PARANOIA

Polska – Hey there! I'm back and better than ever. I know three months since my last update certainly does not technically constitute "better than ever", but I mean compared to the previous length between updates…anyways here is chapter six of Paranoia. Enjoy! And please review…this story is my baby, and it breaks my heart to see how many alerts and favourites it has but not as many reviews :(. Thank you! Also I do want to say a huge thank you to all of my reviewers. I know I have lost a lot of you due to the large spans of time between updates, but I'm thankful for you anyways because your reviews keep me inspired when I can't write the next part. So, thank you very much!

While the blissful delusion soon begins to crumble away and showcase its true melancholic nature, its previously attainable world will spiral desperately out of control.

CONTROL

n. the act or power of controlling; restraint

CHAPTER SIX

"Ripping through like a missile,
Ripping through my heart, rob me of this love,
Raise your weapon, raise your weapon…and it's over,
How does it feel now to watch it burn, burn, burn…"

- Raise Your Weapon, Deadmau5

Control: a wildly spinning circuit of restraint, buried solidly and careful not to slip from the erratic path. It is wild and unpredictable. It is difficult to maintain. The world would fall in an instance.

It is a gain and loss of power. There is no predicting its ultimate path. A single incidence could be defeat, and the grasp on it would unravel and fall. It is inescapable, perpetual self-deprecation.

Control: a futile struggle to regain a sense of normalized recognition. It becomes a battle of mountainous happiness and darkness, a dangerous precipice. It is unknowing.

It is everything and nothing. It is a melee of personal destruction, or a reaping of self-contentment. There is no predicting the future, only reminder and recollection. And when there is no control, what will be left?

"P…P…Pregnant?" Buttercup sputtered out, holding onto one side of the doorframe for support. Her legs felt weak, nearly buckling at the knees, as she stared at her sister in such shock that numbed her body from the neck down. She was in disbelief, complete disbelief.

Blossom grinned merrily. There was something strange about her actions, Buttercup noticed. The Blossom she knew would not have had such a blissful smile on her face at the announcement of her own pregnancy at the single stage. Then again, Blossom as a single mother was as aberrant as she could get. Buttercup groaned inwardly; it seemed that she did not know her sister at all anymore.

"You're…pregnant…" Buttercup whispered. She needed to breathe, needed to think. Blossom had asked for Brick…why had she done that? Perhaps she had merely wanted to announce the details of her pregnancy with the pair of them present…Buttercup refused to entertain any other notions, at least not with Blossom at the door in such a strange state.

Buttercup studied her sister closely. She was beautiful, as always, dressed fashionably in all black, presumably her work clothes. Her hair, shiny and red, was pulled back. It was her face that caught Buttercup vaguely off guard. Beneath the light splash of makeup it looked almost haggard…Blossom was rarely so unkempt. But it was her eyes, those extraordinary pink orbs…they were glassy, glazed over…

Was Blossom…was she on something?

Uncharacteristically, Buttercup leaned over to place a well-manicured hand on Blossom's outstretched arm. She could feel her sister shaking beneath her grasp, though it was such a light shake that Buttercup almost did not detect it. She licked her lips nervously, feeling a cold shiver rush through her body.

"Are you…are you okay, Blossom?" Buttercup asked, ignoring the harried race of the butterflies in her stomach and the erratic beating of her heart.

Blossom looked at her oddly, though her smile never waned. "Buttery-cup," she sang out delicately, "you are such a worrywart. I'm having a baby, my lovely. You're going to be an auntie. We're all going to take such wonderful care of this beautiful thing." She made a show of curling her arms around her stomach and cradling it as though she were holding a baby.

Buttercup bit her lip anxiously. Something was not right. Blossom peered over her sister's shoulder.

"You didn't answer my earlier question," she trilled. "Is Brick home?"

"No, he's not…" Buttercup replied, frowning. The nagging suspicion in the pit of her stomach was back. Why was Blossom so intent on talking to Brick?

Blossom shrugged, though her smile weakened slightly. "I see. Well, I suppose I'll be back later then!" She leaned in to peck Buttercup on the cheek. "Goodbye, darling. I'll see you soon!"

Buttercup grasped desperately at the pocket of her black velvet lounge pants, extracting a pack of Marlboro Reds and a silver lighter. She desperately lit a smoke, watching anxiously as her sister's bright red hair disappeared around the corner from sight. Her heart pounded at an abnormal beat that she was sure it was going to burst…

She needed to call Bubbles.

Buttercup glances at the ugly oak clock set above the mantled fireplace. It's almost midnight. Brick had come home an hour ago, hair dishevelled and clothes bedraggled, and Buttercup had assumed the worst. She had not vocalized it, merely remaining stiff as he kissed her good night and went to bed. She then sat down on the corduroy couch, fingers tapping non-stop on her knees, contemplation overtaking her.

Once or twice she gets up and wanders the apartment, smoking a cigarette or two, checking in on Brick to make sure he is still in their room, splashing water on her face and cursing herself for being so paranoid, and even dialling Blossom's number a few times. She does not manage it, hanging up before she can even finish the full number.

But Blossom is pregnant…Buttercup has always expected if anything, if would be Bubbles being pregnant first. She and Boomer are so solid, having been together for nearly ten years…even herself and Brick; she assumed they would have some sort of family initialized before Blossom. Buttercup disregards the fact that she doesn't even like children.

There is also the distressing itch in her stomach and heart and brain and blood of Blossom's insistence for Brick. Where had Brick been all day? Buttercup burrows her face in her palms, fighting back the sure-fire tears guaranteed to spill. She is at a loss. Her world is crumbling; her grasp on its control is slipping.

Fearful of her heart bursting into hysterics, Buttercup gets up from the couch and makes her way to the bedroom. She slips off her black silk bathrobe on the way, running her hands down the obverse of her black lingerie set. Lace. Brick's favourite. Her fingers tremble, her eyelids flitter, and she licks her lips nervously as she opens the door to their room.

Her husband is sprawled beneath the Egyptian thread-count sheets, chest heaving up and down as he sleeps. She climbs onto the bed and curls in next to him. He wakes with a jolt, eyes half-closed with sleep.

"Buttercup…" he mumbles, taking weary note of what she is wearing, "what are you doing?"

She presses her lips to his to silence him, hands curling down his bare, muscled chest and to his pinstriped pyjama pants. A beam of moonlight shines visibly through the pane of glass shielding the floor to wall window directly opposite the bed, its glow carefully illuminating the bedspread wrapped around their bodies.

At first he does not reciprocate. She presses further into him, kissing him with forced passion. His hands roam her scantily clad body initially, while hers explore further downward, and a moan escapes from his lips and then from hers, but he can't go on and he pulls away.

"This isn't the time," he murmurs. He pulls his face away, and she tries to pull it back to hers. He is adamant. A burst of frustration surges inexplicably through her body.

"Why?" she explodes, feeling foolish and cold in nothing but a skimpy bra and matching underwear. She has never felt such a lack of tenderness between them before. The distance between them now sends cold emptiness into her heart.

He rolls over and she is forced to get off the bed. "I'm not in the mood," he replies without looking at her.

Buttercup clenches her fists. "Why not? You're never in the fucking mood," she says dangerously.

He does not have the audacity to look her in the eye. "Go to bed, Buttercup." It signals the end of the conversation, and he even gets out of bed, taking his pillow with him and makes his way to the living room. Buttercup collapses on the bed, a nouveau wave of shock settling in over her.

Does he not love me anymore?

November 20, Present Year

Dear Professor,

I have sent letters at least twice a week for the past month and have received no response from you yet, as well as multitude emails that I know should be much easier for you to respond to. I realize you must be exceedingly busy if you do not reply to my messages, but I wish you would take at least a few minutes to spare to relieve my worries. I have half a mind to drive up there and see if you are okay, but unfortunately I am much too busy.

It's a bit shocking, actually, considering I was demoted the other day. I recall the scene: Wendell called me into his office and Burkes was there (surprising, as Burkes is rarely ever in the building), and I figured it must be bad if they were both together. I admit, the thought crossed that I was receiving a promotion to partner, but then I realized that I had not exactly been acting as the model employee lately.

Anyways, Wendell looked at me gravely and told me to sit down, which I did. Then he says, "Miss. Utonium, it has come to our attention that you have been fairly unhappy with the employed position you are in." I did not deny it, so he continued, "Mr. Burkes and I have discussed it."

This was the point at which I thought, 'okay, my life is at a turning point. They will send me to start over, or I will move forward on this path that I would not have initially chosen for myself.' So I maintained eye contact with the pair of them, waiting patiently as they delivered the final verdict.

"We have reviewed your employee status and have decided that you are a formidable worker, so we will not terminate your position," Burkes said. At this point, an alternate feeling crossed me. I could not tell if I was displeased or relieved. "However, we will unfortunately have to demote you down to an assistant secretarial position. This is ultimately a workplace, and your behaviour is detrimental to the sanctity of the work environment."

They would insist that I was a detriment, they really would. I thanked them and left the office, feeling a bundle of emotions all at once. Is this what I really wanted? Everytime I took a step forward it appeared that I would have to take two steps back. I was this much closer to having to abandon the lawyer dream and start from scratch. Perhaps a New Age type setting.

Speaking of jobs, Boomer got a new job at a loading deck, Professor. It's a supermarket, and it pays very well for a labour position. If you were worried that he would not be able to supply for our eventual family and me, you were wrong. Boomer is destined for great things, I just know it—I just have to help him utilize what he has already done.

Please reply soon, Professor. The wedding is soon and you have yet to RSVP. Also, I'm getting worried that something happened. I need to talk to my father again.

Love,

Bubbles.

The walk home seemed to stretch endlessly. He ached to get home and lock himself in the basement, away from Bubbles, and smoke and drink and get high and drunk and listen to Rudolph, who told him he could easily take his troubles away. The thought appealed more to Boomer than the packet in his pocket appalled him, and that, it turned out, would be the turning point.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him from a contemplative stupor. Boomer pulled out the phone angrily. Bubbles. He shoved the phone back into his jeans pocket after pressing ignore, feeling a familiar sense of rage creep up his spine. He needed to relax; he needed a relaxant. How far away from home was he?

It was late by the time he got home. The sun had long since disappeared behind the city skyline and the moon had taken its place, settled in comfortably amid the silver stars spattered against the black canvas. It was a beautiful night, which he acknowledged with a deep intake of breath and moment of arbitrary bliss. If only every night was like this one.

Boomer cautiously walked up the long mossy path to the front door of his and Bubbles' house. It was darkened and quiet, which disconcerted him. Who knew what kind of wrath he would incur once he opened that door? Still, he could feel that packet pressed achingly in his pocket. Whatever was on the other side of the door would have to be worth it.

He turned the lock and pushed open the door. Gazing inside vigilantly, Boomer painstakingly took a step indoors. It was completely dark. Perhaps Bubbles was not awake waiting for him after all…

"Boomer! Are you fucking serious?"

Of course, he should have known it was too good to be true. He spun around on his heel, anger rushing like rapids through his body. She was standing directly in front of him, clad in a loose, oversize white Beatles shirt and nothing else. Her eyes were steeled with silent rage, and her arms were crossed against her chest.

But Boomer was in no mood to put up with her tonight. Instead he shoved past her, ignoring her vociferous cries as he thundered towards the basement door. Yanking it open, he began his descent down the steps, slamming and locking the door behind him. He was going to pay for this in the morning, but he didn't really care.

The basement was small, but furnished, and that's what was important. He had sort of deemed it a hangout and haven for himself and his brothers. There was a large flat screen television against one wall, opposite an enormous black leather couch that had seen better days. There was a bar and stack of video games three piles high, as well as a glass coffee table decorated with a collection of empty beer bottles. It was every man's dream hideout.

He grabbed a beer from the mini fridge and thudded over to the couch, where he collapsed on it languidly. He finally felt peaceful, filled with adoration for the complete silence and coolness he was met with in the basement. This was a place for him and him alone.

He reached beneath the couch to grab a hollowed out book that looked entirely out of place. It had been a Christmas present from Butch nearly six years ago when they all still decided to smoke weed together; before Butch had decided to go all self-righteous on his ass, and Brick became cockier than usual.

Opening it, Boomer extracted a small bag of a verdant plant and a sheet of rolling paper settled in behind a marble pipe. He set the paper on the table and sprinkled in a few leaves, rolling the joint to miniature perfection. Setting it aside, he made his way to the tiny bathroom built directly beside the bar (for easy access). It was dirty, adorned with scattered hairs and stains on the appliances (he made a note to clean the place eventually).

He came back with a razor blade and mirror in hand, extracted from the make-up mirror that had been a gift to his fiancée from Buttercup. Bubbles had tossed it aside carelessly, of course, deeming it superficial to even think about using make-up. But then, her loss was his gain. He set the mirror and razor blade on the table next to his rolled joint.

Then came the piece de resistance; he reached into his pocket and removed the small packet Rudolph had given him earlier. He dared not to use the entire thing, preferring only to spill a small section onto his newfound mirror. He took the razor blade and began cutting the white powder into three neat strips, organized carefully one next to the other.

Tempting, that was what it was. He lit the joint first with a Las Vegas lighter given to him, again, by Butch, and took a deep inhale. The burn in his throat was comforting, and before he could change his mind, he leaned over, pressed his nose to the end of the first strip and snorted the length of white powder.

"Co-co-cocaine," Boomer murmurs to himself, taking an enormous swig of beer. Heineken. His best friend, he decides. He glances at the clock above the bar, blinking rapidly to see past the blurry contours of air. Is it…after midnight?

He feels close to death. He leans over and snorts another line of cocaine, his nose twitching from the burn. The beer bottles tips from his hand and lands with a muffled thump on the carpet, where it leaks the brownish liquid from its tip. It joins a random collection of empty bottles scattered on the table in front of him, or on the floor beside him.

"Aww, fuck that!" he yells, throwing a pillow at the television screen, where a girl is kissing another girl. "This porno is fucking lame! I can eat that bitch out way harder than that skank!"

His heart thumps at an erratic beat. His mind is a mess of jumbled colours and words and images. Rudolph was right; this shit was fucking powerful. He feels so out of himself, so replaced by unnatural bliss and vigour. He can see the undercurrents of life, stretched out in front of him; both blurred and sharpened into confusing detail. He can't get enough of it.

He dumps the rest of the packet out onto the mirror and separates it into two lines, then leans over to snort them all in series. It isn't much and he wants more. He inhales deeply, craving the sharp burn that tugs at his nostrils. When he sits upright, his nose is red and his eyes are wider than normal. He shudders from the dramatic increase of coke in his system. It is a mix of pleasure and pain.

"Fuck Bubbles, man," he says, watching the TV. "Fuck all this shit."

At one point he wraps his fingers around his dick, and

Then he drinks another beer, and

Pounds his fists into the couch, shivering in pain, and

Collapses on the floor, nose burning, throat aching, brain about to burst, and

Calms down and breathes, and then lays down on the couch and falls asleep.

Completely out of control…

"Shit! Shit, shit, SHIT!" Butch yelled, locked in place from the sight of the flames engulfing his oven. It was spreading quickly; he needed to move. But the sight of the flames licking its destructive power over his kitchen yielded him temporarily paralysed. He couldn't move and he was finding it hard to breathe.

The smoke alarm was screaming danger. He finally willed himself to move and collapsed to the floor, away from the smoke and the flames. He crawled towards the door, his pulse rapid and his breathing strained. How could this have happened? He had gone for a moment to check who was at the door…and his kitchen had set on fire. No, no, no, no.

Butch coughed, but did not look back. He couldn't bear to see his home in the state it was in. He just needed to get out and hope that it could be salvaged. He managed to make it to the hallway, where the smoke was slowly beginning to drift. Standing up, Butch ran towards the front door and thrust it open, escaping into the darkening evening.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groaned, fumbling with his cell phone. 9-1-1. He looked around. Why hadn't anyone else called the fire department yet? Why was he forced to completely deal with this shit by himself? Where was that bullshit door-to-door ginger salesman?

"911, what is your emergency?" the woman on the other end of the phone asked coolly.

"My…my…house is on fire," Butch coughed out, still refusing to look at the flames he was sure by now were engulfing his home entirely.

The trucks were there within minutes. Butch collapsed onto the ground across the street, shell-shocked into his position leaning against a neighbour's tree. By then the neighbours had gathered around, watching in sickened awe at the flames licking at what was now the ruins of his house. This was it. Now he would have nothing left.

They didn't know him. What were they doing attempting to comfort him? He could feel someone's hand brush through his hair, and a few pat him on the back softly. They were trying to encourage him, but how could he possibly be encouraged? He was alone and his house had just burned to the ground. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and yanked out his pack of cigarettes. In a fit of fury, he threw the pack as far as he could, watching as it bounced against the tarred street and onto a gutter.

Butch buried his face into his knees. Fuck this shit. There was nothing left for him here. He'd lost his job and now he'd lost his home. He was broke, alone, and homeless. He needed to leave. Now.

"It'll be okay, son."

"They'll help you find a new place to live."

"You should get some rest."

But instead he stood up and burst through the small crowd gathered around him. He didn't want or need their attempts at comfort. There wasn't anything anybody could say to reassure him at this point. He was really and truly fucked.

"Ain't that fucked up?" Butch says to the bartender, downing the shot of vodka that has been placed in front of him. "Same day I get fired, my house burns down. Tell me that ain't fucked up." His words are slurred.

"That's fucked up," the bartender agrees. He glances worriedly at Butch, who slaps down another bill and beckons for another vodka shot. Having no choice to oblige, he fills another petite glass to the brim with clear liquid and slides it over to the intoxicated Butch.

He is sitting in a dank, musty bar settled on the outskirts of his neighbourhood (though he's not really sure that he can cal it his anymore, considering he does not technically live there anymore). It's quiet, catering to only a few men sitting and drinking, and a few playing pool or darts. He is the only one at the bar, and he is the only one alone.

"Like, where am I supposed to go live, you know?" Butch continues, tapping his fingers anxiously against the shot glass. "My fuck of a brother, Brick, wouldn't let me shit near his place, let alone live there. And I ain't staying nowhere near Boomer, that fuck. So Bubbles is out. And Buttercup too." He sighs at the mention of her name.

Butch stops and furrows his brow. His options have run very short, leaving only one member of their group that he bares little animosity towards, though acknowledges their uncomfortable, lengthy past. He hasn't really spoken much to Blossom since their break-up, and though he's not really sure he wants to associate with her considering her relationship with Brick, he knows he has no choice.

Without another word to the bartender, Butch quickly gulped down the shot, barely noticing the burn of the vodka leaking down his throat. He is drunk; his thoughts and feelings are mangled into an inebriated mess. He'd taken off from the ruins of his townhouse, carrying nothing but his cell phone, wallet, and lighter, and found his way to this stupid pub that was so rundown it should have been condemned.

Still, cliché as it is to confess his troubles to the sympathetic-bartender type (though to be perfectly honest, this bartender does not look as sympathetic as he does annoyed), he managed to figure out his future. Or what will inevitably turn into a further mess in the grand scheme of Butch's fucked up life.

He shuffles out of the bar, mind blurred with drunken stupor, and carefully begins the short trek to Blossom's. His pace is slow, but he is drunk. The cold air snaps bitingly at his skin, and as he walks he sobers up considerably.

Surely she will not turn him away, he nervously hopes, though he supposes he can't blame her if she does. He is not willing to offer blackmail, particularly considering that a part of him will always have that soft spot for Blossom. They had dated for so long, after all, on and off as it was, and he'd broken her heart more than once.

And so what if she is the mistress in her sister's husband's affair? Butch is more furious with Brick than he is with Blossom, knowing that in the end, it is Brick who will hurt Buttercup more. Blossom and Buttercup's relationship is frayed enough as it is, and Butch knows precisely that it is because of him.

Perhaps this will be an opportunity for him to confront her about it. He'd already gone to Brick's, who had denied, denied, denied in order to protect the false sanctity of his marriage (which Butch is sure will fall apart sooner than later—he'd seen Brick and Blossom together on Brick's wedding night). Now is his chance to offer the same sort of relief, or so he calls it, to Blossom. She is weaker, and not as cold as her lover. Surely she feels remorse.

Before he knows it he has reached her neighbourhood. The house is relatively large and includes a wide, slanted driveway and a neatly planted garden along the walkway (despite it nearing winter). He swallows in a gulp of air and exhales; sober enough to make his way up her driveway without looking like a fool.

"Deep breath, Butch," he whispers to himself. He rings the doorbell.

It takes a while for her to come to the door and when she does, Butch draws back slightly in shock at her unkempt appearance. The Blossom he knows would never look this bedraggled. There are bags under her eyes, bloodshot as they are already, and her hair is wild and uncombed. She is a mess.

"What are you doing here, Butch?" she asks in an almost hissing voice. "It's midnight." Butch gulps in another breath of air.

"My house burned down."

She blinks, trying to understand what he has just told her.

"Your…house…" Suddenly realization dawns and Blossom's features soften into sadness. "Oh, Butch, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry. That's horrible. Come in, please."

He walks in gratefully, taking note of the modern interior design of Blossom's house. He looks back at her, biting his lip at the worried expression settled in on her beautiful features. Tired as she looks, Butch realizes Blossom could never be ugly.

"Yeah…I was just wondering if I could stay here for a bit until I figure something out," he asks.

She nods quickly. "Of course, that goes without saying. You can stay in the guest bedroom." She beckons for him to follow her down the hallway, to which he obliges, furrowing his brow when she stops and winces and grabs at her stomach.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods, looking breathless. Butch slumps back against the wall, suddenly wondering when their world had gotten so fucked up.

Really and truly fucked…

December 9, Present

10:02 PM

Diary:

I recall my last entry earlier today saying that I was pregnant. I've been coming to grips with it ever since I took that stupid test, and I'm still not sure what I want to do with it. It just seems to be another thing so far out of my control. I have sobered up and now I am panicked. Motherhood seems so daunting. I am not sure I am ready.

What I need is to tell Brick. I feel as though this will the determining factor in this whole mess: if Brick wants to become fully indebted in his duties as a father, he will have to leave Buttercup. In which case she will finally come to the realization that he has been cheating on her with me. Then she may or may not kill me.

I have entertained notions of starting a family ever since I was young, perhaps not to the extent as Bubbles, but it was an important factor in planning my future. I did not intend on initializing this goal when I'm not even twenty-five yet, or technically not in a serious relationship. I am fucking up left and right. It is just another thing completely out of my control.

There is too much happening. I remember even a year ago when everything was just a blissful chain of perfection. Nothing was tainted, and nothing was falling apart. Brick had not yet married Buttercup, though they were engaged, and Bubbles wasn't being a nosy prick. She was so happy on focusing on her relationship with Boomer.

Now it's all completely strained. It hurts my head to even think about what my affair with him has done to the foundation of our lives. It's cracked. Scarred. Perpetually adorned with cheating and lies and secrets. It's unfixable; I know this for sure. It's unfixable because I do not want to fix it.

And it's because of this that it makes it so hard for me to breathe sometimes.

I am supposed to be perfect. It is what people use when they associate with me. Perfect Blossom. Perfect, brilliant Blossom; she doesn't make mistakes.

Perfection? The idea seems laughable now. I have allowed this erroneous façade to take over even my own perception of myself. I allowed myself to live it and breathe it; they associated me with perfection, then I was perfect. Being anything less now constitutes failure.

"It's not hard to love perfection," I remember Brick musing once. He was stroking my bare stomach, pressing into me from the side. I had turned to look at him with a look of confusion on my face.

"You're only loving what everyone perceives as perfection," I told him, and then turned back around to fall asleep.

The idea that he assumed me as perfect was idiotic.

Though, I remember that I never bothered to correct Butch on his misconceptions. He would leave me if I did. He wanted what he saw, which was beautiful, brilliant Blossom, who did not make mistakes, who would make you feel like you could be perfect too. It was because he could not accept my flaws that our relationship fluctuated so perilously.

And now everyone will realize how completely un-perfect Blossom is.

Perfection does not become the mistress in a heated affair with its sister's husband. Perfection does not become pregnant from said affair. It was sickening, really.

And it was a dangerous circuit. Those stupid pills I'd stolen from Buttercup all those years ago were coming back to haunt me. I'd taken them on a whim, saddened by Butch's clear lack of ardour towards me (even though he'd stopped by the next day to have sex all the same—and I allowed him. Sickening). I'd only ever taken two, having hidden the bottle in the bottom of my toiletries bag once we had graduated from university, and Buttercup had never been suspicious (she had blamed her roommate).

They were the idea that I could somehow regain a sense of control but it was fucking hard because all I wanted was to lose myself in that mind fuck of nothingness. I want to feel empty, want to be able to wander my house dispassionately, without fear that I'm being fucking stalked, or whatever, by my own sister, when in reality, deep down as it is, I'm still as alone in this world as always.

I will need to figure out a way to break the news of my pregnancy to everyone, particularly Brick and Buttercup.

-Blossom

"Quick visit, Miss. Blossom," Phil commented as Blossom appeared in the lobby once more. She gazed at him and smiled.

"Just popped by to say hello," she chirped. A sudden burst of pain overtook her chest and she gasped, knees buckling. Phil started towards her in concern, but she waved him away, clutching at her chest and willing the shock of pain to go away. It was the first time this whole visit that she felt anything more than palpable euphoria.

Wincing, she stood up and offered a weak smile to Phil who furrowed his brow at her. "I'm fine," she insisted, making her way through the revolving doors of the building and out into the cold evening air. The sun had almost completely disappeared into the skyline and she could see the moon begin to take over the sky.

Her mind became clouded almost as though it had never burst through. The buzz had returned, filling her with that sensation of bliss that had previously been so foreign to her. She wished she could feel this way always. The happy buzz. She loves it when the buzz is happy.

But where had Brick been during her visit? Surely she would have expected to have been with his wife as he was not with her. She hadn't even seen him that day. The notion that he was visiting another mistress entertained her for a moment; the thought was ridiculous. He had done it to Buttercup but there was no way he would do it to her.

She was beginning to feel numb, and she was certain it was not from the cold. The air, while brisk, was more comforting than it was biting, and she appreciated the cool slap of wind that countered the imbalance of heat that was continuing to surge through her body. No, the buzz was beginning to take over. She placed her hands to her cheeks, smiling stupidly when she realized she couldn't feel them.

"Baby," she cooed to her stomach, "this is the happy world I'm going to bring you into. You and me and your daddy, who will love us until the end of time because we all belong together." She was greeted with silence, empty silence that not even the buzz could fill. Loneliness.

By the time she reached her house, Blossom was feeling sick. She ran to the bathroom and threw up in the sink, noticing that everything was becoming much clearer than it had been. She washed the vomit from the sink, staring down at it listlessly. Her body ached with sickness and fatigue, and she wanted nothing more than to just climb into bed and bury herself beneath her covers until there was nothing left.

But…there was a greater question to be answered…she was pregnant and she had sobered…but a nagging fear tugged at her insides because she did not know what the buzz she'd felt previously had made her do…and there was no determining what it could have been.

Blossom sighs. She'd never expected that this would happen, that Butch of all people would be living under her roof once more. But at the same time, she knows there is no way she could have said no to him. It is tragic and she can hardly believe it. Perhaps he had assumed that there was nowhere else to turn, and that Blossom, benevolent spirit that she is, would be willing to help him. He was not wrong.

She just wishes there isn't so much tension between them. A familiar sense of paranoia arises up in her and she tries desperately to quell it back down. She needs to overcome this feeling, needs to try and move past its disabling ways.

"Do you want tea, Butch?" she asks her ex-boyfriend, biting her lip anxiously. "I'm going to go make some."

He nods, biting his lip in the same manner as she, as though worried that is the wrong answer. Without a word, Blossom turns on the heels of her fluffy pink slippers and makes her way to her entirely stainless steel and granite kitchen. Butch follows apprehensively, settling in on a barstool set against the island in the centre of the kitchen.

"Green tea okay?" she asks. He nods again and Blossom busies herself preparing the tea. An awkward silence fills the room.

"Tell me what happened," she asks him, desperate to quell the tension in the kitchen. She does not look him in the eye, but hears him shift in the metal seat of the stool he is sitting on.

Butch clears his throat. "I went to work this morning, only for them to tell me I was getting fired," he begins. Blossom turns to look at him with wide eyes.

"Oh, Butch, I'm so sorry," she says quietly.

He frowns but continues. "They called me in just to fire me, so I was pretty pissed off. I was making supper when this fuck kept ringing the doorbell. I dropped my goddamn lighter on the burner and went to get the door. Some ginger fuck was selling something, so I slammed the door in his face. When I got back to the kitchen, it was on fire." He looks at her, green eyes boring into sympathetic pink. "And that's when I ended up here."

Blossom is speechless. She can't even begin to fathom what it would be like to lose everything in one day…she bites her lip, thinking of Brick.

Butch notices. He accepts the cup of tea she hands him wordlessly and stares at her, his gaze deep. She looks back at him, and furrows her brow.

"Is something wrong?"

He opens his mouth to speak again. "I know your—" He is interrupted by the ringing doorbell.

Blossom hurries out of the kitchen, her lips suddenly dry and her heart hammering in her ears. She had felt his knowing gaze on her, and can't believe some of her paranoia is warranted. He knows her secret, she is almost certain of it.

Still erratic, Blossom yanks open the door. Her jaw drops when she sees Brick standing on the other side, a distant smirk settled on his face.

"Hey," he says quietly, stepping over the threshold. He freezes almost immediately. Blossom gulps and looks over her shoulder to where Butch is now leaning against the arch to her kitchen, looking very patently smug. Cursing inwardly, Blossom stumbles back.

"What's he doing here?" Brick growls.

"I should ask the same question," Butch muses aloud, sounding much too merry for someone who has just lost everything.

Blossom licks her lips, her heartbeat deafening her. She is frozen.

This was it.

TO BE CONTINUED

Polska – Woo, cliffhanger! Shorter chapter than last, but you may or may not notice. It's only a couple hundred words. Not my best chapter, but I enjoyed it all the same. Boomer is becoming one of my favourite characters to write, and I'm happy I'm finally making leeway on the whole Brick-Blossom-Buttercup situation. Too many secrets going on at once, and there will be more! Anyways, I will hopefully update a lot sooner than this, though three months is not that bad! Anyways, please let me know if there is anything in this story that you would like more background info on so I can write on it like I did the Buttercup-Brick flashback last chapter. Review please!

PS: I'm going back and looking for continuity errors, so remember that chapters 3 to 6 have taken place over the span of one day. I noticed that I skipped five days between chapter 3 and now :/.

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