think about the people who probably passed the sickly water-type and ignored her. It makes you as a trainer sick.

From the other side of the glass tank, you hold your hand against it and wait for Feebas to see you. She swims over and presses her fish lips against the glass over and over. Kisses.

Full of relief, you smile at her goofy expression.

She looks like she can use a home.

. . .

Daisy, Lily and Violet take one look at Feebas and make the most disgusted faces. You can practically hear your mother's voice.

Ugly. Runt. Ugly. Runt. Ugly. Runt.

You just ask yourself: How can a pokémon like Feebas be called ugly? Is everyone in the world blind?

You feel ten again and stomp your foot, coming to your pokémon's defense. Your sisters jokingly tell you that you and Feebas are meant for each other. In response, you happily order her to shoot their recently permed heads with a Water Gun attack.

You all laugh in the end.

. . .

Feebas is the cutest when she swims in circles over and over. You clap and cheer her on every time she tries a next attack—even when she is clumsy with it.

Sometimes you stay in the pool after training ends because Feebas just wants you told hold her as she dozes off. You never really mind pruney fingers or toes, so you do it and you pet her fins. Her happiness and inner beauty glows and you hold onto her for just a little longer.

. . .

It happens during a trip to the Sevii Islands. You train alongside your pokémon out at sea. You notice that Feebas has a difficult time swimming with the currents and disappears under a large wave. Like quicksilver, you dive below the water and reach for her. She has something in her mouth—a small reflective scale.

When she sees you, she swims into your arms and cuddles against you.

Before you even have the chance to swim above, she begins to glow a magnificent light and Feebas evolves into an aquatic serpent with a cream-colored body and diamond-shaped scales. You see flashes of pink and blue and champagne throughout her tail.

Her vivid rose eyes peer into you and your heart soars with pride as every hostile nerve in your bone is calmed by her.

Breathtakingly beautiful is all that comes to mind, but you've always known that Feebas was something special.

She nuzzles her head against your cheek and wraps her shimmering tail around your waist, bringing you both up to the surface.

You hug her tightly and say your congratulations.

Milotic speaks to you, in her own tongue, and gives her thanks and love.

The serpent whispers: You and I, we are the same.

The words settle in your mermaid heart and this time, you let the tears be heard.

notes: did you know that misty's japanese name kasumi is linked to the flowers baby's breath? little fun fact in there. i know the perspective and writing are a little…weird BUT i wanted to write something personable about misty's relationship with herself and the outside world's view on her appearance. since i was young and a pokemon the amount of people that would call her "ugly" always made me feel uneasy. like i understand jokes in the show but so many people are so harsh on your girls for their looks, even animated characters. to me, a child should not have to deal with criticism like that and be subjected to societal norms (especially sexually overt ones). anyway, my girl is confident and loves herself and knows she is beautiful because she is who she is. also—I have mixed feelings and headcanons about misty's parents so i wanted to try something a little harsher and more put misty in a situation many people go through at home. anyway, this is also an ode to everyone who has been ever told they aren't good enough or beautiful enough. you exist and i see you and i love you. be like misty and be proud of who you are. also—misty and milotic are destined to be and you can fight me on it. please review and send me your thoughts! sorry for the ramble. xoxoxo