A/N: As always, I'm a review whore and I need some lovin'. Sorry if there are spelling errors and whatnot, I wrote this up at four in the morning again, that seems to be when I do my best writing apparently, and I'm too tired to proofread, so deal. I'm hungry for feedback, so please feed me, it makes me update faster.
Disclaimer: Random lines from BtVS, Smallville, and American Pie 2 scattered about. Bonus points if you can guess which ones.
Lying on my bed, I drawing patterns on the bedspread absently with my forefinger. Ihave to keep blinking because I'm starting to see your face in the whorles of thread. Maybe if I keep tracing the blanket, I'll remember what your skin felt like under my fingertips. It pisses me off to no end that I wasn't sober enough to remember everything that happened that night. I remember little things, here and there, but it's kind of hazy. A lot of it's come back to me, but I want to remember every second. And I can't even talk to anybody about it. Lucas or Nathan or even Jake would be far too aroused to offer any useful advice, or coherent words for that matter. Karen would probably go all judgemental-mom on me. Haley is an option, but I'm scared to tell anyone because I'm worried that if I try I'll just scream every detail of your bare body against mine. And we can't have that now can we?
I have no idea what you're thinking about all this. Seeing as it's the weekend I don't even get to see you at school. I thought about calling again, but I think eighteen messages in two hours might be bordderline stalker-esque. Plus I don't want to come off too needy. Even though I am. A little attention isn't really too much to ask is it? I mean, you don't just sleep with a person you've known forever and see on a daily basis, and then never call them again. Well, maybe you do, but I'm not that nerd from sixth grade who left for the summer and came back hot; I'm your best friend. That should afford some exceptions to your "Get Some and Get Gone" policy, don't you think? I can feel my eyes welling up again as I mull this over for the millionth time tonight.
And then there came a rapping, a rapping at my chamber door. "Knock, knock," you say, as if the act of knocking won't sufice.
I roll over and sit up. I look at the floor, my bed, my hands. Mostly my hands. Anywhere but you.
"I know I said I was gonna call, but I was in the neighborhood so..." You look about as awkward as I feel.
The silence weighs more than I do and it suddenly feels colder in here.
"Look I was never one for ignoring two-ton elephants, so--"
"How am I a two-ton elephant?" I'm not sure if you're serious or if you're joking to lighten the mood. I opt for the latter.
"Brooke, you've been avoiding me, and I don't get why. Well, I mean, I have a pretty good idea--"
"I'm not avoiding you, I'm kind of avoiding everything. I have a lot going on right now. Both my parents are home and that's about as much fun as a high-colonic inTijuana, so I haven't really had time to deal with...stuff."
"Don't you think we should talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"We slept together, Brooke!" And I'm up from the bed, all flailing hands and tight, squeaky voice.
"Yeah, I know, I was there. I just don't see a whole Oprah disscussion coming from it. It wasn't a big deal."
"How can you say that it wasn't a big deal?" This is what a knife in the heart must feel like.
"Look, Peyton, we were drunk. I was horny...you were just helping me out. It's not like it meant anything." And it's like you keep twisting the handle, because I know you're serious.
At this point I'm trying so hard not to cry, I don't have the energy to respond. Not that I could, mind you. The lump in my throat is restricting my oxygen intake, so forming words is unfathomable to me right now. My brain can't compute the fact that you're actually doing this to me. I can't believe that you would hurt me like this. But it's not you're fault, you don't know that you're breaking my heart. How can you if I haven't told you?
I must have sat down at some point because I'm back on the bed. You're next to me going on about how we should've known better, that maybe it was a mistake. We shouldn't have messed with our friendship like that. All I hear is mistake and friendship playing over and over in my head like a broken record. I clamp my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut so I can try and pretend that you aren't actually saying these words to me, but I only manage to free some tears and give myself a headache. You notice this and ask what I'm doing, why I'm crying. I can't answer because I don't want you to know now. You put a hand on my shoulder and ask again.
"God, don't you get it!" I scream. You jump back three feet.
"Get what? Peyton, what is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me! What's wrong with you, Brooke! We've been best friends for how long? One night you're horny and you just decide to use me to get off. You don't even consider what that would do to me or us for that matter. All you cared about was yourself, I knew you could be self-involved but I had no idea your were that selfish. Did you even think about how it would make me feel?"
"Pretty damn good, apparently, I didn't get any complaints. So don't start with me, you and I both know you wanted it," you seethe through your teeth.
"You are unbelievable! I'm not just one of your fuck-buddies you can whore around with whenever--" you slapped me. You slap me so hard I bit my tongue. Then you paled and apologized, again and again.
"Get out," I say this more to the floor than to you.
"Peyton--"
"Go!" I'm shaking really hard and not even trying to stop the tears anymore. You leave without another word and I'm bawling like I did when Dad told me Mom died.
About an hour later I'm all cried out. I'm watching the clock, counting each second as the minute pass. I can't believe how bad we've fucked us up. I never should have let you get so far, but you were right. I wanted it. I wanted you. I wanted you so bad, I could could taste you. And I wanted so badly to taste you. I should have known better. I've seen how you treat the guys you hook up with, what made me think I was any different? I used to wonder what all those uys had that I didn't, why you always went to them instead of me. They didn't care about you like I did. They didn't want to love you like I do. They never wanted to make love to you, they just wanted to srew you senseless. And I never understood why you let them.
But I think I get it now. It wasn't about love or commitment with them. It was about feeling raw and passionate and uninhibited. It was about feeling. That's why you let them have their way with you. That's why you probably let them make it hurt. Because even if you're feeling pain, at least you're feeling something. I don't feel anything right now, all I feel is numb.
When the phone rings at 12:58 I almost don't hear it even though it's less than a foot from my head. I'm content to let it ring untill I remember that the tape is full so the answering machine won't pick up and the phone will just ring...
I grab the reciever, push talk, and put it up to my ear. I don't bother to say hello.
There's just sobbing on the other line and I bolt upright because I know these cries.
"Brooke?" I say.
Your response is whining through tears and all I can make out is, "Peyton...I need you."
I'm already up and stepping into my sneakers. More sniffling and crying and I tell you I'm on my way before hanging up. I grab my car keys and I'm out the door in all of seven seconds. You've bitched at me and smacked me in the face and yet I'm still at your beck and call at one o'clock in the morning. Hell, you could probably shoot me in the chest but I'd leave the hospital and come running; in a paper gown with the I.V.line still in my arm. I'm actually picturing this as I speed the last three miles to your house.
I park in the driveway and barely turn off the engine before jumping out of the car. Then I unbuckle my seatbelt and try again. I don't knock, I just step through the door. I call your name a few times and wonder briefly if your parents are home, but decide against it. I hear you crying in the dining room.
I stop in my tracks when I find you. The dining room is a mess. There are broken dishes, glasses, silverware on the floor. As well as what looks like dinner. There's what appears to be wine spilled all over the place and the table cloth is in dissaray and actually looks burnt where the candles tipped over. Even one over the bulbs in the chandelier is broken. You're huddled in the corner between the china cabinet and the wall, your face covered in tears, and your bare feet and hands covered in blood, pressumably from walking across the glass.
I rush over to you and the broken dishware crackles under my feet. I kneel down in front of you and you jump as soon as I touch you. That's when I get a good look at the gash on the side of your forehead. The blood from the cut is all over one cheek and matted in your hair and realize that must be where the blood on your hands come from.
"Oh, Brooke..." you're shaking so badly and hurting so much, I have to will myself not to cry.
"I fell," you mumble weakly. I slip an arm around your waist and try to get you to stand. But your feet touch the floor and you wince and fall back into my arms. Right, the glass.
I take your arms and wrap them around my neck, grabbing your waist with one arm and your legs with the other, I pick you up and head towards the stairs.
"Peyton," you breathe into my neck as I carry you to the bathroom.
I set you down gently on the toilet seat and start the shower. You're muttering explanaitions and exscuses but I can't hear most of them because you can barely whisper. I hush you and help you out of your clothes, assuring you that you can tell me in the morning. After we've cleaned you up and bandaged the cut, I help you to your bedroom and into some pajamas. Your still shaking, but at least you've stopped crying.
"Where are you going?" you ask worriedly after I tuck you in and head for the door.
"I was going to clean up downstairs."
"Don't. Can you stay with me?" You don't ask this, you beg. So pleading, it breaks my heart a little more.
"Of course." I climb in next to you, and no sooner am I under the covers than you're settling against me. Arms around my waist and your head pillowed under mine. You're holding me so tight it almost hurts. I don't know whether to smile or cry. I've never seen you like this, it scares me a little. But I like that I get to take care of you.
"I'm so sorry, Peyton," you say into my collarbone.
"You've apologized, it's forgotten."
"No, not about slapping you." You clear your throat before continuing, your voice is raspy from all the crying. "I mean, I am sorry about slapping you, but I meant about the other night."
"Brooke, we can worry about everything tomorrow."
"No. Because I lied to you. When I said it didn't mean anything? I lied."