Horizon
— O —
2008 January, Boston.
The click of the lock quietly signaled her presence back in the pleasant warmth of the house, not that anyone was close enough to actually listen. Or cared, for that matter.
Sore feet slid out of slightly worn footwear and into a pair of sinfully fluffy, comfy slippers that had her closing her eyes and sighing softly, her neck rolling around with the slightest pop-pop-pop that hurt just a little but felt too good to make the effort of breaking the habit.
Another sigh, and she stopped basking in the comfort that her hundred dollar slippers brought her, turning around and marching onwards into the opulent house. Not her house, the.
It didn't feel like a home anymore, not really.
Not since Reggie started ignoring her.
She had noticed months ago how he seemed more… subdued. More dim - not in wits, mind you, but in everything else. He stopped staying so much with his friends, with his circle of hanger-ons – she did resent him a little bit for the attention he received – always ready to please the prodigal son of a family that had a successful businessman and a scheming socialite at its head. He stopped going out of the house, the open air activities he always was so proud to brag and poke her about petered out and then stopped altogether.
He stopped going out of his room if it wasn't something entirely necessary, like eating or going to the bathroom, barely engaging in the verbal sparring matches Mother oh-so-loved to have with him every time she could, even when he so obviously hated it.
He stopped being a brother to her. He stopped caring, and started acting; doing anything with her or simply passing time together just when she asked for it, and no more than was strictly necessary. And even then, she had to carefully, methodically scoop out of him any and all conversation she wanted to have, be it inane chatter or serious questions.
And wasn't that the issue. That he no longer cared, no longer viewed her as her sister but an obstacle in his way to spend the day in bed for the thousandth time in complete silence.
She tried. Scion knew that she tried, but she couldn't be there for him when the only thing he did was pushing her away. She couldn't help him with whatever had him acting like that if he didn't talk to her.
Mother and Father weren't much help, if any. They didn't notice anything wrong, they said. Reg is just more mature, they assured her.
But she knew something was wrong, she just didn't know what, exactly. It was driving her up the wall a little bit more each day, fraying up her nerves and shooting down her mood every time she tried to disentangle the knot of frustration that was Reginald.
Quiet thunks followed in the wake of her path to her bedroom upstairs; almost completely isolated, spacious, ventilated, and most of all, hers. She didn't quite have a lock she could put there – not originally, anyway. Finding one of those plastic locks you could put up and tore down as-needed wasn't all that hard, especially not in a city like Boston.
She felt pleasantly surprised at the lack of surprises. That is, Mother or Father suddenly materializing behind her to drag her off by the ear and chatter her brain into mush gossiping about this gala or that, this rich asshole or another, or worse, her dating prospects.
She felt faintly sick at the thought of her parents marrying her off to someone in exchange for capital – be it political or economical. Something told Sarah that the fact that she didn't know with any type of certainty if they would do it to her if presented the opportunity should invoke something worse than vague unease, but she knew her parents too well to feel anything more than slight disgust and the all too common disappointment.
The soft click or her door closing was the signal she needed to truly relax once home, shoulders slumping forward and a sigh fleeing her lips.
She left her schoolbag at the foot of the computer chair, wheels creaking slightly with age once she sat down suddenly, sprawling and stretching atop it like a pleased cat – another habit too laborious to break.
The burn of stretched muscles faded, and she thumbed the power button of the slightly shiny desktop PC, fans humming to life and picking up a bit of speed before settling in the pleasant background noise she had come to associate with comfort.
Deft fingers moved across the keyboard once the system was booted. She opened her browser and clicked on the small icon that brought Sarah to her favourite place in the net – now even more that Reggie decided to ignore her entire existence.
She didn't want to resent him, she really did not, but he made it so hard…
She sighed and reclined back in her chair, waiting for the site to load up already so she wasn't staring blankly at an empty page with a little hourglass doing circles, and circles, and circles…
Finally, it loaded completely, the bold font greeting her like an old friend, link before link presenting her with a myriad of options for her entertainment, from serious discussions on cape powers and fights and advice on various things to the silliest memes imaginable, from wardrobe malfunctions to the most deep-fried, illegible bullshit.
«You have logged on as 'EyeSea'»
But the real reason…
«Message received from Bookwyrm95»
…was that.
Sarah smiled the first genuine smile of the day. Yes, she may have a brother that ignored her, parents that measured how much they loved her by the money or prestige she could bring in on the future or a gaggle of self-proclaimed friends at school that only really wanted access to her brother, but she did also have a friend – someone to talk to, vent without worry and gossip as much as she liked. Someone that didn't see the Livsey name, but her. Sarah, just Sarah.
As her friend began to chatter away about the new Ward in her city – Clock-something? – the smile spreaded and her previously stormy mood cleared little by little.
Yes, Sarah said to herself, for the moment, all was good.
— O —
2008 October, Boston.
Everything was horribly, horribly wrong.
Well, not everything per se, but something. She didn't know what, exactly, and it was gnawing at her brain like a particularly abused dog that just wouldn't let go of its favourite toy without a fight.
The last message from her friend had been weeks ago, and in her desperation she had filled her – Sarah was sure Bookwyrm was a she – inbox with dozens of messages, from concerned to nervous to pleading to begging, which drove her to the last message she had sent the last night, not knowing what more she could say, what more she could do.
«I'm sorry. Please be okay.»
Was it something she said? Did she let something slip through and now Bookwyrm had figured her out? Figured out who she was and the circles her parents navigated?
Had she scared her? Pissed her off?
Honestly, she preferred if her friend told her directly that she didn't want to talk to her anymore. She preferred it to this agonizing wait that was driving her up the wall with worry and dread in equal parts pooling in her stomach and blending her insides in a concerning mix that made her want to puke.
She was about to close the forum for the day when a faint chime made her gaze snap to the inbox tab, seeing a faint red [1] there made her inwardly cheer and sigh with naked relief.
She clicked the message, prepared to ask one and a million questions at the drop of a hat.
She stopped cold.
Bookwyrm95: I'm sorry.
Sorry? Sorry for what? She didn't understand, and before she could type anything, she received another message.
Bookwyrm95: I'm sorry for ghosting you
Bookwyrm95: it's just. Well.
It took two minutes for her to send another message, time that Sarah spent in a war with herself, incapable of deciding if she should send a message herself or just wait until her friend was done speaking. She was starting to type when another chime came in.
Bookwyrm95: i was at mom's funeral the other day
She grimaced deeply. She hadn't lost anyone particularly closer to her, at least not since grandpa died when she was six, but that was a long time ago – enough time to heal and dull the memory, blunt the edge of the pain.
This? This had to be pure agony – not simply a wound, but a tear in her psyche; jagged, bleeding, and still oh so very raw.
Bookwyrm95: and
Bookwyrm95: i'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you this
Bookwyrm95: I'm sorry. I'll just go
No! No, no no no!
She couldn't let her go like this, not now that she knew the answer to her questions, even if that answer had hurt. There she had been, speculating about what she had done, when it was something completely unrelated. Typical Sarah, self centered to a fault.
EyeSea: No! Don't!
EyeSea: I'm not mad or anything, I swear. I was worried about you.
EyeSea: I thought something had happened to you or something
Something had happened to her, dumbass. Stop putting your feet in your mouth. Her fingers felt jittery for some reason and she couldn't stop squirming in her seat.
EyeSea: I mean. Something bad
Sarah you absolute buffoon.
EyeSea: I'm sorry. I'll shut up now.
She put her hands in her face, covering her eyes and cheeks and desperately trying not to claw at her own face like the absolute moron she was.
Ping. She separated her fingers, uncovering only her eyes and dreading what she would find in the screen of her computer.
A threat? A goodbye? Her IP address and fifteen different ways she would die in her sleep?
It was none of that.
She found a smiley face blankly staring at her, it's animated body bouncing up and down in a never-ending cycle.
Bookwyrm95: thank you. for caring
A relieved chuckle tore itself from Sarah's throat. She hadn't fucked up. Well, she had, but it looked like it didn't matter to the other girl.
Bookwyrm95: I'm Taylor
Her fingers were moving before she could tell them to stop and think about internet security and identity theft and all those little classes they had received at school about scary people on the net.
She didn't stop them.
EyeSea: Sarah. I'm Sarah
She didn't dare say that things were good, but they were going. At least, she still had her friend, and that's what mattered.