::Hello again!

This chapter (just over 3k) contains warnings for dubious consent (an intoxicated partner), alcohol usage, some mentions of death, and somewhat graphic sexual content. Hence, the bumping up of rating.

Happy reading!

Pluck a flower petal by petal each day in the dark. Wait until it is beyond saving. Now, consider this: does it die from the damage, or from the loss of light?

A hard question. Certainly not something you'd ask a little girl, or a college girl for that matter, especially one relaxing in her rabbit pajamas in bed two days after vacation.

She remembered this excerpt; the author was fond of asking questions that no one knew how to answer. At the sheltered age of nine, Ib didn't know what death was; when the fish had breathed their last gulp of watery oxygen her parents arranged for it to have run away instead. Their emptied eyes were never allowed to see her beyond their expiration date. Those were her only brushes with death, since her grandparents had vanished shortly before she had made her tender way into the world, and she was never allowed to visit graves for fear that they would ruin her. Ladies didn't think about death. Ladies thought about bringing life into the world.

(No, she didn't know why her parents were so old-fashioned, either. She suspected it was because they were sentimentalists.)

All she had known-all she had been told about-was sleep. Shut your eyes for hours, days, weeks, months. Sometimes you might believe you'd never wake up, but you always did. You always did.

So she applied herself practically, like she was wont to do in any situation. Sleep needed darkness, which was why she never required a nightlight beyond the age of five, so it couldn't have been that. So it must have been the petals-logically, that was the right answer. But then again, if she were pinched during a dream, she would be woken up. So, what was the answer? Was it that there was some third variable? Perhaps the flower took too much cold medicine, because it was sick and that stuff made her sleepy, and in the dark they mistook the night to be a perpetual thing and so never woke up?

There had been secret research done soon afterwards, and then she had grown to learn about the absence that death caused, and the sorrow and the sickness and the guilt. She was arguably better off not knowing about the idea entirely. Nine-year-old Ib learned about many things through The Fabricated World, but she never imagined death would be one of them.

Nineteen-year-old Ib, however, was grateful for it.

The nudge of pillows at her back and her legs tangled in the rosy sheets reminded her that she was still grounded in the real world, even though her mind was filled with new wonder for the question: what was really the answer? Now that she knew about death, everything fragmented into separated shards of morality and ethics and reality, and it was something that she had no ability to answer even ten years later. Was it that both were the cause? (For once, she realized, she hadn't put her fingers into her mouth at all.)

The now-familiar cursive-the kind she'd been seeing fill up the margins on almost every page so far-jumped in to write with a shaky hand, What does it matter? You put it in the dark. You killed it.

That was a fair point. Why would one put a flower in the dark, anyway? Why would someone take a flower and immediately think about the ways you could torture it until its tiny body fell to pieces in your hands?

She shrugged off the shudder that passed through her, instead reading past the question and into what were dubbed the red halls. The main character (never named, but she assumed that was on purpose), had just faced the wrath of a Red Lady and a storybook that came to life in her hands, telling her things about blood and sharp knives and what would happen if you ever planned to swallow something precious. Eyes glued once again to the pages, she read slowly through the fear and panic that was coursing through the lead's mind as she walked through the red door.

Her ghost writer, as she had come to dub the writing that appeared, had written a small stream-of-consciousness treatise on how little girls should not be left in the dark. With scary books. Or angry women in paintings. She was amused at how it sounded in her head, like they were only joking around, but the increased spikiness of their loops and the illegible smears of either tears or angry rubbing out of ink made the whole piece profoundly worrisome to her. It was clear that they had had enough of the loneliness and despair that had befallen the main character. Whoever it was, they obviously loved some little girl close to home.

The writing went on for a page or so, long beyond the pain, but she was intrigued by how heartfelt the message seemed to be. Even as a nine-year-old, Ib had only been unnerved by the scene-not sad or angry. She bit her lip and stared at the words for a second, imagining some person sitting down and writing this and crying, and felt their words touch her heart. Even if she considered them a ghost, it was a misleading term: they were very, very alive, at least inside the book.

Softened by the revelation, she considered the writing-which hadn't been a nuisance, per se, but having her book marked up was a little demeaning in a way-to be more of an addition to the story. It made her feel less alone in enjoying it when there was a 'ghost' to share it with. And besides, the next part was coming up-a big part, the addition of her tall friend with the ragged coat, and she wanted to see what her ghost said about them.

...But wait-up ahead, is that a body on the floor? A tingle rises up her small spine, pulling her face apart with mixed parts disgust and fear, and with hesitancy she approaches it to give it a childish prod.

It makes groans like the bellows of an accordion and she yelps, jumping back, but only long enough to try calling out to it instead.

She wasn't disappointed. Beside these words, her ghost writer had placed a rather wacky-looking set of progressively more disgusted faces. I'm glad you have a companion now, but you're literally killing me here. Of corpse he won't get up if you yell at him!

The loops were back; it seemed as though the writer had set it down and then picked it back up when they were feeling better. Their off-beat type of humor was just the thing to get her back into the sheer excitement of just reading the story. Allowing herself a laugh, she turned the page and-

The door swung open, hitting the face of an abused old poster with a bang. "Ib, I'm home!"

She shut the book so fast her hands stung, spinning her head on her shoulders to find a suitable hiding place. Shit. Five already!? She forgot Mary came back early on Thursdays-and Mary was never one to allow personal moments where she wasn't allowed.

...

Despite it being a dorm room, everything was bright and happy-Mary was no interior decorator, but she did have a certain eye for color, and she made sure to cover every square inch of the room in something personal. Regulation white carpet: gone. Regulation white walls: gone. Even the ceiling had been painted in bright primaries, roses blooming over their heads, and everywhere there were piles of clothing or stuffed animals or simply discarded papers. A little makeup table (with a mirror!) was set up in one of the corners of the room and filled with more things than Ib knew how to name, and across from Mary and Ib's beds there was even a little shelf-doohickey with an entertainment system like a middle-schooler's wet dream.

There was more to the room, of course, such as the conjoined bathroom they shared with the rarely-there girls who lived beside them on the seventh floor, or the kitchenette two people could actually cook in. But this was irrelevant to much of what they actually did, which was to be college students.

Ib had no idea how Mary had even managed all of this before their first day, but it was wicked to live in-and to watch Netflix in, the comfortable scent of Mary's wildflower perfume mixing with the sugary air freshener as she clicked toward the next episode of Mannibal with a lapful of cheesy goldfish. Finally, the best part of her schedule: a three day weekend, every weekend. Fridays were her day off. (Which didn't count for much. In general ed, there was an unusually large amount of time to spend on her own, and most of her classes were boring at best. Hence the nailbiting, and the crunchy snacks, and...)

"I don't know why you just won't come out with me," simpered the aforementioned blonde girl, mascara brush obediently following her hand up inch-long falsies as her wide eyes stared into the mirror. Mary was famous for wearing makeup for the most dramatic effect possible. She twisted her body back to frown at Ib, the makeup counter seat squeaking. "It's not like you don't have a fake ID. And besides, you came to college to have fun, right?"

She only shrugged in response, taking the scrunchie from her wrist and gathering long brown hair in a messy bun. Ib didn't much care for partying; not because she believed she was better than anyone who did, but mostly because she got headaches from the noise. "I don't want a hangover over the weekend. Big test on Monday."

A snort. Heavily lined eyes flicked toward the screen, where Mannibal was preparing his latest kill. "Ha. I doubt there's any test that involves eating people, but you can do whatever." Mary turned back to the mirror, her loose black top rustling with stars, and applied so much glittery smokiness around her pale eyes Ib thought she was about to start a fire. "Anyway, what do you plan to do after you've watched everything? I know for a fact you didn't get any homework you haven't already done."

"Maybe I'll join you at the club." There was no way she was going anywhere in her baggy college sweater and flannels, but the sarcasm was probably weaker than she'd intended, because:

"You will?" Sudden hope blared through Mary's tone like a siren, and Ib flinched. "I have an extra dress! We can go meet people! I can make you up in like ten minutes, if you really want to come, I mean they have a bathroom and-"

Ib immediately felt bad for even bringing it up, and awkwardly made a hand motion in Mary's direction. She was looking at her again. "I...I was kidding."

It was like slowly letting the air out of a balloon-you could almost hear the joy fall out of her expression. Defeatedly, Mary returned to her makeup and applied red gloss over lips that puckered under the wand, and Ib tried not to look at her too much as she rose to grab her purse. She could already feel her fingers flexing toward her lips again.

"Well, I'll be back at like...two or three, maybe? Leave the door open?" There was a trace of flatness in her tone, something that made Ib wince and nod. "Perf. See ya later."

And then the door opened and shut, and Mannibal cleared the plates from his table of death right before she cursed herself for being so blunt. Another goldfish's life was taken between her frustrated teeth as she resisted the urge to bite off a nail entirely. It was like she'd kicked a puppy right in the nose.

…

Mary's departure usually made the room feel more empty than it was, and after a few hours of artful killing Ib was being smothered by the quiet. Despite her overall bookish appearance, and the fact that she liked solitude once in a while, she also loved the warmth that Mary seemed to have radiating around her like a corona of sunlight. It just wasn't a dorm room without her roommate there to share it with. Besides, Mary loved Mannibal too-she thought his murders were almost sensually beautiful, no matter how creepy Ib thought that was.

She sighed, finally giving up her place on the couch (and her goldfish) in favor of the book again, and cracked it open to the last page she'd left off on (somewhere around the death puns). One page flipped by, then another, and the cool fingers of the tall man were wrapping around hers as she grabbed the key from his hand. She needed to find his rose. It was blue, and it was losing petals in the other hallway-her ghost urging on the little girl, and Ib, towards a solution that would lead to saving her new friend.

The door opened again, but surprisingly less loudly than it had the night before: the clock beside her read 2:17 AM and she realized she'd successfully spent four hours alone. In tumbled Mary.

"Ib! Ib, Isabel, thank GOD," she cried with a smile cut across her face, and she slammed the door behind her like there was someone chasing after. Every word in her mouth was mushed up with the rest. "That club was so…! And the music, I just, I was..."

"Mary, calm down," said Ib, closing her book slightly less quickly once she realized Mary was intoxicated. It wouldn't matter if she found it now. Amused, she patted the sheets beside her blanket backrest and helped Mary sit down. "You sound like you had a good time."

"I did!" She'd gone a little shrilly, like the alcohol plugged her ears, and when she leaned in for a tight hug Ib could smell the sour apple shots on her breath. When she pulled back, her eyes were ever-so-slightly unfocused-but manically bright, the pupils burning. "I did, but I just… I wanted you to come, Ib! I wanted you to come so bad! You would have loved everything!" A laugh.

And then her happy facade shattered, the pieces bouncing under the bed somewhere, and she crumpled into Ib's body.

"Whoa, shh, come here." The book, shoved aside. Her ghost could wait.

From the embrace of Ib's now-thoroughly-ruined sweatshirt, Mary pulled her wet face up to glance guiltily into Ib's concerned eyes. "I wanted to-" sniff. "-to dance with you. That's all I wanted! I wanted to turn down all those boys and girls who asked me to keep them company, because they only wanted me for what I was acting like, and now to come home and have you holding me..."

For some reason, those words brought a flush to her cheeks she couldn't explain. She never could, actually, since this wasn't the first time Mary had aired sentiments when drunk. "I..."

"I want to tell you how happy you make me...I'm always by myself, but you make me feel like I'm in a whole crowd of people..." A noise came from Mary that was half laugh, half whimper. "I'm sorry I make you feel so bad when I'm sober."

Gulp. Okay, this was the dangerous part. She shook her head, murmuring something about how that wasn't true, but Mary was insistently pushing into her front and shaking her head right back.

"I want to make you feel good. I want to make you feel like..." A heavy breath, swelling up like rainwater on a windowpane. Distantly, pale hands slid up a smooth lower back, and Ib bit back a groan. "I want to give you what you give me, all the time!"

Oh, God. She had to defuse the bomb now. She had to step her way through the minefield, that's what she had to do, but Mary's eyes were like two deep-water wells and she couldn't help staring to find the bottom. Her lips parted to say something but the words wouldn't come.

"Ib, I love you..." Mary's long, long falsies framed her needy gaze, slightly crooked from the rubbing she'd been doing, and Ib half-choked when she realized Mary's clumsy fingers had crept their way underneath and up to her bra strap. "You love me too, right? You love me?" Raggedly, like the echoes of sobbing.

Her mouth was all out of spit now. Ib's hands shakily moved to grab Mary's arms, and she took a deep breath to make up for the gallon of saliva in her stomach. "M...Mary, I think you should sleep. You must've had a lot to drink."

"I'm not tired." A steely hardness had formed in her voice, and her moist eyes evaporated under the heat of her look. Her hands continued fiddling with the metal hooks despite Ib's increasingly weakening hold. "You love me, right? That must be why...why you always pretend to push me away..."

Her arousal was contagious. It was contagious, that was what it was, but Ib's chest was beating so loud and everything was turning different shades of rosy warm that she could tell wasn't just from sex. Ib shuddered as the strap separated, Mary's mouth suddenly at her throat. Mary was crawling on top of her.

"Mary, you-I mean, I'm not-" Dry, dry tongue. "I just want to be frie-"

"You're the worst liar I ever saw. Give up already," whispered Mary, and Ib's hands pulled back to dig with stubby fingernails into her roommate's tense back.

The rest of it-the clothes stripped away from rosy shoulders and smooth legs, the kisses dropped on chapped lips, makeup exchanged from face to neck and shoulder and then the round swell of breasts-passed like a blur in front of Ib's lidded eyes. The pleasure, yes, waves of it coming from the sunny mouth of a beautiful girl and her fingers diving low and then inside-the smell of wildflowers everywhere on her, Mary's mark of possession.

"You're...killing me…!" Ib gasped, her eyes squeezing so tightly together and her thighs clamping round one enthusiastic hand, and breathlessly Mary captured her mouth again and again to swallow her sounds. An ouroboros. They snaked together for forever, rediscovering what it felt like to touch someone.

When they were done, sticky sweat and the remnants of the cherry gloss pooling in the creases of their bodies, Mary held her hand. They lay there in the remains of their sex and stared up at the roses blooming, and Ib swore alcohol was a communicable disease. She was drunk. She was out of her mind. She was just unhinged enough to listen when Mary told her she was the most perfect person in all of the universe.

…

Cut to: a mysterious silhouette in the windows of a flower shop. Hands watering the plants, admiring each soft petal with fingertips yellowed from years of wasted cigarettes, a gentle smile on glossy thin lips. The solitude of a brightly lit florist's only a few miles from the bed where wasted Ib lay.

Garry, as he liked to be called, adjusted his skirt out of the way of the water and clicked the sprayhead to off.

[End Chapter Two.]

::What? I promised Garry in this chapter? Well, look at that, there he is.

But seriously, since most of this is from a third-person narrative in Ib's perspective, you won't be seeing too much of him until Ib actually makes contact. For now, he's just a humble little [mumbles] with a job at [mumbles]. Here's something I'll state point-blank, though: he's not cross-dressing. His gender identity is about as mysterious as the rest of him at the moment!

Here's to another chapter completed! Anticipate the next one!