A/N: I have no idea how you guys are gonna take this chapter, but it was all intended to happen from the idea of this fic was made. I wanted to show a different side of it, one not too horrific, but still not great. You'll understand what I mean.
Scylla and Charybdis
Lunchtime, and I'm sitting at the same table as the jocks are. One would think that after months at this school I would've found my own clique, but no. I've got no one but myself to blame, but I still like to pretend it's Glen's fault. He forced me to sit with this group from the first day of school, and since then everyone has assumed that this is where I belong.
I don't.
I SO don't.
There were some people making conversation with me in my first week, but I was so shy and easily breakable that no one managed to get through to me. Voices were heard, sentences replied, but nothing was laid-back, nothing was real.
The table next to us consists of the god-awful cheerleaders, all trying to outshine the others with their loud laughter, their painted faces and their revealing clothes. I've had to endure many a conversation concerning these girls, it's the main theme among the guys I'm surrounded by.
People would kill for my spot.
Sitting here surrounded by the most popular guys in school, each and every one of them greeting me in the halls and sitting next to me in class, one would think that I'm ecstatic.
The thing is, I would rather sit somewhere else. I would rather accompany those geeks down in the corner instead of these brainless strap-ons that I'm currently 'engaging conversation' with.
All they ever talk about is girls and basketball. I've heard all there is to hear about Jessica's 'freaky nature' in bed, I've spent agonizing hours listening to how much they worship Madison's bum – half the team already having tapped it – and I've seen Glen's uncomfortable expression every time someone mentions his sister.
When I first heard them talk about Spencer I would look toward Glen, wondering why he didn't say anything, why he didn't defend her. No threats were thrown around telling them to stop talking about his sister that way, no scowl or bump were done to the offending person, no defense was ever made.
At first I sympathized with him. I always thought it couldn't be fun having to hear those things about his sister, getting to know who she had slept with, how they had done it, when they had gotten it on. He's had to endure these conversations since the first time I was seated in the group, and he probably has had to endure it way before I entered the group.
Even I got uncomfortable listening to them talk about a girl I was supposed to look at as my sister. I didn't wanna hear about how easy she was, I somehow felt like a traitor when I didn't defend her, and I could just imagine how it felt like for Glen.
Still, it didn't make me do anything. It didn't make me speak up, tell them to shut up and leave her alone. In the beginning it was shyness that held me back, that made me keep my mouth and my conscience at bay. As time flew, I got used to it, no longer wincing at the details thrown around the table. I let them talk about her because I didn't know what else to do, it's not like Spencer was innocent, she should know that her actions have consequences.
Today it's different.
Today I'm no longer listening to what they're saying. Today I'm no longer giving consent to their gossip about a certain girl. The wincing is back, the hurt growing inside me caused by the uncensored details of their nights with Spencer has escalated tenfold, and I don't think I can take it much longer. I am well aware that my sudden protectiveness over Spencer is for all the wrong reasons, I should have done this ages ago. I never should have let them talk about another human being in such a dehumanizing way, it shouldn't be my confused feelings towards her that is making me finally speak up in her defense.
But it is, and at least it's better to be late than never.
"Uhm, could you please not talk about Spencer? It's kinda uncomfortable."
I'm squirming in my seat, not being able to look any of them in the eyes when I utter these words of courage. To anyone else, they would seem pathetic, weak, there is no determination in my voice, no strength. But to me they represent an ability to speak up, to defend – something I never thought I had in me. The surprised expressions on everyone's face tells me that I wasn't the only one thinking that.
But what really shocks me is the look on Glen's face.
He should be proud. He should be happy that someone for once defended his sister, he should congratulate me on my courage to finally voice what he's been wanting to all along.
But for some reason, this isn't the case.
He's looking at me oddly, his face contorted in a frown, fingers absentmindedly fingering the loose bits of wood on the side of the
table. There's no glint of pride in his eyes, no appreciation over the fact that someone finally defended his sister. If I was confident, sure of myself, not afraid of speaking my mind, I would've pulled him away, asked what was wrong, studied him closer to get a gist of why he's acting the way he is. But we all know I'm not. We all know that behind that one ounce of courage I previously demonstrated, I'm nothing but a coward.
"Don't like us talking about your sis that way, huh? Finally gotten a soft spot for her? I thought you hated her?"
Brendan's lightly bumping his elbow into my side. Yeah, that Brendan, the one who shared a ride with me and Glen while simultaneously getting a 'free ride' from Spencer in the backseat. At least that's what would've happened hadn't we gotten to the party fast enough.
I should glare at him, hate him with a fiery passion, but when his eyes leave mine and focus on the girl next table, I can see it's not just
physical for him either. It's not just lust brewing in his veins, his words aren't just shallow pieces of arrogance, I'm not the only one having a soft spot for the girl in focus.
And I bet we're not the only ones.
They all make her sound easy, a sure thing when in sexual need. What they never mention though, is that it never goes further. I've never heard a word of second dates, she's never once reciprocated their flirting in school after a fling at a party. Several of these guys adorning the splintered wooden table have tried to make it into something more. I've seen their unsuccessful attempts at initiating a relationship, one or two of them actually showing up at the Carlin house in their lovestruck state, trying to woo the girl into their arms.
All of them failing completely.
She's an enigma they're trying to disguise as a tart, solely based on their failure to reach inside her. She might be a sure thing physically, but seeing the lingering admiration in their eyes whenever she wanders the hallways or enters a party, they all know she's emotionally unreachable.
And they can't handle it.
That's why I've had to endure months of verbal lashing of a girl we're all actually fascinated by.
--
"Hello?"
"Oh, hi Henry."
"Uhm, yeah I am."
"Going out? Uh, I'm not sure-.."
"But I've got-..."
"But-..."
Sigh.
"When is it?"
"Okey, well then I'll just get a lift from Glen, since he's probably going too."
"Yeah, uhm, thanks for asking."
"Okey, bye."
I'm doomed. My plans of solitude behind the doors of my private haven are no longer vacant. The probable occurrence of Arthur knocking lightly on my bedroom door asking me to join them by the TV is no longer available. The shackles of expected attendance have been closed around my ankles, the blame for it being my apprehension of ever saying no.
Instead of those reserved hours inside a protected house, I'm no longer in control of the areas that are gonna surround me tonight.
I've been trying to keep myself out of the weekend-debauchery that is happening among teens all over the city. I'm not gonna deny the feeling of freedom alcohol gave me. When the bitter taste ceased to affect my sense of taste, it was quite a joyous night. I've never been so carefree and relaxed ever before, so in touch with emotions I didn't even know were present in me.
But this is exactly what I fear.
I fear the lack of control overtaking my usually analytical mind, thoughts running freely, filter no longer present between the voice within me and the voice outside.
She's been on my mind a lot.
So much that I am sure she'll invade my thoughts even on a night of drunken festivities with the jocks.
So much that I can never trust the voice within me to stay inside if I ever taste the alcoholic poison.
Therefore, I cannot drink tonight. I cannot touch the fluid that longs to run inside my veins, that calls out for us emotionally challenged people to come out of our shell, to stand naked before our friends and enemies, leaving out emotions bare.
--
"Ash, I got something for you"
"No Glen, I told you I'm not drinking tonight."
The words are tall, confident and reliable, it is how I say them that makes them so weak and powerless to Glen's continued convincing.
"Oh come on, loosen up a bit! You sure as hell need it..!"
He's no longer frowning or acting weird, the small glimpse of
something unknown within him at the lunch table is no longer present, and my gratitude for it makes it harder for me to say no.
"You know, I stole it from mom's liquor cabinet just so you could get more comfortable with the guys and all. It's no fun if you're gonna sulk in a corner all night...!"
He's right. I was planning on sulking in a corner, watching them do stupid stuff I only wish I was brave enough to join in on.
"Come oooon..."
He's trying to persuade me, and although he's doing a lousy job, I still take the bottle out of his bag, open the cap and take a big gulp of it. He's smirking, eyes amused at how easily he persuaded me, I know he wasn't expecting it. Even I wasn't expecting it, mind adamant at staying clear and out of danger. It happened to be my nerves who sold me out, betrayed my faltered resolve and stabbed me in the back.
I could stop.
I only had a wee bit of the acrid taste, nothing to even touch the the blood inside my veins.
The problem is, do I really want to?
Deep down, in the land of spontaneity, would I really say no to this
night of festivities if it weren't for my the menacing warnings pulsating through my brain?
I probably wouldn't.
And therefore, feeling a brewing hate inside of me at the prospect of stupid, unnecessary feelings taking over my entire life, I take another swig of the bottle.
--
My head hurts. I should be more drunk than I'm feeling, taking into account how much I've been devouring the last hour, but somehow, I feel even more aware of my own thoughts and body than when sober. I'm not feeling it like last time, it's different, more inhibited. There's no inane sentences spewing out of my mouth, there's no staggering steps being taken to the girl's room, nothing of what I experienced last time.
I am grateful, though still oddly disappointed. I'm not having half the fun I thought I would have, the guys haven't gotten the slightest funnier, jokes of dubious quality still boring me to death. Glen is as drunk as everyone else, or else he might have noticed the frown upon my face. Or else he might have asked me if something was wrong, ask me if I wanted to leave.
He doesn't, as he is intoxicated to the full extent, arm laying casually behind me, resting on top of the bench.
It's a pretended casualty inhabiting his arm though. It's not as random as he's making it out to be, it's been resting there even in situations where both arms would've been preferred in use. It should irk my mind, penetrate my thoughts with suspicion of ulterior motives, but I'm not letting it happen. I am not letting Glen's questionable occurrences plant any wrongful ideas inside of me, making my life even more complicated.
"Ash, drink up! I'm buying you a new round!" is heard from beside me, Brendan lightly touching my thigh where he's sitting on my right, Glen still possessively inhabiting my left one. I stare down on the coarse hand not leaving my thigh, and I lightly cough before downing the last of my drink.
The bartender is eying me suspiciously, surely getting the fact that I'm nowhere near 21, still he doesn't ask for any ID from me when Brendan leaves the booth – simultaneously taking his hand off my thigh – to buy me more alcohol. I can't help but internally letting out a sigh of relief, the tension and uncomfortableness present earlier from the 'innocent' touches finally disappearing. Until it returns in the shape of Glen's fingers slowly caressing my neck.
I could just tell them to keep off, to not touch me. But it's not that easy. I've never been accustomed to speaking up, to defend myself. There's nothing being done wrong, they're not really protruding any limits. I'm not even sure what their touches mean, it could be nothing more than friendly affection, there's no vow of ulterior motives being made by these caressing hands. But it's not necessarily the actions being made that is making this so much worse than it should be. The trouble of the affection being shown is based upon who they are done by.
Glen is supposed to be the big brother I never had, the friend I can always count on, the one that will defend me no matter what happens. He's not supposed to posses me, smother me with his presence like he's doing this instant.
And Brendan... I don't even have a legitimate reason to loathe that he's touching me anywhere at all . The bile rising in my throat as his hand touched my thigh can't be explained in a rational fashion, because it isn't rooted in rationality. The reason for my apprehension towards him is so foolish and out of context that it almost shames me.
He's touched her. He's been inside the girl that won't leave my mind, and I'm punishing him for it. I'm punishing him for an incident that he had no reason to know would affect me.
I know I'm being irrational, I know it's unfair toward both of them, I have placed them into roles they have never given consent to be in, they're not even aware.
It doesn't stop me from wanting to flee though. I excuse myself to the girl's room, there's no rashness to it, I'm not running into it, I'm merely just walking casually into the girl's room like I don't have a care in the world. My face on the other hand is distraught and tense, and as I reach the sink, my shoulders finally shoot up into the position they've been wanting to all night. Finally I can let my body express what my mind have been feeling all night.
As I walk back into the bar, hands stuffed into the pant pockets - sand making a random appearance between my fingertips – I take a chance at something I should have done hours ago.
"Hey guys, uhm, I think I'll just head home."
Glen shoots up from the booth and reaches for his jacket, but before he pulls it on, I stop him.
"Just stay Glen, I'm fine with taking a cab home tonight. None of us should really drive anyway."
I'm trying to sound strong and confident so that Glen won't feel obliged to get me home. His eyes search mine, but the alcohol has made its effect on him and he's not able to look inside me like he usually does. I don't let him reply as I shuffle out of the bar and start my long walk back home.
There's a taxi driving by me but I choose to ignore it. The fresh breeze of night hits me like a welcomed hug and I have no intention of getting home by wheels tonight. The atmosphere of night is being overshadowed by the lights coming from houses all around me.
I don't know if I'm scared of the dark. I can't remember a single instance where I've been surrounded by utter darkness, no flicker of light making cracks in the black wall I've heard so much about. Tonight is no different, the darkness only a meek shadow of it's real self and I can't help but feel companionship with it. I know I've got more personality than what I let shine through, I know I'm more than just a weak, broken girl frightened of all and nothing.
It angers me that I'm unable to break out into the person I know I could've been. If life hadn't decided to play with me like a sadistic experiment, then maybe I would've been outgoing. Maybe I would've been popular, out-spoken, beautiful. Maybe I would've been a cheerleader, maybe I would've had friends that would do anything for me.
Maybe I would've been like Spencer.
It should scare me, the thought of ever being anywhere near Spencer personality-wise. She's cold, unsympathetic and downright mean. Still, it's an alluring thought, living a life of ease like the one Spencer does.
I know I'm making assumptions. And I know I'm making wrongful assumptions, I'm well aware that Spencer is not her true self either. She's hiding behind the same wall as I am, just on the other side of it. While she's out and about, promiscuous and out-spoken, I'm the opposite. The shell I'm unable to break free from is the same shell Spencer is unable to crack into.
I hide these realizations though, as I choose to not acknowledge the truth they speak. I don't want to look at her as someone bound by the same ties as I am, 'cause right now I want to be like her. I want to take a look at the other side, the one I've been too scared to trudge into.
Alcohol is definitely a huge factor for the decision I'm currently making. The anger and determination would've never escalated to the state it is in right now if it hadn't been for the poison in my veins. But it's slowly wavering, I know I need a refill, I need more to quench the thirst my courage craves.
The door looks heavy and I don't know if I'll even be able to open it up, let alone have what it takes to actually walk in. It's petrifying, the thought of walking into admittance. To be thinking it is hard enough, but to admit it – in front of an actual crowd – is making it unable to go back. They won't know what they're witnessing, they won't hear the scream of confession that will bounce of the walls. All they will see is my face, my presence in a room where others have stood before me, soaked in the same terror I'm shortly stepping into voluntarily.
There's a group of older women, not old per se – probably just touching the legal age of the bar – hanging around outside and as they're about to walk in, I know this is my shot to do what I know I have to.
I mingle beside them, frightened at the prospect of being stopped for ID but even more frightened at having to look someone in the eye. The dread of being scolded should not be present in me when I know we're all sharing the same reason to be here, but it's still present. Heart beating rapidly, I get in without any encounters, and as I trudge inside to the bar my heart just keeps on beating uncontrollably.
I don't know why I'm afraid anyone will recognize me, any person within these walls that could tell on me would thereby admit to sharing the same secret as I have. It doesn't stop me from shaking though, and I know I need a refill of courage as fast as possible.
The drink I'm getting from the butch bartender is sharp, strong – effectively calming me. It gives me the bravery to turn around, to take in the surroundings engulfing me.
There's people mingled all over the place, some dancing to old house-tunes, everyone female. I knew I stepped into a gay bar, I just didn't know it was a lesbian one – although I have no idea why the thought of guys also being here would be comforting.
I don't know where to stand so I remain at the lined bar, shoulder to shoulder with a wall. I'm not comfortable, so far from it that I curse myself for ever stepping inside. I want to blame Spencer, she's the one that sent me here, sent me head right into the realization that boys just aren't my thing. I can't blame her. She's not at fault, she never intended to make me different, to make it even harder for me. A thank you is more accurate, as she probably made me admit it earlier than I would've otherwise.
But she is the only reason why I'm in this gay bar tonight. She is the only one I can't stop thinking about, and therefore the person I'm so desperately trying to throw out of my mind. I don't know why I thought this place would make it better, because if it should, it's failing miserably. I've never felt more out of place, more pathetic and weak that I'm feeling right now, and if it wasn't for the hand suddenly appearing on my shoulder, I would've ran out of here like lighting.
But I'm not running, and there is a hand touching my shoulder.
"Hey girl, are you new in the game?"
The cockiness is of a guy's caliber, but the sweet voice accompanying it is nothing like a man's. I turn my head in the direction of the hand, only to look straight into the eyes of one brown eyed hottie. I can't help but exhale, thankful that I don't have to compare someone's blue eyes to Spencer's.
"...Yeah," is all I manage to stutter out, nervousness spreading through my body, heating it up.
"Well then, maybe I can loosen you up a bit?"
Words sultry, she still holds her hand on my shoulder, lightly tracing
patterns with the tip of her fingers. I giggle lightly, like a schoolgirl over some lame joke her crush just said. I cringe inwardly, finally feeling the effects of my non-existent experience in dating. It's nothing like when Brendan touched my thigh earlier on, nothing like the roughness of Glen's palm upon my neck. Her touch, however cocksure and arrogant, is sweeter, better. I'm fidgeting, unable to look her in the eyes, nerves taking over me.
"Hey Lisa! Send me a couple of drinks over here!" she shouts over the music, and I'm thankful that her fingers stall on my shoulder, the sensations frightening. However, the realization that she's on first name with the bartender nags at me, makes me feel like I'm a conquest, one of her 'weekly's. I probably am, with the way she's flirting unabashedly, lightly touching me whenever she can, sweet talking me like only a pro can do. I briefly wonder if this is how Spencer woes her guys, and if this is how she'd pick up a girl if she would ever do that. I shake the thought off of me just as fast as it sneaked its way inside me. I'm having a hot brunette clearly hitting on me, still my thoughts return to a blond, blue eyed beauty I am not allowed to think about. I refuse to let her ruin what could happen tonight, and instead of being my usual self, I return the stranger's affections, I down all the drinks being shoved my way, I pretend I'm interested.
Not to say that I'm not. She really does look great, long, straight brown hair, dressed to kill in a short black dress that I never expected anyone to wear inside this bar.
But I know that what I'm doing isn't right. Not because I'm in a gay bar. Not because I'm returning a girl's affections. Not because I've gone somewhere without permission.
It's because I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons. I'm not here
because I want to. I'm not here because I wanna meet someone. I'm here because I wanna meet anyone. Anyone that can take my mind off of a girl I have no reason to lust after, a girl I should loathe with a fiery passion.
I'm not listening to the words flowing sexily out of the hottie's mouth, all I'm trying to focus on is her fingers lightly tickling the skin on my arm, the close proximity of her body, the reactions that should shoot inside me from the actions being done to me. I'm fighting for it, struggling to feel anything towards this stranger. The drinks being downed in a rapid fashion is undoubtedly helping me, I'm no longer comparing her to the one-who-shall-not-be-named, her touches no longer feeling wrong and uncomfortable. It's not more than one hour into her seduction that she goes for it, takes the step she's openly shown she's wanted to take since she first laid eyes on me.
I should be happy as a kite, reveling in the fact that his hottie wants me, craves me. I should be completely under her spell in the moment her lips touches mine, mind and body needing her touch. But I'm not. They're softer than a guy's lips, not chapped and brutal, there's no assault of tongue threating its way inside my mouth like I'm used to from guys.
It's nice, it's welcomed. But it's not mind-blowing or out of this world. She knows what she's doing, tongue lightly tracing my bottom lip, waiting for permission to take it further. I give it to her, I deepen it, but it doesn't make me feel anything. There's no tension flowing its way into my bloodstream, my heart doesn't speed up or skip a beat. Still it doesn't stop me from letting her grope me, where we're seated in a corner of the bar, out of immediate view from others. The fact that we're somehow hidden behind the dancefloor makes me more bold, more indulgent.
Touches reaching under my top, hand grasping my thigh, I'm excited, the fear somehow repressed under the coat of alcohol and I'm no longer in control of what I'm doing. I return her affections, I kiss mer more fiercely than I need to, letting her lower me down in the booth, it all getting more heated than it should in a public place. I'm not the only one sharing this thought, as she stands up and drag me with her into the bathroom not far from us. I'm being slammed into a stall, an animalistic need appearing within the girl melded into me. Her thigh presses its way between my legs, hitting the spot where my thighs meet. I groan, not because of pleasure but of how hard the thigh is being pressed into me. She's no longer being gentle, a sense of selfishness presenting itself in her touches. Her kisses lower, my neck being assaulted by the girl obviously aroused by our actions. Her hands reach under my top, bra roughly being shoved upwards, there's no question being asked if I want this to happen. I'm merely an object of her need, no longer the person she sweet talked earlier. I can't help but think I wasn't the only one who didn't listen to the words being said, mind centered on the not-so-subtle touches happening within the conversation, never on the conversation in itself.
I gasp as her mouth assaults my nipple, hands tugging desperately
on the belt of my jeans. I freeze, the previously drugged fear reappearing with added force. My hands grasp hers, stopping the belt from being loosened. Her eyes wander up my body and reaches my eyes, smirk inhabiting her lips, lust inhabiting her eyes.
"Don't worry, you'll like it", is all that is uttered from her lips before they're back at the task of pleasuring my upper body. My hands still, I'm no longer daring to say no. I put myself into this situation, now I have to learn the consequences of leading someone on.
It's not that it's so goddamn painful to have this girl attached to my sensitive spots, it's the fact that it doesn't feel right, the overwhelming feeling of betrayal toward myself caused my the actions I'm participating in. I'm no longer returning her touches, her lustful gazes but she doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in the task at hand. The zipper of my jeans is being dragged agonizingly slow down and some of the lust I previously forced myself to feel reappears. My stomach clenches, muscles tightening in unusual places.
Hands frantically tugging at my jeans, lowering them down to my knees, she doesn't bother doing the same to my underwear as she pushes them to the side, not letting me stop her before she's touching me in the most intimate way. There's no time for self-consciousness or insecurity to fill me before the stranger does it; fills me. It's rough, somehow painful because of her dry fingers pressuring their way inside me. I try to straighten my legs so that she won't be as fully into me as she is, but it's all in vain. The sounds of pain coming from me are mistakenly taken as sounds of pleasure, or maybe she just doesn't care. Maybe she gets off on the thought of hurting someone to pleasure. But it's not happening to me. Even when her thumb brushes against the bundle of nerves, she still doesn't ignite any feelings of arousal within me. There's no wetness present, still it doesn't clue her in on her inability to make me feel good.
I haven't asked her to stop. There's no words or evident actions being done to show her just how not good she's making me feel. My eyes are shut fiercely, tears appearing in the corners of my eyes, but she doesn't notice. She doesn't notice because her head is slowly lowering down across my stomach, licking a path of wetness that I just barely notice, the uncomfortableness of her fingers overtaking all my senses.
Then it all stops. This is my time to speak up, to tell her to stop, to not hurt me anymore. But I'm frozen in the position of openness, unable to retract my body from the unwilling situation it's present in. Instead, my eyes decides to water for real, no longer being able to hold it in.
Then it starts again, underwear being tantalizingly pulled down to my knees and before I grasp the fact that my lower body is completely naked, something touches me. Its texture and softness is different from the harsh fingers previously residing in the same spot, and I'm unable to stop my eyes from popping open. An "Oh God" is being uttered from my lips, and as the words "It's Kelly" reverberates through the room, the action beneath my waist briefly stops before it returns with more determination than before.
It's no longer as painful as before, the tongue stroking my clitoris sending shocks within me. I'm no longer desperately pressing into the wall, away from the touch that previously burned me. She continues her ministrations, my body reacting in ways I don't want it to. This isn't right, this is as wrong as it ever could be, but her sudden soft movements is tensing my body in all the right ways, however much I don't want it to happen. I don't want her to make me come, not with her insensitive ways earlier. Still, it doesn't stop my body from shuddering mere minutes later, her hands grasping my hips, holding me up.
She stands up kissing me hotly, forcing her tongue inside my mouth. I don't want it in there, I don't wanna taste myself on her, the reminder of her actions not at all welcome. I feel dirty, pathetic, more weak and powerless than ever before. She doesn't notice the tears adorning my cheeks as she leans in to my ear before whispering "it's your turn" ever so huskily.
I smack my head the one inch into the wall, eyes open, not believing the words uttered from this girl. I want to push her away, smack her in the face, scream a cry of pain but all I'm able to do is hurriedly sneak away from her, open the stalldoor before clutching to the sink a few feet into the room. My hands pull my pants and underwear up in despair, shame and embarrassment seeping into every pore of my body. I'm so fast out of the bathroom that I don't have time to notice if someone saw me, all I can think about is getting out of here, out of this nightmare of huge proportions that I'm currently situated in.
When I reach around the block, out of sight from the entrance to the
bar, I stop – lungs overdosing on air. Knees harshly hitting the ground beneath them, gravel effectively making bruises into my sensitive skin, I finally let the noise of despair release from me. I cry, actual sobbing, for a whole ten minutes before I damn myself for ever letting myself get in a situation like this. I shouldn't feel sorry for myself, this was my own creation, the stranger only a participant in what happened, not the assaulter like I so desperately want to think of her as. My feet are heavy where they trudge their way home, bile rising in my throat as I buckle the belt I didn't have time to do in my frantic state earlier.
--
I've been sitting out here for ages. Fifteen, twenty, maybe fifty minutes have been spent on this porch, not daring to step into the house where no one knows what's happened. I'm afraid they'll notice, I'm petrified of their disappointed looks as they'll know my filthy ways. And most of all, I'm not ready to face myself in a mirror, to see the marks of teeth probably etched into my neck. My hand is clasped upon them, wanting to hide them from the darkness, ashamed of having let down my only companion.
I've never felt more alone, never felt the effects of it as severe as I'm doing right now. If this is what everyone's doing, if this is what everyone so desperately craves to feel, then I don't want to be like them. Then I'm no longer willing to participate in the search for acceptance and popularity. If this is what Spencer willingly gets herself into, then I no longer wish to see the other side. Then I no longer want to see the world from her eyes. Because for the first time, I understand the animosity that fills her, and I do not wish that to happen to myself.
Head hanging low I can only hear the person appearing at the gate. I rush up into a defensive position, eyes shining of terror, arms clutching my body, protecting me. The one person I would the least want to see me out here, like this, is standing feet away from me, looking me square in the eyes. I'm aware of the red marks of salt cascading down my cheeks, the puffiness of my nose as I sniffle lightly, and I know I'm not the only one. She sees them, traces them with her eyes before they wander back to my eyes. Her arms come momentarily out from her body before she retracts them, presses them into her sides. The sight of her presence so close to me, both physically and mentally, is so overwhelming that I can't help but shake in defeat, breath staggering out of my lungs, eyes closing in their vain attempt to stop the tears from flooding.
It doesn't dampen my senses though, as I feel her approach me, to walk past me and in the door I'm sure. That is why I stop breathing when she lingers next to me, her own breath different than normal. I feel a faint hand not actually touching me, just lingering next to my arm. I want her to leave, I don't want her touch to mingle with the touch of the stranger in the bar. I'm not ready to feel her touch, to finally feel a closeness to the one who's to blame for why I went through with what led to the most nerve-wracking night of my life.
I can't let her touch-... and her arms are suddenly upon me, around me, inside me. Not in the physical way from before, but in the most intimate way I could ever experience. The way she presses her body softly – non-sexually – into mine, arms around my waist and upwards to my neck, head hooking itself upon my shoulder, I can't help but shake more than ever before. She holds me up when my knees wants to falter, she strokes my back soothingly, murmuring "it's okey" into my ear.
It's nothing like earlier.
There's no harshness, no need in her actions. She's merely trying to comfort me, and while she succeeds, she also fails to calm me. I'm more alert than before, tears have stopped pouring out from my hurting soul. Despair replaced with confusion, body suddenly jolting awake again, I'm scared, scared that when I finally saw the other side and decided to never visit it again, I'm now re-intrigued. 'Cause there's evidently another side of her that I'm nowhere near understanding, one completely out of my grasp.
One she's unconsciously inviting me into.