《Declining Destiny》


 Study Date witha Studly Douche

    My face winces as his hand rises above his head. ¡°Now will you shut up?¡± he bellows as he smashes his fist into the table in front of me. I nod my head rapidly with my mouth glued shut. Maurice, my foster Father walks over to the kitchen to break open another beer, making me flinch at the crack against the marble counter.


    I watch his gorilla like knuckles wrap around the bottle and his bristly beard catch the fallen droplets of liquor, and a spark emerges from within me. It¡¯s not born of fear or despair. Those feeling have long since become factory settings for my life at home. What flickers inside me is a spark of creativity.


    The sight for sour eyes lain before me, is instead replaced by a vision of Barrack. Every melding colour and fantastical beast that dances around me is only in existence here - they only become real when my eyes are shut, and everything in the real world turns into fiction.


    I travel through the mythical world that I created for my story, passing the battles of the Yer and the Dragons¡¯ work union in the throes of another tireless debate. But I don¡¯t stop until the flashes of Sir Montgomery¡¯s office come into sight. I see the brown curls hair-gelled to his scalp and his perfect all-powerful posture that dominates every room he enters.


    His voice doesn¡¯t flitter from its gravelly monotone while he mercilessly berates another one of his lackeys. Unaccompanied by a single blink, he then struts over to his desk and pops out the stopper in his decanter to pour the whiskey down his throat. He swallows it in one silent gulp and moves to his chair and onto the next heartless chore; without a care in the world for the grown man balled up in a snivelling mess three feet away from him.


    A serene euphoria whirls in my head and my muscles let go of every emotion they were attached to; the fantasy re-routing them out of reality. Maurice disappearing into a fictionalised world in my head.


    *


    I tumble out of my imagination at the ring of the doorbell. I leap from my seat and hurry to the door to avoid Maurice¡¯s bark of command.


    I¡¯m almost more terrified of his wrath than that of the Hooded Man... Almost. At least Maurice¡¯s threats are empty.


    I swing the door open; the word ¡°hi¡± doesn¡¯t manage to leave my lips before I¡¯m interrupted.


    ¡°Let¡¯s make this quick, I have other things that I actually wanna do,¡± Evan grunts as he pushes past me and strides up the stairs. I catch the alluring scent on his olive field jacket when he brushes past and my heart quickens as if his aftershave was laced with ecstasy. I draw that forgotten feeling deep into my lungs with a breath before I follow him into my room.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t exactly a treat for me either, Evan,¡± I say as I move towards my desk and flick my slick violet hair over my shoulder. He sits on my bed with his arms rested on his knees and twitches his puckered nose.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°I thought people like you go crazy for projects like this,¡± he says rigidly, sliding one hand onto his knee and the other into his already ruffled hair.


    My fingernails dig into my thigh as I try and keep my face neutral. I grab the first book on my desk, plop it on top of my flared indigo skirt, and start to flick through it with a focused stare. I can cope with a hundred other people treating me far worse, but for Evan to talk to me like this; like I¡¯m no one, like it was just a guess that I love history¡­ It¡¯s not so easy to sit through.


    After the long silence my muscles ease and I steal a glance at him. I scrunch my nose slightly at his relaxed posture. He sits with his legs crossed, being absorbed by the thickness of my lilac duvet and he¡¯s facing the wall; his eyes studying my drawings that are sporadically tapped to it with a strange fixation.


    I stare at him for a moment, slightly in awe at his softened demeanour. As his enthralled gaze moves from one drawing to another, a warmth bubbles over in my stomach with the touch of something I hadn¡¯t felt in his presence for years.


    His eyes flicker over to mine from the side and he quickly returns them to his lap. He shakes his head in a way to dismiss that he¡¯d been caught and stretches to lie back on the bed, pulling his arms up to rest his head on.


    ¡°Are those holding books or reading books? Cause I don¡¯t hear a whole lot of pages being turned.¡±


    A sigh escapes me as the warm sensation in my stomach curdles over. I give one last glance at his eyes, now travelling over the ceiling, to check for the glaze that always covered them like contacts. I don¡¯t need a second to see it. The coldness is back.


    My eyes switch back to the book with disappointment tugging at my eyebrows, and my head wanders to the day we first met.


    ***


    ¡°You gonna eat that?¡± a 7 year old Evan queried after he had ventured away from the crowd of children and tripped over the wood chips at the sight of my 8 inch smarty cookie.


    ¡°We can half it,¡± I chirped in reply as my hand shot out at him. He took it from me with a goofy grin and twisted his foot over the gravel. ¡°I didn¡¯t really want the cookie¡­¡± He mumbled, head glued to his still shuffling foot. ¡°Billy told me that¡¯s how you talk to girls.¡±


    ¡°Billy sounds like an idiot to me,¡± I giggled at him playfully. I wasn¡¯t used to talking to people my own age. They never really bothered to try.


    He plopped onto the swing next to me and his fingers scratched at the rust on the chains. For a second we just stared into each other. And then, almost like something linked up in his head, he burst into a wind breaking snigger.


    Through the breath breaks in his laughter he said ¡°your nose goes red like Rudolph¡¯s when you laugh.¡±


    ***


    ¡°Hey Rudolph, why are you laughing?¡± Evan¡¯s curiosity rips me from my memories and I freeze with my bottom lip hanging. ¡°Hello?¡± he questions again, his body held upright by his elbows.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you just go home? I¡¯ll put your name on it,¡± I suggest to him and slam the book shut, returning it to the side. His light eyebrows furrow, a moment of concern grapples at the fractured innocence on his boyish face. A brief veil of the person he used to be masks his sourness; before he abruptly rips it away, only to be left with a stoic stare.


    He jumps from my bed and without a reply he exits my room. A second later I hear the front door slam shut.


    Before my heart can sink from his absence, I pull my hip-length hair into a loose bun, hop into bed and lift my computer to its usual spot on my lap - with a twinkle lightening my chocolaty eyes.


    Maybe I can¡¯t have a nice night but Yannie sure can. All I have to do is write her next adventure. My fingers dart over the keyboard as a whirlwind of ideas erupts in my head. The sea of Barrack washes over me and the waves of creativity hurtles me out of my tired reality. In this moment, I am no longer Elena the doormat; I am Elena the writer. And no one can take that away from me.

 Horror to be a Hassle

    I wake up in a flurry of confusion and grey air. There¡¯s tower in front of me. One that reaches so far beyond the sky; it¡¯s as indistinguishable as the edge of the atmosphere. Its sides are a blockade that stretch so far in the distance that there¡¯s no suggestion of anything else in existence. No matter how far I move back, the image stays the same.


    I turn tail with more energy in my legs than a deer fleeing from the blood lust of a coyote. But just like the deer my legs can¡¯t bring me to freedom; even if I run until my muscles snap. Just like the deer¡­ I¡¯m trapped.


    A tsunami rages inside my stomach and my limbs tremble in the ceasing of my attempted escape. I have to stop, there¡¯s no use in running when it won¡¯t move me an inch. With hesitance, I allow my senses to take in the setting around me.


    I spin around to inspect the walls and notice their likeness to be less of stone and more of blocks of dense ash. The deep menacing cracks that are slit down over every other slab seem to ooze a murky green gas. I lift my nose to inhale and a stench of a grave yard¡¯s worth of rotten flesh seeps into my lungs. I grab at my nose to relive me of the devastating smell but it¡¯s already stuck to my chest. It forms an indescribable taste of decay in the back of my throat that starts to play with my gag reflex; until my disgust is ripped away by something that I find far more horrifying.


    A whirling tornado of greys and blacks hangs over head, with an ominous threat to inhale anything below it. But that fear is too stripped away when the maniacal laugh begins to echo tauntingly from within the cyclone. Before I get a chance to react, the swirling greys and blacks start to descend. I try another fruitless attempt at escape while the clouds separate to close in on me. I tear into my ever faster sprint until everything that surrounds me is immersed in a thick fog; the sinister laugh now so loud it knocks the movement from my feet. I shudder and snap my head in all directions but I can¡¯t decipher where the sound is coming from.


    A deep whisper intertwines with the mist and the threats that hiss from every direction break me down to the floor. With my hair in my fists, my knees sink into the mud and I stare down at the empty ground with tears blurring my vision. The black hole that consumes the ground below me becomes clearer as the fog starts to rescind towards something in front of me.


    The beast of pure fear corrupts my body with uncertainty pacing every breath. My hands lock my head in a vice-like grip, as close as they can hold it towards the bottomless black chasm beneath me. I could fall for eternity and never reach the end of the void, but any sight is better than to reveal what is in front of me¡­ What screams at me to release my grip and allow my head to look upward.


    Without command, almost as if I¡¯m no longer in control of my body, my hands fall to my side. In the absence of my anchor my head is drawn up towards the sentient gathering of the smoky mist. What stands before me turns my skin to stone; with a power over my body that only Medusa could posses.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The mouldy green hood emerges from the mist and the shadowed face beneath it erupts a trembling shudder from within me. If I could muster a single sound I would beg for Medusa and her head full of snakes to appear instead. Though without any feeling in my lungs, I use my last drop of hope on a silent prayer.


    But the picture doesn¡¯t change. It¡¯s still him.


    It¡¯s still the hooded man.


    He stands tall, with fists clenched at his sides and eyes I can¡¯t see that bore into me with a dominating rage.Every muscle in his body is stiff. He¡¯s an immovable hulk with shoulders stretching as wide as my arm span and the only part of him that even flinches is his chest. It pumps up and down as each dragged out breath imitates the bellow of a bull.


    His deep growl and immense torso start to fade beneath the cloud, as the mist creeps past him to get to me. It slowly circles¡­ Taunting while it begins to gradually encloses around me. Its gaseous fists wrap around me with omnipotent force and clench tighter around me every second. My lungs become more and more constricted and every fibre of freedom I had left is obstructed. I wail, without a sound escaping my lips while its grip on me increases further and further, until I am condensed to nothing but my mind, and sealed inside a coffin of my worst nightmares.


    ***


    ¡°Elena, what is wrong with you?! You¡¯ve been shouting about all sorts!¡± I awake, being ripped from my dreams, to my foster mother¡¯s scowl hovering above me. ¡°Maurice and I have work tomorrow you know, we don¡¯t have time to deal with your little pleas for attention at 3 in the morning.¡± I pinch my eyes shut to deter any tears that wish to appear, but the angry wrinkles on her forehead scrunch tighter.


    ¡°Fine. Don¡¯t apologise. Just keep looking at me like I¡¯m the one that disturbed your sleep,¡± she scoffs before she marches towards the doorway like a drill sergeant that had just finished a good scalding. ¡°If I have to get up again, you won¡¯t leave this room for a week,¡± she emphasises with a final say chop of the air.


    The door slams shut and my head falls onto my shoulder as the tears silently flow from my eyes. They know about my nightmares¡­ They even know about the hooded man. But nobody cares about that anymore. The media sensation died down and now it¡¯s all old news.


    No one cares that I¡¯m a wreck and they don¡¯t care that he¡¯s still out there, that he got away. He gets to live his life like nothing happened while I¡¯m ruined forever.


    I dig my nails deeply into my knuckles until they turn purple and let every tear held inside fall onto my pillow. The cotton beneath my head dampens as I cling onto my duvet like it¡¯s the edge of a cliff and pant with a silent force.


    After a while my flow of tears runs dry and my bloodshot eyes sting with every blink. My eyelids come together slower and slower until they can¡¯t open anymore and I start to drift back into my nightmares with a sniffle.


    *


    ¡°Elena babe, you¡¯re gonna be late for school.¡± Esther gently nudges my shoulder with her delicate hand and I fling my head around to face her.


    ¡°How¡¯d you get in my room?¡± I mutter through blocked sinuses.


    ¡°The foster parasites left for work and I broke in through the window,¡± she shrugs nonchalantly and flicks her thick caramel hair out of her pale face to get a clearer look at me. ¡°You¡¯re kidding me? You still get those nightmares?¡± she falters, dropping to the floor with sympathy filling her eyes and concern that twitches her slender nose. I nod, my mouth filled with my cotton sleeve and she sighs condolingly. ¡°Come on, get in the shower and get dressed. At least school¡¯s a distraction,¡± she commands me as I roll my eyes and drag myself from my bed to get ready.

 Being Plum aint Fun

    I roll down the window of Esther¡¯s Ford and stick my head out to let the strong breeze knock away my senses, but Esther grabs a hold of my arm and pulls me back in. ¡°I know what you¡¯re doing,¡± she declares with her eyebrows raised.


    She focuses on the road whilst lecturing me with an omniscient tone, ¡°you can¡¯t ignore the world you know. It¡¯s here for you to live in.¡±


    ¡°I thought it was here to die in,¡± I roll my eyes over to her with a sarcastic smirk.


    She mirrors my expression and switches her eyes from the road. ¡°Since when were you such a downer?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ My foster parents are demons in disguise, one of the people I cared about most seems to hate me and my only real friend is a 25 year old know it all that works with drunks for a living.¡±


    ¡°Hey I don¡¯t work with drunks. They¡¯re like my pigs and I¡¯m the farmer that feeds them their slop,¡± she defends as she swerves around the bend. ¡°HEY BUTTWIPE MOVE YOUR ASS WILL YOU?¡± she shrieks out the window, making me jolt in my seat.


    ¡° I swear to Lucifer, if I miss my shift at the bar because of that tramp, I¡¯m going to track her down and slash her tyres in the shape of a swastika! Damn selfish Nazi.¡±


    ¡°She was like 70 years old Ess,¡± I giggle. ¡°Maybe instead of work, you should check out an anger management group.¡±


    ¡°Oh shut up baby Lannie.¡±


    ¡°You shut up oldie Essie,¡± I retort whilst I slide over the grey leather seat to step out of the car. I turn to face her, pulling my violet skirt to cover my well-fleshed thighs and return the wide smile thrown at me.


    I can¡¯t help but feel a little lost at the sight of the car inching away from me. Esther¡¯s comfort drives away alongside it, and my stomach tightens at the thought of being left to my own survival.


    As the sound of her tyres running over the gravel fades, Brian Myer slides over to me and flirtatiously hip bumps me from the side. ¡°What¡¯s cookin¡¯, plum puddin¡¯?¡± he winks with a grin wide enough to catch a nest of hornets.


    ¡°Please stop calling me that,¡± I roll my eyes dismissively and walk away from him. He stops in his place for a second, but jogs to catch up to me before I get too far ahead.


    ¡°Wake up on the wrong bed this morning Plumy?¡± he mocks, fingers running through his styled gelled hair.


    ¡°Wrong bed?¡± I keep my tone distant and my eyes focused forward. I know Brian and if I show any kind of interest in him, he will latch on to me with the thirst of a vampire-leech.


    ¡°Well yeah, I mean it wasn¡¯t mine¡­¡± He laughs like a baboon in response to his own joke which makes me groan in annoyance.


    I try to turn the other way to get to my class but before I can, Brian grabs a hold of my arm and spins me back around to face him. He steps closer towards me, his cologne now close enough for me to choke on. Even though my head wishes I would push him away, or knee him in the groin¡­ Or even just turn my back to him, I don¡¯t move an inch.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°You can¡¯t ignore me forever plumb,¡± he whispers, stepping closer still. He stares down at me with seduction in his eyes and his mouth rises into an exaggerated lopsided smile, ¡°After all, our parents seem to want what I want.¡± He leans his head in so that his nose hovers above mine. And with a cocky flutter of his eyebrows he adds, ¡°wear something pretty tonight doll.¡±


    I snatch my arm from his grip and snarl at him, ¡°they are not my parents!¡± I glare at him for a second, then storm away with fury and confusion playing tug of war in my head.


    *


    I plop down on the first available seat I see, cross my arms over my chest and grind my teeth in frustration. ¡°Why does everyone treat me like a damn house pet?!¡±


    ¡°Because you let them.¡±


    I jerk my head towards the person next to me and instantly jerk it back towards my lap, pursing my lips with embarrassment.


    ¡°I could call you a freakin¡¯ necrophiliac, Satanist that has the social appeal of a spider and you would just sit there, with your puppy dog eyes and take it,¡± Evan mocks as he relaxes back into his chair. I take a silent breath, tense my shoulders and lift my head back towards him.


    ¡°I¡¯d take my way over your way any day,¡± I declare with a turned up nose.


    He responds with laughter. But it seems to represent something more. He¡¯s not just laughing at me, he¡¯s laughing at my naivety.


    Is it so stupid to think that I can live life in my own non-confrontational way? Am I na?ve?


    I start to analyse his features and I notice a hint of something I¡¯m not sure I recognise. His dirty blonde hair has the same careless flip and the dimples on his cheeks display the same detachment that I¡¯m used to, but the glint in his eyes shows no intent to hurt. Without a sign of malice, I¡¯m left to wonder why it is that he said what he said.


    Evan turns his head to the paper in front of him and I do the same. I pull my chair into the desk so that the curved edge digs into my ribs and slouch over it; letting my hair fall from behind my ear to create a curtain over my periphery. I can feel every time Evan¡¯s eyes wander over to me and I don¡¯t need the distraction. I¡¯m in my element right now. I¡¯m in creative writing.


    For the rest of the day I have to sit through tedious gossip and irrelevant nonsense. In Biology it was a twenty minute conversation about some girl called Lucy and her out-of-style nail polish. Meanwhile I was left to do the experiment alone. And the teacher in Math had an urgent meeting so the class was free to start a full scale debate on the best way to eat mashed potato. Needless to say I didn¡¯t get a whole lot of work done.


    The final bell echoes through the school. I¡¯m free. I am finally free from this whirlpool of hormones and horn-dogs, and I couldn¡¯t be more relieved that Esther is the one meeting me in the parking lot.


    *


    ¡°So, gossip me. What happened?¡± Esther chants with enthusiasm as she pulls out of the school car park. Her bright eyes slightly sunken by the stress of a day¡¯s work, but her face still lit up at the prospect of a juicy story.


    ¡°Why do you assume something happened?¡±


    ¡°Your face tells all.¡±


    ¡° So come on, is it the hell-bred hunk we¡¯re dealing with here?¡± snorts Esther.


    ¡°Worse. Brian Myers told me our parents want what he wants. Like what the hell does that even mean?¡± I flail my arms in a huff.


    ¡°Damn babe, that¡¯s real shit.¡±


    ¡°I know right! It¡¯s gonna bug me all night trying to figure it out.¡±


    ¡°No, I meant being referred to as the spawn of the Satan twins,¡± she cringes, encouraging an amused smile to form on my face.


    I pause, the smile still smeared across my face as I stare over at her. ¡°God I love you.¡±

 Posing in Pink

    I step through my front door to the chaotic sound of my foster parents clanging around in the kitchen and a wave of relief washes over me. Maybe they won¡¯t know I¡¯m home. I edge the door shut and start to creep up the wooden stairs on my tiptoes, anxious not to step on any of the creaky spots. After today I need to have some alone time with my imagination. I need to escape.


    I get to the tenth stair, only two left. I ease my foot onto it and it dents beneath me. Shit. ¡°Elena.¡± I cringe, still suspended in my position in hope that they might ignore it; but just as I go to take the next step, I hear a clatter of heels against the laminate flooring.


    Morgan clacks over to the bottom of the stairs in her skin tight, red velvet dress. Her hair is tied in a posh plaited up-do, every strand flawlessly twizzled into the next. If it wasn¡¯t for the ugly scowl that made her face recognisable, she could be on the cover of a fashion magazine.


    ¡°Elena. Get dressed. We have dinner guests coming over in fourty minutes.¡± She shoves her arms over her chest; the first warning sign that tells me I should prepare for the incoming lecture. ¡°I want you to listen to me and I don¡¯t want any back talk, understood?¡±


    She doesn¡¯t even wait for my reply, not that I¡¯d expect her to. She already treats me like some miscreant that can¡¯t keep their behaviour in check. I suppose she doesn¡¯t notice that I spend all of my time typing in my room; not that it would save me from her endless chiding. No doubt she¡¯d criticise me for idleness.


    ¡°Now I laid a dress out on your bed, you go to your room and you put it on without any complaints. I want you to look presentable. I won¡¯t have you be seen in those clothes that make you look like a troubled gothic trollop. And I want you to do your hair and makeup right. I don¡¯t want to see a single hair un-straightened,¡± Morgan commands.


    She stares up at me with a look as if she¡¯s just caught me holding her law degree over a lighter. I guess that¡¯s how she regards me, a tarnish on her all-perfect image. Maybe she¡¯s right. Maybe I am an embarrassment.


    ¡°If you come downstairs looking like anything other than the daughter of a well-regarded lawyer, you¡¯ll be scrubbing the floors until your knees bleed. And remember, you wear far too much dark eye makeup and not enough foundation. You don¡¯t want those blemishes on display for our guests.¡± Again, she doesn¡¯t wait for a response. She heads back towards the kitchen, assuming I¡¯ll follow her every request. She knows I wouldn¡¯t dare challenge her.


    The sigh of relief that greeted me at the door is replaced with a sigh of discontentment. I trudge up the stairs to get ready for whatever hell was in store for me this evening.


    *You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    I hesitate in the mirror. The picture of me and my mother tapped to the edge stares back at me. My hair wasn¡¯t violet back then, but it¡¯s had the same scruffy light waves every day since that photo. Every day but today. The girl I see reflected back at me has hair like a wax sculpture; every strand identical to the next. A texture so much like silk you wouldn¡¯t know the difference between them.


    The girl in the mirror wears a girly lace dress, perfectly designed to show off the lady-like attributes that the gentlemen desire. The dress wasn¡¯t made for us. It was made for them. Each thread of the needle was stitched to mould us into this unchanging image, a prop of ideal beauty. If that wasn¡¯t the intent, then perhaps my lungs would have room to expand, and I wouldn¡¯t have to fight against it to take a breath.


    I look again at the picture and back at the girl in the mirror; the resemblance between the two diminishing the longer I compare them. In the picture, my makeup was limited to eyes and lips, my flaws in tact. It¡¯s always been a tool to bring my quirks to the surface, not a way to edit and re-sculpt everything that makes me human. But the person in the mirror, they¡¯re not human. Not a single crease in the dress, not the faintest mark from an old spot on the cheek, all imperfections neatly folded away beneath the surface.


    But every comment I hear echoing around the room says otherwise.


    My eyes flicker up to my ebony eyebrows and the phantom sound of Morgan¡¯s voice stings my ears with insults. They make me look ¡°manly¡± and ¡°unkempt¡±. But the pain I feel from every word is replaced with disgust; because I actually like the way they accentuate my dark eyes.


    Her voice won¡¯t stay quiet.


    She comments on my wide eyes and the way they gave me a face like Kermit, and how along with my unusually small button nose and plump bottom lip, I¡¯m as dis-proportioned as a Picasso painting. But my rage only burns brighter because despite how through her eyes I may look like a worthless peasant, through mine I see a girl who stands out from the crowd. And no matter how many times people tell me I shouldn¡¯t, I actually like that about myself. I like being unique.


    The picture reflecting back at me brings nausea to my stomach. That girl does look like every other girl in the street. I look like every other girl in the street.


    If I let her turn me into this, then I¡¯ll lose who I am. And that¡¯s one thing I won¡¯t stand for.


    I jerk my head away from the mirror and begin to rip the dress off of me. I grab at the sleeves and yank it past my chest, but as I go to push it to the floor, the cigarette-shaped burn on my arm begs me to stop.


    Morgan doesn¡¯t appreciate it when people disobey her, and as much as I want to stay true to myself, I¡¯m not going to risk getting on her bad side again. I pull it back over me with an uneasy shiver and not a moment more of thought.


    I do a once over, brush away my disturbed frown and start to venture downstairs.


    However my composure briefly falters through each step down. Every step that clinks my baby pink kitten heels feels like a step of betrayal to myself. This outfit is a symbol of the beginning of her control over me and I¡¯m not sure I want to find out what it¡¯s leading toward. After all, it was a single assassination that paved the way for World War I. Every mountain starts with a single atom and every abusive relationship starts out with one move.


    I glide into the kitchen with a poised fa?ade and a forced smile stitched onto my face. I stretch my spine towards to ceiling to pose like a porcelain doll on display. Because that¡¯s exactly what she wants from me.


    Morgan¡¯s eyes travel over my ensemble with a less disapproving eye roll than I¡¯m used to and I¡¯m hit with a sedative of relief.


    ¡°This is Albert and Andria Myer, Albert is the senior partner at your Mother¡¯s firm.¡± Maurice, my foster father declares, threatening me through his deadened eyes to stay quiet.


    I nod politely in response and widen my fake smile to greet them without words; while my head fills with rage at the denotation of the dark lord''s whore being my mother.


    ¡°And this is their son.¡±


    My suburban daughter mask is blemished when the corner of the room steals my attention. My mouth drops at the blending blue and green of the eyes piercing into me.


    ¡°You two go to school together, don¡¯t you?¡± Andria steps forward, delight brightening her eyes.


    ¡°Yeah we¡¯re real close, aren¡¯t we plum?¡± Brian boasts to me, his cocky smirk lifts higher and he struts towards the counter.


    ¡°Well I should hope so,¡± Maurice scoffs. ¡°That is why we¡¯re here isn¡¯t it?¡±

 Whore for Hire

    ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it,¡± Morgan hisses at me as I try to sit down on the other side of the table, away from Brian. I take a breath in, silently exasperated and trail my hand along the edge of the polished oak on my way to my intended seat.


    The ambiance of the room is a sophistication that perfectly imitates that of the pearl white spreading from the delicate swirls on the ceiling to the pristine marble beneath our feet. The exaggerated size of the walls makes those of us inside them look so insignificantly small. No matter how big they may feel in the business world. Their teeth can glisten with the same lustre as the immaculate room, but their smiles seem no less fraudulent.


    Eyeing Brian, I hesitantly bend into my seat. We both ignore the business chatter going on over our heads. He¡¯s far more focused on me and I couldn¡¯t care less about their careers. I have even less interest in anything Brian has to say but he doesn¡¯t seem fazed by that. He ignores the ¡°don¡¯t talk to me¡± look on my face and lifts his elbow up onto the table to lean into me.


    The persistent little wretch smugly moves his eyes down to my dress, ¡°I told you to look pretty Plum, didn¡¯t expect you to go all princess for me.¡±


    His shining teeth not more than a few inches from my face, create a picture in front of me. A picture of the grin that from a distance I once thought looked charming, and that now only brings a sickness to my stomach.


    I jerk my head to meet his eyes and respond through the fakest passive aggressive smile I have, ¡°I didn¡¯t exactly get to choose but if I had known you were the one I was looking ¡°presentable¡± for, I would have worn a potato sack.¡±


    While my smile becomes more genuine, his fades slightly. He sits back in his chair, draping his arm over the back of it casually and a touch¨¦ chuckle escapes through his teeth.


    My foster parents pull Brian into their discussion and my head falls to my plate away from it all. Maybe they mentioned my name, their words blur with the scrapping of my fork against the ivy porcelain. The maze of spaghetti cages me, tugging me away from the conversation and the waves of the ocean fill the air around me.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°Elena?¡± I hear the waves crash violently against the shore as reality becomes less distant. ¡°Elena, is that true?¡±


    The ultramarine blue surrounding my plate jumps back into my periphery and I shoot my head up, dropping my fork to my plate with a clatter. My head snaps to the side as the question Brian just asked reappears in my head.


    ¡°Is what true?¡± I question blankly.


    ¡°I do apologise,¡± Morgan interrupts Brian¡¯s ready to answer expression. ¡°She can be a bit rude sometimes.¡± ¡°And yes it¡¯s true, quite a scene her mother made. A bullet to the brain. There¡¯s no denying what happened there.¡± Morgan rants casually, without a symptom of sympathy.


    My gaze falls back to my plate and my heart tears through my stomach. The topic of my dead mother reveals my initial drifting from the conversation. My subconscious couldn¡¯t bear the thought of the gaping hole in my chest, left by my heart being ripped from me. And now it was lying on the table; blood leaking from its wounds for 2 strangers and three enemies to gawk at.


    Brian¡¯s hand creeps under the table and wraps around mine in an effort to comfort me, but he was the last person I wanted to be touching me right now. I shoo him off of me and twizzle the spaghetti around my fork, trying to push back the dredged-up memories of the one person I loved most in the world.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we pull this conversation towards something lighter,¡± Brian¡¯s father suggests with an arrogant howling chuckle. His demeanour tells me one of two things: he¡¯s never lost anyone close to him, or he has such little care for those close to him that losing one would mean nothing. I¡¯d bet on the latter.


    ¡°Perhaps the budding romance between our two little troublemakers there.¡± He points his fork over at me and Brian before putting it back to his mouth to slurp off the spaghetti.


    Morgan shoots me a threatening glare that instantly shuts my fallen jaw. ¡°Maybe we could make this dinner a regular thing once they¡¯re official, ¡°she suggests, her glass in the air and condescension lining her smile.


    ¡°Indeed, with our families getting closer I¡¯m certain that partnership is in your future,¡± Brian¡¯s father continues about their upcoming business relationship as the sad truth begins to dawn on me.


    My head travels to the smug smirk taking over Brian¡¯s face, and as his eyes wrinkle with a cocky amusement, I realise that I¡¯ve lost.


    He knew this whole time that he¡¯d won and he was finally letting his face brag. He knew coming here that I was nothing but a pawn to them, a chess piece they were all too happy to whore out like a common prostitute to further Morgan¡¯s career. And he knew I wouldn¡¯t be able to do anything about it.


    He leans into me slowly, putting one hand on mine and wiping the other through my silky hair to move it out of the way. Leaning in further so that I can feel the heat of his breathe by my ear, he whispers ¡°Brian always gets what he wants.¡±

 Friend, Defeat my Foe

    *


    The weekend drifted by without any notice from me, maybe even some of my fall break slipped by too. I lost track of it at some point.


    Despite Esther¡¯s protests, my door was locked after the dinner Thursday night and it hasn¡¯t been unlocked since. She flooded my phone with texts and missed calls but I refused to even look at the screen. She knows me and she knows something happened, and I know that she¡¯s worrying her little over-protective socks off, but I¡¯m not quite ready for share time.


    Maybe I¡¯m being selfish¡­ But sometimes I just can¡¯t help it.


    My hair is balled up in purple birds-nest knots and my pyjamas could have been picked up straight from the floor of a mens¡¯ locker room. I can¡¯t see much of my room with my duvet hiked up to my nose but the muddy green carpet is invisible underneath the layer of screwed up tissue balls. There is only motivation for me to do one thing and it isn¡¯t to brush my teeth or get myself a glass of water.


    I wrap my hands around the Jess the cat keychain and stare into its eyes as if they were hers ¨C this worn out plush cat; that has fluff pouring out of the numerous holes is my most precious possession.


    I hold it and I can hear the jangle of her keys as she comes home from work. I smell it and the last hint of Chanel that soaked into the stuffing embraces me with that warm, all-encompassing comfort only a mother¡¯s hug can give. This one lousy keychain is all I have left of her. And I cherish it. Just as I was once able to cherish her.


    Even if it¡¯s my fault that she¡¯s gone. Even if the gun in her mouth, her finger on the trigger, the bullet in her brain¡­ Even if it was all because of me.


    *


    BANG BANG BANG. The door thuds aggressively.


    I snap out of my sorrow and Puddy gets knocked to the floor.


    BANG BANG BANG.


    I spring fully upright, my hands grip at the sides of the bed in fear of my door being broken down. BANG BANG BANG It goes again and this time I muster up a hint of a voice. ¡°Who¡¯s out th-th-there?¡± I stutter in an oddly Scooby-doo like way.


    ¡°Girl, you¡¯re alive?! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR ALREADY!¡± The back of my head hits my pillow the second Esther¡¯s voice registers in my head.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Oh no you don¡¯t. You acknowledged my presence when you thought I was a murderer, you can¡¯t ignore me now you know I¡¯m not.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine Ess. But my legs are broken in like 5 different places, I can¡¯t let you in,¡± I whine while still shuffling to the door.


    ¡°Legislation 5 of the Lannie agreement-¡° Esther starts to recite a pact we made when I was 14 that keeps my spiral of self pity in check. ¡°We made a blood pact!¡± she demands.


    ¡°No, you made a blood pact,¡± I correct her in a serious tone and swing open the door.


    She steps in. Her grin holds a sort of smug pride but all I can fix my eyes on is her outfit. Her red and black chequered shirt is tied perfectly at the waist to accentuate her figure, her tight white tank underneath is a shade of white you only get before its first wash, and her smoky-grey ripped jeans that hug her stomach just up to the belly button are without a single blemish.


    ¡°Uggggh!¡± I grump back to bed and huff into my pillow in frustration at her well put together cleanliness. It sickens me.


    ¡°Have a shower Lane. Seriously. You feel lousy when you smell like a woodland creature that just bathed in a pool of a boar¡¯s urine,¡± she stands over me, her stance firm and her arms crossed commandingly.


    ¡°Ess,¡± I grumble into the pillow that I¡¯m hugging to my chest, ¡°Can¡¯t you hire one of your hit man friends? I want Brian Myer dead.¡±


    ¡°Hey, if that¡¯s what you need I¡¯ll go smash his head in with his Grandfather¡¯s walking stick. But you gotta pull yourself up.¡±


    She walks over to the bed and puts her hand out to stroke my head as she sits down in front of me. I stare at her over the top of my pillow with mopey eyes. After tilting her head in a return stare, she forces the pillow from my grip against my tug of war protest.


    Esther throws the pillow across the room and swishes her hand towards the floor at the side of the bed, ¡°Get down.¡± I roll my eyes to the side as I drop down in front of her. She leans over to slide the comb off of my bed side table and starts to gently untangle the clumps of my bunched up hair. ¡°You know every time you leave it, it gets like this.¡±


    I sigh in a mixed tone of both exasperation and gratitude.


    After tackling the tumble weeds on my head, Esther continues to direct me through my road to recovery.


    *


    For three hours Esther ordered me around my room to polish me and it, until we were both squeaky clean and beaming. I did manage to muster up a proper thank you and I even parted ways with my favourite silky black shirt because that¡¯s the one I got from Original, (the clothing store we both love) and they only sell one copy of each item.


    She wanted to stay longer but at 6PM, her job called and she was out the door. 6 PM. At least I know the time now. But I also know the day, and I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s a good thing. It¡¯s been one week since the dinner and I¡¯m scheduled for another ¡°date¡± on Friday. That¡¯s one day to mentally prepare for a one-on-one dinner date with the guy I despise.


    I guess I can forget catching up with the Realm of Barrack.

 The Day the Leaves Melted

    Light fills the sky and seeps through the slit between my eyelids. A bright yellow replaces my dreams and my eyes blink open to discover my room engulfed by the loving glow of the sunlight. A small smile appears on my face. Everything around me seems clearer than it has been the last week.


    The pictures on my wall are more vivid, every colour standing out against the next. The feathers in my duvet are much softer to snuggle into; a comfort I may need less today but that I¡¯m able to appreciate more. And even the tune of the chipper birds chirping makes a far sweeter sound than I remember. Every note of their song I feel my essence further intertwine with the serenity of nature.


    In spite of the day ahead of me, I¡¯m actually feeling content; even optimistic. I may have an unpleasant evening planned but I can enjoy right now. My moods tend to flip when I reach an extreme. It happens whenever I come out of my spiral of misery.


    I slide onto my side, still basking in the warmth and nurture of the sunlight. I look to my bedside table; my phone screen catches my eye. A notification flashes beneath the glare and I squint my eyes to see the details. I spring upright and my covers are thrashed to the floor when the letters on the screen become clear.


    ¡°Missed call¡± I read it three times over. Four times. Five. The words still read the same. ¡°Voice mail, Evan Birsha.¡±


    My heart drops when reality hits me. It has to be a mistake. I swipe the phone off of the table to set my wandering mind straight and dial my voicemail ready to hear a short muffled noise before the cut off beep.


    ¡°Lay-Laaay. I have to spor-speak to you. Please talk to me *hiccup*¡± his voice slurs in that drunken way. I hear a sharp grunt and then a faint whooshing sound in the background for another minute before the line goes dead.


    The sounds around me disappear with the light on my screen. No more birds chirping, I can¡¯t even hear the sound of my own breath. The silence is only interrupted when the words leave my lips, ¡°You remember?¡±


    All the warmth and movement is drained from my body. For the longest time the past I shared with Evan seemed almost like a fiction I had created in the same way as my stories. The way our relationship changed so drastically in such a short time and the way he treated me since, like none of it had ever happened. How could a part of me not be convinced I had imagined it all?


    But he called me Lay-lay. He hasn¡¯t called me that since seventh Grade, the year he turned on me. I remember that year like it¡¯s been seared into my brain. Those memories are what fuel the few good dreams that I have, and now I know he remembers them too.


    I look back now to one particular day. Two days before the Frost of Fall dance. Two days before everything changed between us.


    It was the first and only fall in my life that had brought snow down with the leaves, and the whole class was rioting in celebration. Old Mr Boik had a soft spot for our class; partly because I was his favourite student and partly because under my request, Evan made every one behave for him.


    He was at retiring age but didn¡¯t have the heart to leave his students, he was the sweetest person I had ever known so I made sure his last years there were happy ones.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    When the snow started to fall, we all jumped from our seats and huddled around the window to see the beautiful anomaly. Mr Boik responded to our cheers with a wrinkled smile wider than any of ours and a shaky hip shimmy, his knees wobbling to hold up his frame without the help of his cane.


    We all giggled along with him. Evan and I laughed louder than everyone else, falling into each other over our own terrible jokes that nobody else would understand. After the commotion settled down, Mr Boik handed out the last of his hard caramels and sent us home an hour early to enjoy the snow day.


    Our whole class charged as a herd towards the local park. The three consecutive mounds were already layered in snow and a few kids had stopped on the way to pick up their sleds. Everyone rushed over to take their turn going down the hills, some of them sliding down on their coats and some diving right in as if they were at the swimming pool.


    Evan grabbed a hold of my hand and pulled me past the mounds. We squeezed through the gap in the wire-netted fence at the back of the park and sprinted down the narrow alley-way that had a spooky shade from the trees trailing down the path. At the end of the path there were two adjoining paths. Left was a one way road that leads to our favourite ice cream shop, and right was a door. We rarely went left.


    We had cut through the wall of overgrown forest many years prior to make our own path into the woods. Over time some of the weeds had grown back over it and made a superficial layer that hid the path we had made behind a door of weeds.


    We carefully pulled back the layer of weeds and stepped into our very own part of the woods, letting them spring back into place to keep the entrance a secret. This was the one place in the whole town that nobody else knew how to get to. This was our place.


    My heart got a certain flutter of excitement at the sight of our verdant wonderland and from the look Evan had on his face, I assumed he got the same feeling. I don¡¯t know if it was the speckles of sunlight that shone through the trees, the multi-coloured flowers that gave every bush its own style, or even just the fact that my best friend was by my side, but nothing made me happier than the time we spent here.


    Hand in hand, we sprinted towards the den that we¡¯d built and hurdled over the fallen tree at the entrance. We had decorated it with rocks and flowers when we first found it, to commemorate its death and thought it fitting to build our hide out there. Because according to 9 year olds, you can¡¯t have a cemetery without a church.


    We squealed in delight when we saw that the snow had made it through our ceiling of trees. The shelter usually kept out most of the rain, so to us it felt special to see a layer of snow freezing the fallen leaves. Our hands still linked, we did a little dance to make a memory out of footprints. Evan pulled my arm to get me to do a twirl and I tumbled into him.


    He was lying underneath me in a blanket of snow, icy flakes seasoning his tousled hair and only a thin denim jacket between him and the frost, but we didn¡¯t move an inch. We were face to face, his hands holding onto my waist and mine turning numb in the cold either side of him.


    For a minute we stayed silent. His eyes flickered between mine and his mouth slid into the most natural smile. The kind that is so rare in its genuity, you can¡¯t stop yourself from mirroring it.


    Looking into his eyes, I saw my future reflected back at me. In that moment my life flashed before me, the life I was going to share with Evan. ¡°Friends forever¡± had never felt truer.


    His eyes didn¡¯t move from mine, or even blink, and in the softest voice he said ¡°you know I love you Lay-Lay.¡±


    My smile grew wider in that giddy way and I said the only words that came to mind, ¡°you better Birsha.¡± I giggled at him and hopped up with a snowball in hand.


    We didn¡¯t see each other the next day, he was busy with his boxing but our morning phone call was the same as any other.


    It wasn¡¯t until the day after that it happened.


    I look back now to one particular day. The day of the Frost of fall dance. The day everything changed between us. And I¡¯m still just as clueless.

 Eat the Rich

    Just focus on his smile, he has a nice smile. Oh god not the wink. Okay I¡¯m pretty sure whatever he¡¯s saying is sexist, gross, or just plain stupid. Most likely a mash up of all three.


    ¡°You¡¯re not listening to a word I say, are you Plum?¡± Brian crosses his arms and leans against the glossy wooden beam on my porch.


    ¡°Look Brian, I may have to go to this restaurant with you, but no one can force me to enjoy your company.¡±


    ¡°My witty charm begs to differ,¡± Brian boasts while he guides me to his car.


    He drives a pristine white BMW. The pointed black designs accentuate the slender edge of the bumper and the steel blue lining the interior infects the car with colour. It sits so low to the ground that I¡¯m not quite sure if I¡¯m stepping inside a car or a drivable coffin. It¡¯s probably an unspoken truth amongst rich people that the flatter the car, the more expensive it is.


    ¡°The roof comes off you know,¡± he shimmies his eyebrows proudly and reaches over to open the door for me. I slide in and slam the door shut, which makes Brian respond with an exaggerated grimace.


    ¡°Oh. My. God. You are such a little rich boy.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t slam the door of a car like this,¡± he protests, stroking the dashboard like it¡¯s a cat I just punched in the face. I tut and roll my eyes away from him and he turns the key in the ignition to start up the engine.


    ¡°Tell me rich boy, does your mother buy all your dates for you?¡±


    He lets go of the key and looks over at me. ¡°Come on Plum,¡± he says dismissively, slumped over the steering wheel. ¡°No one made you come out with me today. You don¡¯t have a leash around your neck. So stop moping and lighten up already,¡± he appeals, then slides his hands down to grasp the wheel and pulls out of the driveway.


    ¡°Can you at least let yourself have a good time?¡± he asks. ¡°You can¡¯t blame me for a shitty date if you¡¯re not even willing to smile.¡±


    My head drops down to my lap and for a second, a flicker of pity fizzles over my hatred. He may be one of the most arrogant, self absorbed people I know, but the writer in me can¡¯t help seeing the layer of good hidden beneath every villain.


    ¡°Brian,¡± I say softly and lift my head away from my twiddling fingers to face him. ¡°Are you hoping to get something¡­ Real out of this?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry Plum, I¡¯m a real gentleman. I¡¯m not expecting to get under that pretty little skirt of yours, at least not until the second date.¡±


    ¡°You know what I mean,¡± I groan at him.


    Instead of responding, he revs up the car with a wicked grin and zooms down the street. I brace my hands against the dashboard and let out a small squeal as the speedometer jumps up to 65 in a 30 mile per hour zone.


    He barrels around the bend into a parking lot and speeds straight at the building. My heart latches to my spine as the car screeches to a halt one foot away from crashing into the brick wall.


    I stare at him with eyes popping out like a cartoon character. I¡¯m still clinging onto the dashboard in fear and my mouth is open wide enough to compensate for the pace of my shaky breath.


    Marvelling in his recklessness, he whips his head forward and roars a victorious ¡°ha!¡±


    He flicks his head over to me, smirking like he¡¯d crossed the finish line in first place at a NASCAR race. But when he notices the terror that¡¯s taken over my body, his smiling face drops into an awkward cringe.


    ¡°So¡­ You¡¯re not much of a wild ride kinda girl then?¡±


    I stay staring at him for a moment out of bewilderment, then shake my head. ¡°You better pray this place does chocolate milkshakes,¡± I threaten, steadying myself as I get out of the car. I purposefully slam the door shut and I march towards the entrance with Brian cowardly trailing behind me.


    I don¡¯t take any time to check out what kind of fancy restaurant he¡¯s brought me to before barging in. I freeze in awe when the swinging door reveals the room.


    A high ceiling that brings out the royalty in the white and gold of the room, dangling chandeliers that create the perfect glow for an ambiance of fine dining, and the richest of the rich clinging their glasses and sporting the latest Valentino gowns.


    There¡¯s none of that.


    The room is large but the ceiling is low and it has a casual vibe which makes you feel that soothing buzz you only get when you step into your home. There¡¯s more dark than light spread over the green spiked hair and ripped fishnet tights, and the jukebox is roaring the wonder of Whitesnake as the punk band sets up their instruments on the cramped stage in the corner.


    ¡°What the hell happened to the little rich boy that wouldn¡¯t let a fly touch his hundred thousand dollar car?¡±Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    ¡°He bought a brain. I¡¯m not an idiot Plum, I know you¡¯re not into any of that fancy stuff.¡± He nudges me with his elbow and gestures his head towards a table next to the stage.


    I lean down to slurp my milkshake without picking it up and mutter through the chocolaty goodness, ¡°aren¡¯t your parents gonna flip when no one shows up for the reservation?¡±


    Brian slides the fries over to him and brings one to his mouth. ¡°One word,¡± he flicks the fry in his hand, ¡°craigslist.¡±


    He chomps down and lifts his head to look over my shoulder. I turn my head to see which Goth girl caught his attention, but it was the bartender that he had his eyes on - a tall guy with violent tattoos intensifying his bulbous muscles.


    Glaring back at Brian under his heavy eyebrows, he pours a perfect beer from the tap and slides it over to a girl across the bar without breaking eye contact. I fling my head back to Brian and tap my hand against the table to get his attention. ¡°Who is that?¡± I whisper. It takes a second before he snaps back to reality. ¡°That guy at the bar, who is he?¡±


    ¡°No one,¡± he says through his mouth still full of potato. I shrug at the obvious lie and excuse myself to go to the restroom.


    On my way there my curiosity cancels out my compulsion to stick to the social rules about staring at people and I start to size up the bartender. The bruises dotted around his jaw line are both faded and recent, which indicates an ongoing disagreement. And from the small red marks on his arm that he can¡¯t stop scratching, I assume it has something to do with drugs.


    Whatever Brian¡¯s past with him is, I¡¯m guessing I wouldn¡¯t want to be involved.


    I un-crane my neck to guide myself to the bathroom at the same time I stumble into a girl in the middle of a flirty conversation. Her vodka coke soaks the little material of her halter top and she growls in fury and spins around to face me


    . I give her my ¡°oopsi¡± puppy dog face but she doesn¡¯t say anything. In one hard shove, she throws me to the floor and her future one night stand laughs like a doofus at my expense.


    I glance down in disgust at the layers of filth beneath me. It feels like someone¡¯s been paper-masheing down here; so much so that I actually have to un-stick my hand from the floor.


    ¡°You¡¯re lucky you didn¡¯t catch Susie sucks-a-lot on one of her bad days.¡± A hand appears in my view and I grab onto it before I notice who it¡¯s attached to.


    I start to dust myself off.¡°Susie sucks-a-wha-¡­Evan?¡± I sputter when my eyes meet his. Evan immediately drops my hand. His hovers by my arm for a second then he snatches it back to his side.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you answer your phone, I called you three times earlier?¡± I question.


    ¡°My Dad has my phone,¡± he shrugs but I can see a hint of something else underneath his indifference¡­ and then I notice. I notice what is tainting the little innocence left in the flecks of hazel in his pine green eyes.


    ¡°What happened?¡± I falter, lifting my hand to his head. I get a deep pain at the sight of the blotchy purple bruise stretching from his cheek to his hair line and an instinctive rush to comfort him clouds my mind.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± he shakes me off and drops his eyes to the floor. ¡°Nothing that concerns you,¡± he says dismissing my worry. But he doesn¡¯t snap the words. In fact, I hear more despair in is voice than anger. Unfortunately, that only makes me want to comfort him more; and I know any attempt I make to do that is useless.


    ¡°You¡¯re not gonna interrogate me about last night, are you?¡± he asks with a groan.


    The first few notes of ¡°Paradise City¡± are dispersed from the guitarist strumming on stage. I pull Evan by his shirt to the corner of the room so that the music doesn¡¯t drown out our far long overdue conversation.


    ¡°If you think after all this time I¡¯m going to let something like that slide under the rug, you¡¯ve got to be delusional,¡± I declare and rip my hand from its grip on his shirt.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t-¡° he starts to defend but I can predict his next words better than Matt Groening does the future.


    ¡°Oh come on Evan, you¡¯re smarter than that drunken stupidity bullshit excuse,¡± I say, frustrated.


    I cross my arms deadpan and nudge my head forward to push for a response and he just sighs.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what else to say Elena.¡±


    ¡°For three years I haven¡¯t had a name, last night it was back to Lay-Lay and now we¡¯re at Elena. Is it me or are you struggling to make your mind up?¡±


    ¡°You tryna steal my babe Birsha?¡± Brian squishes by the bar next to me and throws his arm over my shoulders. ¡°Thought you pulled the ¡®ol bathroom window getaway for a sec there,¡± he says to my cheek.


    Evan purses his lips as he looks between the two of us. ¡°There¡¯s no way you guys are a thing.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d probably be in the back of my car right now if you hadn¡¯t interrupted our date,¡± Brian says, somehow throwing out both a boast and an accusation.


    ¡°Elena, you¡¯re not seriously dating this guy are you?¡±


    I hastily knock Brian¡¯s arm off of my shoulder and push myself out of the corner, away from both of them. The frustration inside me bubbles over and I can¡¯t hold it in any longer.


    ¡°Okay I am stopping this nonsense right now. Brian, stop acting like I¡¯m your property. You¡¯re an idiot if you think this, is a real date.¡± I turn my head towards Evan and scowl at him. ¡°And you. Are you kidding me? The last five years you¡¯ve treated me like a lizard-mutant that won¡¯t stop rolling around in whatever the hell comes out of cat-dog. Why the hell do you suddenly care who I date?¡±


    Both of them freeze in shock at my unexpected assertion and I hear my heart thump against my skull. They¡¯re speechless. Something I said actually made an impact on another person.


    After a dragged out silence, Brian finally spoke. ¡°So¡­ Am I driving you home, or are you walking ten miles down a highway in the dark?¡± he asks cautiously. I cross my arms and Brian gets the message and hurries to my side, while Evan rolls his eyes.


    When the question I asked Evan repeats in my head, I travel my eyes over his face to look for a spark of jealousy. But that¡¯s not what I found.


    Jealousy is a poison, what I see in his eyes is something else entirely.


    ¡°I left my jacket at the table,¡± I add and Brian doesn¡¯t wait for my signal before rushing over to retrieve it.


    Evan starts to make his way to the door when he stops at my side. He leans in to say something. ¡°Be careful with that guy Elena,¡± he speaks into my hair and I can feel what it is like to be near him again, so close to that comfort that¡¯s been lost to me for so long.


    He promptly brushes past me and disappears out the door, taking my hit of euphoria with him.


    ¡°Be careful,¡± he said.


    Jealousy is a poison, but caring is something else entirely.


    *****Just though I should let you know that the chapter title for this chapter is named after an Aerosmith song <3 And the song mentioned earlier that the band was playing is Guns and Roses. Shout out to all the rock fans reading! I''m a rock girl myself so pretty much every song I mention in this story will be from the ultimate rock era, the 80s-90s. Thanks again for reading!!! Please don''t hesitate to leave a comment :)*****


    Next update scheduled for 17/06/20

 Ghost in the Night

    Brian drops me home without saying another word and I slip off my trousers and crawl straight into bed. I don¡¯t have enough energy in me to write but I¡¯m not ready for sleep either. I trail along the swirls on my ceiling and let my thoughts run free.


    By the time it gets to midnight it seems that sleep is never coming and if it is, I lost the patience to wait for it any longer. I can¡¯t get Evan out of my head. I have this nagging feeling that I can¡¯t shake. Something¡¯s up with him.


    I scramble through the dark to get to my phone and pause staring down at Evan¡¯s number on the screen. He said his Dad had his phone; maybe this is a bad idea. Before I can argue against it anymore, I swish my fingers over the screen to call him. It rings five times and my heart pounds at every silence. My grip on the covers releases when the rings finally stop and a muffled sound enters the other line.


    ¡°Yo, who dis?¡± a deep voice grunts.


    ¡°Um who are you? Where¡¯s Evan?¡±


    ¡°Wha? Who the hell is dat?¡±


    ¡°This is his phone, where¡¯d you get it?¡± I question sharply.


    ¡°Some random guy on the street gave it to me. Now daddy needs some sleep, later babes. Feel free to call if you wanna come over sometime.¡±


    I drop my phone in disgust as the line goes dead. I know not all guys are pigs, so why is it that I keep running into them?Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Before my worry for Evan can dig its claws in any deeper, something else snaps me away from him and all the thoughts that come with it flood out of my head.


    My eyebrows thread together and a rush of anxiety comes over me. I instinctively snap my head towards the window.


    Something¡¯s not right.


    I feel a strange urge, pulling me to the window and a shiver falls down my spine. I edge towards it slowly. I¡¯m not quite sure what I¡¯m supposed to be looking for, which means I don¡¯t know what I could find.


    I peek my head around the frame and expand my view slowly. There doesn¡¯t seem to be anything popping out at me but I can¡¯t ignore the alarm going off inside of me.


    The street lights emit a fiery glow over the block, which along with the abandoned desolation only fuels my fear. And yet the emptiness should ease my mind. There¡¯s nothing out there. A couple of cars I guess. One¡¯s outside our house.


    Come to think of it, it¡¯s been there since Brian dropped me home.


    Is that¡­ Shit.


    I duck down in shock when I see a flash of movement from inside the car. I catch my breath and build up the courage to peek back over the windowsill. I edge on my knees to slowly reach my head over. Just as my forehead reaches the tip of the white wooden frame, a picture returns to my head.


    I inch my head to look down to the car and sure enough, the picture¡¯s the same. The same chin-length brown curls and the same cautious glance as I saw pulling into my driveway earlier that evening. I can see a number of wrappers littering his passenger seat and a notepad and pen balanced against the gear stick. I don¡¯t have the bravery to continue picking out warning signs, so I jump out of view and back into bed.


    I wrap my arms around myself and put my head into my knees as I think back. Think back to the only thing I can think of in this moment. The thing that assures I won¡¯t see a blink of sleep in the next two weeks.


    The six months I spent with the hooded man.

 Mould Makes the Grass seem Greener

    Brian rushes over like a little kid that¡¯s just been told off by his Mommy to collect Elena¡¯s jacket.


    I know I should walk out the door and forget about it, but I can¡¯t fight the feeling to warn her. I know Brian, he¡¯s not good for her. He¡¯s a rich dick. If Elena knew who he was she wouldn¡¯t be here with him.


    I lean into her on my way out the door and tell her to be careful. That¡¯s simple enough to get my point across without making me seem jealous or something.


    And I¡¯m not. That wimp. If I had to choose between being him or Beiber¡­ Well I¡¯d probably shoot myself, but I wouldn¡¯t choose him.


    I wouldn¡¯t say anything if she was here with someone decent. In fact I would be thrilled. She seems so lonely, always alone. I hate to see that. But being alone is better than being around guys like that.


    When I catch the nutty scent of coconut on her hair I immediately pull away. I can¡¯t risk letting my memories fog up my mind, so I brush past her and head straight out the door. The fresh, piny air clears the scent from my lungs and knocks away the long forgotten comfort from being near her again. I don¡¯t take much notice of the cold seeping through my skin, all I can think about is clearing my head.


    I take a deep breath in and start to focus my mind. The breeze plays with my hair and the frost nipping at my scalp reminds me of a day, one that I¡¯ve tried so hard to forget.


    Any old memories grasping at the surface for a breath of air are drowned out by the hour hand on my watch. A sudden state of urgency hurls me into my beat up jeep and speeds me past every traffic light and stop sign on the way home. Sporadically, I glance back and forth between the clock on my dashboard and the whirling road ahead.


    At this speed, one second of focus elsewhere is plenty time for you to miss a potential head on collision. I look up from the clock and a statue still rabbit appears in the headlights.


    I swerve to avoid the suicidal Thumper and the car spirals towards a chunky oak tree on the side of the road. I yank down on the right side of the wheel, spinning the car in the opposite direction. The image of the tree flies to the left. The car jumps to a halt and the tree shudders when the back bumper whacks into it.


    Silence replaces the screeching tyres and scrapping metal. But I don¡¯t waste any time appreciating the sound of nature¡¯s mercy on me, nor the anxiety that comes with a near crash, I just re-align my car with the road and continue my journey at the same reckless speed.


    I finally reach my house and slam down on the breaks.


    Shit shit shit.


    I fling myself to the sidewalk, nearly twisting my ankle as I land. When I¡¯m at the doorway I pause hesitantly. I brace myself and push the door open.


    I flinch when I see him standing there. No emotion on his face, he¡¯s just staring like there¡¯s no one in front of him. And his arms are tightly crossed over his muscled chest, scrunching up his fitted tank top. My hands start to shake as the sweat drips from my palms and I try to shut the door behind me. His fist slams into the door right beside my head and the door clicks shut from the force.


    ¡°What FUCKING time is it Evan?¡± he roars like a bear and knocks me back into the door sharply when I open my mouth to defend myself.


    He looks down and wipes his fingers over his stubble, something that he does not when he¡¯s calming down, but when he¡¯s so mad that he can¡¯t even think straight. I can feel the dampening of a tear at the corner of my eye and I fight against my fear with the many mantras that I¡¯ve come up with over the years.


    ¡°This is just a moment, moments pass,¡±I say to myself.


    I take in a deep silent breath to attempt to steady my panicking and try again.


    ¡°I will get away. I will get away. I will get away.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re late for another training session, I swear to God Evan you¡¯re not sleeping for a month,¡± he growls, clenching his fist in the air. ¡°My father gave me the belt when I wanted to box and my mother sent me to sleep in the goddamn rain.¡±


    I grab my duffel bag from beside the hall lamp and rush to head out the door, too panicked to take in a word of the daily lecture.


    ¡°Do you thank me?!¡± I slam the door on his grating scream and march to my car with my anxiety clenched inside my fists.


    By the time I get to the gym, my rage is so hyped up that adrenaline has overtaken every chemical in my body. I storm past the changing rooms, through the basketball court and down the stairs to the basement of the gym. I advance straight up to my opponent for the day. Carlson cuts off his instructions and turns his authority to me.


    ¡°Evan, you¡¯re twenty minutes-¡° my instructor starts before I interrupt him with a riled up roar.


    ¡°Are we doing this or what?¡±


    He gives me an uneasy nod and takes a step towards the gloves in the corner, but one step is all he gets in before I throw my bare fist at the person in front of me. I didn¡¯t even take a second to notice the fear in his eyes before throwing the next one¡­ And the next. I stumble back when the instructor steps in but I knock him back and throw yet another rage fuelled punch at my partner¡¯s faceless head.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough Evan!¡± He knocks my harder this time and I fall back into the punching bag. It flies towards the ceiling, swings forward and rams into my back; collapsing my legs and slamming me to my hands and knees.


    And that¡¯s when I see the pool of blood coating my fist.


    I follow the trail of droplets up to his face and what I see drops my chest.


    It¡¯s just a kid.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Probably one of his first sessions and the only thing worse than the sight of his swollen mashed up face, oozing blood like it¡¯s a broken ice cream machine¡­ Is the look in his eyes.


    Pure horror, pure fear, pure innocence that¡¯s been taken away by one person¡¯s careless disregard for constraint. My fists hold me up and I stare down at the floor with a clenched jaw. Instead of my guilt overwhelming me like it should, instead of me asking for forgiveness or rushing to tend to his wounds; instead of pity rising from my stomach, I turn to something far easier to deal with and another spike of fury is what pricks inside of me.


    I spring myself to my feet and tower over the concerned Carlson who is crouched down with one arm over the kid and the other being used to inspect his most likely broken nose.


    ¡°Why the hell is he even here?¡± I explode, sharply gesturing to the weedy 15 year old. The instructor looks back at me, his forehead wrinkled in disapproval. ¡°Where¡¯s Matt, or Graham? Hell even Brent could take a punch to the face better than that.¡±


    ¡°I thought that you were the best student to train with,¡± he retorts. ¡°I pickedyoubecauseyoudon¡¯t pull this kinda shit!¡±


    I turn my back and storm out of the room, the musky metallic smell of blood and sweat disappears with my dignity, as I leave two innocents to deal with the gunshot that I pulled the trigger on.


    I get outside and fume away from the building and then back towards it. I slam my palm into the brick wall, my head boiling with the blood rushing to it, and then drop down to the ground. I lean my elbows on my knees and tilt my head back against the wall.


    The frozen air burns my scrapped up hand and my head flinches forward. I turn my palm away but then all I can see is my knuckles stained with the blood of both a victim and a ruthless. I grab onto it and hold it in my other palm, so that all I can see is my shameless, undamaged wrist. The anger seeps out of me, leaving nothing but regret and anguish to fill my hollowed out shell. My senses blur with the concrete beneath my feet.


    I don¡¯t know how long I stare down at the ground, peering through the triangle made by my legs and uninjured arm but by the time my head is clear, the full moon¡¯s glow is bright enough to awaken the wolves.


    There¡¯s a part of me that it awakens also, a part of me that¡¯s slumber is snuffed out by the stolen light of the moon. Night is a filtered version of the day. It¡¯s the pure form of the world and it¡¯s what I thrive on.


    My anguish floods into the overflowing box I keep at the back of my head and I lock up the prison holding my demons. This is my time to bask in the tranquillity of the darkness.


    I leave my car to collect in the morning and head through the bushes to the empty alley ways that I walk each night. I walk fast enough to enjoy the rush of walking at a good pace, but slow enough so that I can take in the refreshing breeze and every piece of art sculptured by Mother Nature.


    I only stop when I reach the unfortunately named trollop road.


    The guys always say the best lays come from here. I don¡¯t laugh along, only because Millie Thompson¡¯s entire high school reputation has been destroyed by that joke. And not sure if it makes me a pussy but that¡¯s not really something that gives me the kicks.


    I search around and I start to worry when I see no one in sight. This is our usual meet up time; I don¡¯t know where she could be. She¡¯s never late.


    I hear a clatter of trash cans and whip my head to the break in the alley to see that familiar infectious smile come plodding around the corner.


    ¡°I was worried about you Nate,¡± I chime as she drops a present by my feet. I kneel down and ruffle her patchy multicoloured ears as her head writhes inside my hands.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± I say, picking up the old chicken wing she must have found rustling around in the garbage. I put it back in front of her and continue to rile her up with cuddles.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got that wag in the bag ol¡¯ girl,¡± I say playfully.


    I never smile like I do when I¡¯m around her. I stand up and smile again, sweeter this time. Her tongue is still rolled out of her mouth and her bottom is still waggling uncontrollably, but my enthusiasm has wavered.


    I have to get home by midnight and it kills me to leave her behind. She tries to follow me like she does every day and I have to coerce her back into the shadows.


    ¡°A pet is a distraction from my responsibilities,¡± is what my father would say if I tried to bring her home. And he¡¯d probably get her put down, I can¡¯t risk that.


    I walk the rest of the way alone.


    I wouldn¡¯t do this any other day but after tonight, I can¡¯t resist the urge. I take a short detour down West Edge, which coincidentally happens to be Elena¡¯s road. I¡¯m not a stalker or anything; I¡¯m only going to walk past.


    As I get around the col de sac and reach the prison thick fencing that surrounds her house, I notice a car parked outside.


    It wouldn¡¯t be so strange if there wasn¡¯t someone camped out in there, fixated on Elena¡¯s bedroom. I take a step to investigate but then I see a strand of Elena¡¯s hair falling into the window frame, as she fails to attempt spying discretely. I jump backwards and press my back against the wall that separates her house from the next.


    Standing here, hiding from Elena at 12 in the morning, I feel nothing but stupid. I turn in the other direction and make my way home the usual way, the way that doesn¡¯t make me a creepo.


    *


    Thankfully, my Dad is passed out from the pirate¡¯s portion of rum missing from the bottle. I get into my room and even though the day I¡¯ve had should have knocked me out by now, I don¡¯t go to my bed.


    I ease my door shut and turn to face my old wooden desk. I pull on the rusted golden handle the shape of a horse shoe and rummage through the mess. At the bottom of the draw is a book. It¡¯s not special, or something I go near often, it¡¯s just a material guide that I got in shop class a while back. But that¡¯s why I keep it inside this.


    I flick through the pages until I reach page 103, inside is a flattened cherry blossom. I delicately pick it up with my thumb and forefinger. In my grip I hold a memory of the third of October. The day of the frost of fall dance¡­ The day I turned on Elena.


    It may seem like a memory I¡¯d want to forget, but despite how painful it was, it was the last time I saw her smile at me, the last time she held my hand.


    *


    She had just stepped from her mother¡¯s car and time almost started to move in slow motion as I took in her every feature. She was wearing a vibrant violet strapless dress, it was always her colour. Her hair was plaited in an updo and it freed her face to fully show off the sparkle in both her dark eyes and bright smile.


    I went to get the cherry blossom I had put in my pocket the week before so that I wouldn¡¯t forget to give it to her, but then a painful reminder from my bruised ribs stopped me.


    The day prior was a major junior boxing event, but that wasn¡¯t where I got my injury. I was supposed to win my match. Everybody thought I would.


    But I lost.


    Maybe it was because I was so excited for the dance, it was basically going to be our unofficial first date.


    My dad said that was the reason anyway.


    He told me I was getting too distracted, that I wasn¡¯t reaching my full potential. I said it wasn¡¯t her fault and that only made him angrier. He threw me onto the kitchen table, grabbed the rolling pin from the counter and whacked me until I swore I would do what he told me to.


    So instead of whipping her into my arms, asking her to dance, and spending my night with the one person I had to care about; I stood neutral and stayed silent.


    She skipped over to me, clasped my hand in hers and sweetly pecked my cheek. Then she told me I looked dashing with a giggle and her mood altering smile.


    And I, well I looked her dead in the eye and with a cold, heartless tone I said ¡°get some new friends Elena, you don¡¯t have any anymore.¡±


    She stood wordless, devastated. And I left feeling the same way.


    Not only was I her only friend, she was mine. We both had acquaintances, people we would talk to at school, but we spent too much time with each other to have any proper friends of our own.


    And that was it, two people separating at the blink of an eye. The faded lyrics playing from inside the walls of the school gym, making sure I couldn¡¯t walk away without a tear.


    ¡°You were standing, I was there. Two worlds collided. And they could never tear us apart.¡±


    *********Awesome song, if you don''t know it please check it out! It''s by INXS. anyways thanks again for reading! Next chapter due 3/07/20***********

 Burden of the Dead

    ¡°Elena, wakey wakey, Brian¡¯s here,¡± someone chimes in a sickly sweet voice. I peer through my heavy eyes to see if Esther is doing an ironic imitation but weirdly enough, it¡¯s Morgan standing by my bed with a kind smile disrupting the evil on her face.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have anything scheduled for today,¡± I say rather snappy as I roll in the other direction.


    ¡°Well he¡¯s here and I¡¯ve told him you¡¯ll be down in five minutes. I suggested you two catching a movie today.¡±


    So she invited him over, so much for my lie in.


    Thankfully, she doesn¡¯t wait around to berate me out of bed. It¡¯s strange to be treated like a human, even if it¡¯s only because I¡¯m doing all this for her. To further her career.


    My back strains to sit upright. Another hour, I think. Just half an hour more sleep and maybe I wouldn¡¯t feel so lousy. But that¡¯s just wishful thinking. Rest is something for the lucky. The unlucky close their eyes and all they can see is demons, and horrors that most would never encounter in their worst nightmares.


    But I can¡¯t escape them in my good dreams. Sleeping is more like being thrown into a gladiator ring with eight hours of fending off a lion. No rest. No recuperation. Just fear, sweat, and desperation.


    I look over to the end of my bed and I dig my nails into my palms at the outfit laid out for me. What is her obsession with pink anyway? I¡¯m going to look like a damn jigglypuff wearing this. And yet my clothes are stupid and undignified?


    I throw on the outfit and head down stairs reluctantly. I don¡¯t bother to greet Brian. Princess Barbie is in the kitchen so there¡¯s no need to put on a show for her. I huff straight out the door and into Brian¡¯s car and cross my arms in a full teenage tantrum display.


    ¡°Hey, I was gonna let you sleep. She¡¯s the one who insisted I come over,¡± he defends, hopping into the driver¡¯s seat.


    ¡°It¡¯s one thing getting two hours of sleep. But can you see what I¡¯m wearing?!¡± I flap my hands to accentuate my outrage and he threads his eyebrows at my irrationality.


    ¡°Granted, you look a lil dorky¡­¡± I squint my eyes at him and he puts is hand out in defence. ¡°Buuut you totally pull it off.¡± ¡°Why are you so down about it anyway? You¡¯re not exactly the drama queen type.¡±


    For once Brian might actually be right about something. I may get a double dose of cranky without sleep; even if it wouldn¡¯t do much good, but this has a deeper meaning.


    My mother.


    She would always take me to the pink heavy stores on our shopping trips and pull me along the rails of frilly dresses, in hopes that I would suddenly change my mind about the colour. It didn¡¯t bother me too much, she never forced anything on me and I always got what I wanted in the end.


    Maybe it wouldn¡¯t have gotten under my skin so much if it had happened another day, but it reminds me of how great my mother really was. She let me be independent. She let me be who I wanted to be. I wasn¡¯t just a small carbon copy of her. And I suppose it hurts so much more today because I¡¯ve never needed her more than I do right now.


    The pain of missing her never leaves me, but sometimes it¡¯s stronger than others. And after the last two weeks, there¡¯s nothing I yearn for more than a simple hug to make the pain go away. You never appreciate it at the time, but a mother¡¯s love, is like nothing else in the world. A simple hug can cure anything, and I want nothing more than to feel that warmth again.


    ¡°You have Denis¡¯s number right?¡± I demand.


    ¡°I see where you¡¯re going with this,¡± Brian sighs and pulls out his phone from his pocket.


    I drift away from the dialling of his phone and watch the windshield like it¡¯s a TV screen. The image cut out is of my street. There¡¯s a line of obscurely shaped houses fit for a wealthy breed of giants and a selection of fruit shaped boxwood shrubs all finely cut for the appearance of a smooth surface.


    My old street had monkey trees that shadowed every elf-sized home. The nature was natural, not moulded to look like plastic. And when the sun was brightest the flecks of sunlight would shower down and turn simplicity into something far more wild and beautiful.


    I shut my eyes and delete the image in front of me. I look upon the ballroom as Yannie enters with amazement in her eyes. She spins, her head to the sky light ceiling and her feet dancing over the freckles of moonlight spotted over the floor. Emie grabs onto Yannie¡¯s whirling hand and twirls her daughter in to face her prideful smile.


    It¡¯s Yannie¡¯s first ball and she couldn¡¯t miss it. Being a Lakenode meant that she only had a limited number of days to spend amongst the living, so she chose them wisely. Today was a special day for her daughter. She only had a handful of days left but she knew Yannie wouldn¡¯t want to spend the evening with anyone else. Their bond is like no other and everyone in the realm knew when they were together, because the moon glowed at its brightest and a thousand more stars appeared in the sky.


    I inhale the hit from the world of fantasy and I open my eyes to see the sun illuminating everything in our path. The light graces Brian¡¯s face and although he¡¯s looking through eyes of confusion, I see a joy and lust for life.


    ¡°Okay, I¡¯m not sure you¡¯re a hundred percent there¡­¡± Brian remarks.


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± I say with a slight giggle.


    ¡°You¡¯re beaming like a shit shovelling monkey,¡± he exclaims and I tilt my head to ask how that¡¯s a bad thing. ¡°Two minutes ago I was wishing I¡¯d worn a protective cup I was so scared for my manhood. I was ready to chain you up for the full moon. And now you¡¯ve gone from man eating werewolf to little puppy dog excited for the car ride?¡±


    ¡°Do you want to sit here and complain about how I¡¯m not in a bad enough mood or do you want to tell me what the plan is?¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­ So Denis said it¡¯s happening a mile from the pier at Rock beach and it starts at eight. Can you stay out till then?¡±


    ¡°The Twits clearly want us to be a thing, they¡¯ll probably be thrilled that I¡¯m spending an entire day with you.¡± Brian¡¯s face lights up at that statement. ¡°Don¡¯t get too cocky, you know it¡¯s just business.¡±This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°Their business is my pleasure,¡± Brian brags and I respond by putting my feet up on his unmarked leather seat. ¡°Okay okay I¡¯m sorry for being a dick just put your feet down, please.¡± I sigh and drop my feet back to the floor.


    ¡°You know you could have just asked me out, instead of using your parents¡¯ power and not giving me a choice.¡±


    ¡°I did, like a lot and you said no.¡±


    ¡°For good reason rich boy! That¡¯s the way it goes for us regular folk, we ask, we get rejected, we accept it and we move on. We don¡¯t get our parents to buy around the rules of free will.¡±


    ¡°Give me a break Elena. Like you even try to go after what you want. All you do is lock yourself up in your room and dream the world away. And here I am doing what you want to do, driving you around like a chauffeur while you treat me like I¡¯m some villain you write about in one of your stories.¡±


    ¡°That is such- wait how do you know about my writing?¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­You may have left your notebook in my car¡­¡±


    ¡°And you went through it?!¡±


    My story is like my dramatized, fictionalised journal. It¡¯s so personal to me that I won¡¯t even let Esther read it, and that notebook that Brian put his dirty hands all over is full of intimate snippets. I almost feel violated.


    ¡°Um¡­ So where did you want to go until the jock party? We¡¯ve got a few hours to kill.¡± He tries to change the subject and I push down the anger and revolution rising to the surface.


    He couldn¡¯t have known what he was doing. It¡¯s ratty, old and plain. It doesn¡¯t look special to anyone else. I try to convince myself against blowing my top at him, he looks guilty enough and I¡¯m not in the mood to start up an argument.


    I grunt and direct him towards the library. I figure at least I can broaden Brian¡¯s mind. Maybe fill him with some conversation topics that are slightly more riveting than the best flavour of Monster and the pros and cons of wearing socks in bed.


    For Brian I pick out the Green Mile and for me I choose a three hundred page easy read that I can get through in a couple of hours. After his initial whining through the first chapter, the wonder sealed inside the pages starts to pull him in. Two hours later the last page of my book ends with a hundred unanswered questions and I turn to Brian in outrage, only to be met with air slapping gestures.


    The magic of literature has entrapped someone I thought would be impervious to its spell. I¡¯ve never been so happy to hear someone tell me to fucking shut up.


    We get kicked out at five thirty and I¡¯m left to deal with Brian¡¯s newly discovered cliff-hanger frustration. It would be very pleasant to have a conversation about Stephen King and the wonderful new experience of a good book, but there¡¯s still two and a half hours until the monthly jock beach bash and Brian¡¯s frustration is only making my agitation worse.


    After all this has been building up far longer than just today. I need to talk to Evan, properly this time. No more shit. If I have to tackle him into the campfire and sit on him until the words get squeezed out of his lungs, as all of his friends watch on; I don¡¯t care.


    At seven o¡¯clock we meet up with Denis and Graham outside Subway. They greet me as though I¡¯m a part of their inner circle, despite the fact that I¡¯ve never exchanged two words with either of them. The oatmeal raisin cookie falling out of my mouth makes it rather difficult for me to engage in hellos, so I do a half hearted flutter with my left hand.


    It¡¯s quite intimidating having them this close to me. Their thick necks and broad shoulders are a product of years of athletic conditioning and with their six foot statures, it makes five foot three me feel like an undernourished child that just wandered into a body building tournament.


    The sculpted jaw lines, gelled back hair, piercing eyes, rippling muscles, obnoxious laughter, uncensored sexual references and tendencies to ridicule anything slightly out of their strict guidelines on what a perfect specimen should be: are the general features of the very people I avoid. Perhaps that makes me the same as them. I don¡¯t taunt them for being who they want to be, but I do judge them and maybe that makes me no better.


    Brian isn¡¯t much into that crowd either but these two are on the barrier between jocks and rich kids, so their families have been forcing them together since they got out of diapers.


    Graham tries to subtly congratulate Brian on his latest catch and Brian¡¯s eyes shift over to me smugly. He had to take the opportunity to brag, it¡¯s not like he gets a whole lot of luck with the ladies.


    They go on thinking I¡¯m clueless to the poorly coded conversation until I perk up to add that actually we¡¯d decided just to be friends in accordance with Brian finding himself unable to perform in bed.


    That shuts them up.


    After an awkward silence, which I found very satisfying, Denis speaks up to suggest that we head to Rodman¡¯s convenience store to get the provisions for tonight. Rodman is a carefree Asian looking Irishman who sells weed from the back of his trailer at Elkridge Park. He¡¯s not the type to ask for ID.


    We all squeeze into Brian¡¯s two-seater. I end up having to nearly twist off the pinkie finger of Graham the groper. And Denis the jokester, who won¡¯t stop with the quips about my butt, gets a well deserved elbow to the ribs. It starts with comparisons to national monuments but by the time it gets to the tone deaf rendition of Baby Got Back, I¡¯m about ready to slam my hand into his crotch. He should consider himself lucky that I¡¯m good at anger management.


    When we finally get there, I insist on keeping the car company. Denis uses my shoulder to pull up his fourteen stone build and clambers over me, leaving knee marks all over my legs. Instead of whining out a damsely ¡°ow¡±, I use my whole upper body to shove him off of me. His back cracks against the stony gravel and as he groans, rolling around like a turtle stuck on its back, I can¡¯t help but pull a wicked grin.


    He finally manages to scramble to his feet and he slams the door on my witch of the west cackle. He knows not to hit a lady and it makes it all the more funny that he can¡¯t, plus now he has to deal with Brian.


    ¡°My fucking car dude! Are you kidding me? You know what that¡¯s worth!¡± The sweet sound of Brian¡¯s outrage dims as they get through the doors of the shop.


    I turn up the volume on the radio and switch through the static, boring chatter and pop songs until I get to a rock channel. I feel the light buzz of my phone in my pocket. I pull it out casually to see who¡¯s calling me. My heart stops and the vibration becomes violent in my hand.


    Two missed calls, Lucifer. Devil¡¯s Whore calling: decline or accept.


    I know which option I desperately want to pick but I know I can¡¯t. They only call me when they¡¯re pissed about something and the longer I put it off, the longer their anger has to boil and steam. My finger trembles around the accept button until I finally steady enough to press it.


    I stumble over the word hello but my words become redundant when Morgan¡¯s enraged shrieking blasts into my ear drums. All I can comprehend is unintelligible white noise. The quivering in my hands spreads through my arms, to my shoulders, up over my brain and back down towards my chest. I shut my mouth on my shaky breath and take in long deep inhales until the pulsing in my brain thumps softer against my skull.


    I¡¯m used to this, I¡¯m used to having them scream and curse and tell me I¡¯m not worth the life that God gave me. And I¡¯m used to refracting every word to some internal corner of my brain that doesn¡¯t let the fear or helplessness come to the surface. But I don¡¯t have it in me today.


    I manage to calm myself down to the point where I can absorb and expel words and I muster up enough to ask what it is that I did. I can hear the exasperation in her breath before she even replies.


    ¡°Your room Elena. It looks like you¡¯ve ransacked the place! What on earth were you trying to accomplish? To get back at me? Or is this just another part of your psychotic drama that you convince people is some type of disease?¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about? I haven¡¯t been to the house since I left earlier. My room was spotless.¡±


    ¡°So what is it you¡¯re telling me then? Someone climbed up through your window and went through all of your things? I thought your intelligence was the one area you weren¡¯t severely lacking in. Clearly I¡¯ve given you far too much credit. You just wait until you get home. You have no idea what¡¯s in store for you.¡±


    I¡¯ve never heard her voice at that octave before, the low hiss that comes with the worst of threats, the kind of threats that you don¡¯t want to face.


    They may not kill me, but the heartless detachment I see in their eyes when they sear my skin with cigarettes or scream at me until my ears bleed, is as unpredictable as a psychopath¡¯s.


    I hang up that second, block their numbers and throw my phone to the floor. I won¡¯t let their wrath defeat me any longer. I won¡¯t give in to it. I won¡¯t live in that house another day.


    And with that decision, the most powerful sensation travels over every molecule in my body. My arms and legs feel like they¡¯re floating as the shackles gripping into them release and crash to the floor. My heart, lungs, stomach, brain, every organ in my body breaks free from its clenched cage and almost feels as though they¡¯re expanding. Even the tensed muscles in my neck snap apart and I feel my head stretching higher to look over the grass outside; that for the first time in three years I¡¯ll be able to walk over freely.


    This is it. This is my escape. And tonight, I celebrate with beer and rowdy teenagers. I¡¯ll worry about the rest later.


    Even the part about my room.


    The room that I lock every day. The room that is in the most secure house in the neighbourhood. The room that has only has one possible way into it. The window that I left wide open.

 The Devil in I, the Devil in You

    The boys cramp back into the car, obnoxious rambling fuses with the excited electricity in the air around me. Fuel surges through the car and we are pulled forward, the intensity of a large magnet gripping onto us. Instead of my bones shaking in fear, it¡¯s a much more pleasant adrenaline humming its way down my skeleton. The weight of the car lifts and we glide over the road, floating above every unimportant thing we pass.


    Now I understand why he does this, it makes you feel powerful, like nothing can catch you, beat you, even match you. The house, trees, people, roads, it all blurs into an unintelligible clump of mass, until there¡¯s nothing left but you, omnipotent and supreme.


    We pull up by a mountain of jagged rocks, Brian yanks out the key and the rush dives from my fingertips and into the dead engine. What¡¯s left inside is nothing I¡¯ve felt before. There¡¯s no rage, no sadness or dismay, no grief, no uncertainty, not even a hint of question in my veins.


    My muscles tighten and stretch to pull me over the rocks, my movements fluid and decisive. I drop down into a pile of sand and call out to the jocks falling behind. Denis flips over the last one with a keg of beer a minute after, Graham isn¡¯t long behind him and we all have to wait around for Brian to eventually huff and puff over it.


    I can¡¯t blame him, weedy little thing he is. What kind of muscles do you expect to build up when you have people paid to do everything but wipe your ass? I can¡¯t help but be a little smug about it though. I don¡¯t even have to say anything, my pursed lips and upward stare are enough to turn him into pouty boy.


    ¡°It¡¯s my wrists. I have been driving all day. And I twisted my ankle last week.¡±


    ¡°Yeah yeah, whatever you say Myers.¡±


    An arm of smoke reaches through the evening air, guiding us through the fading light. Dutchman¡¯s Cave is in the distance. We must be close. The arm turns into a body and the sounds of the bonfire crackle through the breeze. The fruity must of alcohol follows and the body turns into a smog as we trudge up to the clusters of laughing, dancing, flirting teenagers.


    I¡¯ve never actually been to a high school party before, but I didn¡¯t come here to fulfil some long desired adolescent milestone.


    A slobbering mess of a man stumbles up to me. I refuse the oddly mixed beverage being offered and tap Brian on the shoulder, giving him a look to let him know I¡¯m heading off to find Evan. He gives me a knowing nod and I begin to venture through the party pool.


    Splashes of sticky liquid fly over my shoulder and I have to dodge a fist fight, sucky faces and a fire ball for some reason. Not quite sure if that guy has enough I.Q points to be this close to water.


    After twenty, oh so long minutes, I start to ask around. My first roadblock is that only about five percent of the people here seem to talk in a language I can comprehend. I¡¯d probably have a better chance with a toddler wearing a chainsaw for a hat. And the second is that the ones that can actually remember real words haven¡¯t seen him since he first arrived.


    So he¡¯s here, but not here here. Great. I slump down onto a ruff edged log by the bonfire. The flames swirl through the breeze, letting the heat flare up and scorch my cheeks. Turning my face to the cloudless sky to sooth my sore skin, I can see nothing but the moon.


    The imperfect ball, splattered with shimmering shades of grey stares back at me, whispering to me. I share more memories with the moon than anyone else. But tonight, it only speaks of one.


    Every full moon, Evan and I would sneak off at midnight to the peak of Sundae hills. It took me two years to be able to make it to the top without riding on his back. After we¡¯d giggled our way over the moss and moll hills, we would lay side by side, our faces lit by its radiant glow, and we would share bizarre stories of its power and the beasts born from it.


    His tales were never as dark as mine; they were always filled with love and the beauty of the night. He would take my hand and tell me of its magic, tell me no matter what he was facing, if he could look up to the sky and see it staring back at him, he knew he was safe and everything was better again.


    That told me all I need to know.


    I turn my back to the fire and circle back towards Dutchman¡¯s cave. I climb over the glistening rocks to where everything below is hidden and only the sounds of the night can reach. There¡¯s a stony path blanketed in various verdant weeds, creeping through the cracks. It leads up to the edge of a cliff. All you can see over the precipice is a family of trees blocking the view of the town and the moon above, watching over them.


    ¡°Not in the party mood?¡± I say, crouching down next to him.


    Evan¡¯s feet dangle carelessly over the edge and he keeps his head planted on the sky. ¡°I have to spend every day with those people,¡± he sighs dropping his gaze to the forest below, ¡°why would I want to spend my one free night with them?¡±


    The silence tingles in my ears. Evan lifts his knees and hangs his arms over them. ¡°You know my father congratulated me for this,¡± he says holding up his right hand by his wrist.


    ¡°What happened?¡± I croak as I inch closer to him, my mouth dries at the sight of his cracked, beaten up knuckles.


    ¡°I sent a fifteen year old kid to the hospital with a broken nose and I get a well done.¡±


    I stroke my fingers over his wrist and pull his hand from his grip to hold it in mine. His head turns to me and I see more pain in his eyes than I see in my own reflection.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know whose life I¡¯m living, it¡¯s like watching a movie that¡¯s playing out in front of me. How long has it been since I was me? I don¡¯t even remember.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve seen you Evan, but you¡¯re still you.¡± I squeeze his hand tighter and he grips my fingers in his palm. ¡°You¡¯re here, with me, right now.¡±


    ¡°Why are you here? After everything, why are you here, holding my hand?¡± A layer of water covers his eyes like contacts, tears threaten to drip down and I can¡¯t help but lean in and wrap my arms around his lifeless body. The air is cold but as I nuzzle my head into his neck and his arms clutch onto my back, tightening our embrace, all I feel is a surge of warmth between our bodies.


    ¡°I¡¯m here because I wanted to see you again. The real you. And I¡¯m not sure if I should be happy that I found it,¡± I say into his neck. His hand burrows into my hair and grips onto it, like it¡¯s the last antidote for a deathly poison that¡¯s running through his veins.


    ¡°I¡¯ve thought about this so many times it doesn¡¯t even feel real,¡± he speaks in breaths, I can barely hear his words but they sting my ears just the same.


    I can¡¯t help but feel guilty. All this time, he¡¯s been going through so much and he¡¯s had to do it alone. He may have been the one to push me away but I never took the time to find out why. I just painted myself as the victim and let myself wallow in my one-sided self pity.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what happened between us Evan, and right now I don¡¯t care. I¡¯m here and I¡¯m not planning on jumping off the cliff. So tell me what¡¯s going on.¡±


    I pull away from his desperate hold, my face so close to his that I can see every dimple bringing character to his face. His baby soft cheeks are dented with despair and he looks as though he wants to delve into every moment of anguish that he¡¯s had since we parted ways. But instead, he takes a heavy breath, letting the muscle in his jaw pop and drops his head.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have control over my life Elena, and I¡¯m not sure that I ever will. That¡¯s all there is to say.¡±


    My stomach curdles. Every instinct inside of me is yanked down to my twisting gut. The air goes stale and we sit, our silence only drowned out by the humming of our skin. There¡¯s no tension or awkwardness and neither of us dares to move an inch away from the other.


    During the silence, I can tell his head is running wild with thoughts. Thoughts fuelled by a yearning regret. I can see it all over his face, but I can¡¯t quite pin it down.


    ¡°You know we haven¡¯t talked since it happened. We never got to talk about what exactly went on.¡±


    ¡°You never asked Evan.¡±


    ¡°I wanted to. Everyday. When I saw you that day back at school, it took everything in me not to take you in my arms and squeeze you until your head exploded.¡±


    I let out a weary chuckle. I still don¡¯t understand why he didn¡¯t. He didn¡¯t even come up to me and say hello. Six months I was gone. Six months and he didn¡¯t so much as give me a ¡°welcome back¡±. But for some reason, being here with him now, that doesn¡¯t seem to matter.


    ¡°You want to know what happened, unfiltered by playground gossip and the media? I can tell you what it was like if you really want to know.¡±


    ¡°I do. If you can say it, I¡¯m here to listen. Even if I don¡¯t like what I hear.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever had someone grab you from behind? If you haven¡¯t, and I assume you haven¡¯t, then you can¡¯t imagine the way it makes you feel. I once had a nightmare, and it was so vivid and real that it¡¯s stuck with me to this day. I had been buried alive. I woke up without a shred of memory or idea where I was. I yelled and cried, screaming for hours. Useless screaming that did nothing but take away the last dregs of oxygen. The worst kind of claustrophobia. Unimaginable. And that was nothing in comparison to that day.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know what or who was holding onto me, I only knew it was human when the hand wrapped around my jaw and fingers sunk into my cheeks. They were coated in mould and oil, any gasps of breath I got in were a sickly foul and the chemicals stung my sinuses. I couldn¡¯t scream, not even cry. The only sound that I could make was through my nose and it only came out as a pitiful squeak.¡±


    ¡° He was wrapped around me like a straight jacket. Then he threw my into a brick wall and my struggling stopped, everything stopped. Black was all I saw until I woke up. The sickly smell of honey reached in under the thin cracks in the giant wooden door. It was so small that room. And there was only one way out. My head throbbed for weeks, pain stabbing into my skull from every angle. There was no light and no window, I could barely tell when it was day.¡±


    ¡° Six months I was down there. I knew that because I counted the days on the dirt, a foot away from the rancid hole that was supposed to be my toilet.¡±


    ¡°How¡­ How did you know when a day passed if there were no windows?¡± Evan¡¯s voice is so quiet a cricket could talk over him. His gaze stays fixed on the colourless pebbles. Not that I can look him in the eye either, if I did I don¡¯t know if I could stop the river of tears that would follow. And I need to share this story. If not with him, then who?


    ¡°It was night when he came, but he never missed a day. I counted the hours once. That was my only connection to the outside world, the few seconds that I could taste the air and see that there was still a sky above me. It was a man, tall, large, hulk-like body. And he always wore the same mouldy green hood and stood in the shadows. His face hidden as he threw in my slop.¡±


    ¡°He never touched me, I wasn¡¯t even tied up. In fact he never even said a word to me. But that almost made it worse. Every minute I wished that he would come in and do something, get it over with. I couldn¡¯t stand not knowing what was going to happen to me. I just wanted it to be over.¡±


    ¡°My mind was playing tricks on me, things would appear and I couldn¡¯t tell when I was awake or having a nightmare. They were indistinguishable. All I thought about was torture, rape, cuts, threats, pleading for mercy, my intestines wrapped around my body like you would with toilet paper at Halloween, a potato peeler making its way up my body slice by slice. I practically had a whole saw movie scripted out with me as the main character. And any of it could have been done to me at any minute. But none of it ever was.¡±


    ¡°Elena¡­¡± The light in his eyes is now the darkest black. Any sadness that I saw on his face earlier has multiplied into a pain unrecognisable to me.


    I haven¡¯t told many my story. In fact only Esther and the police. The only difference between my story then and my story now, is that then it was purely factual. I told it to them like an essay on a case I was studying educationally. It isn¡¯t until now that I¡¯m able to say, out loud, the way it made me feel.


    ¡°How did you escape?¡±


    And here it is. The question I¡¯m most terrified of. The ¡°hows¡± and ¡°whys¡±, those are what keep me up at night. Because I¡¯ll never know the answers. This isn¡¯t a science exam where I can open a textbook and find it written in plain English. I can¡¯t ask Google, or find someone of a higher expertise. Maybe my mother could give me a clue; she always seemed to know everything. But I never got a chance to ask her. When I returned, I only got to see the look on her face from the opening in her coffin.


    And as much as I¡¯d like it to be, my life isn¡¯t a story. I don¡¯t have a world renowned detective, or an all-knowing psychic. I just have me. Clueless, young Elena. And Elena has no magic spell to answer the ¡°whys¡±, ¡°hows¡± and ¡°whos¡±.


    The only thing Elena can do is pass on that impotence to someone else. And maybe. Hopefully. Possibly. It can put a leash on that relentless beast, lurking in the black waters of the unknown.

 Shoot me with your Smile

    ¡°How did I escape? That¡¯s the million dollar question, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Well you did escape, didn¡¯t you? I mean, you¡¯re here now.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. I am here. But I¡¯m not sure I can answer why.


    It was one night, the same as any other. In fact the only difference between the days was the weakness in my bones, the will to breathe another breath.


    So I guess that night was different.


    The last spark of fight I had left had slipped away sometime between that meal and my last.


    But the food, that was the same. I finished my tasteless, vomit textured slop. One slow, painful bite at a time. My mind was dead. I couldn¡¯t even be thankful for food anymore, I couldn¡¯t wish to be freed. I had nothing left.


    The room fuzzed into one two dimension image that I couldn¡¯t make out and I barely noticed that my nerves were numb. I had felt numb for days. My body went limp and I lied on the filth, unable to move and unable to keep myself from drifting away, drifting away from everything. Not like I tried. I thought I was dying. And I was happy. That was the first emotion I had felt in days and it was almost an out of body experience.¡±


    ¡°But I did wake up. And that was more agony than I¡¯d felt my entire time in that place. Excruciating pain. My chest, my head, hell even my kidneys. Everywhere that you can feel pain, I felt it. It was probably a few hours until I got myself to sit up. And when I did, I saw the door and I froze. The bolt was broken on the floor and it was wide open.


    It felt like a trap, or a dream, or anything but what it was. But when I eventually got up the courage to walk through it, I found myself in an empty field. A few miles down was a town. Our town. And I was free.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ But the media-¡°


    ¡°Made it sound like it was some kind of heroic escape? That¡¯s what they do Evan. There¡¯s no story in the truth.¡±


    We both lay down, our backs on the cold stone, our heads to the sky, our arms pressed against each others, and we sigh.


    ¡°I am glad that I know,¡± Evan says through the silence. I can tell there are a million other things that he wants to say, but the stars absorb each one of them.


    ¡°You want to ask about her, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°She was like a mother to me Elena.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°I begged to go to the funeral, he wouldn¡¯t let me. You¡¯ll never know how sorry I am that I couldn¡¯t be there.¡±


    I turn my head on the hard ground to face him and he looks back at me. ¡°Not as sorry as I am.¡± I give him a sad smile and his eyes droop. ¡°It¡¯s my fault, Evan. They didn¡¯t let them put what happened to her in the papers. She died because of me. She shot herself because of me, two days before I got back.¡±


    ¡°Elena¡­¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯re going to tell me not to blame myself. She killed herself because I was gone, Evan. Gone one day too many. There¡¯s no debating that.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to say that. I know you¡¯ll blame yourself no matter what I say. I was going to tell you that it wouldn¡¯t have happened if you didn¡¯t bring so much to her life, that it meant that she had nothing without you.¡± He lets his fingertips gently touch my arm and his soft eyes bore into me, glossed over with the reflection of the moon.


    ¡°You meant more to her than anything, Elena. You gave her more happiness in the years you spent with her that anyone can hope to give in a lifetime. S


    o if you can blame yourself for her death, at least credit yourself with the wonderful life she wouldn¡¯t have had if she didn¡¯t have you.¡±


    I put my hand on his, rest my forehead on his shoulder and smile at the memories of my mother flashing in my head. I see her laugh and dance, enjoy life. And it makes me proud, because I was there for all of it.


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to go away again¡­ Are you?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to.¡±


    ¡°So you are?¡± I lift my head and rest my chin on his shoulder.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a choice.¡± His voice goes colder. I don¡¯t want to lose this again. I don¡¯t want it to go back to the way it was; I don¡¯t think I can handle it. Not after tonight.


    ¡°You always have a choice Evan.¡±


    There¡¯s no reply, we stay unmoving, underneath the stars until my back aches and my head throbs.


    ¡°Can you drop me somewhere? I can¡¯t lay on this rock anymore, it¡¯s a real bitch to the spine,¡± I moan, pulling myself up.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t wanna seem like a wuss, but yeesh.¡± He cracks his neck and twists his shoulders dramatically. I can¡¯t help but smile.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to push the favour thing but¡­ I kinda left my phone on the floor in Brian¡¯s car, could you message him for me?¡±


    ¡°I would do if I had a phone.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Right. Damn.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s probably pretty hammered by now anyway. And you know what those rich boys are like when they¡¯re drunk, can¡¯t tell their ass from their eyebrows.¡±


    I force a small chuckle. Small talk is a bit lost on me right now, considering the conversation I just had with someone who hasn¡¯t spoken to me in years. The awkwardness hasn¡¯t exactly settled yet.


    I follow behind Evan, silent and tensed up until we get to his car.


    ¡°Oh, thanks,¡± I spurt when I see he¡¯s holding the door open for me. I rush into my seat and despite the lack of cold I pull my loose jacket tight around my waist. A phantom spider crawls over my shoulder and I go to slap it away. Though there¡¯s nothing on my neck but a damp patch, from what I can only assume is sweat. I grab onto my hand and pluck at the skin on my palm. As we drive further into the darkness, I feel the sweat spreading over my entire body in a thick layer.


    I run my fingers over my cheek and forehead, not even a bead.


    It takes about twenty minutes before we¡¯re back in town and neither of us says a thing. This isn¡¯t easy. For me, or for him. Eventually, I mumble through the dead air to tell him where to take me. He doesn¡¯t question why I¡¯m not going home. Not that he doesn¡¯t want to, but I think he knows I don¡¯t want to talk about that right now. We¡¯ve shared enough for one night.


    We pull up outside an abandoned looking apartment building and Evan shoots me a wary look.


    The lumpy concrete path is in pieces. We have to step over several raised cracks to get to the caged entrance. The bars are bent and the red rust peers through the chips in the black paint. All of the windows are either broken or fractured. One has the bottom half of a beer bottle leant over the shards of green and fog coloured glass, still leaking cheap booze onto the unkempt bush below.


    Graffiti stains every brick on the bottom floor. And it¡¯s not the artistic kind you can find in alley ways, the kind that grabs your attention. Even if you can¡¯t appreciate the aesthetic, you can at least take a moment to acknowledge the time and talent that went into it. No. What covers these, already flaking walls, looks like it¡¯s come from the same broken-armed ten year old on a thirty second time limit. And an uneducated one at that.


    I type in the entrance code from memory and Evan insists on escorting me up. We¡¯ve never been the richest, him and I, but we¡¯ve had little to no association with this part of town. I imagine we¡¯d get on with these people far better than the Brian crowd; though unfortunately we have a separate school for ¡°those people¡±.


    Because there¡¯s no way that¡¯s going to contribute to the massive classist delusions that are already branded into society. No way. If anything, it will make us more ¡°tolerant¡± because we don¡¯t have to deal with them on a daily basis.


    Evan isn¡¯t super pleased when I refuse to use the clanky, rattling elevator. We have to travel up five flights of stairs, but in my opinion a little leg workout is far more appealing than taking a trip in the flying death machine.


    Room 104. Thank God. Evan is whiney and my legs are about to drop off. I go to knock on the door and Evan takes a hold of my arm.


    ¡°Are you sure you¡¯ll be alright here?¡± he asks. I give him a sweet smile and proceed to knock.


    A minute goes by. Crashing and clanging sounds come from inside and what sounds like a now broken lamp gets knocked to the floor before an ¡°oh shit¡± is grumbled from the other side of the door.


    Esther opens the door. One eye stuck shut, the other squinted, every strand of hair flung in a different direction and pyjamas that were clearly thrown on at the last minute, bottoms the wrong way round and the top... ¡°Is that upside down?¡± I point out, giggling.


    ¡°It¡¯s nearly twelve am, Lannie, don¡¯t expect a prom princess,¡± she groans. ¡°Speaking of, what are you doing here so late? Foster parasites finally get the balls for a double suicide?¡± She rubs her forehead, still a bit dazed. But she perks up when she sees the look on my face.


    ¡°Can- can I stay here for a while?¡±


    ¡°Of course babe. Why don¡¯t you come in.¡± She takes a step back and gestures towards the living room. ¡°And you too.¡± ¡°Wait,¡± she says, shutting the door, ¡°Who is this?¡±


    ¡°Um¡­¡± I cringe at the question.


    ¡°No way. I should have seen it. Emerald-eyed Evan. Couldn¡¯t have described them better myself,¡± Esther mocks and Evan¡¯s eyes pop awkwardly.


    ¡°I- I said Pine,¡± I half shrug as I shrink to the size of a pea, looking between the two of them.


    ¡°So this is the hell-bred hunk, huh? FYI I gave you that nickname before I saw you. Now you¡¯re in front of me, I see you¡¯re more of a shortie-mc-dickbag, or Dr.Dull-o dipweed kinda guy. I don¡¯t know how Elena thinks you can even smell as far as her league. I mean, what are you, like five four?


    I¡¯ve seen the guys at your school Lannie, you need to get a damn eye test if you¡¯re bringing me this.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m like a quarter on an inch away from five six,¡± Evan grunts, shuffling on his feet.


    He is so not short! I happen to adore his height. And he¡¯s got such cuteness in his baby-face. It¡¯s not my fault I don¡¯t go for model type horndogs with the IQ of a rat dropping.


    I put my head in my hands to hide my burning cheeks and shake my head. This¡­ Is not going well.


    ¡°You have been checked, haven¡¯t you? For some kind of mental disorder? I mean, from what I¡¯ve heard, you aren¡¯t exactly all there. There are a bunch of tests online see,¡± she says, scrolling through her phone. ¡°Let¡¯s start with psychopathy, shall we? Hmm, let¡¯s see. ¡°I only care about myself, there¡¯s no point in feeling sorry for other people¡± oh well that¡¯s an easy one. ¡°Definitely me.¡±


    Hmm, ¡°most would describe me as charming¡± ha! Not from what I can see.¡±


    ¡°Esther! Can. You. Please. Put that down.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re fifty/fifty so far Lannie, it could go either way here.¡±


    I drag myself to the couch and slump down, the glare in my eyes sharper than a razor.


    ¡°Alright, alright. Lucky boy." Esther crosses her arms and sticks her head out like a condescending weirdo. "At the moment you¡¯re only halfway down the road of psychopathy.¡±


    ¡°Ugh,¡± I grunt, falling back into the cushion.


    ¡°So¡­ Uh, I should go.¡± Evan starts to head out, interrupting Esther''s ready-to-go barrage of accusations, and I stop him.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I blurt. He turns around, looking uneasy. I give him a small, apologetic smile and he nods. ¡°See you tomorrow?¡± I question.


    He pauses for a moment and I keep my eyebrows raised as I lean on the edge of my seat.


    ¡°Good luck with everything, Elena.¡±


    He hesitates at the handle, looking back at me.


    And then he walks out, shutting the door behind him.


    Quietly, and respectfully.

 i Alone

    ¡°Please tell me you¡¯re not crying under there.¡± Esther¡¯s chest drops with her words and she makes her way over to me.


    I am crying. Silently, as I¡¯m used to.


    She draws the curtain of hair hiding my tilted head and gently tucks it behind my ear. Kneeling down so that we¡¯re almost nose to nose, she keeps her hand at the base of my ear and softly strokes my cheek with her thumb. With her free hand she catches one of the tears running down the side of my nose.


    I don¡¯t move. Not my eyes, or my head. The only thing that does is my mouth, quivering with shattered breath.


    It¡¯s all fallen apart.


    I fought against it all, I thought I had at least.


    Convulsions of pain hit my chest every second, pulsing through the millions of veins and vessels straight to the centre. No walls, no barricades, no protection. Every jab is undefended; effortless. It takes up so much of me that there¡¯s no room in my head to focus on the feeling in my toes, or the warmth of Esther¡¯s hand on my wrist. All of those little details - the ones that tell you you¡¯re real, conscious, human ¨C they¡¯re numb to me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t cry over an ass. And he¡¯s an asshole, the worst part of the ass. It¡¯s not worth it,¡± she tries to reason with me.


    Her voice is a soothing tone but that tone doesn¡¯t reach me. All that makes its way through the chaos inside, is her words. And suddenly that chaos of pain makes its own path. It rages and stings, swarms up my throat and crams into my mouth. All I can do is let it out.


    ¡°It¡¯s a damn. A damn damn at the tip of my spine.¡± My croaking voice is aimed at the floor, I don¡¯t blink or move my gaze for a second.


    ¡° It¡¯s always there, never untouched. Leaks. Everyday another leak. Every loss another blow to the structure. I¡¯d pushed back the water, I¡¯d held it in place, I¡¯d sealed the cracks with everything I had, even when I had nothing. No matter how much time it took.


    Pain.


    Pain pain pain.


    No more.


    I said no more pain.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.I said no more, I sealed them, I sealed the cracks. And then that door shut. It shut and it all meant nothing. The water crashed into my repairs and it flooded. That damn damn is finally gone. One click of a lock and its gone.¡±


    I sob, I wheeze, my breath and heart so unsteady my entire body shudders. Though it appears weak over a cloak of tensed muscles. The violent seizures I feel come out in mere vibrations. I can see my the light shaking in my hands, and I hear my breath but it doesn¡¯t sound like it¡¯s screaming from my lungs. I don¡¯t look like a throbbing, pulsing mass of flesh ready to explode, but that¡¯s what it feels like.


    If my body feels so out of control, how is it so still?


    I almost feel as if I¡¯m looking through another person¡¯s eyes. A wild rupture of every sense of stability, a tornado, a storm of godly nature. And it can¡¯t be looked upon, no eyes can pierce through my skin and see the eruption inside.


    This is why I will always be truly alone.


    Why we will always be truly alone.


    Esther¡¯s deep sigh as she squishes next to me cuts into that feeling. It shows how truthful it really is. And at the same time, how alone the theory in itself is.


    ¡°You can¡¯t put that much responsibility on one person Elena.¡± Her arm goes to pull me in but I jerk it away, my glare now aimed at her. She may have been trying to comfort me, but that careless slip of tongue flew right past its intent.


    The untamed blood sizzling inside of me boils over and scorches my veins.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t one person that made me this way Esther! The proverbial straw was not six foot long! Do you think the camel¡¯s back broke from one pathetic paper thin piece of hay? No Esther, I do not put everything I have in the hands of one person and I do not need that one person to make me whole. I just have so many pieces lost to me that that one piece seems like so much more right now.¡±


    The streams of tears are stuck to my cheeks like super glue, so strong and so permanent. And my throat is so raw now that a simple breath claws through my sinuses. But that¡¯s pain, pain is good because means I can feel more than my emotions.


    I start to notice the smaller details around me, the things that couldn¡¯t even enter my vision a few moments ago; the yellowing rings of coffee on the table, the frayed tears in the couch, Esther¡¯s desperate clutch on my wrist.


    ¡°I know, I know sweetie.¡± Her arm wraps around me once again, and this time I accept it. I slump into her, reaching my arm around her waist and close my eyes.


    Maybe we are all alone. Maybe I¡¯m all alone. But right now Esther¡¯s alone with me, and that¡¯s more than good enough.


    ****** This chapter is named after... You guessed it, another song! I know I know, "give it a rest already" but these are gooood songs, do check them out if you haven''t heard them before ;) And let me know if you do! Sorry that this chapter was a bit uneventful, I was going to have this one longer but I felt this bit was better on its own. *******

 A Friend in Need Is a Friend Indeed

    ¡°Lannie Babe, I know you need the rest but someone¡¯s coming over. And I wanted to leave you, but that position¡­ Well it can¡¯t be all that good to the spine,¡± Esther¡¯s voice merges with the odd looking stranger giving me directions to the puppy tree.


    ¡°What are you talking about giant potato man?¡± I grumble, unintelligibly. My confusion drifts into clarity as I fade from the colours of my dreams into blackness. I recognise the touch of Esther¡¯s hand wiping over the sweat and hair on my face. And less pleasantly, I start to feel the effect of my twisting, contorted limbs. Half of my body is jammed in between the coffee table and the couch, and the other half is, well, I¡¯m not really sure what¡¯s going on there.


    I arch my back, groaning as I try to peak through the little gap in my one working eye. Esther¡¯s face blurs into a single image, just in time for me to see the amusement on her face when the rest of my body crashes to the floor.


    ¡°Owie,¡± I groan and crack my neck to relieve the pain. A plastic cup hits me in the face, which I¡¯m assuming means that Esther isn¡¯t much of a neck cracking enthusiast. She throws a box of tissues at me and rolls her eyes.  I return with a grouchy pout and dab at the lightly moulded fruit juice staining my shirt.


    ¡°Oh don¡¯t give me that face, you already had like 14 hours of drool on that top,¡± she says. ¡°Plus I got you a change of clothes for the uh¡­¡±


    ¡°The company? Who is coming over Esther?¡± I ask with a suspicious tone.


    A knock at the door cuts off her chance to respond. She contorts her face before going to open it, only intensifying my doubt. What¡¯s standing on the other side gives reason to her hesitance; a bright faced Brian, sporting his usual air of smugness.


    ¡°Whyyyy?¡± I cry out dramatically and throw my hands up to my head.


    ¡°Well my thought was that you wouldn¡¯t want someone like him holding onto your phone.¡±


    I groan, dragging myself to the doorway like a dead fish on a hook. Okay, she has a point. But I seriously need a break from people right now. Especially annoying ones.


    ¡°Damn, you¡¯re not so pretty in the morning Plum,¡± Brian jokes, raising his eyebrow.


    ¡°I don¡¯t need this right now Brian.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I was only kidding. You just look¡­ rough,¡± his words hold a symptom of uncertainty, and his expression follows, his eyes trailing over me empathetically.  ¡°Why are you here Elena?¡±


    ¡°Oh God. You didn¡¯t just call me Elena. You¡¯ve gotten all serious on me,¡± I laugh away the pity. ¡°I¡¯m not under their control anymore. So I guess that means it¡¯s a goodbye from me, once you give me my phone that is.¡± I hold out my hand expectantly and he brushes off my attempt to get him out of this doorway - and my life.


    ¡°Come on Plum, it¡¯s too late to say goodbye to me now. We¡¯ve shared too many good times, you¡¯re too attached.¡± I try to sigh but a chuckle slips out through my teeth.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Just give me my phone Brian.¡±


    ¡°So what¡¯s the cost for entry here? A hundy?¡±


    ¡°Like you can just buy your way-¡°


    ¡°Make it two and you¡¯re in,¡± Esther butts in and he whips out another note without delay.  ¡°Care for a cup of chewable milk?¡± Esther says with a grin as she rips the crisp notes from his hand and ushers him inside.


    ¡°Sorry Lannie, drunks aren¡¯t tipping like they used to,¡± she shrugs semi-apologetically over her shoulder as she moves past me. She flips herself onto the larger couch, smirking at the easy money that she¡¯s rubbing between her fingertips.


    I drop down onto the smaller one opposite and smoosh my hands under my thighs reassuringly. Thankfully Brian takes his seat on the other end, I like him to be at least one Dwayne Johnson away from me at all times. He jumps on and reaches his legs over to the coffee table in an at home manor; like he¡¯s even allowed to do that at home.


    Why won¡¯t the world give me one day, just one simple rotation of the planet for me to sleep and rest and heal? I¡¯m starting to wonder if I¡¯m cursed or something. I¡¯m just waiting for a wonky eyed witch to step out of a cloud of green mist, point her jagged old wooden cane at me and croak ¡°you¡¯ve paid the price my pretty play thing, say hello to Satan for me!¡± before the shadow creatures drag me to my reserved seat in hell.


    ¡°So what is it that you want, Brian? You¡¯re not going for the whole blackmail thing are you? I mean we know you¡¯re not exactly above that,¡± I say, drooping my eyes.


    ¡°You look all like¡­ depressed and shit. I figured I could cheer you up,¡± he squeaks with a positivity that¡¯s almost painful to me right now.


    I don¡¯t know what it is with him. He seems to genuinely care and yet he does something as careless as paying his way into my company. It¡¯s so warped I¡¯m not quite sure how I should respond.


    Should I thank him for the thought and tell him I¡¯d rather be alone? He¡¯s too stubborn for that to be effective.


    Do I curse at him? Tell him I hate his guts? It may not be the worst experience but it wouldn¡¯t do any good, he¡¯d only try harder.


    And I¡¯d be lying anyway. He wasn¡¯t quite as off-base as I¡¯d like to tell myself when he said I¡¯ve gotten attached. It¡¯s not that I want to be besties, or God forbid gained feelings for him. He¡¯s still Brian. But I¡¯ve spent enough time with him now to see that he¡¯s got some decent qualities and I¡¯m not the kind that¡¯s able to ignore that, even if I wish I could.


    ¡°Buy her a house, that¡¯d perk her up a bit,¡± Esther chimes in, not looking up from the phone she has attached to her face.


    ¡°So you¡¯ve really left home?¡± Brian says with genuine surprise as if I¡¯m a habitual liar or something.


    ¡°Well I wasn¡¯t just dreaming aloud.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°What, oh? That wasn¡¯t a disappointed: I¡¯m not forced to see you anymore ¡°oh¡±. So what is it?¡± My voice raises and quickens as Brian¡¯s unspoken thoughts become my own.


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± I repeat in the same tone Brian used. ¡°I¡¯ve got a shit storm I have to deal with, don¡¯t I?¡±


    Brian grimaces with one slow, silent nod.


    Great, he brought reality with him. I was hoping to avoid that for at least a few days.


    ¡°Can I have my phone now?¡±


    ¡°Are you going to kick me out if I give it to you?¡± he stops at his pocket to question me.


    ¡°Ugh,¡± I grunt, ¡°I guess not.¡±


    After I shuffle through the many missed calls from unknown and private numbers, Brian suggests that we talk for a while about what I should do next. It¡¯s an unexpected turn for him, this supportive sector of his personality I couldn¡¯t have detected with a microscope an hour ago. Though I¡¯m not so self righteous to refuse a helping hand and I have no reason to doubt his intentions.


    Esther pulls herself away from her phone every so often to prepare me for some hard to hear eventualities. Brian¡¯s mostly acting like a cognitive behavioural therapist, an objective listener to assist me in coming up with my own plan of action. He¡¯s not necessarily the smartest or most level-headed person, though he does want to help. And I think he has.


    Together we¡¯ve decided that today, while the demons are at work, is the best time to collect some of my things. And both of them insist, against my many protests, to come along and help me sneak in.


    I have the passcodes memorised which gets us through the front gate. Our next step is to get over the fence into the garden, and Esther is going to use her ¡°talents¡± to get us into the house from there. The lock at the front door is unpick-able, but the back, that¡¯s easy enough for a suspiciously skilled bartender to get through.


    Brian¡¯s one contribution is the bright idea to wing it from there. He¡¯s more of an action kind of guy, which is evident from the amount he thinks through everything he does - and that¡¯s zero. Though in this case, it¡¯s our only real option.


    *


    I scrunch my hair up into a tangled bob and slip on the baggy Sabbath t-shirt and stretchy shorts that Esther let me borrow. It only takes me a minute to get ready, I¡¯m ready to go and follow through with this wild concoction of brains, brawn and recklessness; but I can¡¯t push myself to turn that handle. Right now this is all in theory, one crazy, exhilarating hypothetical that could go either way. And as soon as I go to that handle, this theory goes from on paper to in action; and my fear becomes more than a thought.

 Elenas Inferno

    Esther¡¯s not one to tolerate my wallowing, so her impatient call is encouragement enough to get me out of the bathroom.


    ¡°What took so long? We thought you¡¯d keeled over,¡± Esther says, swiping her keys from the hook.


    ¡°Hey, I said let women be women but she whacked me over the head.¡±  ¡°Ow!¡± Brian exclaims as Esther¡¯s hand slaps the back of his head. ¡°See! Exactly like that.¡±


    I roll my eyes and Esther ushers us out the door impatiently.


    Together, we head out to Brian¡¯s car looking like the oddest mismatched trio in all of history. Brian¡¯s skinny body modelling designers I¡¯m not sure how to pronounce, with his wax sculpture hair and movie star smile - is strutting like a gangster in between a small, scruffy, purple-haired punk and her giant, bodyguard looking fema-thug. If this was the poster cover for the next Hollywood action comedy, it¡¯d be a bigger blockbuster hit than Jump Street.


    I am lucky that I have support, even if it does come from Brian Myer, but it¡¯s hard to fully appreciate when your emotions are so messy that you can barely tell the positive from the negative.


    ¡°Wait how many thousand?! A random gift for a non-birthday celebrating seventeen year old kid cost how much?!¡± Esther gets side tracked by the quality of Brian¡¯s car and he seems all too happy to have someone to brag to. He never gets the satisfaction with me. I¡¯m more impressed by a person¡¯s achievements than those of their parents.


    ¡°I was actually sixteen,¡± Brian boasts, without a shred of dignity to cover up the pride in his expression.


    Esther¡¯s demeanour starts to shift into the warning position I¡¯ve come to realise means she¡¯s about to burst into a lecture. I figure about now is the time to butt in. ¡°Yes yes, he¡¯s a rich boy. I think we already established this. Can we stay focused?¡±


    ¡°Oh right. Yes of course, sneaking into an evil demons¡¯ layer. That¡¯s what¡¯s important right now,¡± she says seriously. But her tone changes as she starts to skew off course again, ¡°not the child that lives in a town where everything is within walking distance, yet drives around in something that costs more than I could sell all of my organs on the black market for.¡±


    ¡°Actually,¡± I begin to correct her from my strange pool of knowledge on the subject, ¡°you can make a clean mil just on the heart alone, that doubles if you throw in the liver and kidneys. Of course if you¡¯re going black market you¡¯ll make about ninety percent less than the legal route. But you¡¯d still get a pretty penny more than the worth of this car,¡± I say, patting the dashboard.


    ¡°There¡¯s a legal route to selling organs?!¡± Esther¡¯s shock cuts into the prolonged silence and transfers to me.


    ¡°Okay¡­ I think I¡¯m just not gonna comment on that one,¡± Brian says, keeping his weirded out glare on the road.


    ¡°What? My nose spends most of its time in a book. You find out these things.¡±


    I feel like a more satisfying defence is called for, but we just pulled up by Brooke¡¯s Manor, our designated inconspicuous spot a street away from the house.


    ¡°I guess it¡¯s go time gang,¡± Esther exclaims quietly as she slams the door. Brian gives a look and a head shake, thankfully keeping a lid on his pettiness for the gravity of the situation.


    We walk side-by-side, synchronised footsteps and innocent, silent, sweet faces to drive off any suspicion. We make it up to the gate unnoticed, though before I get the chance to type in the code Ronda Young starts heading our way. Her tall, tan, toned self comes fully packaged with an all-inclusive nose for anything not her business.


    I grab Brian¡¯s sleeve and yank him behind the wall, just in time for her plastic eyes to miss us. But by the time Esther responds to my hissing, I hear the sound of Prada heels scrapping against the concrete and realise it¡¯s too late.


    And then it stops.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on here?¡± A high pitched voice asks enthusiastically.


    For a lot of these women, gossip gives them a purpose in life. So to them, drama is just another word for interesting conversation. It usually didn¡¯t bother me too much, but unfortunately being on the other side of this wall means that the drama has finally found its way to me. I don¡¯t do well with regular drama, but this kind can screw me in a hundred different ways.


    ¡°Um¡­¡± I cringe as Esther stumbles over a response. ¡°I be ¡®ere to vater de ¡®ouse planties madamey.¡±


    There¡¯s a pause and my cringe doubles. Brian grabs a hold of my arm worriedly, both of us cursing without making a sound. I dart my head to the side to weigh up how fast I could get around the corner without being noticed and instantly dismiss the thought. I would be leaving Esther alone to deal with a mess she¡¯s only involved in because of me. And that would be far worse than anything that can happen if I stay.


    ¡°Hmm,¡± Ronda says, the suspense making me clutch onto Brian¡¯s wrist so hard that his whole hand turns pinker than Morgan¡¯s wardrobe. ¡°Okay, well take extra special care of the rare sapphire orchid. Miss Morgan no likey when people touchy the blue flower,¡± she says in a voice that¡¯s surely meant for a deaf child.


    Our widened eyes soften with the sound of Prada disappearing in the distance. That relief travels over my whole body, my height drops a full two inches and my bones sink back into place.


    I let go of Brian¡¯s arm and look up at him apologetically when I see the purple bracelet of nail marks on his wrist. He responds with that male, tensed-up ¡°didn¡¯t bother me¡± shrug that¡¯s secretly saying ¡°I¡¯m in so much goddamn pain right now but I can¡¯t say that because I have a penis¡±.


    We scuttle out of the corner and share a group gasp of relief.


    ¡°What accent was that supposed to be? You sounded like an idiot!¡± I whisper shout at Esther as I desperately type in the code.


    ¡°It didn¡¯t really make a difference Lannie, most of these women are racially ignorant sex slaves that think continents and countries are the same things.¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I turn to her ready to argue back the whole we¡¯ve moved past the fifties debate¡­ But I shut my mouth, ashamed to admit that it really isn¡¯t the case here. There¡¯s a reason why their lives revolve around gossip, they have no other way to spend their days. Every woman on this block has a maid, working or not, meaning their knowledge base doesn¡¯t even stretch as far as cleaning tips.


    That¡¯s one thing I¡¯ll say about Morgan, she may be evil, but she has more to give to the world than shiny nails and poofy hair.


    ¡°Thank God, I was bout ready to bail,¡± Brian says as the gate clicks open. On cue, all three of us ram past each other to get inside, anxious to not be spotted by someone with a higher IQ than Mrs Stepford.


    My adrenaline is hyped up, removing the challenge of getting over the fence. We drag the trash can over and I climb up, pull myself onto the edge, twizzle around and hop down to the floor. Esther¡¯s after me and she¡¯s surprisingly nimble. She jumps onto the trash can and throws herself over the fence like a free runner, using only one hand to steady her movement.


    Compared to Esther, I looked like I was an escapee coma patient. Though watching Brian¡¯s attempt makes me feel more like an escapee crack addict. He tries to imitate Esther and rams right into the fence.


    ¡°Stop acting like a muppet and get over already, you¡¯re blowing our cover!¡± I hiss. A series of grunts later and he¡¯s over¡­ On the floor, but over.


    ¡°I guess white boys really can¡¯t jump,¡± Esther chuckles.


    ¡°Esther!¡± I chide, ¡°only the bony rich ones.¡± Esther and I laugh and Brian crosses his arms with a grunt.


    The lock is the part of the plan I¡¯m most worried about. The garden is huge, a hundred different plants shielding us from the other acre that¡¯s being tended to. But at some point, Chris, our gardener, is going to make his way onto the patio area to mind Morgan¡¯s precious rose bushes.


    I haven¡¯t told Esther and Brian that the buzzing sound in the distance is actually on the same property. I figured the calmer I could keep them, the better for all of us. I don¡¯t have that luxury myself. The stronger the smell of freshly cut bushes gets, the more my stomach churns.


    Esther notices my stance in the thin reflecting glass on the door and starts to look worried. ¡°Chill Lannie, I¡¯m nearly done,¡± she says to my reflection.


    She turns her head around, her hands keeping the lock picking tools in place. ¡°If you get antsy, I get antsy. And if Essie gets antsy, she¡¯s going to slap the gel out of rich boy¡¯s hair.¡±


    ¡°Why am I involved in this?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s only two of you here ain¡¯t there? Your mother not teach you not to hit a girl?¡±


    ¡°Are you a dude?!¡± Brian exclaims, ¡°that explains so much!¡±


    ¡°Would you two stay focused,¡± I hiss, ¡°we¡¯re not on a damn lunch break here, we¡¯re trying to commit a felony!¡±


    They both simultaneously roll their eyes and Esther turns back to the lock, mumbling ¡°my no balls are still bigger than yours.¡±


    Brian goes to retort but submits to my pre-murderous rampage glare.


    Esther fumbles around for another minute as I hop between my feet, hearing the humming of the hedge trimmers get louder and louder. She stands up. All I can hear in the moment that she pauses is my heart thumping. Almost as if she¡¯s trying to be suspenseful, she wraps her fingers around the unmarked steel handle, pauses again, and then slides the door open.


    She spins around and flaunts her jazz hands like she¡¯s shaking a pair of maracas and I huff to repel her inappropriate enthusiasm as I speed walk into her. I push her from the gleaming garden and into the gleaming yellow sitting room. Her face tells me she¡¯s not impressed.


    I don¡¯t often get that look from her. I¡¯m not often caught up in this kind of a situation and Esther¡¯s poorly timed behaviour isn¡¯t usually more than a simple annoyance.


    Today I¡¯m serious. I¡¯m not Elena the doormat, or Elena the silent sufferer. I¡¯m taking back what¡¯s mine. And I don¡¯t mean the clothes, books and odds and ends you¡¯ll find in my room.


    I ignore the horribly nostalgic shiver of vulnerability running down spine. The sight of those obnoxious pastel coloured curtains and the fragrant smell of lemon pledge and one lonesome dust particle is enough to switch on my fight or flight reflex. Though right now, I go straight into the grey area; a place I¡¯m not accustomed to. My emotions are a seesaw and I¡¯ve been jumping from the ground to the sky so many times in the last few days that I can¡¯t even remember if my head is to the clouds or my feet are to the floor.


    I guide them up the stairs, after doing a quick check over for any wandering posh people minions and we manage to get to my room unnoticed. I didn¡¯t honestly believe that we¡¯d get this far. Sneaking in to a house in this neighbourhood, getting through the door, dodging the gardener and not running into a single roadblock? With my luck? The universe must have finally gotten tired of messing with me.


    ¡°What are you waiting for? A minute ago you were more ready to go than a freshman at a frat party,¡± Esther says, nudging my stone cold body. I wince and turn to her awkwardly as Brian pulls that ¡°well?¡± gesture with his hands and eyebrows.


    ¡°It¡¯s probably locked¡­¡± my words slow with the movements of my mouth. They both let out a deep groan, dipping their heads back.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to be like a straight-A girl, Plum?¡±


    I return with a guilty eye drop and reach for the handle. The cold metal chills my hand as I grip onto it. I slowly turn it as the two people that have risked committing a crime for me wait anxiously by my side. If it doesn¡¯t open, this was a wasted endeavour. And I¡¯ll have to take the chance of creeping back out of here with absolutely nothing to show for it.


    It clicks, signifying the end of the turn, and prompting my fear to reside in the tips of my fingers.  I convey my elbow forward with no leverage to the lock. I follow through with my wrist and¡­ Click. My heart reaches through my skull, pushing tears to my eyes. I have never felt relief like the sound of that door opening.


    I suck in the feeling with a breath and march inside. Not wasting a second, I go straight to my wardrobe, shovel out an armful of clothes and drop them down on the bed.


    ¡°Uh¡­ Elena. Why does your room look like it¡¯s been ransacked by the CDC?¡± I look up from the pile to see that Esther and Brian haven¡¯t moved from the doorway and my expression mirrors theirs as the state of the room comes into my vision. I had been so caught up in everything else that I forgot the initial scolding that provoked my running away.


    ¡°They really weren¡¯t exaggerating¡­¡± I mutter, travelling my eyes over the open draws and piles of my possessions thrown over everything but the ceiling. I turn my head back to the wardrobe and kneel down with the motion of my heart sinking.


    Pictures of my mother torn, chips of the silver ashtray I had made her, unread letters I had written to people I had both loved and hated; all pouring from the now damaged memory boxes that my mother had made by hand.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on Elena?¡± Brian steps through the door, peering over my shoulder at my broken memories.


    I ignore the voices in my head, the ones that tell me to replace my dismay with my former approach to action. The urgent situation I was in just moments ago has made its way into the past. I reach towards the card Evan had made out of popsickle sticks for my ninth birthday, one of the few items left intact. I prop up the box sewn from my mother¡¯s old fur coat and place it inside heartedly. One by one, I clasp the items in my hand and place them carefully into the box.


    I hear shuffling behind me, along with a few pitying murmurs. ¡°I¡¯m just gonna start bagging up some of this stuff, that okay babe?¡± Esther says, rummaging through the heap by my bed.


    ¡°There should be a few books,¡± I sigh, ¡°old ratty-looking ones. That¡¯s all I need from over there.¡±


    I slink to my feet with the box in hand and place it down on the bed. Brian gives me a knowing half smile and starts to squish my clothes into my large, badge covered backpack. Esther pushes them down with the pile of books, and they stay in a silent circle around my bed, awaiting my next instruction.


    Esther¡¯s eyes switch to the floor beside her feet and her tone moves away from our collective despair. ¡°Is this yours?¡± she asks curiously, returning to her feet with a small piece of card.


    I lean over the bed and snatch it from her hand.


    A blank off-white rectangle I hold, the three steel blue letters as bold as they are ambiguous.


    Those three letters standing alone, only in existence, only in my hands to taunt me. Those three letters. ¡°E.S.I.¡±


    Our heads all snap to the hallway at the sound of the front door. And the piece of card floats to the floor, taking its significance with it.

 Dont Look Back at Lucifer

    ¡°Thought you said they were at work all day?¡± Esther whispers, urgently edging the door shut.


    I slither around to my desk, slide my laptop off of the surface and slip it into the back pack.


    ¡°Shit. This can¡¯t be happening, shit,¡± Brian starts breaking down at the worst of times and I smoothly throw my backpack over my shoulder before grabbing onto his twitching body with both hands. ¡°My parents. Shit. I¡¯ll be dead. I swear it. Shit shit shit.¡±


    ¡°You need to shut up and get onto the damn ledge,¡± I command, shaking the panic out of him. Esther¡¯s already at the window, gently nudging it open.


    ¡°I can¡¯t man I can¡¯t. It¡¯s too high,¡± Brain quavers as I jab him towards the window.


    ¡°Nothing¡¯s going to happen Bri. Just focus on breathing, let your body listen to what I tell you,¡± I reassure him, giving Esther a nod. ¡°Esther¡¯s going to climb down first and I¡¯m going to help you get to her, okay? We won¡¯t let you fall,¡± I say coolly as Esther drops herself onto the ledge without instruction.


    The toilet flushes a few doors down and the muffled sound of the bathroom door creaking open jilts the panic in my veins. I yank the spasming Brian to the window and encourage his leg over the pane. The creaking transfers to the floor boards, coming closer every step.


    Esther stands ready with her arms out to catch him, but he tenses against the edge.


    ¡°Come on Brian, we¡¯ll get you a whole damn keg of beer if you can do this,¡± I plead desperately. I loop my arms around his armpits and lower him down to the overhang of the bottom floor office window. He scrapes his ankles against the brick, protesting his way down. Esther grabs onto him tightly, calming his flailing legs as he comes within reach. She gets him on his feet and he clutches onto her like he¡¯s about to fall off the edge of a cliff.


    I snatch the box off of the bed and pass it down to her. I turn my head just as I¡¯m about to step out and a shadow appears below the crack in my door. I freeze in my motion, anxiously clutching onto the pane. The shadow doesn¡¯t move.


    Esther questions me with silent gestures and Brian starts to pant. His panting grows louder, collecting curse words with every breath. I shake my head violently, tensing my jaw and baring my teeth to tell him to shut up.


    Esther responds to my plea by knocking him with her elbow, making him stumble. He latches onto Esther¡¯s shirt, she starts to wobble and whacks his hand away, which only further unsteadies his balance and drops him straight into the bush below.


    The twigs crunch under the weight of his back writhing around in pain. Esther shrugs it off and leans over the edge with the box in hand. Brian pulls up his torso to rub his neck and Esther drops the box onto his lap, knocking his head to the floor for a second time.


    As Brian squirms and squeaks, my panic rises. I jerk my head back to the door and the shadow slowly steps out of view. I hear the clicking sound of footsteps on the tile flooring down the hall and my grip on the pane relaxes.


    ¡°Esther seriously! Go help him!¡± I demand, ducking through the window. Brian looks like he¡¯s about to cry and Esther¡¯s unsympathetic clicking in his face doesn¡¯t seem to be doing much good. I frog jump down to the bushes. I must have borrowed some skill from Esther at some point; I¡¯m usually as unskilled as a member of Brian¡¯s family.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    ¡°Come on Bri,¡± I say, reaching my hand out to him, ¡°we¡¯ll deal with your broken limbs once we¡¯re out of here.¡±


    The backdoor slides open and the sound strikes into us like a thunderbolt. Esther snatches up the box and I grab Brian¡¯s hand and yank him to his feet. Together we sprint towards the exit. Only a few metres and we¡¯re home free.


    I tug on Brian¡¯s arm to throw him ahead of me. Esther¡¯s already working on getting the gate open. It only takes a few seconds. But time is meaningless when emotions are in play. And the significance of these few seconds isn¡¯t lost in the minutes or hours surrounding this moment.


    A thump of my heart pounds my chest in each of these seconds that tick by. Another thought enters my head, another fear clutches at my ankles, threatening to drag me to the floor.


    And in each of these five seconds, it¡¯s another outcome that becomes our future reality; a Schr?dinger¡¯s box that in any second will contain a different cat.


    CLICK.


    The gates open, Esther and Brian are hurling themselves around the corner. But I just look back.


    A figure walks out from behind the bush.


    ¡°Lannie! Get out of there!¡±


    ¡°Just go!¡±


    There¡¯s no escaping. I could go with them, but we¡¯d only get caught. This way, I¡¯m only hurting myself, not them.


    ¡°Morgan.¡± I stiffen my back and lift my clenched jaw to reach above her authority.


    Arms crossed and eyes stern, she steps toward me, slowly, hoping to prey on me and my infamous weaknesses.


    ¡°You have an early lunch then?¡± I ask, my stance held strong.


    ¡°I received a strange call from Chris. At least if you¡¯re going to break in girl, shut the backdoor after you,¡± her voice is paralysing. It¡¯s so calm and determined. The same way she managed to corner me right by an open exit.


    She¡¯s known we were here since she came home, and she played it. She played me, because she knew she could. She still has control over me. In her head, nothing¡¯s changed. I haven¡¯t taken that power from her yet. And that¡¯s exactly my problem, I convinced myself I was free because I ran away, but that doesn¡¯t make me free; it makes me hunted.


    ¡°You want to burn me? Beat me? Leave me bruised and broken? Go ahead and try, you can¡¯t force me back,¡± I say through my teeth, holding my courage in my clenched fists.


    ¡°If I wanted to force you back here darling, you wouldn¡¯t have a say in the matter,¡± Morgan patronises with that sickly sweet voice. If you could taste the sound it would be the searing flavour of burnt, boiled caramel.


    All I want right now is to snap my words at her, so viciously they reach out to her neck, latch onto her veins and rip out her throat.


    As much as I want to scream and curse until her ears bleed and her eyeballs drip from their sockets, I don¡¯t have the words.


    ¡°You seem a little taken aback. Were you not aware that under the law you are still a child until March? That you have no right to make your own decisions? And that between me and social services, you are virtually a prisoner? Our prisoner.¡±


    ¡°Oh sweet dear, the only reason I let you go through this whole teenage runaway routine is so you would get it out of your system. Now stop being silly and get in the house.¡±


    ¡­ This is a joke right? She tells me I have no say in my own life, that I¡¯m her PRISONER sentenced until I turn eighteen, and she thinks I¡¯m just going to waltz back in there and continue on as it was before?


    ¡°You delusional bitch.¡± The words slip out of my mouth without a thought. ¡°You have such an inflated self image that you can¡¯t see yourself as anything but an omnipotent judge, jury and executioner. If you can¡¯t get a clue, go buy one you privileged, plastic demon.¡±


    At first, she looks like the wind¡¯s been knocked out of her. Her complexion loses its painted on colour and the pole that keeps her posture as perfect as a mannequin¡¯s looks like it¡¯s been yanked right out of her ass.


    Though it¡¯s a short lived victory. Her composure returns in a single heart beat. And the false layer of calm, cool and collected that was present beforehand has been taken over by a beast. One of unforgiving fury and unrelenting wrath. A kind of rage I¡¯ve never seen on her, or anyone for that matter. The kind I wouldn¡¯t dream of testing.


    My mind goes blank, my fear matching up to her anger, ripping away my senses and shielding my vision with a thick, blurry glass, like a pixilated screen.


    A rock, large, jagged.


    On the floor. In my hand. In the air.


    Blood, dripping. Hand, shaking.


    The image on the screen moving, faster, faster, faster. Trees, roads, buildings. So blurred now, going so fast.


    ¡­ But where?

 Meeting Montague

    Balls of florescent light fly past me. From restaurants, arcades¡­ Shops?


    Maybe I¡¯m in town. I think I ran into some glass; a window, a door? Probably a door. A desk, I definitely saw a desk.


    ¡°Miss?¡±


    My feet stop, no more running. I smash into something in my way, a brick wall it feels like. The room jolts into place as my butt hits the floor, and I suddenly realise where I am.


    ¡°You¡¯re lucky you didn¡¯t hit Thompson, at that speed you¡¯d probably break one of his ribs,¡± a man says in monotone and offers his hand out to me. I accept and stiffly pull myself up, disorientated from my abrupt deceleration.


    ¡°She¡¯s got those crazy eyes Frank, I¡¯d get her a cup of cocoa,¡± another man approaches, speaking in a much breezier tone. He¡¯s noticeably smaller than the one I crashed into, not skinny or short but a lot leaner. I¡¯m assuming this is Thompson. Addressing Frank, he slinked his shoulders and squared his feet, and the way Frank lifted his chin and braced his back as he nodded in response implies a hierarchy between the two.


    ¡°She does seem very shaken,¡± Frank says, rubbing his fingers over his stubble. ¡°Are you with us, dear?¡±


    I must look like a deer. A deer caught in the headlights. I hadn¡¯t been sure what to think or feel and I think my face captures that; a scared, confused young girl that¡¯s comprehending words as if they¡¯re being spoken by two speechless puppets.


    ¡°Go clear out the break room. My office isn¡¯t the most comforting space and I think it might spook the girl.¡±


    ¡°Righto,¡± Thompson motions his body in a fraction of a bow and hastily exits to the left.


    Frank places his hand on my shoulder and sighs a sympathetic tut, the kind that people do when they¡¯re not sure how to comfort you.


    From his eyes I see youth, mid-thirties maybe. But the silver tone of age is already creeping into his thinned out hair and wrinkles crack the bottom of his face; years of stress carried in his sunken skin.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± he directs with his forehead.


    I fall onto each of my feet in turn. Now I feel like the puppet; my limp body flopping from side to side to get to my destination.


    The room we enter looks cheap, but cosy. There¡¯s a sad, rattling fridge and a cushionless, leatherless sofa tucked together between the beaten walls. You can see it¡¯s a pale reflection of what it once was; a crack addict in break room form. The softness in the sofa has been compressed over the years into solid slabs, the brown leather has been broken off piece by piece until only specs of its original colour remain.


    He takes his seat with an extra twenty years on his back and motions me to join him. The compact size of the room brings me comfort. I like things small, they make me feel secure; there aren¡¯t any shadowed corners or out of view weak spots. I squish into the corner and keep my eyes glued to my desperate hands clutching onto each other.


    ¡°We can¡¯t help you if you stay mute, dear.¡± His shoulders have softened and his posture relaxed since we entered into the room away from the other officers. ¡°Would you like to tell me what happened?¡± he prods, without showing a hint of impatience.


    I open my mouth, my tongue caught on the words that want to come out. I squeeze my eyes shut, pulling my voice from my seized up throat. ¡°Morgan. Morgan Parlor. I hit her with a rock¡­ I think.¡±


    ¡°Parlor? The couple that live on West Edge. Oh you must be their foster daughter, Elena. Yes, I believe we have received a call about this.¡± He looks at me with curious eyes; like he can¡¯t quite figure me out; like he¡¯s heard one story but what he sees is another.


    ¡°Give me a picture of what happened. What lead up to this incident?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m scared,¡± I croak, avoiding eye contact like it will turn me to stone. ¡°I¡¯ve been scared for so long. She hurts me, she threatens me. And this time¡­ Well I guess I just, lost it.¡±


    ¡°Did she hurt you today?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Did she try to hurt you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Well did she threaten to hurt you?¡± His voice is starting to pick up a mild irritation.


    ¡°No,¡± I repeat with a sigh.


    ¡°Hmm,¡± he mumbles in an indecipherable tone. ¡°If you weren¡¯t in any physical danger, I¡¯m afraid to say if she decides to prosecute, there¡¯s nothing we can do.¡± His eyes speak of defeat, something that seems like a rarity for him and I feed on that.


    ¡°But¡­ she called me a prisoner. She throws me around like a dollar store rag doll that can be replaced in the blink of an eye. She sears my skin if I wear the wrong outfit, signs me up as an escort for a business agreement, let¡¯s her husband use me as his personal anger management dummy!¡±


    ¡°Barns, I¡¯ll take it from here,¡± a man rips me from my screeching panic attack.


    ¡°But-¡° Frank starts to object.


    ¡°Come with me, Elena. Thompson needs assistance on the Bur-lack case, I expect you will keep your focus on the things that need your input,¡± the man commands; a strong steady statue with moving lips.


    ¡°Yes boss¡­ Certainly, I¡¯ll get right on that,¡± Frank¡¯s hierarchy slips downward and his demeanour reflects that. The air that was between him and Thompson has followed him to this room, though this time he¡¯s on the choking end of it.


    The man at the door has an instructing stance, he doesn¡¯t have to repeat himself to get me out of my seat.


    Walking through the halls with this man, this inexplicable man, compels a strange sense of calm to emerge within me. Medium build, younger than the other officers I¡¯ve seen, and yet he carries himself with an impenetrable confidence. His short, blonde hair flows over his head in waves. He has a grace and fluidity that has an almost supernatural enthralment. Every picturesque movement he makes draws you in, riveted. And his seductive, commanding eyes are almost hypnotic; you couldn¡¯t deny him, not anything.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    He guides me past the endless ringing phones, mindless chatter and copy machines into his office and closes the door on every sound and person occupying the rest of the building. His steps are slow, like he takes the time to perfect every motion that he makes. His high end leather shoes make a satisfying squelch sound with every slow motion step he takes past me. When he gets to his desk, he turns his face to me, our eyes freeze in contact and so does he.


    I think myself to have a rather wide understanding of those that I meet. I¡¯m well versed in the hidden sides, the faces people hold beneath the ones they portray. Writing characters, their fears and desires and the things that drive them to do what they do, it¡¯s made me take a deeper look at the thought behind the words, the meaning behind the smile.


    But this man, this stare, I haven¡¯t a clue what¡¯s hiding beneath. I couldn¡¯t even guess. Much like his confidence, his mind is impenetrable.


    His eyes dig their way through me and wrap around my heart, clutching it, ready to squeeze it to dust if ever they pleased. They have the power to tear a man down and build another up stronger and faster than even the media could.


    Those eyes, they could kill. So what are they planning to do with me?


    ¡°Miss Forsette, please take a seat,¡± his words are threaded with such grace; a tone smoother than the sweetest of jazz. It¡¯s not only commanding, it¡¯s inviting; and I can¡¯t help but feel an indescribable sense of ease.


    He waits for my motion to take his own seat, matching my speed, studying my movements like he¡¯s putting a picture together; the kind that I was unable to make of him.


    ¡°Take a breath Miss Forsette. Ignore the tick of the clock, it has no relevance in this room. Time is something I have much of.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ Okay,¡± I sputter, nerves tickling at my hips.


    ¡°Then I shall begin. This is where your troubles end Miss Forsette. If you are willing to divulge some necessary information, this will promptly become a mere nuisance of the past.¡±


    ¡°But Frank-¡°


    ¡°Frank is not the authority on this; that would lie in my hands. Now, are you able to put your trust in these hands that I offer up to you so readily?¡± he asks, leaning over his clasped hands.


    ¡°Trust isn¡¯t something that comes very easily to me sir.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps I shouldn¡¯t have requested you put your faith in a stranger, it¡¯s certainly something I wouldn¡¯t do. Allow us to get acquainted, Theodore Montigue, it¡¯s a pleasure.


    ¡°I assume you picked that yourself.¡± A nagging suspicion of this man¡¯s character creeps towards me. The strange self-assurement and ease of his character was one thing to be cautious of, but a Shakespearian name and a promise to free me from all of the woes I entered with is too much to overlook.


    He unclasps his hands and presses his back against his chair in the manner of a king on his throne.


    ¡°That name carries far more than most. A symbol of destructive conflict, something so present in the world we live in; never dying. A name to always remember and a rule to always live by. Yes. I did choose it myself.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a business man like yourself doing in a public service position?¡± I ask, eyebrow raised in an interrogation like fashion.


    He chuckles to his shoulder, again gracefully. Like everything that he does.


    ¡°What is a smart, young, avid reader that avoids confrontation at all costs doing throwing rocks at people?¡±


    I cross my arms and narrow my eyes. Touch¨¦.


    ¡°We all have reasons for the things we do Elena, now would you care to enlighten me of yours?¡±


    ¡°I lost control of myself, that¡¯s all.¡± I drop my arms and eyes, my strength swapping out for vulnerability. ¡°She threatened me and this time I couldn¡¯t take it. I couldn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I see the scars you carry with you. The ones hidden under your sleeves, and also the ones hidden beneath your skin.¡± He takes the glass in his hand and tilts his head to look down at the softly swirling liquid. ¡°I¡¯ll need to bring your social worker down here to make arrangements for you. I¡¯ll take the liberty to assume another foster placement is not a suitable environment for you,¡± his eyes peer up from the glass and my smile speaks for itself. A sly smirk crosses his face before he brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make the call,¡± he says, swiping up the phone in his right hand, his left still fingering the edge of the glass. ¡°You¡¯ll need an adult over the age of twenty one, with a stable job and place of residence. Do you have a contact number for a friend or someone close to you who fits that description? ¡° he asks in a way that implies he already knows the answer.


    He dials the social worker¡¯s number so swiftly it appears as a single motion. ¡°I believe I do,¡± I rush out my response before the line connects. I reach out of my seat towards his desk and mouth ¡°may I?¡± pointing at a handy notepad and pen. He replies with a single nod and returns his attention to the phone.


    As the pen in my hand scribbles a number on the paper and Theodore bargains the urgency of the situation with the woman on the other line, the storm inside me calms. For all the manic and uncertainty the last few days have presented, this is the first sign of hope. The only thing I have to ask is why? Why is this man being so kind to me? Why am I not in a jail cell¡­ Or lying in a hospital bed in between Morgan and Maurice¡¯s bloody fist?


    It doesn¡¯t feel like luck, and that being my only answer I must ignore the question.


    Theodore¡¯s position must be a persuasive one; the social worker arrives in less than fifteen minutes¡­ and she bought lunch. Esther unsurprisingly takes a while longer. She¡¯s the one who brought fashionably late back into fashion.


    The air in the room shifts when Ms Reeler¡¯s wound up energy enters the mix. She struts in, stiff and rigid; her hair tied taught in a tight bun, her suit plain and flat, not a wrinkle of emotion present on her face. Looking between the two of them, it¡¯s like observing an apple and an orange cut from the same tree. They¡¯re both so well put together, so steady, so self-assured.


    The difference is, for her composure it seems a pin could drop and knock it all out of place, but Theodore isn¡¯t a dress for show mannequin. His air is present far deeper than the surface. His act, is not an act, and his picture of confidence is not a thirty thousand piece puzzle that¡¯s taken him years to assemble; it¡¯s clear, no cracks, framed and hung up with a diamante string.


    And that¡¯s why with one you get an overwhelming sense of security and the other¡­ Well that woman makes me more nervous and unsteady than a surprise exam paper.


    ¡°Are we starting this meeting officer? You did persist that this was of immediate importance,¡± she says robotically as she places her bag on the floor beside her chair; a slight annoyance in her expression. I begin to pick at the sandwich in my lap, drawing my focus toward the soft white bread.


    ¡°It¡¯s actually Captain, Ms Reeler. But please, Theodore is fine,¡± he drops his tone to a level more assertive, less relaxed than when it was just me and him. I hear an audible gulp from beside me. Ms Reeler re-adjusts her position in the chair, her poise buckling under the carbon-crushing pressure. In a mere few minutes in his company she is already becoming disarmed. And my optimism is only growing stronger.


    ¡°Are you aware of the situation at play here?¡±


    ¡°Well-¡° she stammers and pokes at her blocky black glasses.


    ¡°You¡¯ve left a severely traumatised young girl in the supposed nurturing hands of an extremely abusive foster couple, despite several concerns made by the young girl¡¯s therapist. Concerns that specifically mention the detriment to the young girl¡¯s mental health: ¡°being in the custody of people who have little understanding of the term itself.¡± This is correct information, yes?¡± he berates her in a way I¡¯ve never witnessed. It¡¯s in his tone, the deathly calm way that he strings his words together, a silent threat.


    ¡° I¡¯m not confusing this case with an episode of ¡°Tormented Children Tortured by the System,¡± am I Ms Reeler? Because if I¡¯ve made an error, if this is all simply a misunderstanding, a wild piece of fiction I¡¯ve concocted, it would be wise not to waste our precious time on it any longer. Is that right Ms Reeler, should we all head home for the day?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­Uh,¡± she opens her mouth, only responding with an unintelligible stutter. He definitely caught her off guard.


    Again she fiddles with her glasses as if correcting her vision will bring the clarity back to her mind that she¡¯s since lost upon entering the room.


    I have to clench my gut to prevent any laughter coming out. Watching someone who has only been firm and intimidating around me turn into a fumbling mess right before my eyes is more that a treat.


    Though the more I¡¯m starting to like Theodore, the more I¡¯m wondering why he¡¯s backing my corner so strongly. And when exactly he got the time to go over my file.