Disclaimer: I do not own Hannah Montana.
Miley's POV:
"Hey Jake?" I asked, the credits of the movie reeling down the screen, "What's the time?"
Jake pulled out his phone. "About eight," he announced.
"Really? Wow. That's a long movie," I muttered, half asleep.
"It felt shorter this time, but maybe that's just because I'm with you." I hugged him. Jake turned the TV off with one quick push of a button on the remote.
"You want to eat now?" Jake asked me.
I froze. I could feel the blood rushing. If I didn't eat…he'd think I'm weird. My heart pounded like a hammer inside my chest. I didn't know why it was such a big deal to me; all I knew was that it was, and I had to do it. P-pass?
"S-sure," I whispered, my voice shaking terribly.
"Are you okay?" Jake asked me, looking at me with a dazed look in his eyes.
"Oh. Yeah. Fine. I'm fine. Yep."
Jake ran his tongue over his teeth in thought, and then silently stood up and moved toward our kitchen.
"So what do you want to eat?" Jake questioned me, pulling open the refrigerator door, skimming the cans and bottles.
I stood up as well. "How about…chips and sandwiches?" I offered, picturing the crunchy potato chips and the fluffy soft bread and…ugh. I could almost taste it in my mouth. Right there, the crispy lettuce and the juicy tomatoes and the fresh cheese…. Heaven all in one bite. Too bad I would probably puke it up a minute later anyway, no matter how good it tasted.
"Sure. I love that. Have you ever tried putting the chips inside the sandwich? You do not know how good that tastes. Heaven," Jake murmured dreamily, laying whole wheat and white bread on the counter, along with American cheese and a couple of tomatoes.
I laughed, "Yeah." I took out glasses and poured in ice-cold water as Jake rinsed the lettuce in the sink.
"Here, I'll make you one. What do you want it with?" I asked Jake, already starting to slice one tomato.
"No, Miley, I'll make mine. And yours. Seriously, go lay on the sofa or something, I'll tell you when they're ready—"
"No! Jake, I want to make this for you. Please?" I pouted, wearing my puppy dog pout face.
"Fine. Tomato—" I grinned at my intelligence— "cheese, lettuce, mayo—everything. On white please."
"Sure," I said, putting the wheat bread back in the fridge—I wanted white bread too—and starting on his sandwich.
It started to get awfully quiet. All that was heard was the knocking of the knife on the cutting board, the water shooting from the faucet, and the unwrapping of plastic.
My thoughts floated over to the raw subject of Amanda. I needed to go visit her. I wouldn't tell her about, you know, that Jake and me were secretly dating but…. I was just going to give her a friendly hello, and a cheesy "Get well soon" and then I'd be out. But would Jake really care?
"Jake," I said cautiously, just wanting to get the question over with. I paused, nervously. I could feel my body shaking, and I stopped slicing. I was sure I was going to cut off my finger as I was shaking so much.
My back was to him, but I knew that he had stopped to hear me because I couldn't hear the ruffling of plastic.
"What?" Jake softly half-whispered.
I inhaled and asked slowly, "Would you mind if I visited Amanda in the hospital? I wouldn't tell her about us or anything—it's just going to be a friendly gesture. I promise, I'm just going to say hello, tell her to get better, and walk right out the door. Promise."
I waited in suspense. My heart seemed to have stopped beating, and the room was still.
Out of the blue, I felt a pair of long arms wrap around me from behind.
"No, you can go visit. I trust you Miley. And you don't really have to ask for my permission like that. I'm not the boss of you. You can do what you want. You can even tell her that I am cheating on her. But if you cared for me, you wouldn't tell her," Jake whispered in my ear.
"I won't tell her," I muttered quietly, and I turned my head upward and kissed Jake deeply.
I had expected Jake to leave, but he didn't. He kept his arms around me and watched me make his sandwich. After a while, he left to finish making mine.
When we were both done, we traded sandwiches and sat down to eat them.
I was honestly surprised when I took a bite from mine.
"Wow!" I exclaimed with out really meaning to. It was amazing, "How in the world did you ever fit so much Perfect in this thing? Crazy," I took another bite of Perfect, "I'm surely going to get high with these."
"No Miley! Seriously, where did you learn to make sandwiches? These are pure awesomeness. I swear, I've never tasted anything like it."
"Hmmm…" I smiled.
Suddenly, Jake's phone beeped, and Jake apologized, standing up, "Sorry, Miles. Er—got to take this one." He stepped outside, phone pressed to his ear.
Perfect. Pure Perfectness, I thought as I ran to the bathroom. I took Jackson's toothbrush and stuck it down my throat so far that it touched that slimey part. I felt horrible, seeing Perfect getting gobbled up by Toilet. Jake's Perfect sandwich wasted. Tears sprang into my eyes, and Toilet drank them up to finish off Jake's Perfect sandwich.
This wasn't helping. This stupid barfing habit was not helping. It just made me feel worse. And better, all at the same time. First better, as you saw the food swirl down the toilet. Then worse, as you felt hungry and guilty all over again. And then finally, you'd feel much much worse when you'd pace all around the bathroom, thinking fast and feeling horrible and lonely.
I'd been through the drill too many times already, but I couldn't let it go, even though I knew it was bad. It was an addiction. I wanted to feel in control of something; my body was the only option available to me. So I took it. I was desperate. I'd go through so much just to feel that one minute of relief and self-control. Long-term, I knew it wasn't worth it. But it wasn't that easy to stop. Oh no. It certainly wasn't.
I collapsed down on the cold tiled floor of my bathroom, tears once again collecting in my lap and dripping down my face.
I suddenly remembered Jake. But I couldn't move. I was glued to the floor. I wept for hours it seemed, and then suddenly, after picking at the peeling glue, I was set free. I threw a mint in my mouth.
I ran to the front kitchen, only to see Jake still conferencing on the phone.
I sighed, and logged onto my email. New one from the stranger girl:
That's pretty big news. You know…that you're bulimic. You should really get some help. I once had a…friend, I guess…who was so involved and obsessed with her negative eating habits that she died. Sad, eh? You don't want that to happen to you, do you? Well, as long as we're telling secrets…well…my parents are always fighting. Both orally and physically. All of my so-called "friends" think I'm so cool…they won't when they come to my house. That's why I don't. I'm too embarrassed.
I wasn't sure what to say to that.
And clueless, I answered:
That's really…sad. I'm sorry, but I honestly can't imagine what you're going through. My mom died a few years ago.
I bit my lip and pressed the "send" button.
After shutting off my laptop, I skipped (although not so happy) back to the kitchen.
Jake was polishing off the sandwich I had made for him. My stomach churned just looking at it. God, I was still so hungry. But I couldn't. No. Forbidden. Law.
"Who called?" I asked, trying to take my mind off the inviting sandwich bit in Jake's hands.
Jake's POV:
I couldn't tell her that it was another threatening message from the anonymous sicko. I felt my pulse in every part of my body because I was so still.
"Oh just my manager. Sorry, urgent stuff." Miley nodded.
Miley seemed to gobble that up quick, seeing it was easily believable for her. After all, she was Hannah Montana.
We cleaned up our mess in the kitchen, sort of making out at the same time. Multi-tasking.
I checked my phone again. Almost ten already? Wow.
"Jake, do you want to go out for a walk on the beach? Promise, no one will see us. My dad's not home. He never is nowadays. Neither is Jackson. Worst, we'll put on disguises. I've got loads of wigs collected from Halloween. It's huge in my family," Miley explained, breaking away from a kiss and leaning against my chest.
"Sure." NO. I was definitely not okay with this. Surely, someone would see us.
"Great!" Miley's face looked so happy that I just couldn't resist. Miley disappeared into her room, and then appeared again with wigs for each of us. I noticed that she was wearing an over-sized hooded solid-gray sweatshirt. Strands of her brown hair still poked out from under her hood. Miley stuffed the wigs into her pocket, and excitedly pulled me by my wrist on the beach.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Miley marveled, looking up at the pitch-black sky. Stars popped out at you and they all looked like little pearls and diamonds. They twinkled.
I found that I couldn't say anything. Miley kicked off her flip-flops and leaned into me. I put my arm around her, and squeezed her. Miley laughed as she slid her toes into the frosty blue water. I laughed too, and kissed her. She kissed back with obvious delight.
"I love you," Miley giggled and kissed me again. She splashed her hands and kicked the water into mini ripples. She looked up at me and grinned proudly like a toddler who had just finished a "beautiful" drawing a.k.a. scribbles.
I smiled, but I was still worrying inside. What if the murder killed Miley? I didn't even want to think about it.
At last, after walking a while, I sat down and Miley collapsed on top of me. We both lied down on the smooth sand, peering up at the stars. I put my arm around her protectively, and Miley approvingly smiled. We were quiet. We kissed a little, stared at each other a little, and we looked at the stars. Sometimes, you don't need to talk to your girlfriend to have some sort of connection. We could just read each other's minds.
"I'm never leaving you. Ever. I just want you to know that," Miley broke the silence.
I pulled her closer to me and kissed her passionately, as if it were the last kiss I'd ever give her.
"Me either. I don't even care how mushy we are. It's not like I try to. I just love you."
Miley laughed again. We made out like that for a little and then stopped to check out the stars and point out constellations.
"There's Pegasus. See? You sort of have to connect the dots…" I explained to Miley. I expected her to giggle, but she didn't. I heard sniffles.
"Miley?" I looked at her. She tried to smile, but it was so fake and forced that it turned into a frown rather quickly. I pulled her hood off of her head. She scooped up all of her hair in a bundle and left it on one of her shoulders to sit.
"Are you ok—" I started.
"Yes! Okay? I'm fine! Quit it! Okay?" Miley hastily tried to wipe an escaping tear but her hand was trembling so furiously that it just kept riding down her cheek. I wiped it for her. She pressed her lips together and blankly looked up, trying not to cry. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and scrunched them into her fists.
Without warning, she sat up and supported herself with her arms outstretched behind her. She stared far out into the sea. The moment I sat up as well, she threw her arms around me and slipped into my embrace, fitting perfectly, like a last puzzle piece.
"Shhh…" I calmed her, stroking her hair. Miley was shaking so much and so violently in my arms that even that easy task was a challenge.
Miley's POV:
Tears blurred my vision. My hands shook so much that I couldn't even clear them away.
I felt hidden and safe in Jake's arms. He kissed the top of my head.
"Miles? You want to talk about it?" Jake whispered into my ear.
Truth was, I did. But…maybe he was thinking the same thing? Hmm. Who knew? It was worth the shot.
I couldn't see Jake's face that entirely well because it was so dark, but I felt his lips and his eyes and I knew where he was.
"Jake, no matter how brave I may look on the outside…well, basically, I'm terrified of that murder," I whispered, ashamed. I buried my head into Jake as far as I could. His warm breath sent shivers down my neck.
"Me too, Miley. But we're in it together. He's going to have to kill me first if he wants to get to you. And if he kills you, I'll kill myself."
"No Jake! If I get killed then I want you to just live your happy life. I love you, and I don't want you to risk so much for me. It's sweet, but really," I breathed.
Jake's embrace tightened around me.
"Are you kidding? There's no reason to live if you're not living with me. I'd be miserable without you. Not what you want is it? And yeah, I would risk my life for you. I'd die for you."
"But what the hell would I do without you, Jakey? I'd be dead miserable and depressed. I need you to survive. I'd just kill myself."
Jake smiled mischievously in response, and I smiled back with a matching grin.
We suddenly started to kiss intensely. We had never kissed like this before. It was so different. But I liked it. It was so nice. Eventually, we were rolling on top of each other. It was too gross to even write down what we were doing.
I pulled away, scared.
"Jake. Can we slow down? Sorry. I'm sort of paranoid," I muttered, "But that was amazing, Jake. Different and indescribable."
Jake breathed heavily, and we sat up.
"Maybe we should leave. It's probably really late," Jake said, obviously disappointed that we'd stopped. He helped me up and escorted me to my door.
"Wow again, Jake. Thanks so much. I can really talk to you. You're so different from everyone else, and not just because you're a famous actor. You know that I'd love you no matter what, right? I don't want to jump to conclusions, and I'm definitely not breaking up with you but…. If we ever do again…just know that really, I'm never ever going to stop loving you. I know we're young, but I just can't help feeling what I'm feeling," I said in a little unprepared speech.
"Same," Jake laughed, "Love you. I'll call you, okay? Remember, we can't go in public anywhere…and don't tell a soul. I love you, Miles." He kissed me deeply before walking away into the dark night. Actually, it might have already been morning.
Okay, if Dad was there, I was in deep trouble. Get ready for the blow, Miley…
I stepped into the kitchen. I froze.
Dad was there, his hair tousled and his face worried.
He was leaning over the counter, and a fresh batch of fudge brownies was next to him.
"Wha…?" I asked speechlessly. And then sounding like Jackson, I was surprised to hear this come from my mouth, "Who died?"
"Your Aunt Betsy. She had a heart attack. She was your mother's favorite sister."
"O-oh," I said, a lump forming in my throat.
Dad didn't seem to notice what time it was. I ran into my room. I dug for my secret stash of food. I ate everything, and anything.
Who cared how much I would gain? No one would care! And no one cared now. How could they care about this little thing if they didn't even care about bigger stuff? No one cared about me. Who was I eating well for? No one. I could pig out if I wanted. I could steal a car if I wanted. I could smoke if I wanted. I could runaway and hitchhike all over the country and no one would care.
Without thinking, I stuffed everything into my mouth. I even accidentally chewed on a sleeve of one of my shirts.
Thoughts ran through my mind like racehorses, all at once.
I could be number one on the Most Wanted list if I wanted. I could be a drug dealer if I wanted and no one would care.
I was the very last thing one everyone's minds these days. Everyone besides Jake, I mean. It was a pitiful thought just to think that only one person in the whole world cared for her. I felt so alone and insecure all of a sudden. I just wanted to scream and cry and throw a storming fit. Everything in my life was wrong.
It angered me like hell that my father didn't care I was home at one in the morning. I didn't care if I would get in trouble. I just wanted to know if my preoccupied father even had any ounce of respect for me anymore.
The new feeling of being unwanted and lonely surged through me like an electric shock and sunk in fast. I was eating so fast that I got dizzy. Tears fell on the piece of licorice I was eating, making it salty.
Usually I didn't have the heart to make myself vomit, but this time, I wanted to terribly. Worse than ever. I sprinted into my bathroom, shut the door, and surprisingly, without evening using anything, I puked all over the toilet. It just barely made it in.
Who cared if I died like that friend of the pen pal girl I emailed? No one would care. Including me.
I breathed in and out, my heart beating in my chest like a drum. My throat hurt and my eyes watered. I clutched my stomach and threw up again, and this time I aimed better.
My throat was throbbing, my head felt like a hammer was thumping against it, and my sight was poor from all the tears clogged up in my eyes.
I coughed, and blood oozed out from my mouth into the toilet. I yelled curse words aloud to no one in particular, knowing my father wouldn't hear. And if he did, he wouldn't care. What was he so busy about anyways? My father had relied on his kids. Not anymore.
It was unbelievably hard not to cry. Everything hurt. Everything. Even my hair hurt.
I leaned helplessly over the toilet, throwing up once more.
Face the facts, Pop Teen Sensation Hannah Montana. No one likes you. No one cares. You might as well kill yourself, and no one's going to care, let alone realize. And you might as well kill yourself now seeing as that murderer is going to get you anyway. No one even likes Hannah Montana anymore. She's old and history. What do you have to live for? You're a waste of space and time and money. And you know that I'm so true.
I tried to ignore the devilish voice in the back of her head, but I couldn't. It was so true. It was. I banged my head against the hard sink, over and over again. I was so angry and lonely that I didn't even feel the pain or see the blood, red as murder.
A/N: I may do a Q & A at the end, seeing as this is sorta confusing and people have been asking things. The murderer will be revieled, promise.