Hi, all.

I know that it has been a deplorably long time since updates. If you're still with me, I thank you. I'll admit it, I've been procrastinating.

If you're just tuning in now...well, enjoy yourself.

"We give thanks for Benvolio and his miraculous recovery," muttered Ted Montague with his forehead balanced on his folded hands. Benvolio rolled his eyes and sank back into the state he had held through the entire grace: a doze. He had risen early this morning. A 5:00 practice was no trouble for Benvolio, but that combined with a family dinner and midnight mass was just too much. Dr. Lania—Kelly, as he now addressed her—had worked him harder than ever.

Since the accident, Ted Montague had reformed his behaviour until he was nearly unrecognizable. He was now mild-mannered and inoffensive, barely ever initiating conversation. Though he often expressed "get well" wishes to Benvolio, never once did he mention the accident or the events leading up to it. This was just as well with Benvolio; the more his family turned their backs on certain truths, the easier it would be for him to sneak out of the country on New Year's Day.

He was worried. Not about the sneaking part: he was sure that it would go off without a hitch. The problem with him was the preparation part. He could do only three lengths of perfect fly, three out of eight. Kelly was firmly adamant that he would not execute any butterfly unless it was perfect, for fear of losing the feel of the perfect stroke. This infuriated Benvolio—now he had only five days to get it right.

On the bright side, this work had paid off. His body had not restored itself to its original football-esque proportions, but he could feel the muscle coming back, longer and leaner than it was before, more like how Romeo's body had been. He wouldn't cancel the ticket if he didn't meet his goal, either. Really, the only misfortune would be the disappointment of not having achieved a goal.

The anticipation of that feeling frightened Benvolio more than anything.

"Maria, you're awfully quiet tonight," Maria's mom whispered.

Maria stared at the sea bass on her plate. How could she enjoy Christmas Eve dinner with the family that had caused her so much pain? Maybe she was being unfair; after all, it wasn't as though she had ever intended on going back to America to see the man she had loved and abandoned. But, in an indirect and paranoid way, it was because of her family that he accident had happened.

The past month had been chalked with twisting guilt. Every day, Maria resolved to march up to her father and tell him plainly that he could not keep her; that she would go back to the USA no matter what. But as soon as she saw him, Caroline Montague's reproachful face would swim in front of her eyes, and Alessia's accusatory tone that she had used on the phone rang in her ears. What would their reaction be if she turned up on their doorstep? Maria understood their hostility. In fact she agreed with it. She was, without a doubt, the worst girlfriend in the world.

The days and weeks had gone by like snails. After receiving the phone call, she had spent her days in her room, replaying the message over and over again. Eventually, she emerged, and had busied herself with work around the school ever since: secretarial, janitorial, anywhere she was needed and a good lot of places where she wasn't. The most menial of tasks were what she coveted; repetitive work allowed her to escape. The boys at school had turned from being a cause of awkwardness or self-consciousness to complete non-sexual entities, as much a part of the school as the desks or sharp shooting targets were.

The drug-like sensation of the French fry in Gloria's mouth rocketed to her brain, and she felt herself relax. She and her sister, fed up with family, had resolved to spend their Christmas Eve in the most unorthodox way they could think of. Giving no thought to their arteries or thigh measurement, they had ordered as much McDonald's as they thought they could hold, and rented three porn movies. No turkey, tree, or presents were in sight, and that was just the way Gloria wanted it. Too long, she had obsessed over spangling her house in an attempt to inject some Christmas spirit into the business-hardened heart of her husband. Now, she was using the holidays as a time for self-indulgence; she supposed she deserved it.

The scars on her face were beginning to soften. They were still raised, and she felt pain on them with a light touch. The skin was pink and soft. Often at night, she would run her fingers along the tiny ridges, relishing in the accompanying sting.

Tonight, however, there was no room for guilt. Without looking at her hands, she tipped the vodka bottle over her cup, still half-filled with chocolate shake, until the froth rose to the brim. The next heated scene in the movie was about to start. As Vicky raised the volume, Gloria dipped another fry into her spiked shake and munched on it thoughtfully, turning her focus back onto the screen. It was true; she was acting like an absolute sad sack, and it felt fantastic.

Well, she told herself that it felt fantastic. In reality, there was an empty space buried right in the middle that she was attempting to fill with alcohol, sugar and fat, but the matter around this space just grew denser. She allowed herself one more melancholy thought before she pushed it out of her head and resumed concentration on the movie, allowing her mind to fill with the texture of the leading male's arms, legs, back, buttocks. What she wouldn't have given for a good lay at that moment.

The bed was a disgrace; nothing but a wooden board covered by a slab of foam and a fitted sheet consisting of something like burlap. The coverlet followed the same design. As for the duvet…there was no duvet, no quilt, nothing.. And Fulgencio was freezing.

All day, he had watched an inflated number of inmates get called to the visitor's room, friends and family putting aside their ill feelings to share the Christmas spirit. Fulgencio, just as expected, had had no visitor.

Once again, he reflected on his circumstances with detached amusement. What he had done had seemed awful, horrifying even, to other people. Yet while he was doing it, he had felt no sense of guilt, no twinge of injustice. In the past, he had always scorned sexual predators, yet his mind had made no connection between his crimes and the crimes of others. He had been foolhardy, but never caught.

So, why had he done it? There was no denying that the female staff at the house of Capulet were more attractive than most; all along he had teased them with his words, winks, a well-placed pinch occasionally. As the pressures of business increased, he'd yearned more for them than Gloria's doe-eyed demeanour. The night of Juliet's funeral had been the first time he had wanted to share a bed with them, but they were not willing. The day had been rough, and he had been physically sick at having to shake the hand of Ted Montague. So, he'd done what he did in every difficult situation: he used force.

There was a creaking noise as a metal tray was pushed into the cell, containing two fish dinners. The smell made him wretch. Even his roommate, a cocaine dealer, had visitors. Fulgencio was a lonely, decrepit old felon. On that cheerful note, he rolled over once again in his burlap sack and tried to sleep.

It didn't matter how strong he would get; it didn't matter that his muscles had once again begun to show. Every time he arrived at a threshold, a pair of shoulders would inevitably materialize beneath his arm, and a pair of eyes shining with pity would stare into his. It had been irritating even when he couldn't walk, but now it was all he could do to refrain from bellowing into the poor do-gooder's ear that he was probably stronger than they were, so f--- off. If someone even raised a finger to help Benvolio tonight, he knew that there was no way he could refrain from attacking.

Just now, the stretch SUV limo was gliding down the main drag of Verona Beach. The entire Montague family was packed into it, casting darting glances around the close quarters. Caroline tried not to show that she regretted forcing the family into just one car. The worst part was the absence of one person in the family that was now glaringly obvious.

Benvolio once again caught his head dropping to his chest and wrenched it back up, forcing his eyes wide open. He pinched the back of his hand viciously, determined to keep awake. He wanted nobody to see him as an invalid.

The entire party swayed a little as the limo turned the corner and began to accelerate down the street. Caroline thankfully glanced out the window. "Well, we're almost there," she chirped with relief. The rest of the family looked out the window and sighed happily—except Benvolio. How had he not been on this street in an entire month when he had drag-raced down it every day this past summer? Was this really the last place he had seen Maria?

As the two cars slid parallel to each other, the two drivers caught a glimpse of each other. It couldn't have lasted more than a second, but it may as well have been forever. Benvolio's throat closed and his eyes bulged out as he locked eyes with a woman he had not seen in months, whose only action towards him has been clawing aggression. A crash, an explosion, a crushing pain that disappeared instantly. A pinpoint of brilliant light appeared at the centre of his vision and exploded outwards, masking a warped image of metallic disarray…

The breath caught in Benvolio's throat as he remembered, for the first time in a month, the person he had collided with. They were nearing the church now, and the tiniest bump in the road threw Benvolio's heart out of whack. His break caught in his throat repeatedly, and he gulped.

Maria sighed impatiently as she took her seat in the top balcony. The church was ornate, superfluous. It had been built back when then institute was a monastery, but was still used because of the high Catholic population at the school. Now, the amount of worshippers had dwindled down to around ten, the rest of the students having spirited home for the holidays. The organist pounded out the first few notes of the processional hymn, and as the holy men began to pace down the aisle, Maria made a mental calculation. It was midnight now, and he would be six hours behind. So he's…eating dinner?

Maria smiled, even though she knew she was wrong to dwell on him. She had no idea what he looked like now, so she imagined him as robust as he had been the day they met. She imagined him happy; she imagined him filled with thoughts of her; only happy thoughts, of course.

The ceremony was due to begin when Maria's image seemed to blast into a vision, a very real hallucination. She was standing in the Montague dining room, but none of the family members paid her any mind. Benvolio didn't look as strong as she had hoped, but she didn't mind what she saw: he was a little pale, but he ate hungrily and independently, and muscular bumps rose against his knit sweater. She watched as Benvolio stopped eating and whirled around slowly to look at her. She felt goose bumps rising all along her arms as their eyes met.

She could think of only one thing to say, and said it with tears in her voice. "I'm sorry." Even she herself couldn't tell if these were happy tears or not. But his answer shocked her more than anything she could have imagined.

"I know." The two of them stared at each other for a few more seconds. Finally, Benvolio flashed her a chilling smile and turned around to resume his dinner, as though she had never been there.

A priest's droning voice dissolved her fantasy—or hallucination—and she rearranged herself in her seat to be more comfortable. Her parents, sitting on either side of her, glanced at her uneasily. "What is it?"

"Whom are you apologizing to, dear?" her mother asked.

Maria sighed. "Nobody in particular."

Mrs. Montoya nodded slowly, casting Maria a strange look.

"Benvolio, are you absolutely sure you don't need a doctor?" Benvolio's mother was hanging off his arm, her voice trembling. His little attack had passed quickly, but it had lasted long enough to firmly frighten his family.

"Ma, I am absolutely fine," he said through clenched teeth. Probably more fine that you. He didn't feel fine, of course. Nowhere near. But that was only emotional; he was physically fit.

The hush hit them like a wall. The service had started already, and the only pews empty were the Capulet and Montague pews. With Fulgencio's jailing, the Capulets had been in frenzy, relocating their families to their various summer homes as far away from Verona Beach as possible. The worshippers stared, even glared at them as they tiptoed down the aisle. Trying to distract himself, he went through the plan carefully in his head once again. New Year's Day, New Year's Day…that was his mantra. Seven days.

The next chapter WILL be coming soon. I promise.

Curlz

Ok, I've decided something. I need to change my nom de plume.