Ayee guys. Thanks to all who reviewed, alerted this, or favorited! I just wanted to put this out there: IF YOU HAVE AN IDEA FOR THIS STORY, PLEASE REVIEW YOUR THOUGHTS OR P.M. ME. I would love some unique ideas, and chances are, I would probably use them. So, here's chapter 2, enjoy! R&R, please.
My theory was only fueled as I walked in the direction of my house, my ecstasy overruling the confusion and muffling it until it rose again. There, right in front of me, was my best friend Adam Torres, sitting with Fitzy-boy, the one and only. Anger flooded through my veins at the sight of him, the flames of fury only raising higher as I noticed their sudden friendship.
They were people-watching, or should I say girl watching. A teenage girl strutted by their green table at The Dot, and Adam yelped cat calls before undressing her with his eyes, a smirk apparent on his face. He winked, earning an annoyed eye roll from the girl before she continued walking. Fitz laughed, muttering something to him before Adam glared daggers. Fitz' eyes soon filled with anxiousness and his smug smile disappeared as soon as Adam sneered at him, and he gulped before touching the coffee cup to his lips as a distraction.
What the actual fuck.
Adam was being a cocky bastard and Fitz was being a nervous prick.
"What the fuck are you staring at." Adam quipped, and my eyebrows rose as I saw he was addressing that to me.
"Oh, nothing. Just wondering when the hell you became such good friends with this Planet Of The Apes remake." I shot a glance at Fitz, his eyes cast down quickly before sipping his coffee.
"Really? Because I'm wondering why the fuck you're even talking to me, freak."
"What's your shit, man?"
"I don't know, it's standing right in front of me." He gestured with his hands in my direction. I was fuming.
"Fucking dick, I don't know what the hell your problem is, besides the fact that you're chatting it up with this piece of trash." I walked away then, ignoring the oncoming insults being chucked at my back as I continued on in the direction of my house. As I turned the corner, I peered into the other side of The Dot, absolutely furious until confusion stole that emotion too.
My eyes landed on a waitress, juggling drinks and dishes of fries and burgers on a large brown serving platter, looking frazzled with a long, wavy ponytail and lime green visor.
Fiona Coyne.
She has never worked a day in her life, her Daddy-Diplomat always providing her with money for her daily multi-expense shopping trips. Her designer clothes, shoes, and jewelry were replaced with a working t-shirt, a pair of black sneakers, and a hair-tie wrapped around her wrist. Her confident Coyne stride was non-existent, instead replaced with a nervous and rushed shuffle between the tables to behind the counter. I found my head shaking back and forth to its own accord, my feet moving forward across the sidewalk in confusion and back on their path to my house.
My house was a few streets down from the library, and as I passed that, I spied Drew Torres striding up the front walk. A backpack was hanging from one shoulder as he was balancing a short pile of books on his other forearm, a pair of reading glasses perched upon his nose. The aftershock of confusion simmered back into my thoughts and I could do nothing but keep moving forward. My driveway was coming up, and what I saw made my vision go red with fury. My head felt like it was spinning on its axis, like it was about to explode with liquid napalm.
After I crashed Morty, I started to fix him up and get him new parts as a therapy technique. My therapist told me to do something to keep my mind off of things, and that something happened to be my hearse. I can't tell you how many hours I put into him before he was able to work, let alone until he was acceptable to drive. I emptied half my savings for a new paint job, a crisp, clean black, just like it was before the accident.
I'm sure there was steam coming out of my ears. My fingers tugged at the roots of my hair, and I closed my eyes and opened them again, just in case I had faulty vision. But I opened them again to meet what I couldn't believe.
My hearse was white.
My palms reached out to touch it, the smoothness of the vehicle paint against my hands was sickening. My eyes stung out of anger, but no tears trickled out.
"No no no no no no no no no…" I continued to mumble, brushing my fingertips against the same skull hood ornament. I ripped my eyes away from my pride and joy and glanced at my father's car parked in the open garage. I rushed through my front door, closing it loudly.
"BULLFROG!" I shouted. No answer. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MORTY!" Still no answer. "IS THIS SOME SICK JOKE?" I heard footsteps from the hall.
"What did you say to me?" A man from the hallway answered. A pair of dress pants and an un-tucked light lavender shirt completed his outfit, a loosened tie around his neck and a pair of black socks on his feet. The man's hair was slicked back with gel, and his ring finger adorned a silver wedding band and nothing else.
This man was my father.
"I, um… I-I…" I stuttered, my eyebrows raised beyond belief, matching my widened eyes.
"Wipe that look off your face and repeat what you said to me!" He said sternly, a look of anger replacing the usual kindness in his eyes.
"What happened to Morty?" I rephrased softly, like I was a child again. He closed his eyes and sighed loudly, striding over to me until our chests were almost touching.
"Your car?" He questioned snarkily, and I nodded curtly. "What's wrong with it?"
"I-It's white."
"Aren't you observant." He replied sarcastically, a cruel edge to his voice. My ears buzzed in annoyance as I realized that I've had enough of this.
"What happened to you?" My eyes were dead set on his, my lips pursed, my eyebrows pulled together. His eyes narrowed.
"What did you say to me?"
"STOP TELLING ME TO REPEAT MYSELF! WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU!" I shouted in his face, quickly regretting it as his chest rose, as did his fist. His balled hand collided with my stomach, and I bent over in pain, the agony mixing with the shock. I didn't even have time to think to myself that this was the first time my father had ever hit me, because soon, it was the second time. His fist came and hooked into my side, and I stumbled to the floor, hissing in pain.
"Don't ever fucking talk to me like that." He spit as he bent down near my face with an angry scowl, while I sputtered on air. He stood up, still hovering over me, as he knudged me with his foot. I flinched and scooted backwards, coughing, and he smirked with satisfaction. He stepped over me as I coughed and coughed, struggling to get a decent breath of air down my burning throat. I groaned when he stepped out of the room, staying still for a moment until I flailed my legs and kicked them against the floor in anger, all the while still hiccupping for a single breath. Air flooded my lungs and I kept still for a moment, savoring the air before coming down from my angry high and crawling to my knees, leaning on the small wooden coffee table for support.
I needed to find CeCe.
I painfully got up to my feet, going to the kitchen first. She wasn't there, but she spent the longest time changing the abnormally large spare bathroom into her own office last year. I checked there next. I peeked my head in the door to see my mom sitting in a computer chair in front of a computer screen, her auburn-died hair pulled into a tight bun, her perfect posture striking me as wrong as I backed out of the doorway without a word.
The bookcase on the other side of the kitchen no longer held albums and CD's, the radio my mom played them on when she cooked was missing from the top shelf. Instead, the shelves contained cookbooks and recipe boxes for desserts and meals of all kinds, and even though I was hungry, the idea of food made me just as sick as I already felt right now. I had no clue where in the house Bullfrog was, but I took a chance anyway as desperation set it. I shuffled up the stairs and through my bedroom door, taking in the white walls and black bedspread, a simple chestnut desk in the corner with a laptop sitting on it and a TV hanging on the wall. My room held none of my personality, my skull bedspread and sheets didn't exist, my collection of band posters and my CD rack had disappeared into thin air, the teenage-like mess of clothes and items put into their place or into a hamper. I plopped down in my desk chair and popped open the clean black laptop, typing what I wanted into the search engine and pressing enter. Many results came up, but only one really caught my eye.
Parallel Universes are under controversy, many scienstists and other noticeable authority figures in the world of psychology have ruled out all possibilities. However, there have been several reports from residents in both urban and rural areas that attest these opinions and had expressed striking experiences with this type of scientific analysis. But on the contrary, almost all of the humans who came forward with their experiences tested positive for psychological illnesses or extreme drug abuse.
Before I even knew what I was doing, my veins went cold as I darted for my attached bathroom and herded near the toilet, flipping up the lid and dry heaving from my empty stomach. When the wave of sickness passed, I eyed the only personal item left in both my room and my bathroom.
There, a picture of Clare and I on our first date was still tucked into the tab in the corner of the mirror. It was the last thing I saw as I sprinted out of the bathroom, through my bedroom door, down the stairs, and out my front door. I was emotionless as I saw the pure whiteness of my hearse, I just kept running. I jogged quickly down each and every sidewalk until I came across the alleyway in the city once again. The familiar smell filled my nostrils and I felt for the familiar end of the dirty brick wall and felt my hand whoosh through. The rest of my body followed through until I was suddenly stumbling onto my bedroom floor, limbs tangled. I shakily brought myself up to stand, the pain in my side from Bullfrog's punches evident, relief flooding through me when I was surrounded by my familiar bedroom walls and disorganized room; Band posters, CD's, and personal items intact. My body collapsed onto my skull-adorned bed, my heart hammering, eyes closing briefly before opening again and meeting the rotating ceiling fan.
My cell phone beeped from within my pocket, and I shut it off once I saw a missed text from Adam. Although, I managed to check the time, only to see that I was 6:30. I sighed deeply when I remembered that I had a date with Clare at 7.
The sentence seemed odd flowing through my thoughts, all streams of her face I had sworn out of my brain for the longest time, only being able to keep a single picture of her beautiful face tucked into my bathroom mirror. I was on my feet in a second, finding myself standing in front of that mirror. There were so many questions, but one stood tall in the midst of everything.
Is it worth it to go back to her?
End of Chapter 2.