Author's Note: so. i wrote. yuck. review? ladies and gentlemen, an author's note in fifteen words or less.
-Michelle
I. Almost
It's almost midnight when she taps on his door - lightly, because he's vulnerable right now. (Derek Venturi? Vulnerable?)
She cracks the door and peeks one blue-green eye into the small crevice she's created. From what she can see, the room is pitch black, besides the computer screen flickering onto Derek's angst-ridden face. His usual smirk is missing, an uncomfortable grimace takes its place, and his usual dancing caramel eyes are bloodshot and worn. The light casts eerie shadows onto his face, giving him a zombified look.
She opens it a little more. He looks up - he sees her, but he doesn't acknowledge her.
"Derek..." her voice trails off, as she catches a look at his outfit.
He's wearing his favorite hockey jersey - the one that he'd won at his first pro hockey game ever. He'd fought with Sam for half an hour about who had caught it from the t-shirt shooter, but in the end they had compromised: Derek would get the jersey if Sam got the rest of Derek's extra cheesy nachos. Then, there's the tie. A blood red tie, draped loosely around his neck, as if he's been trying to take it off for days, but he just can't part with it. On top of it, his black suit jacket. It's rumpled and messy - she knows he's worn it for three days straight (ever since...) and his matching black suit pants. Her heart aches as she looks at him, up and down and back up again. His hair is disheveled and his red-brown locks are sticking up more than usual.
"Casey." He (somewhat) greets, "You're in my room."
"Yes..." She agrees pointedly. Stating the obvious is one of the first signs of insanity, she's read... somewhere.
"Could you..." He looks at the door.
She ignores his blatant stare at the now-closed door, and jumps onto his bed.
"Are you okay? Whatcha doin'?" She attempts with faux-cheeriness, "I'm bored."
"I'm... IM-ing Sam."
The look on her face is incredulous, "What?" She asks, as if she hasn't heard perfectly clearly what he's said.
"Yeah, we're talking hockey strategies."
She stands up and walks over to him, staring him straight in the eyes, boring a perfect imaginary hole into them, "What did you say?"
He begins to laugh hysterically, "I'm kidding. What, did you think I was going crazy or something?"
Her mouth trembles a little, tears begin to flood her tear ducts (no matter how hard she wishes them away), "Derek, don't pull crap like that with me. You scared me."
His face changes completely, "Casey, I'm fine."
"But you..."
"Casey, leave me alone. I'm perfectly fine," he pops what seems to be part of a peanut butter-jelly sandwich into his mouth, "See?"
She doesn't leave.
He doesn't ask her again.
It's exactly 11:58 when she walks into his room the next night. He's in the same position, and she's not as cautious this time.
They sit in silence for a good half hour before she finally speaks, "You should cry."
He gives her a look as if she's grown a third head and antennas, "I don't even want to know what you mean by that."
But she hears it in his voice. Exhaustion, defeat, everything is obvious in his short sentence. She wants to reach out and touch him, but he's Derek and she's Casey.
"You haven't cried. He's been gone for four days, and you haven't cried. At all."
He looks at her. He really looks at her, and it's like he's never seen her before. He shuts his eyes, blinking hard for an instance, before re-opening them, letting his eyes get readjusted to the lighting of the room.
"I just think, maybe it's unhealthy or something."
"You should do less of that."
"What?"
"Think."
She glares at him, but for a split second she's grateful. For a split second, nothing has changed and she's Casey and he's Derek, and all they do is fight, fight, fight. He turns his head away and returns his glance to his computer screen.
"Well, you should probably change clothes or something."
"Casey!" He tries to say, but mixed with his sharp inhalation, it comes out as almost a desperate gasp, "Leave me the fuck alone. I don't need you to take pity on me, I don't need you to baby me or any of this bullshit you're pulling with me. I'm a grown man, I'm perfectly fine."
"This is abnormal!" She retorts, refusing to be snubbed like that, "You're best friend is dead and you're joking about it."
His urge to fight is gone, and he massages him temples with his free hand, speaking in a low whisper, "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't try and help you? Don't try and be the good sister that I should be? If this were me, I'd want you to be doing the exact same thing."
He stands up abruptly, and she jumps at the sudden action. He walks over to her, and grabs her wrists, leaning in close, "Let's get two things straight. One, you are not my sister. Second, you are not me. Stop telling me what you would want if you were me."
His harsh whisper hits her like a gust of wind, her heart suddenly picking up tempo. Adrenaline, she reasons.
"Fine. I won't. I'll go," she spins on her heel and walks out of his room.
It's 11:59, the following night when she attempts to speak to him again. But as she forces the door open, she notices that the room is pitch black. There isn't the dimly lit screen flickering, just a small nightlight in the corner of the room. And Derek isn't in his bed.
She searches the house. The kitchen, the living room, Marti's room, the garage.
Suddenly, she hears a stirring from the car.
"Derek?" she taps on the window.
He opens the door, "What."
"Well, it's midnight and you're sitting inside the car. I think it's pretty self-explanatory what the what is here."
"Needed air, I guess."
"Want to talk about it?" She places a hand on his shoulder.
"No," he pushes her a couple steps back and slams the door.
She walks around to the side of the car, and slips into the passenger seat, "Too bad."
"Hey, Casey. Have people ever told you that you force yourself into other people's business whether or not they want you there?"
She pretends to look thoughtful for a minute, "Well... I suppose. But, I always assumed they were kidding."
He almost smiles, and she almost sees it, but then she almost turns away because he's almost embarrassed that she's almost seen him almost smile, "Well, they're not."
"Derek, please can you show some emotion?"
His voice cracks in the darkness, "Why do you care?"
"Because..." she leans back, "I care about you."
"Why?"He hisses (and oh god this conversation shouldn't ever happen, but it's happening now and he's almost wishing they were back at his almost smile and her almost glance).
"Because you're my brother," she argues.
"I'm not your brother," And in a sudden rage, he starts the car.
"Stop," she whisper-screams, "we can't leave the house now."
"Then get out of the car," he steps on the gas, and it revs, shooting onto the street.
She panics for a minute, but takes a deep breath and fastens her seat belt. He raises an eyebrow in the darkness, and steps even harder onto the gas pedal.
The lights and the darkness and the emptiness all swirl around him and her as he sends the car faster and faster; he wants to drive so fast that he can see into heaven and hell (wherever Sam might be), he wants to be in control of his life again, he wants to be DerekVenturi.
But because she is Casey McDonald, she's beginning to hyperventilate in the passenger seat, "Derek. Derek. Derek. Slow down. Slow. Down. We're out past curfew and the cops could catch us and you're going like forty over and there could be another car and we could get into an accident and..." She widens her eyes as she realizes the words that have just come out her mouth.
"Casey. Shut up," and with that, he slams on the brakes.
She screams, even though they're at a complete stop. But they're almost at the edge of a cliff. A small cliff, but a cliff nonetheless, and the ravine looks frightening and dark.
"You sick bastard. Are you trying to get us killed?" she looks at him, and gasps, "You are, aren't you? You are, you are."
"I said shut up, Casey. Shut the hell up. Shut your stupid fucking mouth, I can't take it anymore."
She unclasps her seat belt, "I'm walking home."
"Good luck with that."
She opens the door, before immediately closing, "It's freezing," she reasons to him (he rolls his eyes).
"I know the psychiatrist says that everyone deals with death differently, but hell, Sam was your best friend. Your only best friend. Shouldn't you have some bottled up emotions that you want to share?"
Derek stares into the empty abyss above the cliff, "No. Casey. I don't."
She turns to him, "I don't believe you."
Suddenly, his cool facade drops, and he slams on the steering wheel, "I was fucking driving the car, Casey. I should've died. Maybe he should've died too, but I didn't deserve to live. I didn't deserve it, I was a shitty friend, Casey. I have to live with that. Maybe his parents don't blame me, maybe nobody does, but I do, Casey. Casey, I should have died. Casey, I should be the one that everyone is mourning over. I should be dead, Casey. Casey, I should be dead. Casey, I don't deserve to live."
He's screaming, louder and louder, and Casey watches him, watches him quietly.
He stops. For a brief second, before continuing, dropping his voice to a whisper, "Are you happy, Casey? I hate myself, I hate that I'm alive. My best friend is dead - and I'm still alive. I'm still fucking alive, Casey. What's the point of living when you shouldn't even be here?"
"You were given a second chance, Derek. There's a reason you didn't die."
"Don't give me that New Age bullshit. I got lucky, I'm still here because of luck, and Sam got the short end of the stick. He's dead."
And to Casey's astonishment, he begins to sob. It's strange, because of all the people she's ever seen cry, she's never seen it like this before. Girls cry differently, she comes to the conclusion. Derek's face is buried in the steering wheel and he's slamming his fists on either side, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry."
She puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling his face up, "Derek, you can't blame yourself."
"I hate you, Casey."
She drops her hand, "What?!"
"I hate you."
She faces him, "I..."
And his hand is roughly against her neck, tangling into her hair, and his mouth is on hers, moving in time to her beating heart.
She closes her eyes, hating the sparks that she feels, as if a fire has been lit in her stomach, and it's spreading. It hurts, it hurts so badly that it feels good. So good, amazing, even.
He pulls her in, without emotion, pushing his tongue against hers, and it feels sowrongyetsogood. Suddenly, his shirt is off, her tank and bra thrown carelessly to the side, and as he kisses her breasts she feels like he's doing her a favor, and she won't allow it. They pant together, they moan together, and (it's the best hate sex either of them have ever known).
It's beginning to get lighter out.
He watches her, wrapped in their spare blanket.
Maybe he shouldn't be alive; maybe he'll never be okay. But for now, he's watching the sunrise with someone just as lost as he is - and for a split second, everything seems almost better.
why you should never give michelle a computer.