How to Defy Kings, How to Kiss Queens

A Victorious Fanfic

Chapter 1 "Strips of Quintessence"

The frustrated screams blur out the sound of the shattering glass, or it could be the other way around. A piece of a mirror turns into pieces below the weight of my boot. The mattress finds its way to the other side of the room. My heart finds it way under the wrong end of a knife on the nightstand, and my anger finds its way out of me in spurts of unfocused violence. I feel like I'm losing myself. In my actions, I'm letting this boy define me. The rage is defining me, and I'm being stripped of what I am. He's the only thing that can break me, and he's the only thing that can fix me. For every thrown glass, I imagine every last moment of my dying soul. I remember every moment of that day, not too long ago. The neighbors knock on my front door, calling my name and checking on me. Despite not having anything against them personally, they get the response of a wine glass at the door. This isn't their business anyway. I hate being defined by anything. I can't be put into a category and specified. Lonely, angry, confused, bitter, searching-words I've all heard used to describe me by therapists, so-called friends, generally "concerned" people who assume they know me, even Beck. The only person who'd never offended me was Babette, my first lover.

She was French, with short brown hair and red lipstick. She was the last girl to ever love me, the last girl to ever even try. If I hadn't gone to her house that one day, maybe it wouldn't hurt as bad as it does. It was a sunny mid-afternoon when I let her too far in to the point of no return, storming out of the house with anger running down my face and my heart in my hands. The knife in my back was a dull, jagged one, and all I was able to dig out was the handle. The blade lies there to this day; my heart still lies so heavy. I know it was wrong of me to put such weight on her shoulders, but I wasn't ready then. I'm still not. I couldn't trust the society I've been constructed in, I sure couldn't trust someone constructed in the same. She just couldn't understand why we had to keep our secret, because she couldn't understand the cruelty of humanity. Somehow I think I always understood, even when I was a little girl, stepping on animal's tails and eating bugs. I'm used to being judged. No one understands. No one ever can. So…she never judged me, not like all of the others, but she still found a way to hurt me. Even if it wasn't intentional, she still told a secret. She still told of us, of which I told her never to do. That was in Ohio, where I grew up. I lied and told my good-for-shit parents that I was bullied and beaten up every day by a group of big, burly ass girls in my grade so they would decide to move, and they did.

I had never told Beck, and I never will, not now at least, with everything that's been going on. Hell, I doubt I'd ever tell him if things were sweet roses. That girl's now buried under a hidden and cemented dead life. Now the only thing that ever revisits those dreadful yet incredible times in that dreadful place is my mind, and the scary thing is that sometimes my mind forgets that that place isn't home anymore and it tries to stay. I must remind myself every night that I cannot stay, no matter how good the dream.

Thinking on it now, I was wrong. Beck's not the only one I've lost myself to. There was also Babette, long ago, a beautiful long ago in that dreadful place. In any case, I'll fight to save myself once again, and then I'll keep myself to myself.

The sound of footsteps descending the porch stairs jolts me to reality. It's a sad state of affairs when you find yourself sunken to your knees on top of millions of shards of glass, not being able to look in any mirror but nonetheless knowing you look defeated. What I can look at though is the kitchen and living room, which are both the disastrous result of a war of glass. I manage to carry myself to the bathroom, where I plop down on the edge of the tub and roll up my pant leg. Little scrapes rimming with red decorate my shin like a goddamn Christmas tree. There's a damp rag on the corner of the tub that I use to wipe my war wounds, dabbing at the little cuts and scratches.

The bedroom is a cleansing, and the bed itself is pure purification. During moments asleep, I'm not running on "anger" and "confusion". Then, I just…dream. My eyes blink blankly at a cluster of fish looking at me. I've always hated fish, the mental opening and closing of their mouths, the long, brown strand of shit they leave behind, just all of it. They used to belong to Babette. She always called them her "little lovelies". She never saw me roll my eyes. Beck was always that way with his pet dog, Frankie. He would always talk to it in that sissy-ass baby voice that…that I could never get enough of. Truth is…it didn't matter if Babette cared about meaningless fish, or Beck cared about a mutt. I accepted them as they were. Babette couldn't accept me and Beck…Beck's just…an ass. I was so pissed that I didn't even retain everything that was said. I can't even remember the whole situation…shit…

The LAX announcer's whiny drawl of a voice buzzes through the long, wide hallways, signaling nearly five hundred people of at least ten different schedules either being delayed or getting ready for departure. He gets up from sitting next to me and grabs a couple of his bags.

"Are you going to help me with my stuff?"

I grab a navy bag and add it to the pile of stuff he's already holding. He sighs and brushes back his hair.

"Jade, are you still upset with me?"

I take a long sip of my Dunkin' Doughnuts coffee. He sets his stuff down on a metal rolling cart and then he takes the cup from me and throws it in the garbage. He was always good at reading me. It was empty and he knew it.

"Jade, this is for the best, I'm sorry."

"Sorry? You're leaving me for six months to film some stupid ass movie in Europe."

He sighs, looking up at the plane scheduling. "You know this is my dream."

"It's mine, too," I respond with a hiss.

"Well it's not like I can get you a role, Jade."

"I can still come with you," I say, exasperated. Outside of the window to my left, the plane to Illinois takes off into the crystalline sky. I imagine it exploding once it reaches the horizon.

He lights a cigarette, following my gaze out the window. "What are you looking at?"

"It doesn't matter."

"You can't come, Jade. You can't. I…I can't have distractions, you know?"

"Is that what I am? A distraction?" My anger lifts up my voice. Bystanders turn their heads to look at the scene I'm making.

He makes a motion with his hands that seems to push air down. "Can you calm down?"

The thing about Beck and me is that we are always able to see what isn't shown, hear what isn't said. It's all in the eyes. It always has been. I'm silent for a while, looking into his. "Ever since we've met, we've never been that long or far apart."

He sighs, taking a drag. The bystanders begin to move again, realizing there won't be an escalation. They're like teenagers. No, worse than us. We start to blend into the crowd again, just two whispered voices in a loud, loud lobby. "It'll be good for us."

"What does that mean?"

It's clear he hears the hiss and fears the venomous strike, but he stands his ground. "This…separation, it'll be good for our friendship, trust me."

I'm silent, looking out of the window, looking at my boots, looking at boarding passengers and crying children. I can't look at him anymore, failing to read his mind. And it hurts to know he's doing this. It hurts knowing he said he never would. "Our…friendship?"

Now I'm finally the one looking at him, but it's his eyes that divert this time. His nervous breathing is interrupted every now and again by a drag of the cigarette, which visibly shakes in his hand. "Yeah. Jade…this is more than just a physical separation. I think…I want to be fresh going there, you know? Like what if I meet someone there, on set, or on the beach, you know? It's a whole different world when you finally enter adulthood."

"Beck…"

"You'll see, Jade. You'll meet someone more…suited for you. You'll meet someone who actually deserves you."

The shock turns to frustration, and I feel myself melting like butter. "So let me get this straight. So now you're not only leaving the country for six months to film a movie, but you're also breaking up with me…why?"

Even though I ask this, I'm not sure I want a reply. I know the answers. I know them well. I just don't want to hear them spoken. I don't want an "it's me, not you" speech, not to-fucking-day. He opens his mouth to speak but I put my hand up to stop him. If anyone's to say it, I am. It's better than punching him in the face. It's better than breaking down. "You're breaking up with me so you can start fresh…like this is goddamn college or some shit?" My voice rises again, and it trembles. I can hear Beck's plane passengers called for boarding. I lower my head. "You think there'll be better girls than me in fucking Europe? I would have rather you said I'm clingy or some shit."

I would have rather you died. I would be lying if I claimed to not be fantasizing about his plane crashing into the ocean. I would be lying if I claimed I didn't feel the urge to cry and just hold him in my arms, silently begging him to stay. I want him to look into my eyes so he can remember us in a blink of the eye. He can remember words from my mouth that only he knows, he can remember my face in ecstasy and in anguish, in slumber and in boredom. I want him to remember every strand of hair, every skin cell, every fiber of being, because somewhere along the line…I'm just not good enough. Babette creeps into my mind, into my remaining soul, and grips it and strains it like a wet rag. I feel myself emptying from it and spiraling down the drain. In one way or the other, I've found some way to destroy two relationships I fell too deep into. And after Babette, I swore I would never beg again. So I do not silently beg him, nor do I hold him close, and I definitely don't cry in front of him. He doesn't deserve my tears anymore. He doesn't deserve my words either, so I swiftly walk away as he stares at me with a dumb expression on his face as people shove by him to the scanners.

The fish stare with expressions as blank as Beck's as I throw around my worn pillowin another frustrated fit. I knock over a lamp, a few schoolbooks, and a pair of jeans in my rage. In retrospect, this is a much safer environment to throw a fit than in the kitchen. I look down at my legs again, red cuts resembling the shape of rice painting my shins. I pick up the pair of torn jeans that fell from the dresser and put them on, careful not to rub too much against the accidental cuts. I put on shoes I already had in my room to avoid getting glass in my feet and hurry to the living room to grab my car keys from the banister and leave the house. I need an escape.

...the stars, the moon, they have all been blown out ….

The city lights flash and shine like the Las Vegas Strip. My eyes blur, they're so bright. My mother always used to say that if you saw blinding lights, you were reaching Heaven. As a child, it all made sense-bright lights and Heaven should equal peace- now looking back on it, it all seems like a load of bullshit. There's something not right about what she said. Bright lights don't equal something good all of the time. Not this time, at least. I'm not going to Heaven tonight. I'm pretty damn sure I'm driving to a club from my wrecked house. I needed to get out of that place. Home's the opposite of a bright-lit Heaven.

…no dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight…

My thumb jabs the radio, turning it off. The damn car can't seem to stay in one lane. Cars honk and drive past me, scared of me running them off of the road or something. The huge club comes into view a while after leaving the freeway. I always find myself scoffing whenever I see it. It's so…modest, but somewhere to lose yourself, so I'm fine with it. It's just the people inside…

My mind's a mess…

The red and black strobe lights numb my mind more than the cheap bar drinks ever could. I'm lost to a sea of faceless and nameless people. They're people who don't matter. The only reason they exist is for me to feel invisible among them. Waves and waves of people, who have come to lose themselves, get drunk, get laid, and have fun. I would tell you what the room smells like, but to be honest I can't really smell at all. But from past experiences, it usually smells of vomit, sex, weed, and shame. Crushed pills are scattered on the floor and the music drowns out all sounds of vomiting, moaning, and crying.

Everyone's a shimmering light, and then a shimmering blur. Things are there one second, gone the next. I feel nauseous and queasy. I think that's the point of strobe lights, seizures until you're dead or dumb. The song ends, the strobe light turn constant for a while. It's intermission time. I shake my head clear and walk towards the pathetic bar. Sometimes I wonder why I frequent this place. It's below me, to be honest. And so are the men, but that doesn't stop one guy from sticking his tongue down my throat. He tastes of said shame and vomit, but still we find our way into my car and to my house, maybe there we'll fall on the littered glass and just bleed out.