Hello, lovely readers & writers. :)
Um, I don't really know what this story is. Ha. I just really love Cat & Beck, and I really love stories where cute little Cat has a secretly tragic side. BUUUT, I do not condone or support self-harm of any kind. I'm also not implying that self-harm is a means to get attention...I hope it doesn't come off that way. Please do not read this if it could possibly trigger you. Love, love, love to you all!
Oh, & if you do read it, holla back!
Roughly translated, that means "review it, please." :)
Sometimes she wonders why no one seems to take her seriously. Why everyone just smiles at her like she's some sort of naive Disney princess whenever she rattles off her potentially world-changing ideas...they're good ones, you know. She just knows it. She's smart.
Sometimes she wonders why people were born with such soft, soft, soft hearts. Or maybe that's just her. If everyone is going to say things that make you hurt, shouldn't you have the innate capability to not give a shit what anyone thinks? That's a good idea, too. Most of her ideas are. She should write that down...in case she ever becomes like, God's assistant or something.
But mostly she wonders why it hadn't worked. Why wasn't her bright red hair enough to make him look twice at her? And, if it hadn't worked, why was she so attached to it? Her mother told her at least ten times a day that her red hair was ridiculous, but she couldn't dye it back. She just couldn't.
Because maybe it would work, sooner or later. He had to notice at some point, right? She wonders why she's so pathetically devoted to a boy who doesn't even realize when she comes and goes. The bright red, her bright red...it draws comments from strangers on the street, yet he doesn't seem to see it. But every odd glance gives her hope; it was still bright enough to be seen. She was still shining.
But she would never be bright enough: that cold reality struck her in the face every night when she was finally brave enough to click off the television and roll over to face her pink striped wallpaper. He shines like a fucking supernova, like he's the king of the entire Milky Way. She can't compete. She pales next to him, everyone does. How could he ever see her over his own glow? She would need lime green hair, or something equally ridiculous. Her red seemed tame. Lame. A pathetic attempt at attention whoring.
She catches it though, his attention. Finally. It's a small miracle, thanks to the sweet, sweet red...not her hair. He rubs his thumb, his oh-so-perfect thumb, over the crimson tally marks on her wrist and looks at her with pain in his eyes, real, true pain: the kind you see when someone breaks up with their soulmate in a movie, or something perfectly heartbreaking like that. He is heartbroken because of her. And she can hardly bare the deliciousness of it all. He only saw because they have to be lab partners, by the teacher's choice, not his, but it doesn't matter. He rambles on and on in a soft, high-pitched voice, stopping ever-so-often to look away from her wrist to her eyes, and she nods. She doesn't know what she's nodding to, though. How could she? His fingers are warm around her wrist, covering the tally marks like he can't stand to see her shame on display in front of him...like he can't believe her immodesty. All she can think is how absolutely curious it is that he notices red on her wrists, but not when it's sitting right on top of her head. Something happens, she's not sure what, and suddenly his hand is gone and her wrist is cold. It's in front of her face, his pinky extended, a small smirk on his mouth. She hears him ask her to promise something and her pinky is immediately wrapped around his in compliance. She wonders for a split second if she had just promised to do something terrible before she decides that it doesn't matter, because she would do whatever he wanted her to.
But you can't break a promise that you never knew you made.
Sometimes she thinks he's crazy, not her. What a silly idea. She doesn't know how he doesn't feel the electric shock that sparks when their arms brush when he's decided, for whatever reason, to sit next to her at lunch. It's a big shock: she can't decide if it hurts or not. It's enough to stop her in the middle of a sentence, yet he seems unfazed and looks confused when she stops talking for half a second. He smiles that "poor, naive Cat" smile when she starts back up again and she can't decide if she loves him or hates him. But she's tempted to wear her sleeves rolled up where he could see her red, just so he would touch her again...run his perfect fingers along her ugly scars.
She maneuvers her way into sitting beside him at the pep assembly and she loves it: they're squished between the entirety of the school and it's louder than loud. She likes loud. She raises her hands up and screams loud when some sports team runs out, she's not entirely sure which, and breaks a paper banner that Trina and the other cheerleaders had perfectly written their school's name across. How sad. He laughs next to her and she hears him ask her what team that was, what sport they played. She turns to answer, and his eyes hit her, and it's gone, her answer, that is. She wonders how people ever conduct intelligible conversations with him when they have to look into those eyes. He's such a fucking supernova and she can't remember any sports. She can't remember if she's ever even known any sports, ever played any sports. He laughs a "poor, naive Cat" laugh and elbows her. She could never hate him. Oh, no, no, no. She pulls at her sleeves, desperate for him.
Next Tuesday he tells her that he likes her shoes and she's so excited she worries that her heart may explode. How embarrassing to die in front of him. She looks down at the red tennis shoes that match her hair perfectly and boils at the irony of his never noticing the exact same color gracing the opposite end of her person.
She can't bare it any longer and she asks if he likes her hair when they're studying. He smiles at her like she's not so little and not so naive. He tells her of course, then he takes a piece of it in his oh-so-perfect fingers and makes himself a pseudo-mustache. She laughs out loud as he lets it fall. "It suits you. You're very...red." He raises his eyebrows and laughs and her face is in pain from the smile etched permanently onto it. She was red, she really was, everything about her. She allows her eyes to move to her physics book for what seems like three years before they simply have to go back to him. And there are his, already on her. She's caught by surprise and she can't remember her name, or his name, or anything, really. He picks his own book up from the table and she sticks her arm out because he'll notice this time, he'll feel it, she's sure of it. The shock cracks and he jumps. So does her deepest, deepest, deepest soul. He rubs his arm in pain while he smiles a very sad, very pretty smile at her, and she decides that if she died right there, even a horrible, painful, murderous death...it would be perfectly lovely and fine.
But she didn't die, of course. She lived and she was glad because the next day she tells him a joke she'd heard from her brother and he laughs out loud, looking at her through his perfect smiling eyes like she was some sort of comedic genius or something. And she wished that she was. His lovely, lovely, lovely laughs soon die and he tells her one of his own. It's better than hers, at least ten times, and she laughs until she can't see through the blurry liquid in her eyes. She pulls up her sleeves, without thinking, and fans her face, red from laughter, blinking away the tears. She looks back toward his perfect smile, but it's gone. His eyes are on her red, red, red wrists. They look glassy and sad when they meet hers, and she hears him say that she promised. She has no idea what he's talking about, but it feels fitting so she apologizes. He smiles a sad smile and tucks a strand of fallen bright red behind her ear. He tells her that it's okay and she believes him. She tells him that she loves him because she has to and it's true. He squeezes her hand.
She doesn't know how to kiss, she realizes, the first time his lips are on hers, in the school library. She's never kissed anyone, and no one's ever kissed her...but he's good at it, she can tell. Of course he is, he would be. Without ever disconnecting from her, his oh-so-perfect fingers run along her jawbone, ever-so gently that it gives her goosebumps, to rest at the back of her neck and pull her closer to him. She lets him lead, like it's all some perfectly lovely dance that she has waited to perform for far too long. When he tilts one way, she tilts the other. When he pulls away for air, she takes her cue to suck in deep before he comes back for more. Her mouth follows his and all she can think is how deliciously symbolic it all is because she would follow him anywhere. She smiles against him because he tastes like coffee and spearmint and smoke, and that's exactly how she knew he would taste. Exactly. He rests his forehead on hers and she looks down at his lips. They're red, red, red, just like every part of her, and she smiles because she made them that way. They're red with her taste. They're red like her. He shuts his eyes and tells her that he's sorry because he shouldn't have done that. She wants to tell him that he's allowed to do whatever he wants because she loves him to Pluto and back, but she doesn't do anything other than lace her fingers between his and he accepts them, her bright red nail polish harsh against his warm, warm, warm skin. She wonders what she tastes like. It would pale in comparison to him, like always.
She wonders how the rest of the world lives without him. How? How could she ever manage to get by without his mouth moving on her jawbone the same way that his fingers had the first time? How empty must the rest of the world feel to not experience the warm saliva that he trails up and down her neck? How could they simply go without the limp, noodle-armed feeling that his suction where her neck and jaw meet produces? She feels her finger hanging, tangled in his t-shirt, and she thinks that it may have to be amputated later because the fabric is cutting off her circulation, but she doesn't have any ability to move. That's her favorite part, though. How deliciously ironic. Her head moves to the side on it's own accord, giving him ample space to work his perfect magic. She feels her eyes roll back in her head and she knows her mother will ask about the mark he's leaving later, in her oh-so-accusing tone, but she doesn't care. She really doesn't even care that he doesn't want to tell anyone what they're doing. All she cares about is how beautifully cold, cold, cold his fingers are against her back, the warm skin between her pants and the hem of her shirt. His perfect hipbone grinds against hers and she thinks it's the most wonderful pain ever to exist. But a bell rings out, loud and shrill, sharp and ugly, and she hates it because he told her last week that he couldn't be late to 6th period again or he'd be suspended. And suddenly his warmth is gone and he's lifting his book bag from the floor of the empty classroom. She watches in awe, her back still against the chalkboard, because every move he makes is so fucking perfect. And he's back; his mouth is at her wrists, his warm saliva, which she swears has healing powers, covering the red tally marks that have nearly disappeared. And then he's at her jaw. One kiss, two, three, four before he's at her ear. He hovers for a split second before it happens: "I love you."
And then he's gone: he's not even in the room anymore, but she doesn't know when he left. He's simply disappeared and she wonders if she just imagined him. Maybe he was a complete figment of her imagination. Maybe her heart, that has beat solely for him since the 7th grade, had simply crafted up this beautiful boy in an attempt to save her from herself; a selfish attempt to make sure it was allowed to keep beating for as long as it wanted. She cracks the door and rests her head against the frame, seeing but not being seen. And he's out there, he's real, he's switching out the book in his bag for a different book from his locker. But most importantly, his mouth is red. Red, red, red. It's red like her, red because of her. And she smiles. Her heart beats solely for him and he loves her. Of course he does. But he shouldn't, he should love someone perfectly lovely and whole. She knows that, she didn't mean to trap him like that. Poor Beck, she's suckered him in. How tragically delicious.
But you can't keep a promise you never knew you made and she watches the red, her red, drip down from her wrist onto the perfect white marble of her bathroom floor. How lovely, lovely, lovely that it matches the polish on her toes and fingers...not to mention her hair, her finally noticed hair. She wonders why she's doing it, because he's so perfect and he's so hers even though he probably shouldn't be, but she does it anyway. Maybe she does it because she's so pale. Her sunshine may be brighter than the other stars, but it could never match his supernova. His healing powers...they would be useless if she weren't broken. Why would he stay? Maybe she does it because she has to. Or maybe she's just sick and likes it. She can't decide. Whatever the reason, she counts the drops and makes another tally when there's not an even number. Even numbers are more normal than odd...obviously. And she likes normal things...surprisingly. Opposites attract, she guesses.
And her red never fails her. It achieves the desired effect, as it always does. His perfect fingers find her ugly tally marks, as they always do. He spreads his healing warmth on them, like he always does, while her eyes flutter shut, like they always do. And, as always, his soft voice feeds desperate whispers of 'you don't need that, I love you, please stop' into her hungry ears, his forehead resting against her temple. He loves her, how lovely. She loves him, how tragic. He's determined to fix her and she's determined to keep it that way. Poor, poor, poor Beck, she thinks. Lucky, lucky, lucky me. A strand of her oh-so-red hair falls down into her face and she admires it's oh-so-lovely color, promising to stop while he trails more warmth along her jawbone.
But you don't have to keep a promise that you never meant to make.
Isn't that deliciously ironic?