Take another track

I stayed in that bathroom until Glen came and picked me up an hour later. The tear stains on my face leaving dry paths down my cheeks, my face motionless. He knew something was wrong, those tears weren't from earlier that night when I had cried over Glen being mad at me. Those tears were not ones of drunken drama, not ones of silly misunderstanding, not ones of hysteria.

The map my dried tears drew on my face was of utter loss, of defeat, of despair. And he saw it. Hell, who wouldn't have, with the way I was lying lifeless against the wall, in the same exact position I had sunken down from the wall in an hour before.

I didn't even walk myself down the stairs and into the car, Glen did it for me. All I did was cling myself as much into him as possible, grabbing onto the comfort his strong frame gave me as he held me in his arms down the stairs and into the car. Not once did he ask me anything, I think he knew it wouldn't have mattered, I wouldn't have answered. He carefully lowered me into the passenger seat and tucked a blanket from the trunk around me, before safely securing me with the belt. He then headed into the driver's seat, but not before placing a loving kiss at the top of my head.

I can't explain how much comfort Glen gave me that night.

That night.

It's only the day after, and already I've named it that night.

I bet you would too, if you knew how horrendous that night was.

The hangover following it is just the icing on the cake, really.

Remember how I was envying Spencer her hangover a week ago?

I'm not so much anymore. Although it sure is better that it's my head threatening to explode from the inside out, as opposed to my thoughts threatening to do the exact same thing.

God, I'm thirsty.

And this hangover won't get the least bit better if I don't get rehydrated soon. I have two options. Bathroom or kitchen. Both are forcing me to walk past the door or horrors, the mouth of hell.

One might wonder how I can be so sure of Spencer being home when you think about all the people she's screwing. But I know for a fact that she is. She always is. She's been dating 3 guys in the time I've been living with the Carlin's, and now I'm not counting the numerous one night stands I'm sure she's having one hell of a lot of. But not once has she not been here in the morning. I wish I could deny this, deny the fact that I've been thinking about her, wondering why she never stays over. But I can't deny it, 'cause that's exactly what I've been doing. More than a few times, when I've been unable to sleep, have I speculated as to why she acts the way she does, and one of the quirks that fascinate me is her need to always get home at the end of the night. How she never wakes up with anyone, how she always wakes up in this house, in her own bed, alone.

She never brings anyone over either. I've never seen a single person enter her room except family members, and I'm curious as to why. Sure, she's not super secret about her room, I've seen her door opened on various occasions, but I don't think it's the room in itself that's so secret. I think it's her. I think it's something personal, and she's not ready to share it with anyone.

At least that's what I thought, but now, after yesterday's confrontation, I'm not sure what to think anymore. And I'm not sure I wanna think about her at all anymore. She's been occupying my mind for too long, and she doesn't deserve it, she's never deserved it.

Therefore, I gently rise from my drug-induced coma, closed eyelids
trying to minimize the throbbing in my brain, feet stomping towards the door leading into the hallway. Head poked out, eyes barely opened, no one in sight. A hand clasping my forehead, comforter tugged closely around me, I make my way down the hallway, shuffling into Glen's flip flops as they lay scattered around. Eyes cast to the floor, not wanting any direct light into my eyes, I don't see the person bumping into me. As I raise my sight to look at the person, I feel something being pushed into my unoccupied hand before the person rushes past me and slams a door shut. I'm not fast enough to glance at the person doing it, but I don't need to. Those fingertips did not belong to a man, neither did they belong to someone of age, those fingertips belonged to none other than a young, blond, gorgeous girl with the most menacing personality known to man.

And this is the exact reason why I'm terrified of the feel of her fingertips touching mine. The want to feel them again, the need of touching more, the longing to see her blue, blue eyes again.

And as I cast my eyes downward, a chill runs up my spine.

A note of hate wouldn't have surprised me.

Something hurtful would've been expected.

But this renders me speechless.

She just gave me a bottle of aspirin.

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