Disclaimer: Victorious is not owned by me and it never will be.
Cat woke up to bright light and warm bodies, a familiar combination. She was cocooned on either side, by boys, by girls. They slept soundly, arms thrown out carelessly or tucked in awkwardly underneath, some with a foot dangling from the edge of the bed. There were more teenagers scattered on the floor, curled up around each other. There wasn't anyone Cat recognised. Tori was gone.
There was a certain comfort in waking up among such messily slumbering people. It gave Cat a feeling similar to visiting a pet store, and seeing a pile of puppies draped over each other in a quiet, occasionally twitching heap. The kids may have been such ugly things in the darkness, full of jagged moves and harsh voices, but sleeping they were peaceful. They slept more soundly and more affectionately than they'd care to admit upon waking. It was one of Cat's favourite parts of parties, really. The morning after. She liked to wake up first, to scrounge breakfast while a house full of people slept around her. It didn't feel like being alone, then. She could imagine they'd wake up, and walk into the kitchen like it was the most natural thing, and ask what was she making? Could they have some? But all too often she was met only with grunts. With red, bleary eyes and clammy hands, pushing her aside so they could vomit in the sink. No, the mornings were nicer when no one woke up.
She eased the door to the room open, the smell of lavender gone, replaced with smoke and snores. The boy cloistered behind the door moaned and rolled over as the door nudged him, Cat slipping out the small gap and closing it behind her. Her handbag was in the hall, lying on its side. Cat stooped to pick it up, hand knocking over a crushed can next to it. The bag was empty. Not that Cat had expected anything different. She ran a finger along the lining at the bottom, feeling a couple of hard lumps. She picked the seams open, fingernail edging the small pills out. At least she had something left. She just needed water to take them with. She was accustomed to swallowing them dry, but her mouth felt raw and cracked, tongue mossy and thick. She wasn't sure she could conjure enough moisture to stop them sticking in her throat.
The kitchen was empty, a few pizza boxes and bottles strewn across the counters. She opened the refrigerator, scanning the contents. She was supposed to take one of these pills with food, she was pretty sure. On the other hand, she was sure the other caused nausea if taken with food. Cat grabbed a can of beer from the fridge, the only thing left in it, and shut the door. They'd balance each other out, Cat was sure. And beer had hops in it, which her brother said could almost count as a vegetable. She cracked the can open, chipping the nail polish on her index finger in a long streak. It just about matched her other nails, now. She popped the small pills on her tongue, taking a sip of the cold beer. She grimaced, taking another mouthful. Whatever her brother said about beer, she was sure it wasn't meant for breakfast.
The cold liquid woke her up, the last vestiges of sleep and warmth shedding from her skin. It was a chilly morning, and she was no longer numb enough to ignore it. She slipped the empty bag around her shoulder, still sipping at the icy beer, bitterness on her tongue. It obliterated the echo of cinnamon still left behind. It was bright outside, sun lighting up the white front of the house. The knob to the front door was warm as she closed it, steel glinting in the light. There was a part of Cat that loved morning itself, even more than she loved the heaviness of night, a blanket of darkness to hide under. The air was different in the morning. It was stiller. Colder. Like the sun hadn't yet had a chance to sizzle it, to make it smoke and waver and wobble. It was fresh air, air that hadn't been through a thousand lungs yet. Cat knew it was probably a silly thing to think, but every breath she took in the morning felt like her first breath, and every exhale felt like an expelling of toxins, of fluids she no longer needed clouding her lungs.
Or maybe it was just the pills. She'd become accustomed to pinning her every thought to them, just as everyone else did. Maybe her personality consisted of nothing more than the various chemicals she imbibed. She could build herself to be whoever she wanted.
She meandered down the driveway of the house, clusters of marigolds lining the sides. She bent down to pick one, a brilliant red, edged in a burning golden orange. It was brilliant in the bright light, a drop of blood in her palm, edged with fire. She stroked the yellow heart of it with a fingertip, softly, softly. She'd always liked marigolds. She liked flowers in general, really. They were the only things in the world that weren't afraid to be bright. That didn't dull their colours and try to blend in, for fear of predators. They wanted to be seen, they wanted to be sought out. Brightness in animals only served as a warning, but flowers? The harmless ones were the prettiest of all.
The petals were velvet in her palm, smooth and sleek. They caused a shiver in her, and she let the flower slip from her hand, fingers curling. You feel like velvet. Cat stooped, setting the half-empty beer can on the driveway with trembling fingers, the marigold blossom skipping away on a slight breeze. She remembered now. Tori's throbbing orange heart. The burning ash of her skin, soft, so soft. But not quite so soft as her lips, her cinnamon dusted mouth.
Cat brought her fingers to her lips, tracing her nail over them lightly, as if searching for some scar Tori had left, some indelible mark. A burn. But there was nothing but the memory of those sparks, a memory of a warm summer day, watching the clouds scud overhead. Cat's finger slipped to her heart. It had beat heavy and red against Tori, under her fingers, under her skin, just as Tori had slipped sparks into Cat's blood, injected herself into Cat's veins with no more than a touch, a stroke. There was a slight crinkling noise as Cat's fingertip traversed the dip between her breasts. Curious, she dug her fingers inside her top, pulling out a small baggie, warm from her body heat. Two of the cherry red pills glinted at her, bright in the sunlight. She didn't remember putting them back in there. Maybe Tori had, before she'd left. The thought twisted in Cat's heart. She could've taken them. Tori could've taken them, but she hadn't. And maybe, just maybe, she'd left Cat with a kiss on the cheek. Maybe she hadn't wanted to go, maybe she'd tried to wake Cat up.
Cat sighed, derailing her train of thought. Or maybe Tori just wasn't a thief. What they'd done last night, oh, what they'd done... it had just been the drugs. Cat trudged to the end of the driveway, starting along the side of the road. There was a little cafe not too far from here. Maybe twenty minutes of walking. There was a payphone there she could use to call her brother. The cheap, prepaid phone she'd brought to the party had been in the handbag. She was accustomed to losing phones by now. What they'd done, Cat mused, had been amazing. She'd kissed boys before, and she'd kissed girls before, and she'd done it under the influence of anything and everything, but nothing, nothing could compare to kissing Tori last night. It'd been like having magma drip into her veins, boiling and steaming. Like embracing a supernova at its very brightest. It had just been the drugs, sure. It had just been the drugs for Tori. The fluttering in Cat's heart informed her that it was more than that for her. Tori's fingers had been so careful, so gentle. They'd traced Cat's skin like it was a fragile, precious thing. Like Cat was made of tissue paper and eggshells, a craft project of a girl, and one Tori wanted to carefully sculpt. Her lips had been soft, but so insistent, only breaking for breath or a slurred word.
It had been everything Cat's fingers had promised, when they'd delved into her pants the night before. Everything she'd thought Tori's touch would be. But that was the one place Tori's fingers hadn't ventured. They'd been content to scour the red-headed girl's torso, raising sparks and ribbons of red. They'd never so much as dipped into Cat's panties. She wondered if Tori remembered all that had happened. If maybe that had been why she was gone when Cat woke up. Cat supposed she'd find out at school, if Tori's eyes suddenly grew shy when looking at her.
She trudged along the cracked footpath, passing modest houses with large yards. Some manicured, some left to run rampant. She liked the wild ones. They spoke of a certain chaos, of a certain strength. Neglect hadn't weakened the vines and branches of these plants. In fact, it was being tended that confined them, trimmed their shoots and kept them orderly. A great gnarled tree squatted in one yard, branches forking out like spread hands. It was an eyesore, a hulking, ugly thing. There were scars on the bones of its branches, attempts to tame its spread, but it grew regardless. There was a certain insidious strength in plants that Cat admired. No matter the conditions, something would always grow.
She supposed she'd learned the love of plants from her brother, although his affections took a more illegal bent. Cat felt a sudden pang of regret that she hadn't taken the marigold blossom with her. There was something upsetting to her about picking that flower and then forgetting it. She'd ended its life without a care, and tossed it aside just as easily. Maybe it was just the pills talking. One of them made her fixate.
Birdsong filtered through the still air, pavement starting to heat up under the incessant sun. Maybe it was just the drugs. That may as well have been her motto, for all the times she'd thought it. For all the times people had asked her. As if they weren't on drugs themselves. Caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, antidepressants, anti-anxiety, blood pressure pills, cholesterol pills, ibuprofen, paracetamol, diuretics, cough syrup, codeine, morphine. Everyone was on something. Cat was just on everything. But people acted as if their drug of choice gave them some moral superiority over her, just because it was deemed more acceptable, more legal. Cat's brother had ranted to her since puberty about the unfairness of it all. He'd argued that most medicines, most drugs, were just poisons in tiny doses, and what was the point in deeming your poison less potent than another? Take too much of anything and it'll kill you all the same.
The tiny cafe came into view, a single middle-aged man seated at one of the wrought-iron tables that rusted in front. His newspaper shielded his face, lowering every so often so he could take a slow, pensive sip of his coffee, fingers looking too big for the delicate cup. A small bell jingled as she entered, the smell of coffee making her stomach rumble angrily. Cat reached into her handbag, a finger probing where she'd worked apart the lining earlier. Her fingertips found a folded bill, tugging it out gently. She had enough for a small coffee, maybe even one of the buttery looking croissants that lay behind a glass counter near the register. The barista greeted her with a grin, the nametag pinned to her navy apron reading Jennifer. Cat placed her order, exchanging a few pleasantries with the barista. How lovely a day it was, how they hoped it would stay sunny, but rain never did hurt. It was a conversation Cat had with adults all day, but Jennifer spoke with such enthusiasm it left the red-headed smiling more than she was accustomed to.
Cat picked a table inside, one right next to a large window. The croissant was fresh, pastry sweet and flaky. A few drizzles of chocolate striped it, brittle when Cat bit down on them. She let them melt on her tongue before she took a sip of her coffee, something small and plain and sickeningly sweet. Cat had added enough sugar to turn the drink into more of a syrup, the taste coating her tongue and lingering long after. She looked out the window as she ate. The man with the newspaper had left, a dirty cup on the wrought iron table the only sign he was ever there. Cat watched the people that passed. Some of them were in a hurry, suits and skirts and shiny black shoes. Cat's favourite were the couple walking their dog, a tiny, fluffy white cloud of a canine. It would dart forward to sniff at something, stopping dead before springing off to the side. Its lead was pulled taut, jerked back and forth by its frantic motions. The couple never even paused in their conversation, simply tugging the dog along when it lagged behind.
Cat finished her croissant with relish, dabbing her finger on the small crumbs and flakes left on her plate. She had enough change left over to call her brother. She made her way to where the beat-up relic of a payphone lay, opposite the bathrooms. There were numbers scrawled on the side, swear words and quotes and tiny drawings crowding the flecked paint. She picked up the handset, dialtone humming in her ear. The coins clicked into the slot, her fingers picking out the number for her brother's mobile. She held her finger down on the last number, the tone howling in her ear before she let it go, a soft ringing replacing it.
"Hello?" Her brother's voice was clear, if slightly shivery. Cat suspected that he'd been awake all night again. She'd have to take care of dinner for them while he slept tonight.
"Hey." She said softly. "I'm ready to come home." Cat twisted a lock of her ruby hair between her fingers, knuckles brushing between her breasts, where the small baggie was concealed. A smile flitted onto Cat's lips. "Oh, and I've got a name for you."
"So you tried the new stuff, huh? What'd you come up with?"
Cat's smile swelled bigger, traceries of Tori's whispers in her lips.
"Red Velvet."
A/N: Reviews are like hugs. Most of the time they're comforting, heartwarming, and create a certain affection in both parties. Other times they're just polite ones where your bodies don't touch and maybe there's some air kissing. And sometimes they're ones you don't expect and they catch you by surprise and you just freeze because what's happening are you dying is this it.
So hug me, brotha.
