A/N- Happy Birthday, Ren!(: You're turning sixteen today, and I hope it really is sweet. (face palm. I'm so lame. Forgive me?) You're a great writer, and I know you're going to go places. So yeah. Unfortunately, I'm gifting you with a long, crappy one-shot, but I hope you like it anyway. To others: try to enjoy?
Warnings- This has some violence and a little bit of language; if you think I should lift the rating, then do tell me so. It's also long. And disturbing. Eeek.
Prompts: broken glasses, rain, sneaking out at night
Pairing: Calicia (with an overall, but not really Clam pairing)
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Thunderstorms had always scared Cam Fisher. Crackling lights, obnoxious booms, a heated static in the air that would never fade until the portentous aura of the dark, overlaying clouds drifted or evaporated into oblivion, and the tension in the air of wondering if it was to be your yard in which a beam of lightning would strike a tree and create a catastrophe-it had always created a tightening in his chest that he could never rid himself of.
But the rain was welcomed; it was always unabashed in its ways, seductive and dark, especially when included in a storm, and it made him feel energized and prepared for the coming calamity. Not that he had known that there would be one and that it would be in a mental sense .
He wasn't sure when he took interest in the delectable Alicia Rivera (Or should he say Rivers?); no one could ignore her alluring nature or the beauty that had swept through her family and made them almost goddesses. It would be impossible, and she had never been the type to be ignored: always loud and obnoxious and needing to have her way with things. And sometimes she was inclined to need Cam Fisher.
Her nature was naturally appealing, and he was a weak fifteen then, unable to resist her. She never told Claire, and he never told Josh, but something ominous was growing in Cam. Some sort of possession and want for Alicia, something he was finding that he could no longer control. Not now, anyway.
;;;
It was at his modest house one hot summer afternoon, especially warm, since the artificial grass, usually so verdant, had turned sparse and brown and parched of its beloved moisture occurred something he'd always feel regret for (even if he had changed).
He had been playing the new Call of Duty with too much enthusiasm (according to his parents) firmly planted on the soft futon in the basement, his fingers rapidly skittering across the control, when his mom had dutifully shouted for him to come upstairs; he had a visitor.
He grinned; the thought that Derrick had finally come over to attempt to defeat him at his war game was omnipresent, and he loped into the foyer, only to stop abruptly, shocked by the breathtaking appearance of Alicia Rivera fiddling with the dying daisies his mother had placed on the mahogany coffee table.
Alicia's pretty head lifted up slowly, turning to give his mother a sweet smile and a "What beautiful flowers you have, Mrs. Fisher. Did you grow them yourself?" He winced, but found his systematic mother delighted by Alicia and clearly enamored with her smooth, respectful attitude.
"Yes, dear, I did in fact plant them," she declared, her hands twisting around her apron. She paused to glance at the cloth and continued, "I'm making cookies.. Would you like some?" She warmly addressed Alicia, not sparing Cam a glance.
Alicia flashed a subtle wink his way before replying, "That sounds great, Mrs. Fisher-"
"No, no," his mom fussed, "just call me Cindy." Alicia smiled, her full lips spreading into a crimson streak across her darkly-toned skin.
"Okay, Cindy," she said solemnly, "do you need any-"
His mom waved her away, "No. You kids go sit down somewhere and watch some of that trash TV; I don't want a guest helping me cook," she lightheartedly ordered, beckoning them in the direction of the family room.
As soon as they were through the door of the din, Cam grabbed Alicia's arm, not taking care to be gentle, and growled, "Why are you here, Alicia? Harris is out of town, and I'm with Claire."
She wrenched out of his grasp and shrugged, "I just want to get to know you better-"
"Does Claire know you're here?" He inquired wearily, already knowing the inevitable answer.
She evaded his gaze and mumbled distractedly, "No, but-"
"I think you need to leave," he sighed, running a hand through his thick hair, noting that her eyes seemed to follow his every move.
Her luscious lips pulled down into a pout, and she trailed a finger to the DVD player, not taking her dark, beautiful eyes off his, their magnetic force inducing his heart into little pitter-patters.
He began to breathe slowly (Must exhale.), as she slid forward and placed her arms around his neck. She smiled, sending warm waves of mint and dark chocolate through his senses and his head into a woozy state.
Shit.
"What? Do you really want me to leave, Cam?" She inquired, teasing his earlobe with her finger; he realized that he had cursed aloud but was too distracted to give it another thought. All he could see were those fucking lips.
Claire. Claire. Claire. Claire. Claire. Claire. He began to chant, but it wasn't (Damnit.) working; he attempted a mental picture, but bright blue eyes were rapidly replaced with an ebony, sultry pair; a curvy figure overtook one very slim, and thin, flaxen hair was drowned by thick, dark brown hair that smelled of peaches and fresh air. He couldn't let her come into his house and seduce him within minutes. (but.)
It was all in her eyes: the way they flicked from his lips to his dilating orbs, pausing to intently stare, then to his abs; her hands began to move with her eyes, and his form trembled.
"Shit, Alicia," he whispered harshly, "my mom could come in any minute and Claire-"
"Don't say her name, Cam," she scolded, her eyes narrowing, "this is between you and me."
"But-"
Her mouth obstinately covered his, the sweet taste warming his buds and shooting his epinephrine into a frenzy, while her insistent hands tugged him to a recliner.
"Alicia," he protested, gasping for air; she pushed him into the plush chair harshly and a loud crack broke the air. A sense of euphoria flooded his senses, and a grin tugged across his face. He liked that sound. He liked it a lot.
"What was that?" she whispered breathlessly into his ear.
"My dad's now broken glasses, no thanks to you," he complained, but finding that something, a sort of fondness was growing for her. Those glasses had irritated him for years; his father had them custom-made, but they were absolutely hideous and talked about too much for any of them to fathom, and now they were gone.
He chuckled and in a bout of insanity, wrapped her legs around his waist; he felt almost like it was a dream: Alicia, the glasses, that cracking noise that had much.. appeal. He frowned. (What?)
;;;
It was a perfect existence for Cam: he had an angelic girl on his arm to do his bidding when desired (though her abstinence was to be left alone), and another he could call on anytime to satisfy his needs.
Although lately, his shiftily concealed Alicia was becoming bitchy and demanding that he drop his beloved girlfriend. It was increasing in their brief conversations; his irritation and anger was brimming. He couldn't stand this for much longer.
Alicia needed Claire's place now. She screamed at him, when her legs were wrapped firmly around him, when his mother exited a room, when they were in his car, when they were anywhere, she accosted him for not being the same, for changing on her.
You're so different, you're an asshole, you don't feel right anymore, why do I love you, and why (Why? Why? Why?) are you still with that bitch were questions that came across their tight subjects daily.
Sometimes a harsh pain would cross his mind, that delicious cracking noise would course through him, but then it was gone, and he was left pissed and weary of her (the usual). Something was growing in him, or maybe just.. breaking.
;;;
He was leaning against the row of lockers at school, feeling quite complacent, as his arm was slung around Claire, and she was plugged tightly to him, her delicate head nested comfortably on his shoulder, providing a feeling of prestige; all of their friends were in a tight circle, and he saw that Miss Massie Block herself could not keep her eyes of him. He kissed Claire's head gingerly, adoration and pride flowing through him, renewing his spirits with the knowledge that he had a girl with hardly any flaws, and others that lusted after him. Even the little clique leader wanted him. Nice.
But then she came, her long legs peeking through the sea of appendages, her eyes glittering in a way that made his cool façade almost shimmer away, but he held his composure.
"Hola, queridas y queridos," she greeted coyly, her eyes flicking to his and then to Claire. His eyes widened in horror (She mustn't.), and she calmly strode over, winking at a few males in the group; his blood boiled (How dare she?): she was his.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
The cracking noise flooded his hearing and the static, as if a despised thunderstorm was near, clouded the air. But then it cleared, and Alicia' lips were pressing against his cheek, her body posting against his shoulder provocatively; gasps were loudly broadcasted throughout the group.
Fuck.
"What the hell, Alicia?" Claire shouted, her voice trembling around the edges; he couldn't look at her. She would know. She always knew.
"What, Claire?" Alicia voice was fluid and aloof; Cam shoved her off his arm and attempted to pull Claire to him but to no avail. He met those cerulean blue eyes with no hesitation (He wouldn't lose her. Not unless he wanted to.), and trailed his finger across her soft, pink lips; she had always liked for him to do that. She said that it soothed her. (not this time)
In her usual way, she whipped around and tiptoed through the astonished crowd until she reached the edge; he couldn't see her anymore, but heard her footsteps thudding on the tile and her little whimpers.
Guilt poured through him in a rush; he dared not look at the audience, his best friends, his occasional whores. They'd think the worst, of course. (Because it actually was.)
"What's wrong with you?" He wasn't sure whom had asked, but he ignored his tug to respond (It wouldn't have been pretty.) and loped outside, yearning for air, for freedom. He couldn't take this anymore. He wanted to get out.
But he went after her; his reputation would be ruined and shit on, otherwise. So he did. He caught her stiffening arm in the parking lot, got down on his knees, and lied repeatedly, observing her tightly-wound face shed tear after tear.
Inwardly panicking, he stated, "Nothing's going on with her. I don't even like Alicia.. You know that. I love you, not her. And I want only you. There's only you. Please, baby, I don't know what got in her then, but it was her and her only. I had nothing to do with that. Please. I love you."
There was a painful silence, broken only by giddy whispers drifting through the air, before she took a deep breath of air and softened her resolve.
"Really, Cam?" She firmly questioned. "You've had nothing-nothing at all-to do with, Alicia?"
"No, I don't, Claire Bear," he convinced sweetly, "I love you only."
"I don't know, Ca-" she hesitated, her eyes fluctuating in mood. (Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light?)
He pulled her in for a kiss, not letting her hindrance the opening he had. He made it soft and tender, like the old days, and he gradually felt her body become pliant to his, and her mouth slowly open.
Yes.
Weak Claire would believe, but he didn't have her absolute trust. Not yet. He had to fix things with Alicia and show her that she couldn't embarrass him like that. This kind of fucking around had to stop. He needed to regain some type of control. So he texted her; he knew that she would come, no matter the earlier event, or even any hurt she was harboring.
Cam: my house. now.
Alicia: k.
;;;
She was smelling the daisies again, her legs splayed neatly to the side, as she leaned down to bury her little nose in the flowers, when he arrived.
"Alicia," he commanded quietly.
Like a dream or déjà vu she turned her body to face him and broke out into a wide smile. "Is she mad, Cam? Did your little virgin forgive you?" She asked coolly, her eyes never straying from his, "or does she hate you?" She paused.
"Did you tell her about us?" She exclaimed suddenly, her voice heightening in pitch, "Did you?"
The cracking noise and the static in the air flooded the atmosphere, and all became thick (What's happening?); he couldn't concentrate, because all he felt was the boom boom of his heart against his strangled ribcage and the cracking in his ears. Without responding, he swept into the kitchen and bowed his head into his hands, willing it to all go away, to chase away the terrible thoughts and urges dominating his mind. (no.)
She giggled and slid her hand up his back, "I can make this better, Cam," she cooed, "let me help you, baby."
He slung her arm off him and pushed her against the counter, his eyes narrowing, "Leave me alone!" He exclaimed, his blood rolling faster, pounding (So. Damn. Hard.), every cell alive, the crackling constant in his mind.
"Ooh, just how I like it: rough-"
"Shut up, bitch," he stated rather quietly amidst his inner turmoil.
At this point, he saw that Alicia's brilliant eyes had grown smaller, and her hands had clenched, "What did you call me?" The menace inside the tone was evident, and it made him even more ravenous for-for what?
She grasped his biceps and twirled a lock of his hair around with her pinkie, "What's wrong with you, Cammy?" She inquired softly, her eyes on his lips, and her bottom tucked to the counter, "I love you, and I want to help-"
All of the tension, heartbreak, sex, and the countless lines that he had repeated, all the fibs- he knew, finally came to the realization of why he all he wanted to hear was cracking; and he made it happen.
He took a glance at her face, placed in a soft smile, her stunning eyes distantly focused on his shoulder, her hair breezing down her back, and body lightly pressed to his-he couldn't take it anymore.
"Fuck this!" He screamed, his hands shoving her hard against the surface, his hand rearing up-
It happened slowly. Her hair swirled, her eyes widened in a blatant form of terror and resignation, and her perfect mouth formed an "o," as he made his decision.
His hand rapped hard across her cheeks, one side then the other, joyfully iterating the practice as many times as possible. Her cheeks flamed and silent tears streamed, but her mouth stayed deathly pinched together.
Damn.
He wanted her to scream, he wanted something to satiate the hunger rising up in him, something needed to happen, to shut out the cracking noise, because he couldn't fucking take it!
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He hastily grabbed a handful of hair and pulled; she converted suddenly and began fighting, raspy sobs tearing from her throat, "No, please don't, Cam. Stop! Don't do this!"
(She looked beautiful.)
And then he slammed her head against the counter, and she screamed, shouted, beckoned for help, her arms flailing, hitting helplessly around.
(and then jackpot!)
Her delicate hand found a glass, several actually, and threw it with all her girly strength at him-or more specifically, his head; through the red glaze and triumph clouding his senses, he ducked and the sound of broken glass (close to that noise-but not it) exploded in the air around him, and he trapped her arms beneath her own body.
"Bitch," he breathed, ignoring her swollen and bruised face, stained with useless tears, "but I still love you," he taunted in her ear, noting her eyes widening.
He had never confessed to Alicia his feelings, and he never doubted that it had always been her through it all, never Claire. He cared for her, but not like he cared for the voluptuous prize in his arms.
He brought her to his chest, where she soaked his shirt with her sobs; he wasn't finished. Not yet.
He pushed her back against the counter, "No! No, not again, Cam! Please, stop. Please," she pleaded desperately, her hair sticking to the little blood bubbles lining her lips.
"You don't understand, Alicia," he choked, "I need this. Try to comprehend that, baby," he brushed a sticky lock of hair and placed it into its original spot, "I love you."
The adrenaline popped and roared through, though the haze was lifting.
Now.
His punch slammed against her nose, and there it was: a loud crack and a bloodcurling scream that he gave no heed to. Ecstasy lifted him, and his knuckles were brought against her nose again: another crack. She stumbled away, choking. Broken glasses littered the floor and crunched palatably under his feet.
Her eyes were rimmed in red, streaked with blue and purple, a mixture that he quite liked, and her nose was distorted and leaking a thick, red liquid; her cheeks were slammed with harsh splotches of hot pink and purple, while her lips were puffed and crimson with blood.
Her voice was feeble and hoarse, "What happened to you, Cam? What happened to the good days of sneaking out at night and getting high in your car or -or" she coughed through a clog, "fucking around?" She peeked through her almost-closed lids, "What's driven you mad?" She sobbed and brought her fist against the counter again and again and again.
He approached her quietly, tilted her cherry red chin up, and calmy replied, "The thunder."
He walked away.
The cracking was consummated; but-dammit-his head was on fire; all he could feel and see was agony, stars almost. He crawled into his bed and curled into a fetal position, guilt and satisfaction coursing through him simultaneously, tears teasing his eyelids, and images of her, beaming in her usual way overcame his vision.
;;;
Alicia Rivera was never to be seen in Westchester again; no one knew of the atrocious occurrence at his house, and Cam never came to terms with what he did. During those storms, everything came back in an agony-inducing flash, and the world often went black.
The cracking came often, and the only way to rid himself of it was to put a blade to his thigh. It didn't always work, and an echo would remain, but he couldn't harm innocent Claire like that. He couldn't.
His heart constantly ached for Alicia, and he knew that she was tainted with the terror and abuse of his doings. He often wondered if she was in a facility or living a normal life; he had broken her that night in more ways than none, and he undoubtedly deserved death. He wanted to be cracked and beaten.
During a thunderstorm, a few grueling moths later, he stepped outside and climbed a tree; it was a beautiful oak, but the little brown acorns on the ground stabbed his feet, creating a meandering line of blood on the dull surface. His feet painfully scraped across the rough bark, and his fingers clawed for a steady branch; he wouldn't fall. Light flashed in all directions, thunder booming and searing what seemed to be the pieces of his soul, and the static was deafening. He needed to find peace.
;;;
It is better to burn out than to fade away.
-Kurt Cobain
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A/N- I'm sorry, Ren. I know that was extremely angsty and crappy and really long and rushed [and I left out a prompt (oops)], but that's what my imagination cooked up, and I hope it was ok. To anyone else, I'm also sorry (though I do hope you liked it), but reviews cheer me up considerably. (: