"Bittersweet Sunshine"
Chapter 1 {Tris' POV}
-o-o-o-
I have always been a giver, warm and loving. Even as a child I never cried, seeking the happiness of others around me instead.
There once was a juncture where people sought me in times of trouble and I gave all I had - my whole heart and soul - to shower love upon them. To comfort them. By age fifteen, my own mother leant on me, told me of her woes and that I was the light of her life.
Yet, now that my time to suffer has come, now that my world is a hurricane of ice, everybody has pulled away and abandoned me in the storm.
I feel like a ghost uin a world of a paper dolls. I am the ghost running my own machine. I am barrelling through time and space, searching for a purpose, always looking in the shadows for the sacred spark.
And the real world becomes nothing but white noise, a distraction from finding a person, a person to step-up and rescue me from the screaming tempest.
Even in my own home, a space that should be filled with my mother's love, is a void so black that no light can penetrate. Though the house is made up of bricks and mortar, I believe that it is a stack of damp cards that wobble in the wind. It will fall like a stack of playing cards with the slightest movement - there is nobody else to blame but him.
The monsters that hide behind the walls there bring out the very worst in one another, each of them backing up the other's vices as if they were virtues. It is "right to discipline a deviant child with physical persuasion". And it is "the right way to ensure good behaviour". Their words slurred over the liquor, their toxic addictions to the stuff bending their inhibitions, twisting their minds.
I close my eyes and imagine them tearing apart the house in a fight, glass smashing, voices clamorous and spite-filled. I see myself curled up in the bathroom, against the wooden door, praying to anyone that is listening for the lock to hold.. that he won't be able to reach me.
I can hear my mother's screaming, as blow after blow is bestowed upon her face. Bloody fists. Broken nose. I know that I would be next.
Beginning to shrink into myself, I shake my head and press the cold cigarette to my chapped lips, hugging the paper weapon as I click the plastic lighter to life.
The flickering light splashes onto my watery charcoal eyes; eyes contaminated by loss and pain as they slide shut while I inhale the precious chemicals as if they are my life support.
The sweet toxins fill my lungs and I exhale my relief into the night air, a cloud of smoke. It swirls upward like a dancer toward the sky full of stars, devouring everything in its path before curling into nothingness once more.
The pale substance is a ribbon of death, and I gaze, transfixed at its thin folds as they ebb away, dragging my health with them. It is dangerous and full of mystery, like a christening of my sin. I have a thing for danger; flirting with death to distract myself from the pain.
The sweet burning sensation allows me a small relief, a form of infliction that I can control, that I can manage for myself. A sharp contrast in the powerless nature I possess. With an inhale of a cigarette, my domination is unquestionable.
Tilting my head up to the sky, a ghost of a smile paints my lips; the starry night above is better than any software imitation. There are softer patches, clusters of faint and bold light, the constellations aligning with the correct time of year. These are the same stars that greeted the ancients, the very stars that will still be there in another million years.
I sit among a cluster of trees, providing me with a shelter away from curious eyes - the burning ember of my cigarette being the only visible thing about me.
From across the street, cliche chart toppers thunder into my ears, slipping through the air. I can almost smell the teen spirit pouring out from the entrance of the abominable high school, and the nauseating joy that comes along with the semi-formal dance.
I scowl, leaning further back against the rough bark of the large oak tree, my legs outstretched on the patch of pea-green grass. Possibly the only thing worse than school in all of its twisted corruption, is the tradition of the school dances.
The love that was inside of me for the first sixteen years of my life has been crushed. Once finding pleasure and excitement in a pointless homecoming dance, my mind was hazed with the telltale teenage naivety - my only predicaments were whether my juvenile crush liked me back, which outfit to wear to school, or whether I would get a decent grade on my next pop quiz.
The good and gentle nature that I upheld has fizzled away, replaced with bitterness and ice. My heart filled with hate and animosity, rather than warmth and concern.
The hurt lodged itself within my sweet persona, poisoning my mind and my attitude until I was deemed a "problem child", destined for a life behind bars, or on the streets, or in a bar, drinking away my failures.
No matter how much I lashed out as a cry for help, begging somebody to pull me out from my nightmare, no saviour would ever emerge.. in truth, there was nobody left who cared, who even had the capability to respond to my darkness. I have been pushed aside, labelled as a lost cause. I am all alone in the dark and dreary universe.
When I close my eyes and see my life - the life I always imagined - I see something different, to what I see now.
I flick away the end of my cigarette as I watch a group of girls emerge from the school, giggling and noticeably giddy in their heels. Ever the leader, I recognise the irritating voice of Nita Pablos almost instantly, my lip curling.
She struts ahead of her friends, perfectly balanced on her heels, the epitome of egocentric. She wears an expensive-looking gown, made of soft, satiny fabric, long and loose. The colour of a Valentine's Day rose. A semicircular, high collar made of silk-like material heads the long gown.
I cannot help but resent the dark-haired beauty. Her presence around the school buzzes like a fly that is damn near impossible to swat away. Nita has designer clothes, the biggest house in Newport. She has everything - an adoring circle of friends that follow her blindly, practically oozing with the sex appeal that attracts almost every boy within ten feet, a loving family.. a bed to sleep in.
And with all of this, comes her spoilt, self-serving attitude, which is the root of my hatred. Despite the silver spoon hanging from her full lips, she has no sense of modesty or humbleness, making her all the more detestable.
With her dark curls and big chocolate brown eyes, she consistently makes an appearance looking as if she just left a photo shoot for the cover of Teen Vogue. And everyone (except for me) immediately fell under her powerful hypnotic spell the minute she stepped a foot in the door as a transfer student from Manhattan at the beginning of the school year.
Hiding in the shadows, I watch as she links arms with one of her minions, flipping her curls over one shoulder and making an exit, leading her red-headed accomplice across the parking lot to her ride for the evening.
A regrettable envy courses through my veins, my hands shaking despite the warm night. What I wouldn't give to trade places.
Rising from my spot on the bed of grass, I brush down my ripped jeans with the palms of my hands, not missing the trembling of my fingers - the thought of Nita's perfect life haunting my mind.
I turn away from the cluster of trees, my back toward the school, and head in the opposite direction, the way to get home. Well, my make-do version of a home.. if that's what you could call it.
A home is supposed to be a haven. It isn't a place to be feared or avoided. It isn't somewhere you could bear to run away from. I prefer the streets - it feels safer, it is safer. In my place, nobody can hurt me, nobody can touch me. The ghosts of my past have little power there.
All that my real home can offer is fear, hurt, tears and bruises. It is a house not a home; beams and walls, bricks and cement. I am better off alone, looking out for myself, hiding away in the depths of the woods; anywhere is safer than where they are.
Stepping into the forest at night robs you of one sense, yet heightens the others. It is almost disorienting to be virtually blinded, but given the ears of wolf. Even the soft susurration of the branches is heavy to the ear.
My sense of smell is sensitised, the loam in the earth and the leaves makes the air thick and constricting. The blackness nurtures a sense of claustrophobia inside even though the stretch of woodland goes on for miles.
The narrow path, which is made uneven by knotted tree roots, branches at intervals. There is no map to follow, but even if there was the blackness of the night would inhibit the use of such an item.
It is undeniably daunting and perceivably sinister, but there is peace among the sullen ambiance. My eyes flicker over the thick, dark trunks of the trees that rise steadily to the sky, the branches interlocking with its neighbours, protecting their territory. They are so densely packed together that I barely manoeuvre my way along the vague pathway.
I should feel lost, blindly making my way through the maze of rough bark around me and twigs beneath my feet, but the woods are so familiar that my mental navigation system is on auto-pilot, using only my instinct to get me to my destination. It has never let me down before, and tonight is no exception.
Pausing at the base of a large willow tree - the vines hanging low as a form of shelter from any unwanted attention, human or otherwise - I grab ahold of my homemade rope ladder. Slightly worse for wear, but not a liability by any means.
Securely grasping the rope in my clammy hands, I raise one foot onto a rung, slowly and carefully ascending the ladder, praying that I can make it up without hitting the ground once again.
The climb is slow and cautious due to the ebony blanket that has been thrown over the town, but after a minute I manage to haul myself onto the wooden platform, letting out a sigh of evident relief.
I stand up carefully, grasping the blunt edge of the wooden cube atop of the platform - grateful to be back in the confinement of my childhood treehouse, and as of recent, my new home.
It is not much - a little old and run down - but it is all that I have, and despite its location, is safer than being back in the house with my mother and her wicked husband. Plus, staying here is a much better option than sleeping rough out on the streets; it's a small town, people talk. The news of my homelessness would spread like wildfire, drawing in unwanted attention and questions that I do not want to answer.
I shuffle along the platform, sticking to the side of the cubed walls until I reach the door, kicking the bottom with my right foot and pounding my knuckles against the top left corner, causing the rickety door to swing open, invitingly.
Once safely shut inside with the door closed again, I reach for the battery-powered fairy lights that are strung sloppily around the interior, lighting up the wooden shelter with a soft golden glow. I cast my eyes around the tiny room, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth.
A blow-up mattress that I got at the nearest tourist store lies in the corner, covered with a dozen stolen blankets and pillows. A stack of books and newspaper articles sits at the foot of my make-shift bed, scattered across the wooden panelling beneath my feet, cold to the touch. My stack of food sits in another corner, beneath the large map of the world poster stuck to the wall, annotated imaginatively with red marker - every place that I wish to explore circled. A girl can dream, right?
A misshapen violet beanbag also resides in the small wooden cube, more newspaper clippings and novels flung around sloppily. My clothes are kept in a small iron trunk beside my food stash, along with wash items and schoolbooks.
Pulling out a chocolate bar from my pile of snacks, I flop down onto my plush beanbag - retrieved from my own bedroom - and frown at the treat in my hand. It has melted in its wrapper, now smooth and runny like a sauce.
I should have foreseen the spoiling of my food; with the heat of the Summer, the UV rays are sure to destroy my supplies. An ice chest is the solution, but they - like everything - cost money, of which I'm severely lacking in. I do not have enough to just splash out on an ice chest.
The beginning of summer vacation is both a blessing and a curse; more free-time means that I can pick up more shifts at my job down at the beach-side cafe, which will be heaving with holiday-goers on vacation. On the other hand, the heat means spoiling supplies, that I cannot afford to keep replacing. It really is bittersweet sunshine.
After switching my dirty clothes for a pair of light-weight pyjamas, I switch off my fairy lights and crawl onto the air mattress. My fingers become intertwined in the knitted blanket as I wrap it around myself, burrowing close into the peach-coloured material, finding comfort and solace in one piece of my childhood - the very blanket that happened to be the last gift from my father before he passed away when I was fifteen.
His death is what tipped everything upside down, my whole world changed and morphed into a nightmare when we lost him to a car accident. My life slipped through my fingers and shattered like glass. I tried to pick up the pieces, but it cut my fingers and caused too much pain. I couldn't fix everything that was wrong; only Dad could have done that. And he is gone.
Now I am left to deal with what his death left behind, the trauma caused by a drunk driver. His life was taken away so quickly, like it meant nothing.. I never even got to say goodbye.
It happened so fast. I didn't really understand that he was never going to walk through the door again, until I waited for his return, week after week. Finally coming to the realisation that it was over, he was gone for good. Leaving my heart heavy with grief and the technicolour world that he created, dull down to black and white cable.
Mom did not grieve for very long - being alone was a foreign concept, and I knew that she would be quick to replace him, wanting the solace of company and support in the bed beside her. She dated around, but nothing ever stuck. Until Max.
Before him, we were getting by. Mom had a stable job, a safe home life, a happy daughter. She was trying to fill a hole in her heart in any way possible.. which resulted in her turning to the drink. And the drink that kickstarted this new addiction was provided to her by none other than Max.
After that, the suffering I had endured increased tenfold - now watching my mother drink herself to the brink of paralysis, bruises accumulating all over her body at the hands of her new husband, and being targeted myself.
Bruises, broken ribs, bloody nose, split lip, sprained wrist.. the list of injuries could go on for evermore.
Now the submissive alcoholic, she no longer cares about the abuse - aimed at herself or me - she just concentrates on where the next binge is coming from.
Fingering a scar on my forearm, my lip trembles with the memories, the pain, the endless torment and the crippling fear that I felt every time I heard his footsteps outside of my bedroom, the alcohol stale on his breath.
As hard as I try to hold it in, the pain comes out like an uproar in my throat in the form of a silent scream. The tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down my cheeks. I feel the muscles of my chin shudder like a small child.
I hear my own sounds like they are separate from me - raw, distressed, desperate. It takes something from me that I didn't know I had left to give, bleeding me completely dry of hope or faith in salty tears that stain my pale cheeks.
The sobs punch through, tearing my muscles, guts and bones with its irreversible impact. My hands open and close, rhythmically clenching as if there could be a violent solution to my grief, if only I could find it.
I often tell myself that I do not understand the need to cry, why it is such a common and overused concept to deal with pain. But now, alone in the dark, it is easy to comprehend; releasing all of the bad thoughts through tears is a therapeutic way to let go. Perhaps breaking down once in a while is a good thing - could our eyes really need to be washed out with tears once in a while? At least, to help us to see the world clearly again.
When the tears aren't even half way done, I am empty. I could not cry even if I wanted to. I have experienced this kind of sadness before. The despondency still lingers, but not so raw anymore - now it is an empty unhappiness - the kind that does not lift so easily.
I stare around me, my eyes making out small shapes in the dark. My surroundings are exactly the same, but they give me no emotions. It feels like a void. A dark void. A never ending dark void that consumes everything, so that I am left feeling nothing at all.
Empty. Nothing to subside my hollow soul that creeps in the shadows, away from any other human life because its emptiness is so overbearing that it cannot pretend that everything is ok. Nothing is ok! People walk around this earth each and every day saying that it will be ok, that it will turn out in the end. Why can't we all just admit that we are all hollow plastic dolls with a painted-happy face revealing no guilt, sadness, emptiness - no acceptable emotions aside from happy.
When will everybody just quit pretending?
As my consciousness ebbs, my mind goes into free fall, my eyes growing heavier and heavier with each passing second. I feel a blackness come over me, like a blanket of warmth, sheltering me from the evil.
As my thoughts become nonsense, I know that it is ok to give in to sleep. It is ok to let go.
-o-o-o-
AN:
Hey guys, welcome to a brand new story, 'Bittersweet Sunshine'. I have had so much fun planning this story for you guys, and after an extended absence I am back with a fresh idea and big plans for this story, get excited!
Ok, so this chapter was kind of short and pretty depressing, without any character communication. The next chapter will introduce the others characters, I just wanted to set the scene and give you the insight to Tris' background and current situation.
This will be a Four/Tris story, with other ships toyed around with throughout. The rating is T, for mentions of abuse, swearing, smoking and drinking. If you would like to see some smut from this story too, let me know!
Drop a review and let me know what you think to the first chapter!
- GuiltyMind :)