Not my usual style (or length), per se, and no actual prompt yet again, but... well. Yeah.
Disclaimer: I own a mother who makes f'amazing mac and cheese. What does SMeyer own? Twilight.
Escape.
What a funny word.
It made me think of shackles.
Of cages.
Of impenetrable bars.
Of something tangible and real and something you actually could escape.
And piña coladas, oddly enough. Damn radio.
A piña colada might have helped me right now.
But escape would do the trick better.
The only problem: I didn't have handcuffs, or prisons or boxes to escape.
I wasn't granted that luxury of realism.
I wanted to escape everything.
Escape it all, escape, escape, escape.
If I won the lottery, I could escape.
If I had someone here to distract me, they could help me escape.
If I could fly away, I'd escape.
All these things bustled into my brain, swarming and circling and taunting.
Because none of them were there, achievable.
Not even in the least.
And not just because of the lack of money, but because of obligations.
Fucking obligations I wanted to escape from.
But they were the very things that kept me from escaping.
I couldn't go, couldn't move, couldn't do a single fucking thing.
One way or the other, it didn't matter. I was still stuck.
Still unmovable.
In a sort of torturous, draining limbo.
Unable to escape, but unable to think of anything else.
I hated it.
And maybe I hated myself a little bit because I let it happen, somehow.
I couldn't keep myself happy, keep myself focused and caring.
Instead, I only dreamed of leaving, escaping.
I hated that, too.
[~|~|~]
Every day, I watch her.
Every day, I see her.
Every day, I try to talk to her.
Every day, I fail.
Every day, I stare.
Every day, I feel like a creeper.
Every day, I inevitably learn something about her.
Today, it changes.
Today, I do something different.
Today, she looks different.
Today, she seems off.
Today, my impulses can't be tempered.
Today, the aura around her triggers me.
"Smoothie?" I hold it out for her. "It's piña colada flavored, but still not terrible."
She stares at me with blinking eyes, the entire vibe surrounding her telling me to fuck off.
Telling the world to fuck off.
Telling me she doesn't need me, or want me.
That she doesn't appreciate my intrusion.
Doesn't welcome it or like it.
I find I don't care about that small fact.
Everything in me screams that she needs me. No matter how much she might not want to.
I can't ignore that part, ignore her, my instincts, anything.
I've never been good at the ignoring process.
At all.
[~|~|~]
Piña colada. Nice.
Fitting.
Thank you, Karma.
Could you be more of an ironic asshole?
Seriously, I don't appreciate this shit, you bitch.
You send me some nosy, puppy-looking guy who doesn't own a hairbrush or enough money to shop anywhere besides a thrift store?
Granted, his hair does look kinda sexy, and he makes those faded jeans with the ripped knee work.
But that is so not the point, Karma.
You know I hate piña colada anything. Why would you do this to me?
I get that we aren't the greatest friends, but seriously.
Not cool.
I'd decided Karma could just go fuck herself.
Or, better yet, go fuck Fate. What a lovely pair they'd make.
And maybe if they were fucking each other, they'd skip out of my life and stop messing with me.
I glared toward the general direction I thought Karma and/or Fate might be.
"Are you okay?" Puppy-grunge-guy asked, fulfilling my first assumption of his nosiness.
"Peachy."
"You sure?"
"Quite."
He held the awful white thing toward me again. "Piña colada smoothie?"
"Nah."
"Can you only answer with one-word?"
"Maybe."
"Hi."
"Bye."
"Interesting."
"Stop."
"Why?"
"Because." Jeez. Couldn't he just leave a girl alone?
I wanted to go back to my fucking mind-circles about escaping.
And he was hindering that.
[~|~|~]
I stare, fighting a smile, as her aura shifts.
Not so much gloom and depression and make-me-worry as annoyance.
Even if the irritation is directed at me, I'll take it.
Anything is better than letting her stew inside her own head like that.
I sit down, not even pretending to ignore her glare.
Just not caring about it.
If she doesn't like me sitting here, that's her problem.
She can move, if it bothers her all that much.
Inside, I know she won't.
She'd never do that.
She's way too stubborn.
"Mine."
"What?"
"Table."
I like her feistiness. It's better than her depression.
And though the one-word conversation may grate on my nerves, it's a challenge.
I've only ever said no to three challenges.
This won't be one of them.
"And?"
"Mine."
"Share." It's not a question. Her eyebrows raise at that.
"Never."
"Please?"
"Bye."
"Hi."
"Stop."
"Familiar."
She points one black-tipped finger at me. "Repeater."
"Smoothie?"
"No."
"Sad." I take a sip, enjoying the coconut and pineapple flavors, eyes closing at the taste.
"Sexy."
"Hmm?"
"Nothing!" She's hasty and abrasive and abrupt. And I know I heard her murmur correctly.
Lust isn't in my job description.
Not one bit.
But as I continue to gaze at her, drink in her instead of my smoothie, I think maybe that's not so bad.
Maybe I could use a little lust.
And, judging from the entirely different tones of frustration floating off her right now, I think maybe she could use some, too.
Maybe the consequences won't be that bad.
Maybe we can both benefit from it.
Maybe yes.