Disclaimer: These are so 1990s.
Author's Note: This chapter hates me with a fire of a thousand suns. And honestly, I kind of wish that it would die and go to hell. So yes, suffice to say, it's definitely not my best work. But-it's still 1700 more words than I had yesterday, so there's that.
I should dedicate this to Jack E. Peace if only because reading this is likely to do absolutely nothing to make her cold any better.
~How can you see into my eyes like open doors?
Leading you down into my core where I've become so numb
Without a soul my spirit's sleeping somewhere cold
Until you find it there and lead it back home~
Bring Me To Life, Evanescence
She loves that this unknown woman has destroyed her hatred of the night. No, not unknown—just unnamed. The difference strikes Chloe as important. Is twenty five too late to understand that walls can be transparent? That maybe those barriers hold far more honesty than anything she hides within herself; the reason that she tries to sleep those dark corners of her life away?
Her gaze sculpts a familiar trail down the contours of her lover's face. The blonde sleeps hard. No twitches. No sighs. No carelessly mumbled secrets crack the softness of her lips.
No dreams.
Too frivolous, her flight of fancy whispers.
Too tired, argues her pragmatic self.
Chloe's fingers twitch; torn between the urge to smooth away the ever present tightness from the corners of that mouth, and the reason she's been up, night after night—defending, accusing, fighting in the inky blackness—the Pandora's box residing on the bedside table.
What's in a name?
Bloody Shakespeare, what did he know?
She trusts you.
But she'll never find out.
The customary swirl of thoughts bleeds into ever-changing landscapes: a kaleidoscope of right and wrong. You're better than this, you're only human, please don't do this, but it's only normal; and above them all the treacherous, what if she leaves it there for you to find?
The groan of the mattress rings echoes like a blast; Chloe's tread a slew of gunshots: each one primed to shatter. Even her heart is out of sync: erratic stop and start a discord to her ear; divergent to the smoothness she imagined. Her lips mouth Bruno Mars—a current favourite; a childhood habit. An involuntary shiver ghosts her frame when 'will she come back no-one knows' has her reach the doorway of the bathroom; the only place from which the sliver of the light won't spill into the bedroom. But it's a full moon tonight—nature conspiring to help her? As implausible as it may seem, a solitary comfort to take solace in. Well, maybe that and the solid block of ice against her back that is the radiator.
Her fingers fumble at the clasp. Once. Twice. Three times; before she traps them in the vice between her knees, forced to take even breaths to still her shaking hands. Perhaps this is a sign. But she's come way too far.
Too late to battle demons of her conscience.
The content is as frugal as its owner. Crisp bills, lined up like soldiers (ironed out?): a silly, instantly discarded, train of thought. What looks like bank cards, credit cards, store loyalty; all the standard trappings of success. Tucked in, arranged by type, tops lined up in perfect parallel: even breathing on such order seems a travesty. Yet it's that same precision that will aid her, that neatness which will yield the one thing that she yearns to know. A see-through sheath. Of course. She would consider it a waste of time removing it.
Aubrey Posen.
It is bitter on her tongue.
Morning is an unwelcome friend, bathing her bleary eyes in bright Atlanta sunlight. There is drool at the corner of her mouth, and a damp patch on the pillow, and her back is screaming that she'll never walk again. She burrows closer into Jamie—they must've let her stay with him last night. That's nice. The next thought not so much—why? It is the icy coldness of the lake behind their house; the fear is swift and sharp: stealing her breath until it feels like she is drowning, the darkness pressing in around her. Fearful, hesitant, she trains her gaze, focusing on his ribcage. . Good. There. The puff of air exhales her lips the same time as the rise and fall of Jamie's chest.
Her stomach grumbles. Breakfast. But she's got severe case of bedhead, and—she glances across, yep, there are streaks of black mascara on the pristine white. Shoot. Another gurgle makes her mind up. Do sick people really care that she looks like some sort of sick racoon? And other people—well— they're just going to have to deal.
Sliding out of bed, she sticks the player inbetween her knees while her hands tame dyed black hair into something which doesn't resemble a crow's nest. It's really sort of pointless without a brush, but whatever, she promised that she'd try, so—
"Get me a Snickers?"
Bloody Jamie and his candy.
"Okay. But don't tell Mum and Dad."
The blare of Guns'n'Roses walks her to the snack machine; she'll need something upbeat now, like that stupid Ace of Base song that all the girls in her class are gaga over. All That She Wants is not to be a stereotype (that's a word her mother uses, and it doesn't sound nice)—is that really too much to ask? And not to wear pink, and talk about boys, like all the time, because jeez, seriously yuck, and—
Oomf. She staggers backward, grabbing at the nearest surface—the wall—to steady herself.
"Watch where you're going!"
The anger boils to the surface just as soon as her eyes land on the offending object that ran into her. Or she ran into. But no chance she's ever going to acknowledge that.
She is exactly like those stupid Barbie girls in school. Ruffled pink dress. Not a hair out of place. Blonde. Thin. Just fucking perfect. (they've told her off for swearing but they can't read her mind)
"I'm—sorry. Are you—okay?" There's a stiffness in the tone, a robotic quality; one Chloe's used to hearing in adult voices.
She makes a show of checking, running her hands up and down her body. She's fine. But it won't hurt to make Little Miss Perfect sweat. Of course then she makes the stupid mistake of looking into the blonde's face, and there's something there—some fear that instinctively feels out of place. At worst Chloe has a couple of bruises, and at worst if the situations were reversed she'd get an earful from her parents about being more careful—but the tremble of her lips that the girl is trying so hard to hide by pressing them together, the pleading in her eyes, it's—weird… and it makes Chloe feel sad, like maybe she shouldn't play pretend for once.
"Yeah, it's okay. See, I'm fine." She pirouettes to prove her point. "Takes more than that to take me down." Her lips stretch so hard it almost hurts. "You're, like, half my size."
Apparently that's not the right thing to say. "I am the right height and weight ratio for my age."
"Oh. So I am fat then?" Chloe teases.
"No. No—of course not. I didn't mean to make you think that. You're fine. You're nice. And I like your necklace. It's very…"
Chloe bites the inside of her cheek, her whole frame almost shaking with the urge not to laugh. She raises her eyebrow, encouraging the girl to continue.
"…uh, very… uh, very… uh, modern chic?"
Chloe doesn't know what that means, and doesn't really care because the helpless, uncertain expression the blonde is sporting is too much, and short of biting through her cheek, the vibrations need an escape, and suddenly it's all so stupid—her clothes, her hair, the skull and crossbones around her neck; and then there's no holding it back—and it's a little too uncontrolled, and a little too loud, and definitely far too strong for the occasion, but that's okay, because in that moment it's clear to Chloe that this is happy, that she'll feel this way again; that it isn't wrong to laugh.
The girl's face slackens though she doesn't smile. In fact, her lips barely move; Chloe wonders if she even knows how. But her eyes—oh her eyes—it's like sunshine after the dullness of the rain, like that moment when the light's just right, and it forms a rainbow in the sky. The warmth is instant, spreading through her chest like the first sip of chocolate after a snowball fight, like the heat of the fireplace on a freezing morning. And it's nice. Better than nice actually. Kind of amazing. And maybe the pink isn't so bad after all, okay maybe not great on a ging—redhead, but well, there's other colours. And I Saw The Sign is kind of okay (her mother listens to it on a loop), and boys—nope, still ugh, she's probably going to need to sloooowly work her way up to those, but still, all things considered, not—
"What—exactly—is going on—here?"
Chloe blinks.
Blinks once again just to be sure.
The blonde has grown an inch, her posture rigid as a board, arms down by her sides, her eyes a newly unwrapped Etch-A-Sketch.
"Nothing, sir."
"Nothing is straight to the bathroom and back as discussed. Nothing isn't candy that will rot your teeth. Nothing isn't idle chit chat when you have studying to do. Nothing isn't the god awful racket you are making. Didn't I teach you that hospitals mean sick people? Do you even care? Jesus, as if it's not enough that I have to deal with your mother's inability to take the right amount of medication as per clearly labelled instructions, now I have to deal with you as well, and—this."
Chloe knows that's a reference to her.
His stare burns: not anger, not frustration, not disappointment; he looks right through her like she isn't even there. Like she doesn't exist. And that's a thousand times worse. No-one has ever looked at her like that, like she isn't even worth seeing. Too fat, too ugly, too stupid, but never simply—not. It makes her itch to stamp her feet, throw something, kick him—make him notice her—but all she does is glare, the trapped rage shining in her eyes until he turns away.
"Come along."
The blonde is nearly yanked off her feet, the tightening of her lips the only sign of the man's brute grip.
Chloe takes a step towards her, ready to do battle.
A quick shake of the head, a mouthed it's okay, a flare of colour in behind the greyness.
And a solemn vow she won't make a soul feel the same.