Bonjour mes amis! I am so so so soooo sorry this chapter took so long. It was complicated to write and also the first chapter that really had anything to do with the development of a plot.
Disclaimer: Not a Meg. Not a Cabot. Not a Meg Cabot. Not a cat person.
I have also decided to use this chapter to respond to my reviewers. I didn't do this earlier because a). I didn't have time b). I have bad personal skills and c). It used to annoy me when writers took up half the story to thank the people who reviewed and you thought you were reading a ten page update when really, you were only reading five paragraphs.
But it's the fourth chapter now and I just got my first acknowledgement as a reviewer in a story that I reviewed so now I have new faith. These acknowledgements will incorporate any questions or comments that might have been made over the past three chapters – if those questions have not been answered already.
Mrs. Nikki Slater: Thanks. And no, we don't want to kill Paul, we love Paul! Paul is just a little slow when it comes to…. almost everything not pertaining to himself. Lol, and I don't plan on incorporating Gina in this story. It won't be that complex. But it was a cool idea.
White Destiny: Thank you for the compliment. The story was a little slow to start. I just had this idea of "… I can't believe he saw us" mulling around in my head and one night – while watching Jay Leno for some reason – I just sat down and wrote it. Of course half of the original was eaten by my computer but…yeah…thanks again.
Special Thanks to: Katie, Kate – you two might be the same ppl, both were unsigned so just to be sure, I'll thank both – Tangopepperoni, moo, Blank Expression, Loves It, Suze Madison, and Addy.
Pixie Pam: Thank you thank you! I wanted it to feel deep, almost too deep because I find one of my weaknesses in writing is not going deep enough – I realize that sounds incredibly wrong out of context. So I wrote and posted this mainly to practice adding depth to my character's feelings. I'm glad people are noticing. That first chapter is my favorite too.
Starrynightdreamer: I LOVE long reviews! You rule! I thank your fingers greatly for their exemplary typing efforts! I loved the idea of putting a mark on her lip. It's her lips that have caused her so much pain emotionally. It made sense to me for them to have a physical pain as well. They're a metaphor for her actions. I think its my favorite piece of imagery in this story – sad huh, a split lip causes me this much joy. But it deforms Suze's face and she says how much of an important reminder it is yet she covers it up with make up – I know they hurt like a b!tch! I had wicked chapped lips right before my Christmas concert from playing outside at all those football games. Right after the concert it split and bled – really gross, my reed was red. I've never actually seen an episode of Wonder Woman, but I'm active in promoting women's rights – I DO shave my legs though. I was shooting for the Steps of Grief. They are: . As far as Jesse and Suze's relationship goes I guess somewhere in Haunted. They have kissed. And they both know subconsciously that they each have feelings for each other. But Jesse is still being a prude, lol. You will soon find out how Jesse knew where to find her. I'm quite happy with myself b/c I couldn't come up with a reason until recently.
Cheezit: So nice of you to ask for more, and to review for each chapter. I wrote the part about what happened between Suze and Paul as detailed as I could get. However, you don't know the WHOLE story yet. Yes, she saw a glimmer, but she did not stop because of that. I will leave you with this: '…its probably not what you think….', of course I don't know what you think so I could be wrong.
The indestructible shelbs/Shelbina the great: Umm..of course I want the coffee! I LOVE the coffee. COFFEE is wonderful! Coffee is my bestest friend – sorry Kristen – hehehehe. Coffee is the only thing that assures me your mother and I are related!Anyways…All the 'he's' in the first chapter were supposed to be sketchy. I didn't want you to know who she did what with and who was mad at her until the very end of the chapter. Now, I'm sure you and your smart little brain can figure it out. Yes, the plot line is unclear because it was unclear in my head. As we know, almost everything is unclear in my head. But now my little freckled friend, it is perfectly clear. Clear as the tears pouring from Gus's eyes when you said I couldn't give him a sweater as a Christmas present (for those of you unaware, Gus is a dog). For some reason now I REALLY want a pair of brass knuckles…whispers my birthday is in 29 days! Hint hint! Yes, Suze would get angry because she always got angry in the books anyways. That's why her mom sent her to all those therapists because she had 'anger management issues'. I still have my Furby – I have detatchment issues…no, mom, no - you can't put my Tie-Dye Doodle Bear in the yard sale…MOM! Anyways, I have a name for you and I will post it here because you barely answer my emails: Iluvfroggy…or depending on what mood you're in: Iluvducky!
Go be Smab darling…tres Smab!
Now here it is!
"Mom," I spoke into the pay phone, winding the cord tightly around my fist. The brass knuckles were still looped on my fingers, pumping volumes of power in my veins. There was a smudge of gum or some other unidentified substance on the window of the phone booth. I wanted to smash it, the window, the gum, and my life. Mostly I just wanted to hit something.
"Susie?" Mom answered me. I could tell she was shushing someone in the background. It sounded like Andy, "Honey where did you go after school?"
I held back a snigger. Where did I go after school? I didn't even GO to school. Ha! School is just beyond me. I am a rebel. I had no regards for rules! That's right mom, I am living life on the wild side. Look out Carmel!
I don't know why I found this entertaining; I was lying to my mother again and fighting an overwhelming urge to shove my fist through a glass window. "I went over CeeCee's house. We got this last minute project and I need to stay over tonight to finish it. Is that okay?" Apparently my lie making skills were moving developing very quickly. Before, when I used to cut class, I never made up an excuse – I just did it.
My voice came out with a forced happiness. My winding of the cord got tighter and my fingers where slowly turning purple. She was going to notice. How could she not hear right through my fake plans and realize that I was lying? This was all way too easy. My mother was a pro at lie detecting.
"Oh, okay honey," she seemed to be contemplating the factors, "Do you have clothes and anything else you might need? Do you want me to drive a few things over to CeeCee's house?"
"No," I inserted loudly, "That's fine. Cee will let me borrow some of her clothes. We just really want to finish this project on time." Funny how I use school as an excuse for skipping school. Well, at least skipping going home from school and…yeah, I'm making no sense.
"Okay," she spoke slowly. She must be catching on. There was no way she could miss this. I wasn't exactly the prodigal child. I was known for breaking the rules where school and nighttime outings where involved. Usually they also involved the police. However, my mom had been raising Brad for the past year and a half. Perhaps her scale of judgment where I'm concerned had been thrown due to Brad's complete lack of ability to be trusted. "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow after school, then. Sleep well."
"Good night," I said, astonished as she hung up. I never thought I'd see the day when I'd get away with ditching school AND lying about where I was spending the night. Talk about luck. Of course, luck always came for me at the worst times. Never when I really needed it.
I hadn't told CeeCee any of this, of course. I just had to hope that Mom wouldn't be calling her house for anything. As long as that didn't happen, there was no reason why CeeCee needed to know that I had lied about spending the night at her house. It was a pretty good story if I do say so myself.
I banged my way out of the phone booth, over to a wooden fence lining the sidewalk. BAM! My fist shot forward and forced the brown colored wood of the fence to part and make way for the unbreakable brass knuckles. By know my fingers where scratched and splintered. The fence now had a lovely jagged hole when I pulled my fist out.
BAM! I made another hole. I could keep going, making one hole for everything that was wrong in my life, resulting in quite an interesting polka-dotted fence. But I didn't. I found a huge garbage dumpster at the end of the sidewalk in a small parking lot. All that green (A/N: I'm talking about those huge industrial bins for garbage that the big trucks have to lift up with machines. In Massachusetts at least, they are always green). BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
And then I was running. I was speeding, careening, dashing and darting between people, around benches, past cars. I was sprinting across streets, tearing up hills, and forcing myself the rush through throngs of shoppers and passer-byers. My knuckles stung, my feet were soar. I hadn't run this much in a long time. But I had to.
Suddenly it all became too much for me. I saw my hand go through the wood and realized exactly what I'd been reduced to. My anger was controlling me. It was making me do things I didn't want to do, things that seemed to be the only way of coping with the pain. They say when you have a headache, or something hurts you, if you create a new pain, a bigger wound or deeper cut, that will cancel out the feeling of the first pain. I saw it on House.
But punching a fence wasn't going to make my pain go away. It wouldn't bring Jesse back. It wouldn't solve any of my problems. It just made my hand hurt.
Now I was lying on the beach, hidden in the small cluster of rocks where I fought the RLS Angels less than a year ago. The last thing I can recall is knocking the shit out of that Furby, and then leaving dent holes in a nearby garbage bin and fence. After that everything is just a blur as I ran through town, heading for the one place I knew I could find solitude.
I ended up here, having tripped down the narrow path and now lay, cradling my arm that had taken the brunt of the fall. Why was I so stupid? Why did I have to run down that hill when I knew I could barely see let alone negotiate a steep sandy decline?
But I was always stupid. Always had been, always will be.
The anger that had fueled me before was gone. It had evaporated like morning fog, laying on so thickly then burning away to nothing. I was dead tired. After such a rough sleep the night before and a mad sprint through the town, any energy that had previously existed in me was gone.
I spread my arms and legs out in the sand, feeling the tiny grains scrape gently against my skin and become tangled with my hair. The sand was cool, it was now nighttime. Somewhere in the sky there was a moon, but I couldn't see it. Either the high rocks on either side of me were blocking the view, or there simply was no moon tonight. Funny how that can happen. The light can just take a night off.
I always hated that salty sea smell. It was too fishy and made me gag. But tonight I found it calming, distracting the rest of my senses and allowing my throbbing head some peace. It was all just too much. This must be what people feel like before they have nervous breakdowns.
I was so tired. I could hear the ocean from where I was, lapping quietly at the shore. I closed my eyes, trying to pretend I was home in my bed, happy, sleepy, and well fed. As a single tear fell from my eye, I finally curled up, settled my breathing, and went to sleep.
Gray.
Everything was gray. The sky, the clouds, the building's side in front of me. The tombstone behind me. It was as if some mythological being had flown through the Mission Academy's east end and peeled all the color from the scene. It's a morbid thought really, slowly and painfully extracting the beauty from something. A star would not be as pretty if it was painted a dull slate color. A leaf would have no symbolic meaning if it weren't green and vibrant.
I was sitting on the ground at Jesse's grave, leaning against the tombstone I'd bought and engraved. Well, sure the Tombstone Sales Guy had done the actual engraving, but I was the one who came up with the words. And believe me, if you ever meet Tombstone Guy, you'd know he couldn't put a sentence together to save his life. I guess that's why he chisels rocks for a living.
After waking up on the beach to a dreary and fog covered morning I'd wiped my eyes, torn my gaze away from the ever superior grand Pacific, and made my way here. I don't know what made me come here. I suppose this was the closest to Jesse I could get without actually being in his arms.
…In his arms. I shuddered at the thought that I might never find myself there again. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them to me. My state of being was probably offensive. I hadn't showered. I smell. My hair is either sticking straight out at random angles or hanging onto my scalp by a thread. My clothes have somehow changed color due to excessive dirt. I hadn't seen my face in hours but whatever make-up I'd applied had most likely rubbed off my skin a long time ago.
I ran my tongue over my split lip subconsciously again and again. There was no lipstick left. I knew that. The cut was swollen, most likely pussy and hurt like hell. Adding my own saliva to the mixture didn't help. But it made me feel better. I was being punished. At least there was some natural order to my life.
I could hear faint sounds of learning coming from the school. It seemed so surreal. To be at school, but not really being there. The only part of me capable of learning was somewhere else at the moment. Actually, that portion of my brain had been on hiatus for a long time because if I were capable of learning from my mistakes I wouldn't have done what I did with Paul.
That was the first tear. God, if I hated crying before, I loathed it now. As if I wasn't vulnerable enough, not detached enough, I had to be crying again. In addition to being able to speak to the dead, I must have the supernatural ability to produce vast amounts of tears. People on Soap Operas didn't do this much crying. Johnny Depp's heartthrob performance of Cry Baby didn't involve this much waterworks - Well, actually, he barely cried at all. But the point is I should have moved on from crying and graduated to another form of emotional exertion by now.
Whoever said 'be careful what you wish for' should be canonized and have a country named after them. Because different forms of emotional exertion can come in the most unwanted ways.
Of course, I didn't notice him until he was standing less than four feet away from me – much too close for my liking – I was busy biting what was left of my nails and silently pouring out my overwhelming supply of saltwater.
"Suze?" Something snapped in my head. It wasn't just my neck twisting with amazing reflexes to the direction of the sound, but there was a chemical reaction going off inside. A toxic mixture of fear, anger, and shock began approaching boiling temperature. That catalyst for that reaction was the sound of my name, spoken by –
"Paul," I barely got the word out. It was more like a breath of air exhaled in fear from my mouth while my broken lips formed the word in shock. I blinked, several times. I was dreaming – no, not dreaming. I was having a nightmare. This was not happening. He was not standing in front of me now. I was not looking at the boy I had allowed to transport me to place I thought so wonderful only for him to dump me back in reality to face the life-ending consequences alone.
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. I could see his eyes taking in my appearance. Yeah, I don't exactly look like the student council nominee you slobbered over two days ago, do I? This is the secret side of feminism that women go to great lengths to hide from the male portion of the population: no make-up, no styling products, covered in dirt, and crying.
I am failure, I know. Let's not rub it in.
But his face as he took in the sight before him repulsed me. At first he seemed okay, happy almost to find me here. Then he looked, for lack of better term, disgusted. What RIGHT did he have to be disappointed at my appearance? It was not my job to please him. Shallow wouldn't come close to describing Paul. Apparently, he only liked the super model/Barbie reincarnations/painted to perfection girls.
Well, I kind of knew that already.
But it still hurt. I knew the thoughts I'd had of him while we were in his room were false and foolish, but being reassured of the errors in my thinking by watching Paul's face fall to almost one of embarrassment just ignited something in my mind.
Paul had taken enough of my dignity. He'd stolen my heart, pulled my pride and morals right out of me and stomped on them. He'd caused me enough trouble. He was NOT going to make me feel even lower than I felt right then – if that was even possible, which it probably wasn't. But let's just go with it for now.
Instead of voicing my thoughts of outrage I remained quiet, still hiccupping through tears that did not come with an off switch. I tried to further my shifting abilities by melding through the tombstone behind me. Anything to get away from him since my legs had obviously taken a vacation.
When that didn't work I bit my lip and did my best to remain silent, praying that there was some chance of success in the 'ignore him and he'll go away' plan of action. But when had that plan ever worked with Paul?
I stared at the sky, the trees, anywhere but at him. What was he doing he here? Did he not know how horrible the sight of him made me feel? I suppose he probably didn't. When he dropped me off at my house I certainly hadn't given him any indication that I hated his guts. Or, still hated his guts, since I had made that perfectly clear on numerous occasions before the events of two days ago.
I was desperately trying not to notice as he slowly approached me. It didn't work, because as his proximity to me got smaller I got smaller, shrinking back as far as I could go. He stopped when he noticed this. I heard him breath a frustrated sigh through his nose. It wasn't snotty or anything, just gave the impression that he was irritated.
"Is something wrong?" he asked cautiously, trying to catch my eyes. "You're lip is bleeding." I had my head turned away from him and my chin tucked low against my knees. I refused to look at him. If I did, I'm not sure what would happen. Why he noticed my lip I'm not sure. Although, he was probably looking in that general direction.
He sighed again, obviously not expecting my cold shoulder treatment. Well sorry Paul, I wasn't expecting to have my heart ripped out forty-eight hours ago. I could hear him shift his weight between feet, hands in his pockets no doubt as he tried to assess the situation and find a way to make it work for him.
Let him try.
"Look Suze," he spoke slowly, unsure of what to say. This was new. Paul always knew exactly what to say. "I…um,…you weren't in school yesterday and I was kind of …well, I wanted to talk to you about what happened at my house," he paused, realizing there would be response from me.
But Paul is not one to stand back and give up. No, he keeps pushing it until he gets his way. He's always adding more straws to the camel's back, just waiting for it to break. So he crouched down, squatting on his heels. He inched forward subtly, trying to get within my field of vision.
"Damn it Suze," he snapped. The outburst made me flinch, I'm sorry to say. I had hoped he could just stay quiet, but no…of course not. "What's wrong? I tried calling you. Your mom said you were at CeeCee's house. Then you don't show up for school, two days in a row, now you're ignoring me. Are you avoiding me? Is that it?"
Frustration and anger at his accusing tones made me turn my face to look at him. After taking in his now familiar curly brown hair styled to perfection, the buff arms that fit so well beneath his button down shirt, and hands that were paused mid air en route to me, I was shocked. There was something in his eyes.
Was that concern? Genuine concern from Paul Slater? No way, it's not possible! When Paul was a baby someone hot-wired his brain. Their actions ensured that Paul could never feel sympathy for another human being.
Ever.
So why was he looking at me like he was worried? Why were his lips parted in a slight 'O' of curiosity? Why was his left hand aiming towards my cheek, fingers cupped so they could gently caress my skin? Why did he appear honest, like he wanted to understand? Why did he look like he just wanted to hold me?
Probably so he could feel me up.
But why, then did he lean forward so he was on his knees, inches in front of me, and place a hand gently on my shoulder? Why did he take his free index finger and lift my chin so my eyes were forced to meet him? Why did I stop crying, just getting lost in his baby blues and suddenly want to tell him everything.
My tongue was so close to spilling out everything I'd done since I was last with Paul. I wanted him to know that Jesse knew. I wanted to tell him how lost and angry and hurt I was. For a split-second, I want him to hold me.
But when he lowered his head to kiss me and the grip on my shoulder tightened and I realized that all Paul would ever want is a pair of lips, every hopeful thought I'd had was gone. Everything blurred together, a mix of disappointment in myself and in Paul. I suddenly hated my mouth, hated the fact that I had lips and they never seemed to attract the people I wanted. Someone should just smash them off.
I should have known better than to think he was being nice. Why do I NEVER learn? Paul was the reason I was sitting on a grave crying my heart out, and I had thought I could trust him? Talk to him? Confide in him?
Someone must have hot-wired my brain as well. But when things finally snapped back together my eyes opened wide, my mouth found my tongue and I was screaming. "Get off me!" I roared, pushing him away and watching him fall backwards, rolling down the slight incline of Jesse's grave. "Get off me, get off me." I repeated my phrase, trying to make up for all the times I should have said it two days ago.
"What the-" Paul began, a shocked expression forming on his face.
I cut him off, yelling as loud as possible to be sure he heard me, "Stay away from me!" I was trying to stand up, slipping because my legs were shaking so badly. I grabbed onto the tombstone behind me for support. How morbid is that? Using the marker of a dead person for physical support? I cut my hand on the rough edge of rock as my feet continued to give way under me.
Paul had used those amazing reflexes and shot up to his feet just fine. I tried not to look at him as I leaned heavily on the tombstone, trying to find my balance. I didn't want to see his face. I didn't want him to see mine, the perfect painting of a ruined girl: self-ruined.
Paul was foolish though, he approached me again, walking super cautiously to my limp form. "Suze, what's wrong? You cut your hand. Let me see."
"No!" I screamed, crying, crying, crying. That's all I ever do nowadays. "Stay away from me!" I lifted both hands in front of me, noticing that one was red and covered in a slightly sticky substance. I couldn't register in my mind exactly what that liquid was. Everything around me was blurring from the tears. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing had made sense for a long time.
"Suze what happened? Why are you so upset? Should I get someone?" Paul's complete obliviousness thwarted me. How could he stand there and not realize that HE was making this situation as bad as it was. It was his mere presence that I couldn't stand. Why couldn't he just leave?
Leave.
Like Jesse.
"He left me!" My voice got so loud and desperate that it scratched my throat. I felt like I was dying. Admitting this devastating information to the one person I truly hated caused a break in my thoughts of reason. I was yelling, screaming, coughing, and choking on my own sobs. An overwhelming, asphyxiating amount of emotion was flooding through my mouth. Every fear I'd ever had of losing Jesse was turned into hatred – and the reason I ended losing him was because of myself. All the anger I felt towards Paul, and the pain of losing every happy thing I'd felt at his house turned my insides to fire.
In my mind I saw myself, cut and bruised standing on a grave. I was being washed away by a flood, thousands of gallons of water rushing in and carrying me away. Where did the water come from you ask? My own tears.
"Suze," I had almost forgot Paul was there. His voice seemed far away, like there was a wind tunnel separating us and someone had turned the air current up to a dangerously high speed. "Something's wrong... Do you want me to get Father Dominic?"
"Are you happy NOW!" I screamed at him, relishing in the obvious flinch he exhibited and completely ignoring whatever it was he had said. "Jesse saw us at your house! He saw us and he left me! He doesn't want anything to do with me! He hates me!" I couldn't breath. I kept trying to take short, quick gasps of air, anything to fill my lungs with the much-needed oxygen. Is this what hyperventilating felt like? My head was pounding, my hand hurt, my lip hurt, my chest hurt.
"He's gone!" My voice, this time, came out as a whisper. I just wanted everything to stop. I wanted to stop. Stop feeling, stop standing, stop living. I needed Novocain, lots and lots of Novocain. Please, anything to stop this feeling. I couldn't live inside myself. Life wasn't worth it if I had to wake up and feel this. "He's gone. He's gone."
"Jesse!" Paul spat, obvious antipathy in his voice. "This is about him! God Suze, you weren't even thinking of him at my house! I know you weren't! Just because El Dumbo Jesse –"
That's when my fist collided with Paul's jaw, giving a whole new meaning to the term 'right hook'. It also happened to be the fist that was still grasping the brass knuckles from yesterday. I heard a satisfying crunch as Paul flipped backwards, landing on his ass, hand clenched against an already swelling jaw. I could see blood.
I don't know what made me do it. Maybe it was Paul saying Jesse's name. Maybe it was hearing Jesse's name said by someone other than me. Maybe it was knowing that he was completely right – I hadn't thought of Jesse once while with Paul that day.
"Why couldn't you have any respect for what I wanted?" I asked him loudly. Then, lowering my voice and looking away from him, almost not believing what I was saying, "What did I ever do to you?"
Then I started running.
I'm not at all happy with the ending of this chapter. Not the Paul absuse part - that will fall in line perfectly later on. But the very last sentence. I couldn't decide if I wanted to end there or not. But since it was exactly 2:37 in the morning when I posted this I just stopped there.
Please review. My heart needs lifting after not recieving the Flashlight update I had been expecting.