Disclaimer: We live in a world of ownership. But I do not. I own nothing but the wind~
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You never realised love could turn cruel. That's one thing Disney movies never taught you. They taught you that love would prevail, that love would be returned, that even through struggles and trials, it would win, because it was pure and perfect. But this, this festering love in your heart isn't pure. It isn't strong. It's infected and virulent, pierced by those rusting hooks, and likely to be torn apart at any moment. Maybe it's not even love anymore. You want her so much, but it makes you so angry. Maybe it's a mixture of love and hate. Maybe that's why it makes you nauseous. Those are two things you never thought could mix. You're starting to realise there's a lot of things you don't know, that you're more naive, more innocent than you thought. Turns out movies don't tell you the truth, especially children's ones.
You're sitting in your car outside Cat's house, hands on your denim clad lap, gaze aimed straight ahead. But you're not seeing, really. Everything's happening inside your head, and you've stopped looking out the windows. There's nothing to see out there, just darkness. Just streetlights that hurt your eyes when you look straight at them. You narrow your eyebrows, sight coming into focus again as you clamber out of your head. A myriad of dark dots flit and curve around the burning bulb, and you realise they're insects, dumbly bumping into the light, over and over. Thrown off course by a false prophet. You feel some remote sympathy for them; after all, aren't you essentially doing the same thing with Cat? Bumping into her, over and over, and thinking you're actually getting somewhere. Thinking she's the right path to take. You realise you're just fooling yourself, but that doesn't seem to change anything. You keep circling her, unable to break away, mesmerised.
She's waiting for you. You know she is. She sent you a text. One that in the early days would've made your heart beat faster, throb around those hooks. One that would've made you sweat, and bite your lip in anticipation, legs pressing together. You barely glance at it now. Your heart still beats faster, but it's a dull ache.
It's been a few days since you saw her last. Really saw her, that is. You see her at school, of course. It's not that she ignores you, it's just that she's a different Cat then. The Cat you remember as being your friend. She seems so much colder now. But then, she has so much more depth now, and the deeper you dive, the colder it gets. She's not the simple girl you thought she was. Not the sweet girl, not the innocent girl. She's just a brilliant actress.
You're not as good as her. You can't pretend to be the you that you were. You know you're different. Quieter, more pensive. You don't take the risks you used to on stage. You're not sure of yourself anymore, you can't be trusted. Your grades are getting worse, and you know you should care; it used to be such a big part of your life, but you just can't force yourself to make it matter. You remember hearing somewhere that all pain fades as you die. You go slowly numb, until that light is snuffed, and you're gone. You think you must be close. You've been gasping on land for so long; your struggles have almost stilled.
You wonder vaguely what Cat does with all the hearts she collects. Does she keep them? Does she throw them away once they stop beating? Will she slice you open and rip yours free, when she's finally tired of playing the game? You don't plan to find out. You'll tear your own heart out, if need be. You've already scored bloody trenches from where you've torn out her hooks. You've been doing it since you saw her last. Killing parts of yourself. Bleeding slowly into your chest cavity, getting closer to that numbness before death. It's better, in some ways. It's a relief that comes with despair. But you keep finding more and more, and maybe you'll never get them all out. Maybe you're more hook than heart now. Part of you wants to give in to her. Just let her do with you what she will, and accept it with that mute, agonising love held in your lungs, stifled in every breath. There's still a ridge of anger though, there's still that infection in your love, that makes you kick against her control, and as long as that is there, you'll keep struggling.
You open the car door, climbing out, leaving behind your phone, your purse, everything but your keys. You don't want your stuff to smell like her when you leave. You don't want more reminders of her. You walk along her driveway, converse slipping on the slick, dew-wet stone. It's late, and once again, you don't know why she's always alone. Why her parents, why her brother, why everyone goes out and leaves her there. But maybe it's not them leaving her, maybe it's her leaving them. Maybe she doesn't get close to anyone. You realise, with a frown, that you have no idea why she does this. How she does this. You've always been too consumed with your heartache to put much thought beyond why me? There's no point in asking her. You'd only bare more of your soul by asking than she ever would of hers by answering. Maybe she doesn't even know, really. It doesn't matter anyway. It doesn't change the facts. It wouldn't make her love you, and it wouldn't make you hate her.
She answers the door not long after the sound of the doorbell dies, muffled inside the house. Your heart gives a happy little flutter, like it always does when you see her, only to be tugged crashing to the ground as the hooks pull taut. Your heart is a chained bird that can't soar, and it always takes flight at the sight of her. "Hi." You breathe, the beating of wings in your voice, a shaky smile on your lips. Even if you hate, hate this love, it is still love, and it feels so good when you're with her. It's only when she's not there that it hurts, that it becomes heavy and leaden.
She smiles back, sweeping her ruby locks forward. "Hey Tor!" She runs her chocolate eyes over you, appraising, like she's marking out points of your body that are useful to her and which are worthless. She cuts right through your clothes, but she never bothers to go more than skin deep. You do the same with her as she gestures you in, but your eyes are gentler, more lingering, tracing the memories that ghost her skin. Where you kissed, where you touched. She's dressed in an aqua top, spaghetti straps sliding over her shoulders, tantalising your fingers. Her white shorts are nothing more than glorified underwear, cutting high on her thighs, and you know you could just reach up and touch her, without even undoing her pants.
She leads you straight to her bedroom, barely a word spoken. It's become almost ritual, and you remember the early days, when she'd giggle and talk to you, hot kisses given on the winding path to her bed, that led from wall to wall, moments of passion. But now it's just cold, straight to the point. She doesn't act anymore, she doesn't need to. You're already hers, she doesn't need to bait you.
You shut her bedroom door behind you, fingers resting flat on the wood for a moment, before pushing off, turning to face her. She always makes you make the first move, goads you into finally giving in and kissing her. You're sure she wants to be irresistible to you, and she succeeds every time. "I missed you." She says softly, hint of a smile on her lips, and it's another barbed hook cast at your heart, looking to sink in. She didn't miss you. She missed fucking. Not even fucking you, just fucking in general.
You move to her, breath caught in your throat, metaphorical fingers tickling over the pile of bloody hooks you've ripped free. You'll be casting your own line tonight, you just hope she'll take the bait.
Her hands link behind your neck, her slim form pressing against you, closing those last few inches until her warmth bleeds through your clothes. "Do you wanna kiss me?" And you do, you do. Her lips are so soft, so warm and drugging, and you want to taste her lips, her mouth, kiss her until she infuses into your blood and makes your head swim, until she eases that pain she causes with her absence of both presence and emotion. She's a painkiller and pain, and both are so addictive to you.
"No." The word whispers from your mouth, barely a bloodstained breath, and Cat's face is blank for a moment, like she's never heard the word before.
"No?" Her face shatters from it's blankness, contorting into a giggle. "Why not, Tor?"
"I want you to kiss me." This sentence comes out stronger, still faltering, barely a skeleton of defiance, but still bone.
Cat's breath feathers your neck as she hesitates, fingers loosening where they're linked behind your neck. It's a small thing, asking for a kiss, but you've never asked for one with strength before. You've never refused to kiss her. You let a hand creep down over the front of her shorts, rubbing lightly. "Kiss me, Cat." Your voice is low, almost teasing, and you wonder if she hears the slight shaking in it, or if she's too distracted by your hand, by this new side of you. Your heart is frozen inside you, quivering, and there's that numbness, edged with so many other things. With love, with frustration, with hate, with pain, with anguish. But they're just a border for this blanket, and it gives you control. Control that you know Cat can yank away, but you're trusting that she can't see what's hiding under this sheet of bravado. It's all hot air and no substance, but it makes a scary silhouette underneath.
Cat's breath shudders out, and she leans up, rising up on her toes, just a little, eyes flickering shut. And it's her lips meeting yours for once, soft and unsure, and the taste of this small victory is as thick as blood in your mouth. You've cast your line, and Cat is circling it. You deepen the kiss, tongue flicking over her lips, fingers fumbling with the button to her shorts until it pops open and you can drag the zip down, hand worming it's way into her panties. And instead of soothing you, like kissing her, like touching always does, it crawls up your spine and into your blood, and it's hot and fizzing. It's anger, anger over everything. Over how easy it was to get her to kiss you, over how much she hurts you, and doesn't even realise, over how much you can't help but love her. Over how much you hate yourself for doing so. You're backing her back, her slight form no match for your height, your persistence, fingers working inside her jeans, little slivers of moans vibrating into your lips. She whimpers as you back her into the wall, her shoulders hitting with a soft thud, your body following, pressing close. You want her to feel as overwhelmed as she makes you feel, as she made you feel that first time, when you still thought emotions were in the equation. When you thought she could love you. The thought is a red-hot wire in your brain, burning behind your closed eyes, and you jar your body against her again, to make her aware that it's you, that it's not some guy, some girl, but you, Tori Vega, who's doing this to her.
She gasps, winded, and you capture her lips again before she can take a full breath, fingers working furiously inside her panties, growing slick with her heat. Her forearms are shaking over your collarbones, fingers flexing behind your neck, and maybe this is the roughness she always wanted that you were never able to give, that that pure love and concern always got in the way of. But your love is infected enough with hate, with anger, to hurt her now, even if doing so makes your stomach churn sickly, unsettled by this rage, this love, this topsy turvy cocktail of emotions that's seething through your blood.
You break your hard kisses finally, moving your lips to her neck as you drag your hand out of her pants, nipping sharply. Cat moans, hips jerking forward, and you push off her, skin feeling flushed at the flurry of activity.
Cat takes a deep breath, hand raising to her touch the reddened spot on her throat. "Why did you stop?" Her voice is sweetly curious, as unperturbed as ever, and you hate that you thought this sweetness is genuine, you hate that a part of you still thinks it is. You don't know whether she's feeling something or not. She's too good of an actress to tell whether she's genuine or fake.
"I want you naked."
Cat tilts her head, tongue running out over her pink, swollen lips. "Then why don't you undress me?" She raises her arms, flirty grin on her face, and it takes all you have not to move to her. It's instinctual now, to do what she says, to relive the same memories with her. Kiss her, clothes off, fuck her, leave. That's the ritual.
You shake your head, just slightly, swallowing hard. "I want you to strip."
Cat's arms lower, mouth pouting. "Tori, you're being mean." She says it with all the petulance of a child, and just like a child, you know she can just send you away in a huff, frustrated with your defiance. Toys are supposed to do whatever you want, not prick your hand, and you're quickly becoming a dagger. It's time to dull your edge. She's seen the glint of your hook in the water, grown suspicious.
"I'll be as rough as you want. I'll fuck you until you come harder than you ever have, Cat. I'll do whatever you want." The words don't come out as a surrender, as a submission. They come out as a teasing promise, tantalising bait for her to take.
Her mouth twists, before she gives a slight shrug, stripping her top off, the bars of her ribs shifting under her skin as she lowers her arms, dropping the material to the ground. You follow suit, stripping as quickly as you can, fingernails scraping your skin in your haste, leaving red lines. Cat steps daintily out of her shorts, fingers hooked in her panties, and you know she's aware of your stare as she edges them down, fabric skating down her thighs until she's bare before you. You're so aware of your own skin, of every bone shifting underneath, every hair that stands on end. You feel so gangly when you're around her, so lanky and out of proportion, because she's so perfect and you're so you, and she never looks at you like you're special. You're just another body to her, and it stokes your rage anew.
"Get on the bed." Cat's voice is lower now, still edged with that sweetness. But there's no doubt that this is a command, not a question, and the part of you that wants to defy is silenced by your sense. If you push too far, she'll kick you out. She's done it before for lesser transgressions. It's a fine line with Cat, and you're usually unsure of which side you're treading.
You lower yourself to her covers, laying back, hands flat on your stomach, acid churning within, sickly. Cat studies you for a moment, as if she's looking for some mark on you, some indicator that this isn't the Tori she knew, that this is some usurper in an ill-fitting skin. But she seems reassured by your submissiveness. She makes you feel so vulnerable, in the simplest of ways. You're lying naked on her bed, shivering, waiting for her, and you think she gets some pleasure out of making you wait, out of watching you submit to her. She's just as much of a puppeteer as Robbie is. She just tends to use real people instead of wooden ones.
You have no plan, sketched out in your head, no way to make sure Cat falls for you like you did so easily for her. You don't remember all the little things she did, all the little hooks she slipped in, so simply. You're not as skilled as her, not as cruel, and your casts are clumsy and short, plunking into the water. But as she straddles you, your hips instinctively raising a little against her, you become aware again of your spine, pressed into the bed, hard and sharp, running the length of you. You're not about to give up, to give in and let her continue this game she's the master of, this game where she makes up all the rules. You have something you don't think she does; feelings. And not shallow, flitting moods, but things that writhe and swell within you, that ripple under the surface, gestating. And they're going to be birthed tonight. You're going to get satisfaction, or you're going to die. There's no more middle ground, no more neutrality. No more being tugged one way by your heart, and another way by her. You're not a toy, you're a weapon, and you're going to sink yourself into her very core, and make yourself known.
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A/N: As always, I humbly request your reviews.
My family is starving, and your reviews would feed them for days, maybe even weeks. You see, when in high school, I met a nice tv crossword. My, did he fill out in the time I knew him. But he was also pretty easy, and before I knew, I was pregnant.
After a long and intensive wordsearch, in which I almost lost the life of my vocabulary, I gave birth to a healthy cryptic crossword. Raising a child is a bit of a mystery to me, and I can't make heads nor tails of the clues my child gives me.
Unfortunately, I live in a country where racism against crosswords prevails (are they black? Are they white?), and ostracism has occurred.
My family and I need your words to fill our empty spaces, to solve our problems. Remember, you have the power! For just an easy two words a day (less than the length of a mocha venti grande skim cappucino), you can help my family live.
Or you know, you can go do sudoku instead. He's my brother-in-law.