For Francine, because she is perfect.
Sections in italics may be considered as flashbacks. Not the LOST kind, folks
reaching a fever pitch
1.
the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?
There was no escape.
There never had been and there never would be.
This was the certain fact of her life. She understood that now as clear as she could anything else. At some point in time she'd thought this was what she'd wanted, what she needed so desperately, what her heart thundered for every second, swiftly like the wings of an eagle for so many years. It was better this way. That was the mutual agreement between mind and physicality, the tragic snippets of tactical strategies utilised by her obviously incompetent mind.
They were merely self-deceits, she understood this now.
For in gaining Will Stronghold she had captured inspiration, the light touches of soft hands, tiny whispers adorning buzzing lips that weakened with time. She'd gotten what she'd wanted. It was all inseparable by default now, perfect oblivion that she clutched onto like a halcyon storm.
But then, odd things began to happen, things that tugged on her heartstrings, that caused prickles across her pallid skin, things that shouldn't have been there in the first place shattering her perfectly constructed halcyon storm.
2.
will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?
When Will's lips smashed into hers it felt right, perfect. The mysteries of the world no longer elusive or incomprehensible, all made sense. It remained like this, a cluster of her youth, the viewership into a world she'd never had the privilege to see before, only desired for so long from the crystalline window panes that were often smeared with dust and envy towards a life never lived.
From the corner of her eye she could also see Warren and she'd easily ignored this.
But as time passed by, as days felt like weeks, months, fucking years, it all seemed wrong. Everything came undone with the snap of a finger, the clap of wicked hands and something began to catch itself in her throat, she just couldn't let it out. She felt paralysed all of a sudden; the melody of Wills voice losing itself into a sharp clipped voice of another, a voice that began to lead her toward a different direction.
3.
pacifism is simply undisguised cowardice
The effect was subtle, but enough for everything happy, fun and gentle to drain away from her as the humid weather of October still lingered. The feeling felt like she was demanding more of the world she was provided with, and yet she knew exactly what was to come, the unrelenting force of it all would slowly consume her very fibre, the particles, the muscles, her skin would slowly unravel itself into a tainted shade of red that ignited into a travesty of her emotions.
These were the complications that had slowly begun to arise, masked at first as a feeling of annoyance and trepidation when she hadn't consciously been harbouring any anger or even resentment. And during those times it was easy, plausible even, to see these things as okay, acceptable to her circumstances, a foreboding sense that had been achieved through her own will, not through some subconscious, unknown ache.
But if she were to look past the buzzing monotone voices that filled the hallways, past the long rows of lockers that clouded her perspective, she could see the truth itself and the infinite silence of it, its oracularity never wavering in all those months where she had stumbled and how it had stood stoic and firm in front of her for so long, painted with vivid red ink.
She caught Warren's eye as he leaned against his locker, cigarette hanging from his fingers, smoke escaping from his lips, a cloud of unknown, un-ventured proximity escaping so easily from him, his lips curving themselves into an amused, self-depreciating smile.
She understood then with muted fear that it was easy to live like this, with Will, but it would never be easy to live that life she had so easily led before Warren's sudden seismic movement into her entwined history.
4.
bless me, father, for I have sinned, in thought, in word, and in deed
Warren's hands were rough, especially his fingers and it always felt odd when her soft, perhaps untainted skin, collided with his, rubbed with each movement. Her heart would always sink down, like a fleeting feeling of downward spirals, spinning and spinning the way you would on an old, rusty swing, unrestrained and filled with promises.
Except she could never venture beyond that, Warren wouldn't let her understand. He was quick to ignite the flames in his hands, and for her, every fire was a lesson learnt.
She wished she'd learnt it there and then, though.
5.
in the country of pain, we are each alone
The first thing she heard on the 20th day of October was: 'Did you hear about Jenny Freeze?'
She spared a glance towards Magenta, noting how she'd added in another streak of vivid purple and entered the combination to her locker.
'Well did you?'
Layla rolled her eyes. 'No,' she said, then added, 'You touched your hair up.'
Magenta ignored the last part. 'Do you even know who she is?'
Layla noticed how there was too much clutter in the small place in front of her. 'No.'
Her voice came out more mildly this time. 'Well would you at least act like you want to know?'
She took out two books from the top compartment. 'Really, Magenta, what's got you so suddenly interested in this unknown Jenny Freeze?'
She made a dismissive sound. 'No, no, it's not just that.'
'Not important,' she discounted. 'It sounds nothing of major importance to me.'
Magenta was beginning to show her unflappable ability to constantly, and often, diversely, surprise the shit out of her.
'It wouldn't, but it just so happens that Jenny Freeze is going out with Warren,' she said with smugness. 'You know, Warren Peace.'
There was silence, tense on her behalf, yet an intolerable sound of a world falling down, crumbling away into obsolete oblivion. It could have been shock, fearful presence or just the clawing feeling of deceit in suspension, waiting for the catalyst to set it off completely. She didn't know why this was and for the most part wanted it to remain indefinable.
'That's interesting,' she announced finally, but her voice was odd, wrong to her ears despite her best efforts.
Magenta scowled at her. 'Is that all you have to say? You used to hang out with him a lot before, you know, before you and Will started going out. I thought you'd already know this.' Layla started stuffing her books into her bag just to do something, anything, with her hands. 'Why didn't he mention this to you?'
I don't know. I don't know. I don't fuckin' know.
'It's his business who he wants to tell and who not. And anyway, I haven't had much time to see him lately.' She slammed her locker shut and hitched her bag onto her shoulders.
Magenta gave her a puzzled look. 'That's funny. I thought he would have.'
All she could say was, 'Yeah,' quietly, and it was as if she could see the change, the shifting geography between her and Warren, exhilarating waters suddenly submerging underneath an uncharted, tumultuous landscape.
It was the beginning for her.
6.
it is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air – therein lies the difficulty
When she'd stumbled herself into Warren's life, into his existence, its essence residing inside a funny looking restaurant, there had never been a thought process behind it, no indecisive pause, no deliberation. Contrary to popular belief that disseminated through the interested, she didn't seek him out. She did, on another day, but just not that particular one.
Paper Lantern was weird at times, on certain occasions easily queer, diffused with hipsters and teeming with retrograde lights that shimmered across flaxen hair occupying the place more than others. She felt justified in accepting it as her sanctuary, at least during times like these when she could scope the place out for something interesting to do.
But for that night Will was meant to be there with her.
It was a surprise twist then for him to not come. In hindsight, she should have known this. But then, hindsight was a bitch.
So she'd sat there, in her little corner, her legs swinging slowly, almost as if she were sitting near a vibrant, dizzying drop below that seemed cryptic on first sight, but really, was much more than that. And then she remembered seeing him. Warren Peace. The boy, no man as she came to see him later, ducking forever a destiny that he'd never asked for, for this was his father's gift to him, the desperation for anonymity always resilient like a parasite, more so than the need to harm.
She'd never questioned how she'd understood this about him, yet she did, better than anything else. She remembers the labour of it all, the need to justify herself to him, to explain why it was she'd sat here for so long, the hope for something never dying out even to this point, just waiting for Will like she always had. The thing she did question was how he understood her so well. It was the one thing that was harder to understand than all the other possibilities.
But within Warren's vicinity there were many things she questioned.
7.
misery no longer loves company. nowadays it insists on it
It happened unexpectedly.
Creeping on her without any notice.
Her footsteps were hurried, sharp, her getaway from the ridiculous rumours swirling around about Warren and his girlfriend. Even the word brought the taste of sepulchral, deceitful gold and red melting away on her tongue.
A door, only a few feet ahead, slammed open, it was the door to the stockroom for art supplies. She wouldn't have really paid any attention to it, not on a normal day, but red caught her eye.
A beautiful blonde girl came stumbling out, her hair in disarray and clothes that had been tugged around with. She was laughing; a bubbling laughter that echoed happiness, sheer happiness that Layla couldn't feel anymore. It was what followed after that stopped everything. Warren exited the small storeroom, a grim expression settled onto his features, his hair tousled, evidence of someone, no, of his girlfriend running her hands through them.
She needed to escape from this before anyone caught sight of her. They hadn't spotted her yet and her firm belief was that if she remained immobile she would be undetectable, because anything was better than getting caught by Warren as a witness to this, this disbelieving sight. It was easier to provide a self-induced illusion that everything would turn out fine, when in fact, there was all kinds of evidence that it wouldn't.
And for half a minute she believed in this illusion. Freeze hadn't seen her; she was heading in the opposite direction. But Warren turned back, a mere fraction of a tilt, but it was enough for him to notice her, acknowledge her presence with an imperceptible nod and that frustrating, irritating, aching, but utterly undecipherable smirk of his, yet it looked cold, detached, merciless.
She wished she understood it all by that point at least.
8.
he's always, always in my mind — not as a pleasure, any more than i am always a pleasure to myself — but as my own being
Warren loved to smoke.
She'd discovered this during homecoming, right before they'd been whisked into no mans land, right before she'd kissed Will, right before things had changed. He'd been leaning against the wall outside the cafeteria, the red in his hair so beautiful, mesmerising at the wrong time that she thought she might just collapse from asphyxiation. She could still remember this all with such flawless clarity that even later on there was always the sense that she'd choke from the clouds that had escaped perfectly from his mouth as his cigarette hung limply from his lips.
And it was easy then to pretend, to allow the impossibilities to become possibilities. The smoke acting like fog, segueing its way gracefully onto her skin, into her system.
He'd smirked then, maybe because he'd planned it like this. 'It's not so bad.'
She tried pulling herself out of the fog. 'Say's you.'
'Try it and you'll find out,' he said, something unknown glittering in his eyes.
The light coming from the window made his profile appear sharper, an uncharacteristic hardness to his jaw line, his lips almost poetic from where she was standing. Her gaze met his. 'And how would I do that?'
Warren smiled at her.
9.
there are two tragedies in life. one is to lose your heart's desire, the other is to gain it
They were on a double date.
Will and Layla with Magenta and Zach.
At the Paper Lantern.
where warren works. where warren works. where warren works.
It had technically been close to a month since she'd started dating Will. But to her it wasn't just that, it was six-hundred and ninety-six hours, forty-one thousand seven hundred and sixty minutes, and the millions of seconds that blistered away into that. Flat and dense time that was deceitful as first, yet so few could see the strangeness, could really comprehend or grasp its actual existence.
It had been hard to convince Magenta into doing this, agreeing to be a part of this. She wasn't the type who'd openly and easily declare herself to the world, because in essence that was what it meant. But she'd come, and Layla didn't know why, maybe it was the desperation in her voice or the visceral flutter of fear that resonated around her constantly, for whatever it was, Layla was glad she had come because being alone with Will no longer held its appeal.
'I wonder what's taking them so long. It's been a while since we've ordered,' Zach said suddenly, his way of breaking the suffocating silence, or maybe, it was only suffocating to her, pleasant to them.
Will leaned back against his chair, fingers blurring away as he did something with his phone. 'Maybe they're low on staff.'
The red, orange lights from the ceiling shot off at different, odd angles giving the impression that they were sitting in a live cherry pit.
Zach looked at her suddenly, eyes like unyielding steel, cold and mesmerising at the same time. 'Who knows, may we'll see Warren.' The words come out like a zephyr, twirling and twisting upwards towards an unknown space.
Will had still not looked up. 'That would be odd,' he said, voice sharp and clear.
Annoyance and anger had started to fill her up, violent like a waterfall, close to brimming over the edges.
'Why?' she asked in a neutral voice.
He still didn't look up, she wondered if he was doing this on purpose. 'Well, we're on a date and he'd be serving us. That would be odd.'
Her fears had suddenly come to the forefront, voiced by none other than Will. She tried to tell herself that this was okay, that the proximity of it should be enough for her, the only equally possible way to make it out of this godforsaken place alive, since all the other paths her imagination had begun to travel upon, were just as equally, impossible.
'I don't think there's anything wrong with that,' Magenta added in. 'He's good friends with you.'
'Exactly,' was all Will said.
It was remarkable how her state of mind indulged itself so much that she was certain he had directed this towards her. This was her chasm, where she would fall away, weightless but always heavy with a burden. She could feel her skin flush, and was afraid that her limbs might stop working since all the blood had permanently flown itself to her face.
She quickly stood up. 'I have to go the Ladies room.'
Magenta looked at her with concern. 'You want me to come with you?'
Pushing her chair back, she quickly muttered, 'No I'll be fine.'
'Great,' Will muttered.
It was the culmination of her loss that she knew what he meant.
10.
truth, like light, blinds. falsehood is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object
The toilets were in a corridor all the way at the side of the restaurant. It was a long corridor, and then you had to turn left, pass the kitchen and at the end was the ladies room. She'd been here once, but even that once felt like a millennia ago.
Thankfully her legs were working well enough for her to even get this far. The lights flickered on and off every few seconds, the lighting still not fixed even to this day.
What happened next was all very dramatic and close to juvenile even, what made it worse was the fact that she would be the only one to realise this, but then again, she was filled with asbestos fortitude, so possibly it was just her.
She stopped all of a sudden. Warren had just exited the men's room, leather jacket on and a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He noticed her presence only a few seconds after her, stopping in his tracks just as she'd done.
A moment of studious silence passed by, she refused to allow it to become awkward, even though that's what it was. It was a misfortune with no compensation, even if the circumstances didn't compound it, no matter how compromised or doomed she may have been, her feelings were fluctuating in between a sense of 'what the fuck' and 'how do I get out of here' to a simple...
warrenwarrenwarren
'Warren.'
This time he didn't smirk, or smile, or do any of the shit that he always did. 'Layla,' he said, voice clipped.
The simple dress she wore suddenly felt flimsy, an exposure to her true feelings, of the certain things that were spoken of and known, and those that were alluded to, in the context that they would change when really, they never did.
She looked at the floor, covered in cracks and something that oddly resembled itself into the distinct shape of Elvis Presley's hair, before quickly darting her gaze back to him. 'It's nice to see you, Warren.'
'What are you doing here?'
She wished then that he'd played the polite game, at least act like he cared enough to play along with her. There was never any beating around the bush with Warren. 'I'm out having lunch, what else would I be doing in a restaurant?' Saying Will's name out loud felt wrong, a betrayal of some kind, although she wasn't so sure what or who it was she was betraying.
'Why don't you just say it?'
She was confused. 'Say what?'
He closed his eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of his nose with his empty hand. 'Just tell my why you really came here.'
He sounded crazy. 'I don't know what you mean,' she said quietly. 'I came here to have a meal with my friends, Warren.'
'No, that's not it. You know what the fuck I mean,' he said through gritted teeth. 'Don't act like you don't know.'
'But I don't know!' She yelled, words echoing through the dimly lit corridor.
Suddenly his voice had changed, the hint of defeat mingled with frustration and she understood, at least some of it, what he was after. 'Just tell me that you and Will are making it all official, just be done with it.'
'I…'
'I knew it.' He shook his head. 'I just fuckin' knew it.'
It hit her hard, smack on her chest. She felt like she was outside her body, watching everything and just hoping for the best, the benign, half-bleeding sun setting as it always did, Warren's hair bleeding red like they always did, and the light filtering through cracked lies like it always did, and maybe this might have just made sense, like it never really did.
'Is this all about Will? Is that it?' she asked.
He let out a mirthless chuckle. 'It's not about what it just is, it's about what's the damn truth.'
'You don't know anything Warren. And how can you know, you barely talk to me, and the few seconds I do get to see you, you're always with her.' The last part was said with venom, the objectification of everything she'd been feeling inside to a pronoun.
His fingers flexed at his side, she knew that meant something to him. 'Tell me Layla, was it everything you wanted it to be, perfect, amazing and all fuckin' happy? Was he everything you hoped for?'
no no no no no
Defiantly, she said, 'Yes.'
He looked at her, a hard, unmoving gaze that assessed everything that was inside of her. 'I guess I wish you the best then.' His voice was cool, detached, a mirage.
He walked past her, faster than she imagined this to end, this odd, frozen honesty that would become too nebulous to remember later on, or, if she fixed it, if she changed the variables then the outcome would be the one she wanted so badly, the one that she ached for in the dark, turbulent nights.
His footsteps echoed on, and she knew he was close to leaving and that fact was enough to suddenly spur her towards that outcome that might become a possibility.
She whirled around, hand falling to the side before she yelled out what she'd kept closer to her than anything else. 'It's not perfect, Warren. For gods sake it's nowhere near perfect.' Her voice sounded like a thousand screeching chimes.
He stopped then.
Her voice held a note of hysteria. 'Don't you see, it was never what I wanted, not really, it's what I thought I wanted but-'
He'd turned around. 'But what?'
'He was never...he just wasn't...'
He was heading towards her and she swallowed hard. 'He wasn't you,' she whispered. The confession was a feeling of being drenched with insight, being swollen like a wet sponge. Rather than feeling not herself, it brought an intense feeling of newness, a compelling understanding that had come too late.
11.
sex is an emotion in motion
Her lips were bruised, bloody red as he slammed her back against the ladies room, lips soft, moist and warm against hers. Her arms wrapped themselves tightly around his neck, fingers splayed out over his Guns N' Roses t-shirt, her thighs tight around his waist, legs locked behind him.
Warren's hand was tangled in her hair, tugging and pulling her head to the side as he sucked on her lower lip. She could feel the taste of coppery blood lingering in her mouth. She thought she might just die there and then, why hadn't he done this to her before, why hadn't it ever been like this with Will, the questions fluttering around her mind like a thunderous storm. She thought she'd found oblivion, a place where the clouds didn't bleed to death, where red was no longer deceitful and unattainable, a swaying and redemptive gaze that would be achievable. If only her doubts hadn't clouded her judgement so easily.
His hand found her knee, slowly trailing down her leg, pushing her dress up higher and higher with each second. His lips left hers abruptly and started tracing scorching kisses along her jaw line all the way down to her throat before suckling the crook of her neck. She could feel her hips gyrating ever so subtly, rubbing against him with each pass of friction and his lips returned to her, his breath fanning across her erotically, and hers came out quick and shallow, the damp mist rising under his dark eyes. She leaned forward touching their foreheads together, inhaling his scent- soap, smoky cigarettes, cherry tarts and coffee.
'Warren,' she whispered.
He smirked again, that frustrating smirk as she felt his fingers inch up higher, tracing the edges of her underwear, before slipping past them, and she knew she was gone.
12.
why did you betray your own heart? i have not one word of comfort. you deserve this… yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you - they'll damn you. you loved me - then what right had you to leave me? because misery, and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us; you, of your own will, did it! i have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine
She splashed water on her face hoping it would remove any traces of what had just transpired. Three people had already come banging on the door and she'd told them she wasn't well, that she'd be out in a minute, right before Warren began doing something unavoidable with her body. They'd been in the toilets for fifteen minutes now.
'What does this mean, Warren?' She looked at him through the mirror leaning against a stall, putting his shirt back on.
'Nothing.'
She turned around, furious because that wasn't what she wanted to hear. 'What do you mean by that?'
He grabbed his jacket carelessly thrown to the ground. 'What I said. It means nothing.'
'So this means nothing to you?' she asked with disbelief.
He looked up at her. 'Suffer Layla, like you made me suffer. That's what I want and you don't deserve to have it easy anyway.'
She blinked at him, her voice catching in her throat. 'I never made you suffer, at least not intentionally.'
Warren growled. 'You knew what you meant to me, you understood and don't you fucking dare say you didn't. Just 'cause you didn't get your feelings didn't mean you had to do what you did. So you deserve to suffer just as I did watching you fuck yourself to happiness.'
She stared, terrified by his admission, 'I didn't….. you never said anything.'
'And what would I have said, that I loved you and you'd believe me?'
'You acted like you didn't care about me,' she yelled back, wanting to scream, a full unrelenting scream of betrayal, 'like you never have cared and what about Jenny, what about her, then?'
'She means nothing to me,' he said bitterly. 'A silly distraction that I needed, it just never fucking worked.' The iciness in his voice surprised her and it made her see red, a supernova exploding.
'Layla, we're getting a bit worried now, are you coming out yet?' Magenta's voice echoed from behind the door.
She was ready to prepare a caustic argument then, ready to kill him when it finally occurred to her that Warren didn't look right, that he looked wrong, blurred and ragged around the edges, worn and thin and somehow she finally understood that she'd done this to him, had the power to cause a person to fall to such depths, the vintage warren dead and buried underneath the self restricting charade she'd enforced on him, never realising it was his final hope.
She wanted to clutch her chest, because there was something twisting inside, moaning, withering in unrelenting pain, and just standing there, watching him was oddly, physically painful. In that moment she understood exactly what it was like to be him all these months: a discarded, unwanted toy that had finally fulfilled its destiny. He was her dirty little secret, just as she was now to him.
Her frenzied state of mind had finally brought the Delphic oracle, it's revelation like a broken hymn that had come too late, the pneuma never inhaled on time.
It was a bitter everlasting testimony to her failure at understanding.
'I'm coming, just give me a minute. I'll come,' she muttered in a monotone voice.
13.
it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is
The sky looked like an endless amount of infinity within infinity. A sheet of azure that had still not faded away despite the eons and histories that had swept by. Red never truly fitting it properly even when it glazed away during sunset, a million colours seeping out of the sky, but red never fitting in.
Maybe in another lifetime she'd get her colours, soft hand, lips waiting and tingling with stains of red, just waiting serenely by her rusty swing for the right time for him to come. For this, above all others was the gleaming, obsidian shard she clutched onto more than anything.
Maybe.
maybe
8.
a kiss is a lovely trick, designed by nature, to stop words when words become unnecessary
Warren smiled at her.
He leaned closer, lips prickling with his scent, waiting for what she knew was to come, and when he met her halfway, hand sliding around her neck, it was an explosion of sheer happiness as they laughed and smiled foolishly into each others' mouths, deceit a thousand miles away.
And she'd thought, this Warren was the one she loved.
because you loved him.
you loved him.
The last part, by the way, is a continuation of a previous (number eight) little flashback.
Feedback would be awesome considering the amount of people who seem to keep coming back to read this. :D