Don't own the Clique. Another depressing MxD. It's my favorite.
Please note that I tried SOSOSOSOSO hard to get rid of the typos. Understand that where I'm at it's current 4:15 AM & I've been working on this for the past hour. Give a girl a break!
Another Day Gone By
It was puppy love. It had always been puppy love. From the moment you met, twelve years of age, up until the very last second. Puppy love. What exactly does 'puppy love' entail? By unofficial definition, puppy love is an informal term for feelings of love, particularly between young people during adolescence, so-called for its resemblance to the adoring, worshipful affection that may be felt by a puppy. So, if one were to look at the relationship from that perspective than, yes, 'puppy love' certainly applies.
Flip the coin. He was controlling, if only in a subtle way - as subtle as a controlling partner could be - and from the way he acted, he was convinced you were his one and only, the woman who would bear his child. He wouldn't have had it any other way. The first sign came at fifteen; it was a double date trip to the mall during the holiday season. You and your best friend decided to slip away, if only for fiteen minutes, to browse the jewelry shop, dreaming up a wishlist. It was innocent enough, and yet he grabbed your small wrist, quietly under his breath telling you not to go. And you didn't. Because it wasn't any big thing. Right?
Subtle. They were always subtle things. A little bit of this and that every now and then. The older you got, the more common they got, but they didn't scare you. He never lifted his hand to you. He never insulted you. If anything, his controlling behavior was a sign of desperation. He didn't feel as if he was better than you. He felt as if he was completely beneath you. He was doing everything in his power to keep you right where you were - at his side.
Three days before his seventeenth birthday, his mother ran out on him and his father. With his father hidden away in the den for days on end, and his aging nanny his new mother figure, his emotions were thrown for a loop. You noticed the dramatic change. The usually almost one hundred percent confident jock became rattled with insecurity. His muscular frame suffered as a result; the definition in his arms and chest withered, until he weighed only ten pounds more than you, by your guesstimation. He became an emotional basketcase, much more so than you had ever witnessed in him. Much more so than you could handle.
Two months to the day after his mom left, hasty, a suitcase in one hand, a plane ticket in the other. He invited you to lunch but you declined, asked if you could come to his house instead. He was home alone. Alone in that big mechanical cube of a house. Mini had the day off, his father had a long day of work. You two had the entire estate to yourself. You confined each other to the four walls of his bedroom.
He looked nice that day. His usually somewhat pale skin had tanned nicely, his blonde hair a little shaggy over his caramel eyes. His room was dimly lit, the evening sun seeping in through the light blue curtains. He sat on his bed, legs crossed, looking up at you expectanly from where you stood, leaning against his metal desk. You sighed. Licked your lips. Prepared yourself.
It took a little over ten minutes for him to understand what you were saying.
"You're breaking up with me?" He asked, the sparkle in his eyes disappearing faster than you expected. You stuttered over your words, reached for him, retreated. Tried again. Nothing came. Your amber eyes flew around the room with fear woven in them, as if looking for an answer from the navy walls, the twenty one inch flat screen computer monitor, the soccer posters. Something. And then you saw it.
If it hadn't been for the lamp that was perched atop his clothes dresser, you wouldn't have noticed it. But the way the seventy five watts of light reflected off of the small, silver package and caught your eye made your heart race and your body freeze. He noticed you noticing it. You tore your eyes away from the condom long enough for them to linger on him. He was on the verge of tears. Slowly, his lips parted. He pleaded, "Don't leave me like this, Mass. Please."
If it had been any other situation you would have said no. But it hit you that, after all he had suffered, all the pain and the abandonment that he endured, at the hands of his unfaithful mother, unprepared father, and now, as cruel as it was, you...he deserved something.
It was an awkward experience, to say the least. He attempted and failed miserably at unzipping your dark wash skinny Hudsons, the zipper getting stuck on the denim. Your hands slipped as you lifted his Hollister shirt above his head, the tip of your manicured fingernail accidently breaking the skin at his collarbone. You're pretty sure you heard a rip as you discarded the white American Eagle beater from your torso. The usual, infamous struggle came with trying to wrestle yourself out of your skin colored bra. His denim Diesel shorts and your black Victoria's Secret thong lay discarded at the foot of the bed.
You knew what you were doing was wrong. Not the premarital, teenage sex ordeal. You expected it to happen before marriage, and you knew that if you hadn't have been planning this breakup, Derrick would have been your first. The guilt came from the knowledge that this was your final goodbye. The swan song of your relationship in the form of a pity fuck.
You collapsed unto him not too long after, before slowly lifting yourself away. Hurriedly, you slipped back into your garments, looking at your now ex-boyfriend, under the covers, his expression blank. You lowered your lips to his; he didn't respond. The tears came to your eyes. Softly, "I'm sorry."
You rushed out before he could see your mascara smudge.
One month later, you met Elliot. Tall, handsome, with jet black hair and a killer smile. He was everything Derrick was not; artistic, informed, passionate. You found yourself in awe of him everytime he stepped into the room. He acted with so much grace and charm he made even the most frigid a lady swoon with lust. He enjoyed discussing politics, popular culture, and you. He was everything you wanted but never knew you could get.
He was also a raging herion addict who would do anything to push off. You didn't notice when your Neil Lane pearl earrings went missing. You blamed the loss of your years old Cartier watch on baggage handlers. The Swarovski pendent necklace tipped you off.
You discoverd it a week later; some of your most valuable belongings in a bag, marked For T. His dealer.
You confronted him. You cried. You told him you wouldn't be used for your father's money. You said you want to brea-...
Before you could finish, he hit you. Nothing too hard. No major damage. Wounded pride. A slap. But it was a slap nonetheless. Your cheek was stinging and probably red. He chastised you through gritted teeth. He was warning you, he said. I can get very dangerous Massie, he said. When I'm not happy. These things make me happy, he said. Don't you want me to be happy, Massie?
You took it. You didn't say anything. You didn't think anyone speculated. You let him take a ring or two, maybe a necklace. You preferred him happy. Happy Elliot meant happy Massie, right? And so you kept quiet.
Which doesn't explain how Derrick found out. You remembered to tell the lawyers that. Of course, at a house party of a friend of a friend, the couple locked in the bathroom, in the middle of a screaming match were sure to get attention. But someone had to have tipped Derrick off. Thankfully someone did. If not, you would have been stuck with Elliot in that bathroom, his hands making his way around your throat. But Derrick rushed in, kicking down the door with the strength he had gained back. Elliot immediately let go, your small frame hitting to the tiled floor with a thud. You couldn't understand much of what they were saying, but you saw Elliot hit Derrick a few times. Derrick came to you, squeezed your wrist, picked you up, and pushed you out of the bathroom. You aren't sure what happened next. You heard the cabinet open, Derrick grab something, Elliot scream something, and something hit the floor.
You swung open the door, gasping at what you saw. Derrick, blood trickling from both his nose and mouth, held a pair of blood drenched scissors in his left hand. Elliot, dressed oddly appropriately in all black, was at Derrick's feet, his hands covering the wound on his chest.
The ground rolled beneath your feet, sweat trickled down your spine, and the blackness over took you as body met floor.
Fast forward to today. The trial has been over for three months. The verdict was no surprise. Derrick admitted his guilt from day one. The story is what saved him from life in prison. Everyone believed it, because everyone knew it was the plain old truth. No intent to kill. He came to the party knowing you were there. He wanted you back. He had heard of Elliot. He had heard of how he treated you. He had matured. He was different.
You sat across from each other. Two feet away, you'd guess. So close. Yet so far. Orange was not a flattering color on him. You note this while looking at him through the glass window in the jail's phone room. The heavy black phone was clutched in your strangely unmanicured hand. Quietly, "Three years." You say it matter of factly, as void of as much emotion as you can prevent. He only nods.
"Voluntary manslaughter," You continue in reporting the sentence, switching the phone to your right hand. Your eyelashes flutter, "Adequate cause. A lesser sentence because you don't have a history of bad behavior. The judge didn't consider that whole 'mooning' phase you went through to be bad behavior. What doe he know, right?" You attempt a joke. He nods. Silence. This is how it always is. Every Thursday, at four thirty on the dot. You talk, he nods. You hate it. "Derrick," You plead, "say something. Please."
"I love you," he manages, his blurry eyes becoming even more blurred through your own tears. You can't help it. You let the tears fall without a care. You learned not to wear mascara to these visits a while ago. It's your turn to nod.
"I love you too, Derrick," You say, slowly raising your hand to the glass, placing it against it, ignoring the cliche. He follows, his big hand overpowering your dainty palm. "I love you," you repeat, just as the guard comes over and taps your shoulder, signaling the visit is over. Standing, you look to him. The phone is still in his hand. You pick up yours.
"Wait for me, Mass," He begs, his face becoming red, a mixture of sorrow and embarrassment, tears pouring from his eyes, "Please wait for me," You nod tearfully as the guard escorts you out, blowing a kiss back to him. You two don't look away from each other until you are both completely out of sight.
The weather is cloudy and overcast. A soft drizzle begins to fall from the gray sky just as you step out. You pull out a pair of oversized Chanel sunglasses from the pocket of your Michael Kors peacoat, sliding them over your swollen eyes. You nod to Isaac as he opens the passenger door. Another visit. Another silent ride home. Another day gone by.
This was originally a completely different story. Kind of. Most of the same storyline, but a more depressing ending, with a different title. The title change came right at the last minute. I hope you enjoyed it. I promise I'll do something happy ONE of these days :)