Okay, so my mind has been wondering...again. For this story it won't be a one-shot however I won't update this until I have some other stories finished before my attention is focused on this one. That said, for the meantime just tell me how it looks and we'll see how it goes, right? Anyway, don't own Victorious and yeah.

Hope you enjoy!

:)

November 27, 2013

I-I don't know where or how to begin but, God, I know I have to. It just eats away at my aching skull, throbbing heart, caught throat and stinging eyes. Maybe, for what it is, I shouldn't be writing this on some college ruled paper. Maybe this should be in a notebook, for nothing else to be written in or a yellowing page of an old , leather bound, journal, just to make it seem more valuable. Still, this is all I have and this is all I want; it's precious to me, and only me, at first glance and I haven't even started it. Because I don't know how, or where. I just know why, and it makes me crumble in the inside each day, the mask plastered to my face wearing down even if it doesn't slip. Perhaps my mask doesn't slip because it clings on tighter every passing day, knowing that the contents it's holding, protecting, restraining is becoming too much.

I'm just me, the plain girl who just helps people, does her thing and is the bright sun of the day. I should be happy with where I am, having several 'suitors', I suppose, ask me for dates some times a month, good grades, fair looks, fair voice and friends that make me smile. I should, but it's not enough it seems. It's not enough as I turn down the boys, shrug at my grades, glance over the mirror, accept my voice and constantly look at her as the others at the table talk.

I'm afraid that I'll crack one day, dive into my desires without one thought of the many, many consequences. It's her smile, that rare white flash before my eyes, that makes me want to kiss her, then and there. It's her long, raven hair with whatever colors that make me want to run my hands through it. It's her body, her curves, that make me want to bring her to the bedroom, as my thoughts had ventured over several times. But it's her enchanting eyes that makes me fall deeper for her.

Her eyes, like a glinting pale storm, are the ones that turn my head around, hammer my heart against my ribs. But they don't look my way as much as I would like them to, or maybe my head is turned when she does; perhaps she's discreet about it. But I doubt it, after all, I see her arms wrapped around him everyday in the halls. I shouldn't be jealous since they were together before I was even a thought in their minds. I shouldn't be jealous because he's my friend and she's, as much as she wouldn't admit it, is mine as well. I shouldn't be jealous because I know he looks at me more than her, but that's not the half I want to. I just want her.

So, in my own twisted way I suppose, that is the reason why I help her as often as I do. I help her to see the smile back on her face, the stormy eyes flashing with their signature lightning, her pierced eyebrow raised to side with her taunts-everything. I can't just tell her because what if those aspects of her are shunned from me? What if I cause something that doesn't need to happen?

And there come the bindings for my mask, tighter and tighter each day. I can't let it slip. I can't let it crack. I won't allow it to because, if it does, I better hope for a night without consequences. A night when I can have her in my own grasp, leave marks all over her body and tell her everything I love about her. A night to ourselves where I can feel her bare skin against mine, hear her vulnerable gasps until she shudders in my grip.

But there will always be consequences, and mine would be dire. Shattered hearts would be left astray at my feet, hands red as I blink off the pulsing spotlight. Uncertain moves would play, gliding along the chess board, because, after all, we're all teenagers, so this is just a game, right? It should, but I can't help but feel it is more of a battle than a game, even though we're so young an we don't know shit about love.

I suppose who does? All I know is that I want her, even though I shouldn't; not because I'll have to open a closet door but because we're supposed enemies. All I know is that I would care for her 'till the end, protect her from anything and everything. All I know is I have to restrain myself everyday to not act because she already has someone to do that for me. All I know is that I want to rip her from his grasp, but I shouldn't; he is a friend and his eyes linger over mine longer than hers.

All I know is that I have fallen for her, letting it boil over longer than it should've because I can't find the switch to turn it off. Maybe there isn't one. Perhaps I'm supposed to be in this vicious cycle, having it start off with a simple mask. A mask that has had been tied tighter to my emotions, then taped, then glued, then screwed and then stitched. Soon, I'll have to bolted on, but I know by the end of Hollywood Arts, it'll be welded.

I just can't help myself, but am I going to tell? How am I going to say that, 'I, Tori Vega, have fallen head over heels for this girl who isn't meant to be mine.' They may be fine with that, but once they ask who it is, I'll let out a croak before halting, eyes darting between them and the door. After I've taken a deep breath, I'll just whisper it, vocalizing it for the first time aside from the nights I spent, alone, in my room.

'Jade West.'

Watery eyes gazed at the paper in her hands, frowning with the memories attached. She placed the few pages down carefully on the table, scratching her head. It had been a long day, the crowds' cheering still in her ears during the tiring flight home. The spotlight defined her features as she smiled warmly down at her many fans, even if her heart still beat dully. She loved singing, loved the spotlight to hand her messages.

Even so, her Chicago home was where her heart was, the long windows overlooking the Great Lakes along with the other skyscrapers that reached the sky beside her. The sun settled nicely in the ocean-like view, the stars glimmering across the sky as she stepped back towards the front door wearily. The apartment was nice, two extra bedrooms beside her own, two bathrooms including her own but nobody else to share them with. Her back touched the cool wooden door as she sunk until her hands settled beside her, gripping the ground.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, glowering momentarily at the note on the wall she had left for the cleaners. 'Thank-you for your service, the money is on the table and if Dumbly gives you any trouble, just call! -Tori Vega'.

Tori sighed miserably, head against the door, eyes closed. Silence had settled before the soft scraping of claws against wooden floors were heard, picking up her gaze as she smiled softly at the heavyset boxer. He cocked his head to the side, drooling a little on the carpet before a hand rubbed the crook of his mousey-colored ears. Stepping forward, he nuzzled his black muzzle over her knee.

"Eww, gross Dumbly," the singer chuckled before giving a soft smile at the gentle eyes. "Come here you beast," she murmured ironically, recalling the moment her eyes fell on the 'feral' dog who immediately bounded towards her. She closed her eyes, feeling the cavity fill for the time being, though that particular hole felt as empty as ever.

-o0o-

It was quiet, almost peaceful in the house's long halls. The evening sun bled through the windows as the keyboard's slow clicks drawled absentmindedly. Growling sourly, she jammed her ring finger, accompanied by a ring, on the backspace key. Pale eyes flicked back up to a blank screen, mind filled with so many ideas that they all jumbled together in a bundle of wires and cords. Her back stretched, cracking before her eyes stared blandly at the screen, shifting towards the corner. Underneath 'July 26, 2019,' illuminated letters read '3:33.' Groaning, she frowned at the computer, cursing before hitting her index at the button, eventually watching as it shut down.

Standing up, she strode across the room, opening the door before her bare feet walked through the tile floor. She paused as she heard voices down the hall. Curious, she padded quietly before leaning against the wall, giving a small smile at the sight. A man in his collared shirt and denim pants chuckled, flying a toy plane around while a smaller boy giggled, swiping the air to grab it. Eventually the young boy did, his shaggy dark hair matching the man's before his eyes switched to the woman by the door. "Hey mama!" he smiled, turning the man's gaze over to the wall.

He gaze a soft, awkward smile before dark brown eyes met cold pale ones, which hardened even more under his gaze. "Alright, hold on there bud. Go back to the table, mom and I'll have a little chat," he patted the uncertain boy's hair.

"Oh, okay..." He slipped from his father's arms before shuffling over towards the table, scooting himself in to finish his bowl of ice cream. Steps followed his wife's to the other side of the house before halting, pale eyes flashing back towards him.

"Where were you last night?" she hissed in a low breath, crossing her arms.

"Out with Andre, you know he was in town only for a couple of days. You go out with Cat every week, you know," he scratched the back of his neck.

She scowled before dropping her arms. "Don't give me that shit!" she spat hoarsely, "You know full well that is a lie Beck. The last time you really went with Andre on one of his trips you complained because 'Andre wouldn't get his head out of his music.'"

Beck's brows furrowed uncomfortably before gesturing towards his wife to be more discreet, "Not that loud, Vincent." As she rolled her eyes, tapping her foot as he ran his hand though his hair, he muttered, "Then what the hell do you think I did?"

"Don't play games with me Oliver," she seethed, "Tell me one good reason I shouldn't go and count the different thongs in my drawer!"

"What'd you mean," he asked dumbly, eyeing their bedroom door nervously.

"None-of-them-are-mine," she hoarsely whispered, fist cracking as she recalled the several times those skimpy lingerie one or two sizes too small had been in her sight.

"Oh, those," he murmured seamlessly, "That's just from my work Jade, remember my job? That one with magazine?"

"Yes," Jade hissed venomously.

Beck nodded, standing straighter as he muttered, "Look, stop being so jealous! They're just clients, nothing more nothing less. Alright? No can I just go back and spend some time with my son?"

"That's the thing Beck," she shook her head impatiently, "You're only around to play but when it's time for life's lessons you're scampering off to another 'client's' house while I'm here paying the bills out of pocket!"

"My God Jade," he growled, "He's only three-"

"Four, Beck he's four," Jade snapped, eyes flashing lividly.

"Either way, Vincent's young and he doesn't need to learn what shit comes from your mouth."

"Oh," his wife glowered. "I see, that why you hid in your RV? Was it to be more independent or to hide from the world's fact? Guess what, shit happens in life whether you like it or not; end of story. It's not my fault Vincent has questions that I feel the need to answer!"

Beck raised his arms in impatience, seething at his wife. "Look, I'm just trying to be a good father and you're just bitching around like usual! Just let me do my thing..."

"No!" Jade hissed angrily, "Because if I do then you'll be around to smile and play with Vincent by day while I work then be gone by night while I have to tuck him into bed!"

"Then put aside some time for me," he almost whined through his growl, "Set aside some time instead of typing away and barking orders!" Jade scoffed hotly, eyes flashing as she stepped back, Beck stepping closer with his teeth bared.

Shaking her head, she prodded his chest with her index, "I do but every free time we have from work and taking care of our son, you're off fucking your models! Every-single-time. I've had it with you, might as well bring her over here!"

"Fine then!" he bellowed angrily, fists shaking angrily as he strode down the hall. "Move kid," he muttered as he brushed aside Vincent. The small boy winced, paper rustling in his hands with a bowl in the other, front door slamming hard against it's frame. He hated that sound, the way it had always sent a dull tremor down his spine to his queasy gut. Quietly, he shuffled towards the muffled cries, poking his head around the corner. He always hated to see his mother cry, especially when she had her back against that very door, hand covering her eyes.

"Mama?" Vincent chirped nervously, his queasy stomach still churning uncomfortable. Pale eyes blinked before a gentle water smile stretched across her lips.

"I'm sorry baby," she murmured quietly as he scampered towards her, sitting on her lap comfortably.

"I drew you a picture and made some ice cream," he mumbled quietly, handing her the scrawled blobs under scribbled colors.

"Hamsters?" Jade chuckled gently.

"Yeah, it's us as hamsters. You're the black one there with the red streak and I'm the brownie one right there with the cool sun glasses."

"That's awesome kiddo," she murmured as she felt a tight hug around her waist.

Vincent breathed deeply before leaning back, feeling as gentle hands rubbed the back of his black, skull shirt. "Why does dad get angry?" he cocked his head to the side, dark, rust brown eyes gazing at pale eyes intently. He had always found the answers from his mom the wisest and most understanding.

"Some people do," she sighed mournfully, "He wasn't always but some people do for the strangest of reasons."

"So you don't know why dad does get angry?" his small voice cracked.

"No," she shook her head. Brown eyes were rubbed by small pale hands before widening at the abandoned bowl.

"Do you want some ice cream mama?"

"Sure," she shrugged as Vincent picked up the bowl.

"It's quake batter," Vincent said excitedly as Jade chuckled from his grammar.

"Cake batter?" she smiled, taking a spoonful of the frozen-by this time melted- dessert.

"Cake-cake batter," the young boy tried again. "Cake batter."

"There you go," she hugged her son tightly, not wanting him to feel any less than loved; something her parents rarely did. "Happy birthday kiddo."

"Happy birthday mama," Vincent murmured, smiling as he gripped the baggy jacket before closing his eyes soundlessly.

Okay, so like I said I won't touch on this until I have other works done but I had to get this idea in the works before I lost what I was really shooting for. Now to actually work on the ones I promised to. ;) I will definitely be readily updating this week by the way...

Tell me if you enjoy this concept and I'll continue once I'm ready. If not, then I'll continue this once I'm ready (you're gonna get it either way).

:)