PARANOIA

Polska – I have no idea what's wrong with me. I planned out this chapter, hoping it would help get me going, but after I wrote the first part, which took me almost two hours, I had to stop. I don't know why. I struggled so badly to write the beginning to this story. I'm sorry for the delay, but hopefully I'll get to finishing it soon.

To one of my reviewers: I don't really know much about romance either but writing is my life and I'm actually not much older than you are (in fact, my birthday was on Friday and I just turned sixteen =D). But thank you for thinking that it's brilliant. In fact, thank you everyone for all your wonderful reviews. It means a lot to know of your high opinions for my writing.

Also, this chapter reveals a few more subplots for you, as my readers, to digest. It'll be fun. (:

Anyways, enjoy this new chapter and don't forget to review! (:

It's the downward spiral that taunts us, beckons us to come along while the despair eats away at our very beings.

MELANCHOLY

n. a gloomy state of mind; depression

CHAPTER FOUR

"Ouch, I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah, I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe."

-- Breathe Me, Sia

She has a melancholic state of mind.

Slowly the depression will begin to take over and slowly it will begin to corrupt her tainted thoughts.

It drives her down a dark, twisted road and down the spiral towards misery.

And in the end she must come to the conclusion:

Nothing but the truth can save her now.

She taught him how to survive for the next few weeks and for that Butch is grateful. The smell of fresh vegetables and meat wafts up from his plastic grocery bags and through his nostrils—and the weight of the bags will do wonders for his muscles. It brings a satisfied smile to Butch's face.

The air is still and the streets are quiet. The condominiums on either side of the road remain uncomfortably darkened and there appears to be no source of life from any of the structures around him. It's an unnerving silence that Butch is both used to and not used to—though the latter seemingly overpowers his thoughts and he quickens his pace.

It is still relatively the early AM but Butch has no regrets. He has accomplished much this morning—all of which will potentially benefit him in the near future. He remembers the heavy look of hatred that Brick shot at him before he left but it does not deter him. He only wants one thing and Brick continues to cling to it.

Butch sighs, a fog of breath escaping his mouth out into the cold near-winter air. Some sort of regret taints every square inch of him and he wishes he didn't have to feel this way. If only he had realized the truth back then; if only he hadn't lusted over Blossom so inordinately, without taking heed to such obvious resentment and sadness from Buttercup.

If only.

Turning the street corner, Butch blinks back shock from his tearing green eyes. The lack of life from around the corner has been replaced by a certain rowdiness that could only occur at eleven o'clock in the morning. The area seems slightly rundown—but no more than Butch is used to—and graffiti seems to adorn most spots that are not living spaces.

The clear source of the unruliness comes from the short brick bar/diner (only at such cheap diners could there be such excitement over greasy pancakes and slightly burnt hash browns) not too far from where Butch has stopped. It has a flat roof and a neon sign that reads Mel's Bar and Diner, not yet lit up, and smashed beer bottles seem to commonly litter the cracked cement and green moss sprouting up between dark lines in the sidewalk.

In other words, to Butch it's nothing more than what he had grown up with—and almost preferred as compared to Brick's lifestyle.

He gingerly takes steps down the aging cement, shifting the grocery bags up and down his fingers. His fingers grow red as the weight in the plastic carefully digs grooves in his skin. The pain is a slight burning but Butch does not notice. He has faced worse.

He is not surprised to see the abundance of 'for sale' signs on browning lawns. Appearing by the bar is a dilapidated convenience store with poorly arranged wooden boards to cover a great amount of bullet holes in the glass paned windows and a small cracked tar parking lot decorated with broken glass.

It resembles…home.

As Butch makes his way towards the bar, he can tell from the downplayed noise that even rowdy soon-to-be drunks have respect for late-sleepers. He shakes his head and smiles faintly. It is not even noon yet.

"Butch?"

Butch whips his head in the direction of the voice and raises his eyebrows when he seems his brother, Boomer leaning against the stained brick of the bar-diner, a poorly rolled joint dangling between his middle and index fingers. His unintentionally unkempt blond hair, red-rimmed cloudy blue eyes and the five o'clock shadow on his chin are clear indications of poor sleeping habits and Butch wonders. Why is his brother so dishevelled? Though not being Brick, even Butch attempts to clean up a bit before leaving his house. And as long as he can remember, Boomer had always been the cleaner one of the two (though neither of them could compare to Brick).

"Boomer?" Butch takes small tentative steps towards his brother. He disapprovingly eyes the joint in his brother's hand—they'd promised to give up on the habit years ago—and then allows his eyes to travel up to Boomer's face, meeting his eyes. They look so tired and almost as uncomfortably darkened as the houses around the corner.

"Hey, bro," Boomer says, lifting the hand holding the joint almost pathetically. He seems to wince as he attempts a smile but Butch is too preoccupied with Boomer's overall appearance. His brow is furrowed almost comically but there is no amusement present in the small but tense atmosphere between the two.

"Dude, what's with the weed? I thought we said that's over and done with," Butch asks critically. His voice provides an uncommon paternal tenor, eliciting a chuckle out of Boomer.

"I needa let off a little steam once in a while, y'know," he says. "Besides, I'm getting married to a hippie. Not like she gives a shit if I smoke a little pot sometimes."

Butch raises his eyebrows again. Instead of sounding mellow and sleepy like before, his brother's voice has changed, almost sounding spiteful and accusatory when he mentions his fiancée. He has gotten the impression before that Bubbles and Boomer are having troubles but Boomer's tone sounds almost…angry.

He sighs and gently places the white plastic grocery bags on the stained ground by his feet so he is able to run a now-red hand through his mussed black hair. There are so many problems that Butch doesn't even know where to begin. In addition to Brick and Buttercup's eventual failing marriage, he now has to deal with Boomer and Bubbles, once Townsville's golden couple, and their weird but obviously serious thing (they are engaged).

"I was just with her, y'know," Butch says, gesticulating to the groceries lying abandoned on the ground.

Boomer takes a drag from his joint and closes his eyes. When they flutter open again, he offers the joint to Butch, who refuses. Shrugging, Boomer takes another drag, forcing Butch to wait even longer for his brother's reply.

"Who were you with?" Boomer asks coolly, his eyes glazing over.

Butch licks his lips, forcing himself to stay composed. "With Bubbles, Boomer."

At the sound of her name, Boomer's eyes shoot open and he focuses a mean glare on Butch. Scoffing, he leans back and tosses the joint to the ground, watching it slowly burn through the cannabis.

"Nice," he snorts. "She can't be bothered to be with me but when it comes to my brothers, it's all, 'oh my goshhh, let's hang out'." He changes his tone to a high-pitched mocking that does not sound a thing like Bubbles.

Butch opens his mouth in protest. "But that's not it at all. She was shopping for groceries and I was running out of food so she helped me."

Boomer looks at him, his eyes narrowed. "I'm sure she did help herself, that little slut."

Butch feels his jaw drop and his hands clench into fists. Even if Boomer is his brother, he has no right to talk about women like that, let alone his own fucking fiancée.

Allowing the anger to fully and quickly consume him, he punches Boomer in the face.

That fucking bastard…

November 12, Present

Dear Professor,

I sent you a letter last week, but you haven't replied yet. I guess you must be pretty busy. I guess I am too. Wendell and Burke are crazy. Those guys need a good aromatherapy massage. Their frown lines have frown lines. I don't think I've ever seen so many stress marks on a person before.

You were pretty rude to Boomer last time we all got together. I forgot to mention that in my last letter but was it absolutely necessary to call him a worthless, lazy bastard who will never be good enough for his little girl? I thought you didn't condone swearing, Professor. I thought you didn't condone insults.

I love him. He loves me. If he's lazy and worthless, so am I. Boomer and I are like one person. I have never cared about anyone this much since you and the girls. I know I shouldn't say this, but maybe even more than you and the girls.

And what was with that nonsense when you said that you saw him smoking marijuana? Boomer is too good for that. He told me he and the guys quit that shit (pardon my language) years ago. I know you're trying to break up this relationship, but my God you don't have to lie.

I don't see why you didn't have this big of a problem with Buttercup and Brick. Is it because Brick is rich? Is it because he became such a high-ranking employee of such a high-ranking businessman at such a young age? That's really superficial, Professor. You of all people should money doesn't mean squat.

I don't want to be angry with you, Professor. I just think you make too many unnecessary comments. You're not going to break us up. You're not going to do anything except ruin our relationship. You're not going to do anything except force me to lose my respect for you.

I'm almost there.

Bubbles

"Brick…? Bricky?"

Brick stands motionless, unable to look at his wife, who is trying valiantly to get his attention. His mouth is set in a firm, tight line and he is gripping the edge of the granite countertop so forcefully that his fingers are paling. Who knew that his brother had the audacity to barge into Brick's apartment and accuse him of cheating, directly in front of Buttercup?

Buttercup props her hands on her slim hips and shoots her husband a glare. "Brick Ronalds, you better answer me right this minute or I swear to God…"

He can't believe he has never noticed how absolutely annoying her voice is. It's like a little bug that he can't squish…it keeps buzzing around his ears tauntingly as though daring him to even try. He allows his eyes to travel to her face, which is set in an angry grimace and then down to her curvaceous body, covered in tall black boots, a black pencil skirt and a revealing white short-sleeved blouse. What is she trying to prove with all that cleavage?

"Brick fucking Ronalds! Answer me this instant!"

Brick grits his teeth. He closes his eyes and inhales in an attempt to calm himself. He rubs his palms against his temples, as though attempting to massage her voice out of his head. Taking a few deep breaths, he lowers his hands and stares Buttercup in the eye. Her persistence is not going to get her anywhere but it seems she refuses to acknowledge this. So he reaches over the counter and behind a marble vase filled with tulips, extracting a set of black, gold and silver credit cards from behind the decoration.

"Go shopping," he says shortly, shoving the credit cards into her hands. He ignores her confused expression and raises his hand, signalling that the discussion is done and she'd better leave before he decides that there no longer will be any more discussion.

She shoots him a disdainful glare but turns on her heel, grabbing her black belted trench coat from the bar stool and designer leather bag from its haphazard spot on the corduroy couch as she stomps down the hall and slams the door behind her.

Brick sighs, relieved for the peace and quiet. He shuffles languidly towards the couch and collapses tiredly upon it, resting his legs directly beside his laptop, which continues to lie untouched on the glass coffee table. He rests his head back against the couch, spreading his arms out against the scratchy exterior of the furniture. When did things get this complicated?

He knows that when he decided to sleep with Blossom on his own wedding night that things would get convoluted. He just doesn't understand how it has gotten this difficult…he thought he and Blossom would live their scandal in secrecy…

Sending Buttercup off on her shopping trip will only delay the inevitable, he knows. But it certainly gives him time to relax—he was this close to losing his temper—before she decides to come back.

His eyes wander towards the picture on the brick fireplace mantle a little ways away from him. It is a picture of him and Buttercup not too long after he had proposed to her that night at Spinelli's. They look so happy, so genuine…his eyes are not full of secrets in that picture. She looks pleased to simply be in his arms, not a manipulative, obsessive bitch that she turned into after their marriage. Back then, she didn't care whether or not he brought in five hundred grand a year or fifty. As long as they were happy.

But not anymore—she became obsessive. She became unhappy with every little thing he did. Even the sex isn't so good anymore. It has become too forced and mechanical, like everything is a job for her and it. Has. To. Be. Perfect.

Eventually they both just stopped trying. Marriage became nothing but a once-blissful memory and they realized the struggle of keeping it alive, of keeping it healthy. Even if he had not slept with Blossom that night, he knows in his heart that their marriage would not have stayed strong. In fact, in a way it's because of Blossom that he and Buttercup are still together. It's because of Blossom that Buttercup can continue to live in her little delusion.

He doesn't want to hurt her. Somewhere, deep down, he knows he still loves her. After all, he managed to give up, somewhat, his unrequited love for Blossom, all for Buttercup. But it's true that it doesn't mean a thing if he can't stay in love with her. That's what marriage is built on; love and loyalty—and if there is no loyalty, then the structure is non-existent and everything will fall apart.

Brick sighs. The penthouse is quiet; he can hear his breathing and the ticking of the ugly oak clock that the Professor had sent them as a wedding gift. Tick-tock. It's an ominous, unnerving silence. The refrigerator hums and occasionally, as Brick shifts in his seat, the corduroy adjusts itself. He glances at the clock. It has only been ten minutes.

He wonders what Butch is doing. He can still picture that smug, idiotic, shit-eating grin on his obnoxious face. Brick knows what his brother's plan is. He remembers the wedding. Butch was being a bastard, as usual, and he was attempting unsuccessfully to hit on Buttercup. Brick has always known Butch is a chauvinistic player, but to hit on his brother's wife? There is no excuse for that.

But then he thinks about it—if Butch wants Buttercup so badly, then Buttercup will have to realize that for herself. Brick will not break up with Buttercup unless she wants him too. He will not break her heart. He will not break Blossom's. He will keep them both under a melancholic delusion. He is not a heartbreaker, not intentionally.

He turns over on his back and lies there for a few moments, crossing his hands across his chest and staring up at the ceiling. Why is it such an ugly wood-panelled ceiling? Someone ought to shoot the architect for creating such a revolting ceiling. It reminds Brick of a log cabin.

He closes his eyes, picturing the last moment between him and Blossom again. She looked so sad and vulnerable in his arms but yet he could not agree with her paranoid delusions that someone was watching her. She was hysteric, that's all. Brick opts to fall asleep, hoping that when he wakes up, he will realize that it has all been nothing but a bad dream.

Seemingly not too long afterwards, a sharp grip in his shoulder awakes him. His eyes flutter open, and he blinks up at Buttercup, who is digging her long scarlet nails into his shoulder. Though not properly awake, the pain dawns on him and he winces. Buttercup, however, shows no sign of letting go.

"Don't think I've forgotten," she says threateningly. He slowly sits up, squeezing his eyes shut as he rubs his nose. When he opens them, Buttercup is still glaring at him unblinkingly. Her copious shopping bags lie in a haphazard assortment by the coffee table, and it seems that her blouse is unbuttoned even further, revealing more cleavage than necessary. It seems to Brick like a ploy to get him to tell her everything. He grins, unable to contain himself. She should know by now that he is not Butch.

"Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face," Buttercup sneers, gritting her teeth. She looks slightly less attractive with such an ugly look on her face but not unattractive enough to classify her as ugly, average, or even pretty. She is still beautiful but does not look less bitchy than before.

Brick sighs and rubs his eyes. He throws his legs over the couch and gently reaches for her wrist. "Buttercup, what do you want from me?"

Buttercup twists her wrist away, folding her arms across her chest. She had tried the cleavage ploy as a desperate attempt to get Brick to tell her everything, even though she knows it would not have worked. Brick prefers intelligence to…assets and as much as it pains her to think about, she knows she is more of the latter than she is the former.

"I want you to tell me what Butch was talking about earlier," she says, her tone softening slightly. "What is this rumour?"

Brick rubs the back of his head, tousling his auburn hair slightly. It looks sexy, messy like that, Buttercup decides. But she shakes her head slightly, forcing herself to not get distracted over her husband's good looks. It should be easier than this. She shouldn't have to question her husband's loyalty to her.

He grips her hands and yanks her down on top of him. Staring directly into her eyes, he says, "I swear to you, Buttercup, it is nothing. It's nothing that isn't typical Butch. You know what he wants, Buttercup."

He continues to stare, hoping that those words are enough to deter her from this conversation, at least for a little while. He knows he can be impossibly convincing, and prays that this is one of those times. He is relieved when she sighs and tells him that she believes him, for now.

Because she does know what Butch really wants.

This conversation isn't over yet.

God, my head is pounding.

Blossom blinks up at the ceiling, running the backside of her hand over her forehead. Her vision is slightly fuzzy and her diary lies under her body, near her pillow. She is lying uncomfortably on the couch, having collapsed there after taking that influential pregnancy test.

Pregnancy…

She bolts up into sitting position, wincing at the quick movement. Her head thrums, as though someone is pounding her head with gong mallets. She runs her hands in the air in front of her face slowly, trying to soothe herself, but to no avail. The mere thought of that fateful test seems to urge the mallets to pound even harder and she falls back on the couch.

Blossom closes her eyes and pinches the skin underneath them, rubbing it tiredly as though she has given up. The skin is dry and crusty from her tears and she is sure that her eyes are as red as her hair. When had fate decided that getting her pregnant would be a suitable consequence?

She sighs. There is no use moping over something that has gone far beyond her control. She struggles to lift her legs over the edge of the couch. They feel so heavy. She has to muster all of her strength to accomplish a task that should be so much easier to achieve. Eventually her feet are planted firmly on the white shag carpet.

Her arms lie uselessly at her sides. She digs them into the couch and mightily pushes herself up, wobbling a bit in place when she manages to stand upright. Why is she so weak? Her crying couldn't have drained her energy that much. She feels as though her muscles are entirely non-existent.

She glances at the clock. It is nearing four in the afternoon. Her appointment with Dr. Elliot had been at ten o'clock that morning. All she distinctly remembers doing is anxiously awaiting the test result that would determine her stupidity once and for all. When had things spun so far out of control?

"What should I do, what should I do…" she mumbles disjointedly, gracelessly stumbling into the coffee table as she makes her way towards the yellowed phone—a classic, albeit an ugly one and unquestionably her worst house-warming gift—on the crimson-painted wall by the bathroom door. She stares at it for a few minutes, trying desperately to determine what she should do with it.

Picking up the receiver, Blossom allows a long spidery finger to linger anxiously over the buttons. She weakly punches in a phone number, cringing at the portentous-sounding dial tone in her ear. It is loud and taunting. What are you doing, Blossom? Are you sure you're making the right decision, Blossom?

'Yes,' Blossom decides, thinking carefully. 'This is the right choice.'

"Hello, Dr. Burnham's office," a female attendant says coolly over the phone.

Blossom stops, panicking. What is she supposed to say?

"Hello?"

Blossom manages to regain her composure after a few moments. "Uh, hi," she manages to spit out, not eloquently and without much articulacy. "My name is Blossom…uh, Utonium. Um, I'd like to book an appointment with Dr. Burnham."

"What is the nature of your appointment?" the woman over the phone asks, sounding bored.

Blossom thinks. "I think I'm pregnant?" she responds, sounding almost unsure of herself. Saying the words aloud begin to dawn on her. God, what if she really is pregnant? How could she allow herself to get pregnant?

"Please hold," the woman says and Blossom holds. She hears fingers clacking against a keyboard and a mouse clicking. Finally, the woman reappears on the phone.

"We have an opening at 2:45 pm this Thursday," she drones.

"I…I can do that," Blossom manages to reply. She glances at the calendar—Sunday. She relays her personal information to the snippy woman on the other end of the phone and feels an immense sense of relief wash over her when they mutually hang up.

Blossom feebly attempts to place the receiver back in its holder before she turns her back and slumps against the wall. The phone slides out of its spot and knocks against the wall, but Blossom does not notice. She closes her eyes and grips knees tightly with her hands until they both pale. There is an intimidating silence, fitting enough for her to sit solemnly in until she finally feels the strength to stand up and trudge awkwardly towards the bathroom.

The scene is familiar and the area unclean from her last visit. The two boxes from her pregnancy tests lay disconsolately on the floor by the toilet and her various cosmetic bottles sit awkwardly with all her prescription pill containers. Blossom roughly shakes her head, gritting her teeth. The mess is mocking, painfully reminding her of her mistakes.

But then her eyes flutter over the mess of bottles on her countertop and she spies a small orange prescription container standing upright amid the fallen bottles and cosmetics. The white label is slightly scratched off at the corners as if someone had tried to remove the name but gave up after the white paper would not budge. She reaches, with shaking hands, towards the bottle, picking it up gingerly as though it will shock her.

UTONIUM BUTTERCUP.

Shocked, Blossom drops the bottle and takes a step back, raising her hands slightly in the air as though she has been burned. Buttercup had not left that container on her last visit. She had not offered it to Blossom as a gift, as a promise to relax her. Blossom leans down to pick up the bottle, confirming her fearful thoughts that it is indeed Buttercup's Celexa prescription.

Her anxiety pills—her antidepressants.

And then before she can stop herself, Blossom pops the lid and shakes out one…and then another and then three more. Without dousing them with water, she throws back her head and allows them to slide into her mouth and down her throat.

I can't take it anymore…

"BITCH!" Buttercup cried, slapping Blossom on the back. "What the hell are you still doing here?! That huge ass dorm party being thrown is, like, on in like ten minutes! Why are you still studying?"

It was true—while Buttercup was dressed in tight black jeans and a cleavage-baring white top, Blossom was sitting at her desk, one of her many, heavy textbooks open in front of her, along with a notebook filled with five pages of fresh notes. She angrily tapped her pencil against the desk, trying to ignore her sister's pestering.

"Blossom…" Buttercup whined. "Why are you being such a loser? You haven't been to like a single party this year. It's already November. It's college. I get studying is super important, blah, blah, blah, but you have to let loose sometimes."

That was it. "Enough!" Blossom yelled, tossing her pencil to the side. She heard it clatter almost noiselessly against the wall, somewhere on her roommate's side of the room. Oh well, she'd get it later.

She turned around in her chair, preparing her Glare. It was a look enough to silence the mouths of anyone, even Butch, who didn't shut up for anybody. Not even her when they were together (they were secretly off-again, not that her sisters or his brothers would know—Blossom didn't like to share the details of her relationship—or now lack thereof—with Butch, and she knew he didn't either).

But Buttercup remained unaffected. She disinterestedly waved her hand and wandered over to Blossom's tiny closet. Blossom watched as her sister carelessly rummaged through it. Sometimes she would hold up an article of clothing, wrinkle her nose and throw it over her shoulder. When there was a steadily growing pile of clothes on the ground, Blossom stood up and yanked the grey wife beater from Buttercup's hands.

"Buttercup," she said slowly, "enough. I'm not going to this party. I have studying to do."

"Study, study, study," Buttercup said, rolling her eyes. "All you do is study. One party, Blossom, you're a nervous wreck. One night is all you need to blow off a little steam. Maybe get laid…or not. Butch wouldn't like that, would he?"

She winked and Blossom felt her face burn. No, Butch would not like that. But they were temporarily not together again. If she wanted to sleep with someone, there was technically nothing he could do about it…

Blossom shook her head. No, what was she thinking? She wasn't going to this party. She turned and stared at the textbook open on her desk. Suddenly, it didn't look very inviting anymore, whereas the filmy, strapless pink number in her sister's hands…did. She imagined herself making her way through a sweaty dorm, pushing past gyrating bodies and feeling as though she finally belonged. All of her anxieties would be gone.

"So if I go to this party," Blossom began thoughtfully, "you would never bother me again? I can study in peace?"

Buttercup nodded excitedly, the garments in her hands shaking. She looked like a little child when asked if she wanted some cookies. But one look at her scantily clad body and one would be reminded that Buttercup was the farthest thing away from a little child…she was an (almost) maturing nineteen-year-old girl who, Blossom could tell, would never truly forgive her but was still trying to be sisterly and rescue Blossom from herself.

Blossom sighed dejectedly. She grabbed the clothes—the pink top and skinny jeans—from Buttercup's arms and marched into the adjacent bathroom to her room. She pulled off her hoodie and camisole and adjusted the shirt around her bust—it was low enough that it forced Blossom to wear it without a bra—and slid her lithe legs into the dark jeans. She pulled her long red hair out of its comfortable ponytail and watched as it settled into place as waves around her shoulders. She glanced into the mirror, which could reveal a medicine cabinet. She looked almost pretty.

"Whoa, Blossom, you're a babe!" Buttercup exclaimed when her sister marched out of the bathroom, her arms pressed against her sides tightly. She slung her arm over Blossom's shoulder and led her through the doorframe where loud booming music could already be heard down the rickety stairs.

"Trust me, you won't regret this."

Blossom uneasily shuffled behind Buttercup as they made their way down the stairs. She watched anxiously as her socially adept sister began mingling through the crowd, laughing and smiling at random people who Blossom had never seen before in her life. Clearly she had been missing out after staying cooped up in her room for so long. She even caught sight of her roommate, Megan, doing body shots on a pool table near the corner of the room. This party painfully reminded Blossom of a sorority party.

Suddenly she wished she really did belong at a sorority. Then maybe she would at least look like she belonged.

The night was tough. She barely knew anybody at this party (clearly Butch had made it a point not to come—and Brick probably thought he was too cool to come to a simple dorm party) and the music was not her style. Girls were dancing like trash and the guys didn't seem to have much of a problem with it. The whole scene appalled Blossom. She rubbed her head, trying ineffectively to rid herself of her awful headache.

"Hey, baby," someone cooed sloppily into her ear. Blossom whirled around from her place on the wall (she was a regular wallflower) and saw that the voice was coming from a tall boy with a blond buzz cut. He probably would have been attractive to someone like her roommate and Buttercup, who seemed willing to flirt with anyone with a dick, but to Blossom he was almost disgusting.

"Whas a pretty girl like yooou doin' over here like a looooozer?" the boy slurred. His breath stank like beer and smoke and Blossom caught a whiff of weed rising up from his clothes—she always tried desperately to get Butch to quit the nasty habit.

"I'm…" Blossom looked around, searching for Buttercup. The guy was advancing slowly towards her. Nobody seemed to really notice, or care. The music had changed to some sexually inviting rave song and almost every person was holding a red plastic cup of beer.

"Come on, baby, you look so lonely," he crowed, roughly running his calloused fingers up and down her arms. She looked down at his hands and then up at his face. His pupils were dilated and he looked down at her with a sick smirk on his face. She tried to pry his fingers off her wrists but he caught her hands in his and gripped them tightly.

"Aw, don't be like that…"

Blossom shook her head, unable to speak. She had tried to have fun. She had followed Buttercup down to this party. But so far all it had done was give her a splitting headache and shake up her nerves even more. The whole thing was too fucking stressful.

She did the only thing she could think of and kicked the guy in the crotch. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

"Frigid bitch!" he yelled as she began running through the crowd. Why had she listened to Buttercup?

She was about to turn the corner when something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. It seemed as though Butch was there after all—except he wasn't alone. He was sitting on a chair in the corner, some scantily clad girl with long reddish hair cascading down her back. They were sitting a little too close to simply be talking…

What the fuck?

She turned on the heel of her flat ankle boots and darted up the stairs, her eyes burning. So it was apparently all right for Butch to screw some random chick but for her, he would beat the guy senseless?

Blindly, Blossom wandered down the hallway, away from the pounding music. She pushed open the door to her sister's room, which was a floor lower than hers, and found herself amid a mess of clothes and books. Despite her frustration, she had to smile—Buttercup had not changed at all.

She pushed through the mess on the floor until she was in the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. Her heart pounded in sync with her head and she yanked open the mirror in Buttercup's bathroom. She rummaged through the containers, searching for some Advil or Tylenol to calm her headache.

What. The. Fuck?

Blossom slowly extracted a small orange bottle from the back of the shelf. BUTTERCUP UTONIUM, it read. 200MG OF CELEXA.

Buttercup wasn't depressed. Why did she need Celexa? She didn't seem like the type to have anxiety disorders either…why was there a prescription bottle of an antidepressant pill in her sister's medicine cabinet?

Flashes of memories ran through Blossom's head like a windows moviemaker video. First Buttercup's insistence, buzz cut boy and Butch and trashy-fake-redhead-slut, and now finding out that her own sister had a pill prescription for antidepressants? Something was entirely wrong with this picture, and Blossom absolutely hated it. She gritted her teeth together tightly and clenched and unclenched her fists.

So she did the only thing that her brain would allow her to—she wrapped her fingers around the bottle forcefully and slammed the cabinets shut. The bottle was still mostly full—Buttercup wouldn't miss it.

"Hello?" Bubbles hears her voice echo slightly through the empty front hall as she pushes the door open and takes a tentative step on the large carpet in front of it. Their home is small but cozy and is situated in a small, old suburb where all the houses look relatively alike, despite not quite reaching to Blossom's house standards, or even Butch's. But Bubbles has never complained before.

She gently wipes her dirty feet on the side carpet and slides her feet into a pair of slippers that aren't nearly as comfortable as the furry ones she always concedes to lecture her sisters and Boomer's brothers about. She shuffles down the hall and grips the peeling doorframe as she pokes her head around the corner.

"Boomer?" she gasps, noticing her fiancée leaning against the sink in their tiny kitchen, an icepack wrapped in a dishtowel pressed against his cheek. The arm that is not holding the pack is resting on the inexpensive kitchen counter, a peeved expression plastered on his face. His eyes are closed serenely and his feet are crossed at the ankles, allowing all his weight on his right leg.

His eyes shoot open at the sound of her voice and his eyes narrow slightly, but soften when he notices her concerned appearance. Bubbles hurries over, abandoning her bag of groceries at the raised platform of tiles in the door. She gently pulls the icepack away from his grasp and presses it against his face herself.

He winces. "Ahh, thanks, Bubbles."

She smiles placidly, not saying anything. They stand in silence for a few minutes until Bubbles notices an odd stench in the air. She sniffs the area around herself and Boomer before focusing her now narrowed attention on him. The smell is coming from him, apparently and it is an oddly familiar smell at that.

"Boomer," she begins slowly but sternly, "what exactly have you been doing all day?"

He promised her. He promised her that he would give up the habit. Is that why all the money from their money jar is missing? Because Boomer spends it all on fucking marijuana? She always assumed it is because he was finally deciding to help out with the upkeep of their home…not because he is spending it on drugs.

"You still smoke it?" she yells, tossing the icepack to a random corner in their cramped kitchen. She plants her hands on her hips angrily stands her feet sternly into the kitchen tiles, an odd change from her normally mellow persona. Boomer, however, seems unaffected and even a little angry himself.

"Is that how you got that bruise on your cheekbone?" she shouts. "You got a little drunk, smoked a little weed, got into a fight at fucking noon?" Bubbles doesn't swear but she has been putting it into habit lately, all because of Boomer, the man she loves but who is clearly not showing the same feelings back to her.

"Get off my back!" he suddenly yells back to her. Bubbles is taken aback. Is he actually defending himself?

"You don't know shit!" he continues, advancing towards her. Bubbles takes a step back, alarmed at his sudden eruption. "Where were you this morning, huh? Shopping with Butch? Yeah, I fucking know all about that. Grocery shopping, right. You're a liar, Bubbles. I thought you were better than that."

"No! You're the liar!" she yells back. "You promised me you wouldn't smoke anymore! And don't bring Butch into this! He is actually being a good friend, unlike you!"

Boomer's eyes cloud over with such an angry force that Bubbles has never seen before. He is glaring at her with a look of…almost hatred and suddenly she's scared. She is pissed at him for lying and being delusional and accusatory but she can't help but regret yelling at him.

He advances at her then and before she can comprehend what is happening, he pushes her back and she falls against the wall, banging her head slightly against the painted framework. He stomps out of the room, but not before stopping at the door and yelling something painfully coherent to Bubbles.

"Well, it's your new fucking best friend who really did the shit here!" he shouts. "Nice to know who your loyalties lie with." And with one final sneer at her, he stomps down the hall and all Bubbles can hear next is the door slamming and a vulgarity being directed towards her before he leaves.

The bump on her head steadily grows larger and painful in cohesion with the hole in her heart that shows no sign of ceasing to break.

I don't think he loves me anymore…

TO BE CONTINUED

Polska – Man, I was on a role with this chapter after the very first part with Butch and Boomer. It's my longest chapter, so I hope you accept that as a sort-of apology from me. A lot of subplots were introduced in this chapter, along with even more plot holes—which will be revealed in turn, don't worry. The Celexa subplot has been in my mind since the very beginning, and it is necessary for the Blossom plot to develop. Next chapter will feature movement in the Blossom/Brick/Buttercup love triangle; so don't give up on me now! (:

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