ph (Guest): Well, I most certainly appreciate you taking the time to read. I'll do my best to keep it intriguing enough.
dotylink64: I'm glad that you realize what I'm trying to bring into light. (Or at least think I am. Lol.) As always, thank you for taking the time to read/review. And a special thank you for going out of your way to PM me.
saii79: Shiiiiiit. Who doesn't love a good riddle? And if it's any consolation, the more I write this version of her, the more it confuses the hell out of me. Lol. And a major thank you for taking the time to read and comment.
Author's Note: I know that this update is sooner than usual, but for some reason, things fell into place rather quickly. I'm not complaining in the least.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.
"Things have been relatively…quiet," I say into the phone's receiver, anxiously twirling the cord around my finger.
Paige, having just come in from being gone all night, is taping dark slips of an x-ray that she's torn into pieces over a sleeping BHB's closed eyes. On the other end, Dr. Evans asks, "And Paige? I'd like to suspect that she hasn't careened the both of you into any more trouble."
Oh, where to start? "She's been the quietest of all," I answer quickly, abandoning all former judgment. Entirely unsure of where this need to vouch for her is coming from. It very well could be the remnants of that "guiding light" bullshit I so voluntarily ate up the other day. Or I could merely be covering my own behind. Both ideas are equally unclear.
Dr. Evans says that she'll be collecting us at some point today, and then we both hang up. BHB rustles around in his bed, not moving nearly enough to effectively dislodge the IV connected to his arm. This, however, doesn't thwart the groan of discomfort that emits from deep within the boy's throat.
Paige takes this as her cue and rushes to his side, hunching over and whispering carefully, "All right, buddy. I don't want to freak you out or anything, but something went terribly wrong while you were asleep. The doctors say it's a rare case, but you're…" The words linger in the air before she delivers the punch. "Blind."
BHB groans again, moving more insistently as Paige peels the taped pieces from his face. "Psyche, motherfucker. You are unfortunately still able to see, and therefore must take on the daunting task of looking at Fields." She then reaches to his bedside stand, producing two pre-packaged cups of ice cream. "Chocolate or vanilla?"
He coughs, pointing an unsteady finger to the white container. "Chocolate it is," Paige says.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, choosing to ignore Paige's blatant disregard toward our counterpart's preference of dairy treat.
"Like I've been hit by a train," he laughs. The cup balances on his lower stomach. A single hand maneuvers countless broken spoonfuls into his mouth. "Or a bus. At this point, I'm not sure which is worse."
Now lingering in the doorway, Paige says, "Depends on who you're trying to kill" and disappears into the hallway.
BHB snickers and offers the ice cream my way. I wave a hand in decline. "My best friend is out fetching me some as we speak." We both laugh this time. And with the alone time, I'm suddenly debating as to whether or not to include him on the riveting conclusion I came to last night. About his lying in a hospital bed being the sole consequence of Paige's selfish desires. But when the doctor comes in, explains that the screen of BHB's blood toxins showed a dangerous amount of window cleaner, the boy merely laughs it off. He simply mentions the Kool Aid tasting a bit weirder than usual.
"She's resourceful," he notes when the doctor finally leaves.
"She's sadistic," I insist.
"Maybe a little unorthodox," he says, "but you've got to give the girl some credit. She's like a modern-day MacGyver. Certainly gets the job done."
And then we spend a couple of minutes joking about how "Paige MacGyver" sounds too much like a bowel movement. He gradually begins to fade in and out, which I attribute to the steady drip of fluid into his arm. At first glance, it appears to be your typical IV. An antibiotic. But with careful analysis, the symptoms—hazy, flooded eyes; consistent laughing at unfunny things, and a lackadaisical way of speaking—all point in one direction. A direction that I'm all too familiar with.
"How is it?" I ask a little too desperately, looking at the tube.
He shifts uncomfortably and sighs. "I'm not complaining."
I nod, trying to suppress the weird mouth-watering feeling that quickly builds. I'm not proud of it, but what's a girl to do? They, the counselors, manage to rid you of all physical symptoms of withdrawal, but there's a certain mentality that sticks around. Your body forgets, but the rest of you sure as hell doesn't.
BHB eventually falls under the spell, and I'm left standing here, shamefully envying his position. He seems pretty out of it, too. Gently and without my conscience's prior consent, my thumb rubs over precisely the point at which needle penetrates skin. He doesn't budge. Then, in a flash, the itch takes over. That gnawing feeling. The unshakeable, torturous nag that settles into the pit of your stomach. Like skin that doesn't properly fit. Not your best idea, Emily, rationale says. Glancing over my shoulder, making sure that all is clear, and using countless documentaries as reference, I gently tap at the skin just below the crook of my elbow. Actually, this is by far the worst one you've had yet, it insists. A single, trickling line of blue appears underneath the flesh. Fine. If you absolutely must, then do so as quickly as possible.
Forefinger and thumb placed on either side of needle, I barely tug at the piece. It's too situated. If I could just... ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Double fucking ow.
A hand grips my wrist, and in one fluid motion, contorts the limb behind my back. Surge after surge of pain instantly ripples through me. The very kind of aching that makes you nauseous. There is no sense in moving, though sense doesn't seem to pertain to me much these days. "Quit fidgeting, dumbass," the assailant instructs. Paige.
I try stilling. Something of which is terribly difficult to when the metal stand I attempt to use as a balance topples over, sending an array of other metal objects crashing to the ground. An unfamiliar, motherly face pokes inside. "Is everything okay?"
"Peachy keen," Paige singsongs, flashing a thumbs up to the nurse. And when she disappears, the twist on my arm intensifies. Almost to the point of eliciting actual tears. "You know, Fields, I was only toying with the idea of getting you a leash, but moments like these make it all the more tempting." BHB's eyes pop open. "Wouldn't you agree?" she asks him.
Suddenly, the urge to projectile vomit is here and acting quickly. The liquid is fast approaching the top of my throat when Paige loosens and soon abandons the hold altogether.
Embarrassed and ashamed, I storm out of the room as quickly as possible.
"Fields!"
My pace quickens.
I'm vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps that trail behind me. "HEY, I'M TALKING TO YOU," Paige calls out.
"AND I'M NOT LISTENING," I return, not bothering to lower my voice as we pass a cracked-open door where an eighty-something-year-old man receives a sponge bath.
"THEN WHY ARE YOU RESPONDING?"
"BECAUSE I HATE YOU."
"I HATE YOU RIGHT BACK."
We both come to a standstill in the hallway, angled face-to-face. "WELL, I HATE YOU MORE," I insist as a woman in scrubs begins approaching our pair. The nurse from two minutes ago.
"THAT'S NOT EVEN POSSIBLE," Paige continues, seemingly undaunted by the authority figure who now stands at our side. "Because on the scale of hatred, you're sitting at a solid forty-seven and a half."
"FUNNY, BECAUSE YOU'RE A LEVEL INFINITY."
"Excuse me," the nurse tries interjecting over the sounds of heated breathing. "If you would so kindly take this conv–"
"PISS OFF," Paige and I say in unison before I tear off in the opposite direction.
Surely enough, well into the front parking lot, another's footsteps continue trailing me closely. Unsure of exactly where to go, I keep in the same direction. Quickly. That is, until a hand forcefully grabs hold of my right arm, turns me around, and holds me into place with the other. Reflexively and without thinking, I push at the front of her shoulders. With little time to properly recoup, she pushes back. And then we're thrown into the messy whirlwind that is an eighth grade shoving match.
At least, until one of my pushes is swiftly countered by way of Paige's pulling me closer and administering the kind of headlock Dad would be proud of. With careful utilization of held breath and a swift backwards contortion, I somehow manage us both onto her back. Thudding flat against the ground. "You're sick, Fields," she quietly groans on impact. "You're just sick is all."
Managing to twist free, it comes to where I'm now sitting atop the girl's stomach, both hands grinding her shoulders into the concrete. "That's for damn sure," I manage when her open hand presses up against the side of my face, forcing it upward. Cue the weight shift. Cue my being rolled over. "I'm sick of you," I breathe, now lying flat against the ground and pressing my open hand into Paige. "I'm sick of this." Cue another shift. Cue another roll. Cue another bout of sloppy palm-to-face action. "I'm sick of everyone trying to convince me that a couple of campfire songs will magically fix everything that's not wrong with me." Then the idea hits me. The perfect resolution to an imperfect rage. So she has a taste of her own medicine, I lean down and plant the world's most slobbery kiss right on that dumb mouth of hers. "Not so fun, is it?"
Cue my hands being pulled together and downward. Cue me, deranged and pinned on my back a final time. "Feel better?" Paige asks through heavy, stifled breaths.
"Not really," I groan, suddenly too weak for any more tussling. Adrenaline wearing thin. Shoulder screaming in agony.
"Fucking swell," she snarls, eyes intently fixated on mine. "If you're down, then stay there. But don't even consider standing up until you're ready to move past whatever in the hell this is."
With her free hand, Paige tucks a tuft of hair behind her ear, taking the time to account for our surroundings. I do the same. Surely enough, there are but a handful of onlookers. One of them including a familiar woman with curly brown hair, who sports a navy blue pants suit. She stands tall and fierce, a finger tapping at her chin. When Paige releases my wrists and rolls off of my stomach, Dr. Evans says, "Please, don't stop on account of me."
It's safe to say that both Paige and I were successfully caught with our hands in the metaphorical cookie jar. Non-metaphorically speaking, the placement of our literal hands isn't really worth mentioning. In fact, upon reflecting on the situation later this evening, I'll probably be overcome with embarrassment.
In the present, though, neither of us speaks to the other. We're far too busy sulking. Tucked away in the backseat of Dr. Evans's tiny car, arms crossed and staring out of our respective windows. BHB isn't due to be discharged until later in the afternoon, but upon witnessing our "spectacle" (her word, not mine), the doctor decided it'd be best if we weren't further left to our own devices.
Probably just as well.
The trip lasts all of a half hour, Dr. Evans taking the occasional minute to remind us of the disappointment this situation reeks of. How she'll have to issue a formal apology to the hospital. Comforting enough, though, is when she points out that there is, in fact, no rule against behaving in such a manner off of facility grounds.
This is roughly the point in which I tune out.
Back at Piney Groves, we're situated in Dr. Evans's office chairs while she runs off to fetch something. I take the moment to point out, "This is your fault."
Rubbing at the bridge of her nose, Paige grumbles, "Spare me."
The doctor eventually returns, eventually waves her finger, and we eventually follow her. "It's like I said before, girls," she says, marching down the hallway. "Considering that you were off facility grounds, I can't legally use authority to punish you. But I can do as I see fit. And right now, I'm terribly torn. Pairing you both together obviously hasn't worked, and I don't believe that splitting you apart will prove much more beneficial."
Paige and I are sluggishly trailing behind the woman, not so much as breathing in the other's direction the entire way. The doctor stops by Angie's office, collects two yellow pads of paper and two pens, then motions for us to follow once more. We maneuver down the hallways, up a set of stairs, down another corridor, and up a final staircase. The older woman then jiggles her key in an ancient looking overhead door until the lock unlatches, the wooden hatch slowly lifting up.
We climb a rickety fold-up staircase.
Dust litters the open space. Cobwebs of all shapes and sizes reside in every corner. In what space pink, fluffy globs of fiberglass don't take up, massive, waterlogged boxes do. "Making us clean as punishment obviously isn't having the desired effect, Doc," Paige mumbles, swatting at a spider web.
"Then today is your lucky day," she replies, pulling a cord that produces a flickering light. Both legal pads and pens are then extended our way. "If you cannot act like civil human beings, then I'm afraid that you cannot enjoy the amenities that civil people do. So, for as long as it should take, you are both going to stay up here. To pass the time, you will each write a letter to the future version of your counterpart. Divulge secrets or predict what will happen six months from now. I don't care. Only my eyes will see them, so don't hold back." She turns on a heel and begins descending the unstable staircase. "One thousand words a piece. You can come down when you've finished."
If there's one thing that we can agree on, it's the amount of "nope" that this situation calls for. I try jiggling on the newly-sealed latch as Paige begins tearing into one of the boxes. Leaflet after leaflet of paper flies through the air as she digs farther. I ignore her, settle into the least threatening corner, and start scribbling pointless word after pointless word.
What feels like hours passes before Paige ever begins writing. She stops about five minutes in, tossing both utensils to the side. Cue the digging yet again.
"The sooner you finish, the sooner we leave," I mumble after she's successfully overturned the entire area. Lord knows what this girl's bedroom looks like.
She tosses the legal pad my way. "Already finished." I skim the sheets. Paige's heartfelt letter to a future me goes as such:
"Dear Future Emily, You still suck." The last two words are then repeated roughly three hundred and some odd times, offsetting the pattern with a final and thousandth word—Loser.
"And she said that we didn't understand each other," I deadpan, now more annoyed that we'll be spending more time alone in this dark, musty room.
Suddenly, as though I'm not in the vicinity, Paige begins stripping out of her clothes. Articles come off until she stands in nothing but her bra and underwear, cautiously stepping both feet into the denim pants legs of a pair of overalls. She then plops a wide-brimmed straw hat onto her head, climbs on top of a box, sits crossed-legged, and flips through a dusty manila folder.
Sounds of snickering follow.
The noises continue every couple of seconds or so, until I'm forced to look up from the legal pad, irritated yet again. I go to speak, but a ring from the downstairs alarm silences my words. I try again, eliciting the same result. "Maybe this is the universe's way of saying that you should shut up more often," Paige says, not looking up from the folder.
She giggles again.
And again.
And again.
It goes on for forever, the laughing. If this is what hell is like, I will never do wrong again. Just focus on the writing, I think. No, I can't. In fact, I have to set the letter aside. Writing semi-cordial things about Paige in this setting and under these parameters is impossible. My thoughts are too scattered. Flying amongst the dust particles. I'm going crazy. A spider crawls onto my shoulder. Is this what dying feels like?
Paige changes outfits two, three times. At first, it's the Huckleberry Finn getup. Next is Abraham Lincoln, complete with a fluffy pink fiberglass beard. She'll be itching for days, I think as the top hat is exchanged for a multicolored spandex one-piece. She ties a thick piece of ribbon around the top of her head and starts jazzercising across the small area. Faux instructions are called out to nonexistent audience members. Cadences are counted out. "One and two and three and four." She then bows and refers to herself as Richard Simmons in the third person.
I am dying.
This is certainly what death feels like.
The sun has gone down, from what light a small circular window provides. A chill sets in, yet the air remains stuffy. A jiggling sound breaks the silence, and I look down to the hatch, where someone is fiddling with the handle. Seconds later, a small inlet of light appears from below, a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter are shoved inside, and the light disappears with a clank.
Paige snatches the jar up before I can act. She unscrews the cap, dips a bare finger inside, and lifts it to her mouth. Then she double dips. Triple dips. Quintuple dips. Her-disgusting-finger-has-been-in-that-jar-so-many -times-that-I'll-starve-before-eating-from-it dips.
She eventually offers it my way. I decline, instead nibbling at a piece of white bread that tastes like Kleenex.
My shoulder still aches from earlier, so lying against anything is out of the question. I lean back instead, allowing my head to rest on a rather uncomfortable wooden board. With what little natural light remains—the overhead bulb gave out within an hour—Paige dances among the boxes until she uprights with an electrical lantern, clicking it on. I silently watch as she sits down with the yellow paper and begins writing, nibbling on her pen when it isn't working across the page. Nestling as deeply as possible into my thin jacket, the last sight I have is of Paige.
When sunlight trickles in through the window, Paige is perched in the same position—up against the wall, knees angled inward, pad laid flat against them. Her eyes are swollen with sleeplessness. The peanut butter is empty; the bread by her side. I pretend to be asleep just a while longer, for it seems as though she's less annoying when she believes no one to be watching.
Minutes later, a bird approaches the window and damn near throws me into an internal frenzy. Birds are not Emily Fields's forte. Graciously, though, Paige sets the pad to her side, untwists the loaf of bread, and begins tearing individual slices into smaller pieces. She stands, wanders to the window, and feeds piece after piece to the creature.
When the food runs out, she smiles and sits back down.
Only now do I recognize the morning chill. Lack thereof, actually, on account of the massive coat draped over my body. Heavy. Lined with a fuzzy material. Musty. Paige has since changed back into her normal clothes, though I know they can't be doing much to thwart off the cold.
In one fluid motion, I uncover, yawn, and swipe off the dust that's collected since last night's writing. Paige flinches only to ask me, "What are your parents' names?"
"Pam and Wayne," I answer. She nods. Scribbles. Provides no snide comment. "That's it?" I ask, slightly thrown by the casual acceptance.
"That's it."
Feeling as though I should return the favor, I do. "Yours?"
"Nick."
"And?"
She cuts her eyes away from the tablet, muttering, "Just Nick." I nod.
The sound of crumpling paper fills our void. A ball is tossed to accompany the tens of others that surround her. Throughout the rest of the day, the hatch opens three more times, delivering three more loaves of bread. Three more jars of peanut butter. One of which Paige allows me. I've also been holding a full bladder since early this morning, and when I mutter a word in asking, she points a finger to a dark corner. Needless to say, I resist the urge to pee.
By the next morning, Paige has acquired roughly seventy-eight crumpled pieces of paper, obtained exactly one thousand, two hundred and seventy-six seconds of sleep, and not so much as muttered another word. That is, until she caps the pen, looks to me, and nods.
I'm balling a fist to pound on the door, signifying our finish, when she walks around, unclicks a switch, and the wooden hatch swings open. "Are you kidding me?" I ask too angrily for someone who's in desperate need of a toilet. The bladder is at DefCon One, and she's held the power all along.
Paige shrugs indifferently.
Which is a feasible reaction, considering her entire demeanor has changed since the other night. She hasn't said much. Her eyes are completely sunken back into themselves. It seems as though the quiet of the attic somehow managed its way inside the previously outspoken girl. And despite the overall homeless look she's currently rocking, it's kind of peaceful.
I run to the restroom.
Shortly thereafter, we hand our letters in and Dr. Evans seals each in its own individual envelope. When she's finished creasing, licking, and sealing, Paige's envelope is placed into my hand. And mine into hers. "No bueno," Paige says forcefully, like a parent reprimanding their child. I tense up, halfway expecting her to slap the doctor's hand. She even tries handing the envelope back.
A raised hand dismisses this notion. "Think of it as an opportunity to build," the doctor says. "A means of finding common ground."
"I don't feel comfortable with this," I say.
"Likewise," Paige says.
Dr. Evans smirks. "See? Agreeing already." She sits behind the desk and returns a pair of glasses to their rightful place on the bridge of her nose. "And after tonight's seminar, we'll shake hands, part as friends, and all of this nonsense will be something of the past."
An eerie feeling settles in, sending a shiver throughout my body. Paige must be experiencing the same, because she instantly bolts from the office. I catch her lingering just outside of the door, obviously waiting for me. There are no harsh words swapped in our journey back to the room. Just the unsettling ambiguity that we both recognize. I'd believed our troubles to be over. Objects in the rear view. Judging by Paige's narrowed brow, she'd thought the same.
"What do you think that 'and after tonight' bit was about?" I ask when we're in the safety of our room.
"No clue," she breathes, now busying herself with tidying the area. Shakily removing trash and collecting stray clothes. "One thing's for sure, though—I don't feel comfortable with what's to come."
Tossing a sock into the hamper, I say, "Likewise."
Paige paces back and forth behind the curtain like a deranged animal. A microphone tucked in the crevice of her hand, she mutters things like "Why this of all things?" and "That's it. I'm setting myself on fire." I can't help but chuckle at the sight, primarily because I am in a similar position as she, and it's absolutely freaking me out. Misery loves company, right?
We were right to worry about Dr. Evans's plans for us this evening. Because the evening is finally upon us, and never before have my nerves been so shot. "We could switch to a comedy bit," Paige says.
"You any good?" I quickly offer.
"Funniest person I know."
We anxiously laugh. Then we wait. The sound of Dr. Evans's voice booms over the loud speaker. She is out of sight, but her presence, and that of an auditorium full of our peers, are a weight crushing my chest. This is nothing compared to a major swim meet. This nervousness is one that I've never experienced before.
The speech is winding to an end. Paige and I will be up next, and quite frankly, my feet refuse to allow that. "I'm quite convinced that there's a bucket of pig's blood with our names on it," I say, covering the microphone's end. "Oh, God. I can't feel my toes."
Considering our most recent history, what Paige suggests next is rather unexpected. "As I recall, you've adopted a rather useful method of counting." I don't respond, for the carnal stupor has extended well into my mouth. "One, two, three, yeah?"
"Right. One, two, three," I say, mimicking the cadence. "Right."
"And if things become too intense, just flash me a thumbs down and I'll, like, start crying or something. As a distraction, of course."
"Right."
"We're going to be okay," she assures. "Unless, of course, you pass out. You're not going to pass out, right?"
"Right," I say.
"Paige McCullers is both the coolest and smartest person that I know. And I'm sorry for acting like such an ass towards her and getting her into this mess."
She's nervously trying to crack a smile, and I eventually return the gesture, momentarily breaking from the trance. "Wrong. A decent hustle, though."
And then the booming voice ceases, signaling that our time has come. We're ushered towards the slit where curtain-half meets curtain-half. A concealed man donning a headset of sorts looks to us for the okay. Paige nods, looks to me, and crosses her eyes playfully.
The curtains are reeled to their respective sides. Bright lights burn into my face, making anything beyond five feet practically invisible. Paige tenses at my side, lifts the microphone to her mouth, and then an emulsion of sounds from every angle comes to be. One, two, three, I internally count.
One, two, three.