PARANOIA
Polska – I just haven't been inspired for this story, that's all. But I suddenly felt like finishing this chapter. Here is the next chapter of my favourite story on here. :) I hope people still review…
An elated feeling of delusion soon brings to consideration that perhaps every melancholic sensation is overpowering any previous sense of reality.
BLISS
n. supreme happiness; utter joy or contentment
CHAPTER FIVE
"Why are you here?
Are you listening?
Can you hear what
I am saying?
I am not here.
I'm not listening.
I'm in my head.
And I'm spinning."
- Fallen, 30 Seconds To Mars
The bliss is temporary, due only to a thick cover of misconception. It's a strange sort of semi-psychosis that trails from the dominant paranoia overpowering everything.
The bliss is desperate, a false, hopeful sentiment that shies away from truth and veracity and sets a fixed sense of belief in their corruptible minds.
The bliss is a desire and a cover, refusing to allow the true melancholy to taint the wishful fantasies.
The bliss builds impermanent utopias and strengthens delusions to the point where reality is nothing but a myth and a memory.
The tingles are unnatural, creating an incomprehensible fuzz in her brain that fills her with a sensation of pure euphoria. She feels inexplicably jubilant, fighting a constant urge to reveal this elation to the world—to stand on the rooftops and shout from this abnormal buzz that she is elated beyond belief; she wants to dance and sing and smile and she's never felt better.
Perhaps, on some subconscious level, she realizes that it's all false; that in a few imminent hours she will no longer be rendered with this strange feeling of ecstasy (then, she wonders, giggling inwardly, if that is the cause of her elation?), and everything she's fought so hard to be rid of will return and the cycle will begin all over again.
Oh, contentment is a foreign concept—what is happiness? Sex is happiness; it is a tight effervesce in regards to this. Work…yes; work is an atypical source to her personal pleasure. She likes to work—the sense of pride that comes along with it is a wonderful feeling. And…yes, she could never forget him. He fills her with enough jubilation to make her heart soar beyond her chest.
She giggles as her thoughts stray towards the initial thought—it would cure her sadness, if only temporarily, and now she finds it so…naughty, for lack of a better word. There's something strangely romantic and alluring about a surreptitious affair, however illicit it may be. A familiar heat spreads up her body and she bites her lip anxiously, willing for him to be there with her and ignite that heat into a wildfire.
Her brain feels fuzzy, infested with white noise and microphone feedback. Perhaps swallowing five prescription pills at one moment had not been a good idea…no, perhaps not. But there is no denying its effect—its wonderful, albeit unnatural, effect. She is giggly, insides grinning a blissful smile, and despite the buzz in her head, it's a nice, contented buzz. It's happy too.
She's constantly reminded of him now—his ability to fix her, to burn that spark furiously. He's latched onto a piece of her soul and he holds it carefully, taking precious heed of his part of her. They feel right together, moulding into each other contentedly and constantly and she wants him every day, all the time—regardless of the consequences. He is a married man. And his wife is her sister.
But there was that era of unrequited love, she remembers. That should count for something, perhaps? She'd been living in a misinformed delusion, maybe, but the realization now…well, that certainly has to count for something! She wants him forever, wants him as hers, wants him wherever she goes. She's an empty shell without him, lost without the misbelieved eternity she's so lovingly christened him.
And then she decides she must see him. Even if it is to see his face, to catch one glimpse of those stoic features that constantly evoke both unwanted and desired emotions in her whenever she sees them. And perhaps it is the buzz in her brain that is insisting that she go see him or the gentle urging of her heart or even the subtle heat surging through her body. Inevitably, she has to see him.
Her hair looks nice—long and an odd orangey-red, pulled into a professional ponytail with a black velvet headband. Her clothes are neat and tidy; the same from the morning but that is of no consequence (perfume is perfection captured; alluring and subtly hygienic). But her face—the tears have crusted into tiny beige flakes under her eyes and her lips feel dry. But this is easily remedied by a splash of water over her features and the use of mascara and blush to resolve the washed-out paleness in her cheeks.
She bats her eyelashes, curling her now glossed lips in a coy half-smile. She looks…dare she say…pretty. Pretty and happy, a combination that seems to be as rare as a blue moon. And most importantly, she looks good enough to see him and spark in him what he reveals in her. Without his wife being there, of course.
Abandoning the bathroom in its current state of disconsolate messiness, she flicks the light switch and makes her way to the door where she slips into her black pea coat and glossy, pointy black pumps, all of which coincide with her black leather gloves and similar black leather designer bag—purely high-fashion, purely class; purely everything she stands for.
The next decision is her motive of transportation—she consults the buzz for this. Do they live far enough to walk, perhaps? she muses, silently considering to herself. Or perhaps I would be most comfortable in a car? The sun is fading into the sky, dipping down below the skyline of sumptuous apartment buildings and the faint outline of city towers. I will walk, she decides, grateful that he lives only a short distance away from her.
Her chin is held high and her smile is perpetual now, rarely finding occasion to slide from her face. The winter air snaps at her skin and renders it red and rosy, but she pays it no attention, finding the coldness almost refreshing. It is like a gentle breeze to her, a makeshift air freshener that coincides with the looseness in her psyche.
In another ten minutes she arrives, her smile never waning and her legs spattered with faint reds between the fishnet patterns. A familiar sense of distant euphoria settles in over her, clouding her head in a protective effervesce.
"Why, hello there, Miss. Blossom!" Phil cries out softly from his spot at the revolving door. She smiles at him perkily, pink lips curled up genuinely. She approaches him with confidence in her stride, a trait previously, in the short span of time of her depression, unheard of.
"Hello, Phil," she greets him back, waving delicately at the chubby doorman. A slight flush appears to tint his cheeks and he smiles toothily back at her, perhaps allowing her contagious, albeit almost false, happiness to overcome his preceding emotion.
"You here to see the Missus and Mister?" he asks her, eyes wide with curiosity. Her smile falters slightly at the mention of 'the Missus' but otherwise beams brightly with the sparkle of an inside joke.
"Yes," she replies. "Can you ring me up? I want to surprise hi—them." She graces him with an emphasized wink and indicative half-smile, silently thanking the buzz for her improvised speech.
He waves his hand as if it's nothing. "Of course, Miss. Blossom. You go on right up," he says, gesturing grandly through the revolving doors. She beams at him one last time before sweeping past him in an artificial sense of royalty (not that she really knows its falseness).
She can feel her heart pounding incessantly in its present euphoric state—and the exciting prospect of seeing him in the glory of his apartment. Even if his wife is there with him—just the sight of him will fulfill her desires enough. Her hand travels subconsciously to her belly but she makes no note of this, and uses it to clutch her bag to her body as the elevator dings to signify her arrival at the penthouse level.
She rings the doorbell to their penthouse and bites her lip excitedly when she hears footsteps hurriedly stomping towards the door.
"What?" Buttercup snaps as she whips the door open. Her eyebrows rise when she sees Blossom standing there, but she is none too pleased. She crosses her arms across her voluptuous chest and leans against the doorway, her own effervesce offering off a sense of refusal.
"Buttercup!" Blossom exclaims, leaning over to Buttercup with her arms stretched out. Buttercup, whose sea foam green eyes have now widened in utter distaste, leans back to decline the hug. Blossom waves this away carelessly and returns her giddy attention to her sister. "Is Brick here?"
Buttercup regards her suspiciously, sculpted black eyebrows furrowed in guarded reservation. But before she can say anything, Blossom, unable to control herself, merrily bursts out the words that cause Buttercup's heart to stop entirely:
"I'm pregnant!"
Out of control…
November 14, Present Year
Dear Professor,
I realize post mail is slow but I've sent letters almost every day for the past couple weeks. Where are you, Professor? Why haven't you been answering my letters? I realize I've been faintly harsh in many of those letters but I don't think that's a reason for you to ignore me. A phone call or even an email would suffice? Where are you?
Work is not going so great right now; I'm beginning to grow worried. I've been at that stupid secretarial post for over a year now and maybe they've begun to notice my displeasure at it. I haven't exactly been silent about it. Still, that's no reason to discuss it covertly without me present. It is about me, after all. If they're going to fire me, I wish they would just do it.
I ran into Blossom at the supermarket yesterday. She was acting incredibly ambiguous. I feel like I don't know anything about her lately. She's so secretive and yet, I'm picking up the happiest vibe from her—and then, there's an under layer of sadness there. I'm not even sure how to describe it. I wish she would talk to me.
The issue of Boomer and I isn't over yet, Professor and that's why I need you to reply to me. I want you at my wedding. It's approaching quickly, or have you forgotten? No, not forgotten—I bet you've pushed it out of your mind as if to deny that it's ever happening. Well, tough, Professor. It's inevitable. Boomer and I are getting married and I want you there. So I hope you can accept this relationship eventually.
If you're just being bitter than this is very immature behaviour for an older adult. You're my father, Professor, and I need you to accept me for me. If not, then I'm not sure I can call you that anymore.
Write back soon.
Bubbles
She is so frustrating sometimes.
He wishes that it would go back to previous times—when she was much more laidback about what he did in his spare time. When their relationship was built solely on love and the mutual desire for a peaceful life. Peace and love…those constant professions are starting to annoy him now. Everything about them just seems to irk him. His hands clench and his knuckles twitch and he wants to punch something, break something—cause even an inanimate object pain.
He loves her, yes, but, as shameful as he is to admit it, he loved her more when she didn't attempt to control him as constantly as she does now. He wants his freedom, wants the ability to do what he wants without rebuking from her. He respects her wishes but, by that fact, shouldn't she respect his? He rubs his forehead with his hand, willing the confused pounding in his head to go away.
He hadn't meant to harm her. His anger got the best of him and he had shoved her—he had hurt her. The guilt has slowly begun to overcome him ever since he had stormed out in irrational fury. He wants to go back and apologize—to kiss her tenderly on her wounds and tell her he does love her and he doesn't want to leave her. But the domineering male pride half in him arises and he angrily shoves his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans and continues his irate march down the sidewalk.
They'd been so cute in high school. He kissed her constantly and they held hands on a regular basis and they were just so damn cute together—cute to the point that his brothers and her sisters would always joke about the feeding-each-other-food and taking-romantic-walks in even the most unromantic of places would cause a series of disgusted vomit sessions. But Boomer had simply laughed at this—what could he say? He was a closet romantic.
But then he had proposed to her and at first it had seemed like perfection. She'd assumed him her soul mate and him the same to her—because all those years together could only mean that they were meant for each other. At first she hadn't minded his pot-smoking habits (in fact, sometimes she didn't hesitate to join him when he brought out a joint). But then she'd gotten hired at Wendell & Burkes, those uptight lawyers whose commercials Boomer had always scoffed at on television.
Her playful façade seemed to dissipate and she became so involved in her work that even her whole comforting hippy routine seemed inane and false. He slipped back into the habit of eating meat and she hadn't noticed—which was almost heart-wrenching because she hated food from animals almost more than anything else in the world, and the fact that she didn't even care that he was betraying her wishes was…well, it tore at his chest in a mental pain.
When she'd suggested they open a New Age shop together, at first he'd been all for it—they would be able to spend time together and she wouldn't be so involved in her work. But then she became controlling in her own sense. She forbade him from blazing and demanded that he stop drinking. Her carefree demeanour was slipping and in its place was a lesser version of Buttercup. He shudders at the very thought of it.
His inner anger grew until it slowly consumed him and everything he did and thought. Her voice became an annoyance and he constantly assumed the worst—she was cheating on him, she was leaving him, she was a damn filthy hypocrite. The latter was the most reasonable of all and it wasn't too difficult to convince himself of it—the whole hippy thing was simply a giant façade. There was nothing else to it.
His fists clench at the thought of it and he shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thoughts of her. Perhaps he will apologize for pushing her later (though not for his words to her—he doesn't doubt that maybe, on some level, they are true), but right now he needs that extra push of calm.
He makes his way to the nearest intersection and takes a turn at the alleyway just nearby. The narrow, gravely road is littered with fly-infested garbage cans and moss sprouting up from the most inconvenient of spots. A faint beam of fading sunlight shines through the constricted opening, the only source of a light to an otherwise shadowed area. He steps carefully on the gravel, wincing at each light crunch under his feet.
He could scoff at the predictability of it. It seems so typical, a covert alleyway that shields the dark, sordid types away from the bright lights of city streets and police cars. But it has become almost a sort of home-away-from-home, a place where he can go to gather himself and his selection of things that help him go numb.
"Rudolph?" Boomer calls, swiping away a stray lock of blond hair that has fallen across his pallid, sweaty forehead undesirably. He makes his way hesitantly down the alley, hands shoved anxiously into the deep pockets of his baggy cargo pants.
"Boomer, my boy!" a tall, heavyset man crows heavily as he jumps up from his spot against a dirtied, metal door. Above it is a rusted fire escape that seems threateningly close to crashing down, and surrounding it is a series of tarnished garbage cans and dumpsters.
Boomer engages in a complex handshake with the man, whose thick frame seems to envelop Boomer easily. His skin, a dark cocoa color, seems to complement his head of ebony hair and black attire effortlessly, and his eyes, black as the stocking cap that sits askew on his head, are vaguely dilated and wild.
"What can I do you for?" Rudolph asks, his grin perpetual and untamed. He seems impassive to the cold wind, dressed only in a light track jacket and jeans with his doc martens. He's unquestionably out of it, undoubtedly high.
Boomer sighs melancholically. "My fiancée's being a bitch as usual. Like, I'm starting to get really fuckin' sick and tired of it, Rudolph, y'know? Everything I do is fuckin' wrong, like I'm fuckin' useless or something. It's like, sorry that you're so big of a fuckin' bitch that I wanna escape from all your goddamn complaining once in a fuckin' while."
Rudolph listens to his tirade, nodding appropriately and sympathetically. Once Boomer draws breath, he strokes his stubbly chin with a thick finger, contemplative.
"What you need, my boy, is somethin' stronger than what I've been givin' you," he begins, a devious smirk beginning to form on his lips.
Boomer furrows his brow confusedly. "You got stronger weed than what you've been giving me? 'Cause, 'Dolph, I gotta tell you, that's some powerful shit."
Rudolph laughs, a surprisingly high noise for someone so tall and broad. He pats Boomer on the shoulder, grinning in response. "Baby, come on, trust your pal Rudolph. Would I ever let you down?" He lets go of Boomer's shoulder to extract something from his back pocket.
"I'll give you this whole thing for a good price. Street value," he adds, opening his palm to reveal a small packet centred on his skin. "Couple twenties and we're good to go, eh? Strong shit too, lemme tell you, Boomer."
A temporary shock settles in over Boomer, who stares both covetously and apprehensively at the packet in his dealer's hand. The white powder unnerves him, its disreputable notion widening over his thoughts. This is something beyond his consideration, a road he can't go back on.
A world that will slowly spiral out of control…
And the instance that Rudolph says it will better his mindset Boomer exchanges the money in his pocket for the pack of white powder. He greedily drifts away, anxious to begin the spiral.
A slow descent…
An unlit cigarette dangles precariously from the corner of his mouth, the single fixture upon a mangled expression of anger and frustration. His previous feeling of euphoria has long since dissipated, replaced by a mess of negativity. He curses loudly, spewing the cigarette from his lips.
"Butch, I'm afraid your work has been increasingly lacklustre the past few months," his boss said seriously, leaning back in his enormous leather office chair and sighing loudly. "It's become a real detriment to the ultimate goal of Defusion."
Butch sat in the chair directly across from his boss' vast, mahogany desk, his mouth slightly agape. The skyline view from the substantial office space, which had originally been calming to his rattled nerves, now seemed foreign and menacing. He gripped the arms of the wooden chair tightly, ignoring the increasing pallor in his knuckles.
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize I was doing such a poor job in regards to the company…"
His boss sighed again, touching the tips of his fingers together. He had the look of somebody who was utterly bored by the proceedings, but was trying to mask it with an expression of sympathy. "Ronalds, you were a fine addition when I hired you initially, but it seems everything has since gone downhill. I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go…"
Butch stood up suddenly, his body rigid and his mouth set in a tight line. "I see. Well, I'm sorry you feel this way." He hurried away from the chair and the desk, desperate to get as far away from his boss and his goddamn company as quickly as he could.
"Helen will leave you with notice for your final pay check and paperwork!" his boss called after him.
Butch pretended not to hear him.
He picks up the cigarette off the checked, black and white tiles in his small, cramped kitchen, chucking it in the garbage can. He angrily extracts another one from the pack of Marlboros in the back pocket of his pants, tucking it roughly between his rough, chapped lips.
He'd been fired. He can almost laugh at the irony. Brick is cheating on his wife, and is a top inclusion to Vito Enterprises. Boomer treats his fiancée like dirt, and yet it is she who'd been fired from her job. Butch shakes his head and lights the fag with the flame of his Las Vegas lighter.
His condo is in desperate need of cleaning, he notices, taking a puff of the cigarette. It's not as dirty as he'd normally expect it to be, but the checked floor is noticeably highlighted with whispers of dirt and grime, and the sink has become alarmingly filled with soiled dishes. He should clean, but a sudden wash of hunger overpowers him.
Butch extracts a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon from his unusually full refrigerator, the result of his early morning shopping trip with Bubbles. He'd had the day off, like most of the company (as it was Sunday), receiving the phone call from his boss' assistant, Helen, at around noon for an emergency drop-by by the office. He grips the food in his hands, angry with himself for not seeing it.
He slams a pan down on the oven with intended force, vehemently turning the dial up to medium heat. Ultimately it just seems a little unfair. He has done nothing wrong, at least compared to the misdoings of his brothers. Sure, his motives to going to Brick's house had not been entirely selfless, but at least he can attest to not cheating on his significant other. Brick's punishment? A recent promotion up the corporate ladder.
Furiously inhaling another puff his cigarette, Butch taps out the ashes onto his already dirtied floor. Whatever. A few more scattered ashes will not be a further detriment to the ultimate cleanliness of his kitchen floor. Detriment. What the hell did his boss even mean by that? Butch had been so sure of his place in the company, so sure of his work ability. "We're going to have to let you go…" He isn't even sure what he's done wrong.
The bacon sizzles as he drops it onto the melted butter in the pan. The smell wafts through his nose, a single pleasure in an otherwise sordid reality. The day had started out so pleasantly…the trip to Brick's, while it had not ended as he'd wanted, had not been a total failure, and he'd managed to finally go grocery shopping after months of takeout. He assumes the downfall had begun during his encounter with Boomer. Perhaps he shouldn't have punched his brother in face.
No, Butch decides, flexing his fist. The asshole had definitely deserved it. Poor, sweet Bubbles having to deal with that bullshit. Butch angrily tosses a cracked eggshell into the garbage can and misses. He curses as he watches it shatter into further pieces on the floor. This is his luck, a detriment to his well-being. God, he hates that word.
"Fuck!" he roars, withdrawing his hand instinctively from the burning stove. He'd gone to shake the pan, accidentally touching the raised gas burner with the side of his hand. The pain aches frantically as he rushes to shield it with a curtain of cold water. Cursing himself, he minces the cigarette, which he'd managed to extract from his mouth before he'd sworn, in the ashtray by the sink. He goes to take a new one from the pack, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing in his hand.
The pan is half off the burner, and he fixes it with his good hand. The aroma from his supper is delectable, and he nearly forgets the pain sending continued shocks up his arm. He remembers the reason why he had ordered all that takeout previously—at least it was less painful.
Butch extracts his lighter once again, fumbling to light his third cigarette of the hour, when the doorbell rings. Cursing for the nth time, Butch unthinkingly drops his lit lighter on the gas burner, thundering over to the door with thick, angry steps.
The doorbell rings again.
"Calm your ass, I'm comin'!" he shouts, whipping the front door open. He finds a tall ginger man standing on his doorstep, hand poised to ring the doorbell again. The man smiles instantly when he sees Butch, dropping his hand by his waist. The smile falters at the look on Butch's face.
"Good evening!" the man exclaims. "I'm here to offer—"
"Not interested," Butch growls shortly, slamming the door in the man's face. He can hear the protests on the other side of the door, but pays them no heed; instead turning around to finish his supper.
He sniffs the air. A faint burning smell floats through the air. The smoke alarm goes off.
"What the…" He runs into the kitchen as quickly as he can, fearing the worst. His skin feels tight against his bones, his heart hammering against his rib cage. He can feel his lungs constrict as he turns the corner.
Fire.
How could this happen?
Butch tackled me to the ground, fists poised above my face. I laughed and shoved him off of me, rolling around so that I was in prime position to punch him. But Butch had always been stronger, and soon he was quickly overpowering me like it was nothing, and there was no doubt that it was. He was the brawn of the three of us. There was no reservation in anyone's mind that he could kick both Boomer's ass and mine if he was given the opportunity.
"Boys," someone scoffed above me. I looked up and saw Buttercup standing above us, her expression playfully stern. I knew it was false. Buttercup was just as tough as Butch, if not tougher. She was a fighter, that girl. The brawn of her sisters as Butch was to us.
We were all eighteen and seventeen respectively (my brothers and then the girls), recent graduates of high school. College was looming on the horizon; state for Boomer, Harvard, shockingly, for Bubbles, and UCSC for the rest of us. I was surprised Blossom was settling for UCSC when she had her choice of Ivy Leagues practically laid out for her. But then it dawned on me that Butch's first choice was UCSC, and it was unquestionable that wherever Butch went, Blossom did.
A familiar bitterness creeped into my thoughts, which I shooed away instantly. It was not unheard of in my frame of mind, even two years after they initially started dating. I knew my feelings for her were not the same as they had been previously; nor did I ever believe they would be again—even if she and Butch did break up (two years I would have expected it to be soon—nowadays I didn't even bother to assume).
I'd dated a plethora of girls in her stead, but had never been able to settle for one. It just seemed impossible for me to forget my unrequited love for the girl who I'd always assumed would eventually love me back. I never assumed that she would ever go after my brother, particularly not Butch. Never mind that he was a dirt ball; he was just too rough for someone so delicate.
But I digress.
We were all gathered in the backyard of our house, an intimate sort of send-off for the two blonds of the group. It was a shame that they would be apart—three years was an achievement for a couple so young. We'd always assumed that of the six of us, they were the doubtless ones to end up together, and last together as well. I had no uncertainties of their relationship. Boomer and Bubbles would always find a way to make it work.
I watched as Butch made his way over to Blossom and attacked her with a barrage of tickles. She giggled into his arms, squeezing her body together to fend off his hands. "Butch, stop!" she pleaded, unable to control her laughter. I clenched my fists unknowingly, willing myself to look away. It was hard—I felt a rush of anger flood through my body. Why had she chosen him, even all those years ago, and not me?
Buttercup came over and sat down next to me. "What's up, Brick? You look pissed."
I looked at her, grateful for an excuse to tear my eyes away from the now-kissing couple. Too fucking cute for words. Whatever.
Buttercup and I had barely talked in the past two years after she'd let slip a minute tidbit at Mitch's party, a drunken "I love you". No big deal. I'd long since convinced myself that it was a drunken faux pas—she had moved on easily enough, boyfriend to boyfriend, to let persuade me that her words had been nothing more than a mistake.
"Nah," I said, smiling at her. "This ain't the time to be mad at anything."
She nodded thoughtfully, settling in back against the wooden bench we were sitting on. "Ain't that right."
I noticed her eyes stray towards the couple I'd been watching only moments before. Her lips tightened into a thin line and she looked away, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. I leaned over, curious at her sudden sullenness. It was no secret that Buttercup had had a crush on Butch. It was just another fact that made me so angry with him.
"What's wrong?" I asked her, touching her shoulder. I rested it there momentarily, watching her carefully. She looked up at me and smiled in a similar manner that I had towards her only moments ago.
"Nothing. This ain't the time," she replied teasingly, shoving me gently with her shoulder. I laughed, a nouveau rush of emotion settling in over me. Whatever it was, it was definitely better than that embittered resentment that had taken over before.
x x x
"Happy birthday, dear BrickBoomerButch!" I laughed at everyone's attempt to say all of our names in the one line of the Happy Birthday song.
It was our twentieth birthday, the summer before we began our third year of university. Boomer and Bubbles had flown out to California to celebrate, their relationship only stronger than it had been years before. I'd always known everything would continue to be perfect between them.
Butch grabbed Blossom and pulled her into a kiss, eliciting 'woos' and various other catcalls from the crowd of thirty or so of our friends. Boomer did the same for Bubbles, and I pulled my girlfriend, Princess, into a similar kiss. Buttercup laughed from the edge of the crowd, holding onto her boyfriend Mitch's hand, as my brothers and I displayed a rather revealing sort of public display of affection.
I released Princess at the same moment that my brothers did, instigating an immediate rush towards the booze. Within minutes the room was alight with soon-to-be drunken laughter and excitement. I poured a drink for Princess and lined up at the counter with my brothers and a row of shots.
"Whoever can do the most shots in under thirty seconds gets the birthday surprise," Buttercup was saying, her eyes twinkling. There were five shots in front of each of us, and a person to refill them on each side. I grasped onto my first shot glass, empowered to win the race.
I won.
The stripper's tits were huge.
She exploded from the fake birthday cake (I should have known) and was dancing to a seductive song that someone had plugged into the stereo. She stripped off her bra and slid over my legs, running her hands down my chest while everyone catcalled and cheered. She had a cascading mane of ebony hair and verdant eyes lined thickly in black makeup. In a way, she kind of looked like Buttercup… I shook my head, trying to enjoy the moment that everyone had so graciously bestowed on me. I snickered at the dejected looks on my brothers' faces.
Then I began to wonder what if would have been like to have Buttercup riding over my crotch in that lacy little g-string.
x x x
We were having Christmas at the Utoniums' that year, as we had done the first semester of college. It would my brothers and I and our mother, Dr. Ronalds, with Professor Utonium and Blossom, Buttercup, and Bubbles. The tradition had not wavered in the fifteen years that we'd known each other; we merely alternated homes every year.
"Bubbles, how is Harvard?" the Professor asked on Christmas Eve, spooning a heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate and passing the bowl over to Butch. I watched as Bubbles swallowed down her petite helping of organic potatoes before responding.
"It's okay, Professor," she replied stiffly. "I'm not sure I want to be a lawyer though…"
Professor Utonium smiled at her sympathetically, as though what she was saying was utterly inane. "But you're doing wonderfully, my dear. I'm sure your sisters wish they had the same prowess as you. Well, perhaps not Blossom…" He looked indicatively at Buttercup, who swallowed a giant chunk of turkey and ignored him.
I studied her. Our relationship had become relatively strained over the years. We fluctuated dangerously between close friends and barely-speaking acquaintances, a place that I struggled not to let us reach. I hadn't forgotten her drunken slip-up all those years ago, and occasionally a nagging thought would reach me: what if she'd meant what she said?
I supposed it didn't matter now. We were long past that point in our lives, having, somewhat, moved past our respective unrequited love stages and onto other conquests. But I'd never quite managed to find a girl who I'd felt the same about as Blossom, and Buttercup seemed the same way about Butch. I wondered if she'd ever given thought to her words from the party.
I cornered her after dinner as she was on her way to her room. Her brow furrowed in confusion when she saw me, and I felt an odd rush of apprehension flow swiftly through my blood.
"What's up, Brick?" she asked, running her fingers through her long hair.
"I…" I wasn't even sure what I wanted to say. "Look, I've just been thinking lately…"
Her eyebrows rose inquisitively. I hoped it was a good sign.
"I've just been thinking about what you said to me at Mitch's party all those years ago," I finished, quite lamely.
She froze, hand stilled in her ebony mane. Her cheeks flushed pink and her light green eyes were suddenly cast downwards. "Sorry about that. I…didn't mean it."
I furrowed my brow nervously, wondering why she was saying that. "Are you sure? Because…I dunno…it was just making me think…I wanted to see…if you wanted to give it a shot."
Her gaze shot up instantly, fixated hesitantly on mine. She was a good couple inches shorter than me, a fact that I appreciated. She'd matured the most out of her sisters, I realized. Her legs were long and lithe, supermodel-like, and her curvaceous body was too enticing for words. Her hair was long and sleek, her assets gracious. She was a regular heartbreaker.
"You…want to give it a shot?" she asked, breathless. "Brick I…"
I grew flustered. "Look, if you don't, it's okay, I just thought I would ask…"
I didn't get a chance to finish when she wrapped her arms around me and tackled me against the wall in a passionate kiss. Her lips moulded into mine as if they were always meant to, and her skin was warm to my touch. I cupped her face and trailed a hand down to the small of her back, where it rested against her high-waisted skirt. She pressed her chest against mine while she entwined her fingers through my hair and curled her other hand behind my neck.
Why hadn't I tried this earlier?
Bubbles sits down on the couch gently, resting an icepack wrapped in a dishtowel to the back of her head. She bites her lip anxiously, crossing her legs Indian-style on the cushions. Her head throbs tightly as though her skull has constricted forcefully against her brain. A similar feeling erupts in the tightness of her chest.
He'd…pushed her. Of all things Boomer has ever done, Bubbles had never expected him to harm her. His anger frightened her. It'd been volcanic. She has never seen such a livid red befall on anyone's face before, let alone her own lover's.
She feels tears well up in her eyes, curling down her cheeks in warm streaks. An unnatural emptiness has overwhelmed her core, enveloping her in an arbitrary coldness. She uncrosses her legs and lies down against the pillows of her couch, resting her head against the sturdy armrest. The tears are falling steadily now, dripping down her cheeks and onto the couch.
He'd given her good reason to be mad at him—he broke his promise to her. She hadn't meant to give him the insinuation that she is no longer loyal to him. It's indubitable that she will forever remain loyal to him, even if he had punctured through her heart with such ferocity.
Suddenly the phone rings, and Bubbles reluctantly lifts herself off the couch to get it. Her face brightens—perhaps it is Boomer calling to apologize. Ice pack still pressed against her head, she bounds over to the phone, hoping that her fiancé is on the other end. Lifting it to her ear, Bubbles speaks:
"Hello?"
"Bubbles?"
Her broken heart collapses. It's Buttercup, though sounding quite irate.
"Hi, Buttercup," Bubbles says, sighing into the phone. She settles into the armchair stationed by the table on which the phone rests, pressing the ice pack to the bump on her head with unnecessary force. She winces at the pain, withdrawing her strength.
"Has Blossom come to see you?" Buttercup asks frantically. Bubbles furrows her brow.
"No, she hasn't," Bubbles replies. She bites her lip. "Why, was she supposed to?"
Buttercup hisses into the phone. Bubbles frowns.
"I don't know, Bubbles," Buttercup says acerbically, her voice sharp and scathing, "I don't what the fuck's going on with anything."
"Well, you don't have to curse," Bubbles says, wincing at an abrupt, sharp burst of pain that encases her head. "It's not my fault."
"I never said it was your fault!" Buttercup explodes. She sounds distraught, a rare tone for the regularly calm and collected Buttercup. Bubbles bites her lip to refrain from yelling back, knowing that regardless of her own sentiments at the moment, if Buttercup is this frantic, there must be something wrong.
"Buttercup, please stop yelling at me," Bubbles answers softly, slinking down in the chair. She glances down at her feet, suddenly wondering why she wanders outdoors without shoes. She feels an inexplicable urge to scream and cry and throw things at the ugly, peeling walls that Boomer has long since promised to fix up.
Boomer never intended to fix anything, she realizes, new tears leaking down her face. She wipes them away hurriedly, returning back to her conversation with Buttercup. If she focuses on Buttercup, even momentarily, perhaps her strained, painful emotions will no longer be as overwhelming.
"What's wrong? You have to tell me."
Buttercup groans into the phone, a sad, frantic noise. "I…I…Blossom stopped by my apartment today."
Bubbles nods, despite the fact that Buttercup cannot see her. "What did she say?"
There is a pause. Then—
"Blossom's pregnant. And I think Brick is involved somehow."
And suddenly the hole in her heart explodes and she succumbs to the pain and bursts into tears, knowing that the every flawless and blissful utopian world she and her sisters had each painstakingly struggled to build over the years is burning to the ground.
It's over…
TO BE CONTINUED
Polska – And that's it! After two freakin' years I am finally finished this goddamn chapter. Want to know something even stupider? It took me four hours to finish the rest of this chapter after Boomer's little drug scene. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. Anyways I'm really sorry about the wait; I hope people still review. It's the longest chapter and I think I wrote it very well, and brought in even more plot holes! :D I remember someone saying they wanted more insight to the Buttercup/Brick relationship, so I added that in this chapter. I hope it was what you wanted! As well as the Boomer part…I can't wait to develop his cocaine subplot. Beware; the themes are starting to get much darker. I expect citrus-y themes to evolve sometime in the near future as well. Please review! Hopefully I can get the new chapter up soon. I've already started writing it. (:
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