Paranoia
Polska – What is this? AN UPDATE? I finally got a laptop, a lovely present for getting into university (yay!)! My old desktop computer had a horrendous keyboard, which I hated typing on. This is much smoother and PORTABLE, which means I can update sooner and more often! YAY! Anyways, onto more serious things.
I started Paranoia when I was fourteen and the difficult thing about this story is looking back and rereading my first couple chapters. They're not horrible by any means, but they're not the full extent of my talent, which is frustrating. I'm doing a bit of editing to fix basic continuity or just general bad writing while I write this chapter–another feat that's difficult, considering the incredibly specific format I have for each chapter. So, as I digress, I'd like to apologize to anyone who's made it this far—for both my lack of updates and the increasing change in writing as I upload each chapter.
Thank you for everyone's reviews!
It's the compulsive need to long for something seemingly unattainable that will wield to the continued delusion of your desires.
DESIRE
v. to wish or long for; want
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I know you've suffered,
But I don't want you to hide
It's cold and loveless,
I won't let you be denied."
- Undisclosed Desires, Muse
The concept is horribly inviting. It is a misleading notion of love and lust and every sensation in between. To desire is to struggle, a steel wall of misconceptions and burning reminders of a desolate future. There is no reassurance.
And there is inevitable pain to your desire. The pain becomes a tattoo on your beating heart, thrusting anxiously to escape its tight confines. The heart aches for what you want and ultimately will lead to a crack, to a fracture, to a break into a million little pieces.
Or the inevitability can be disappointment, which is not nearly as destructive but aches in an alternate way. It will add to a growing mound of insecurity burrowed in the inward depths of your mind until it surpasses and overtakes your thought process. The longing will cease.
But there is no doubt; to desire is to crave is to lust, and there is no denying its finality.
'Butch!' Brick growls inwardly to himself. 'What the fuck is he doing here?' He glances at Blossom, who looks positively sick. Suddenly any anger he's feeling towards her dissipates, replaced by concern and his typical unyielding longing for her. Her visage, while not atypically pale, is drenched with cold shock.
His gaze travels to Butch, patently smug. Brick wants to tear that condescending expression from his face, wants to throw his brother to the ground and pound it from existence, wants to look away. He finds he can't drag his eyes away. His hands curl into tight fists. Butch allows his eyelids to droop with self-righteous pleasure.
He would have no sooner expected flying monkeys than to discover Butch lingering in Blossom's home. Their relationship is fragmented at best, too cracked and hollow to withstand genuine friendship. Butch is a cheater and a liar. He is scum. A fresh wave of anger begins to cloud his thoughts and he is forced to plant his feet firmly into the ground.
"Brick…" Brick looks over to Blossom, her voice small and timid. It throws him momentarily; he is used to, though perhaps not recently, a powerful, assured Blossom, hardly weak. He feels the necessity to tread around her carefully and hold her when she is near to breaking—the kind of emotion that he could not stand if it were anybody else.
"I…" He notes the hesitation in her tone but does not move closer. Residual fury creeps into his thoughts, angry curiosity peaked at Butch's presence. "Butch is…he's just…"
"My house burned to the ground, dear brother," Butch interjects with a falsely polite tone, hardly like his natural rough drawl. His smirk never wanes despite the horror of his statement. "Your kind…friend here offered to let me stay with her 'til I find a place of my own." With that emphasis on the word 'friend', Butch moves towards Blossom is now resting against the arm of her leather sofa and places a lingering arm around her.
Brick is floored. He wants to wrench Butch's arm from its socket and bash him across the head with it. Instead, he focuses on his brother's announcement, fighting desperately the urge to approach his girlfriend and become her source of solace.
"Burned?" he asks, a fleeting sense of guilt crossing his tone. "Why didn't you come to me? I would have let you stay at my place."
Butch shifts in his spot, moulding his feet carefully into the white shag rug Blossom has decorated her floor with. "Ah, but see, I sincerely doubt that you would," he contradicts, still employing the same sugared tone. His grip tightens around Blossom, who does not reject it. Brick curls and uncurls his fists.
"Yes, I would have," he replies with gritted teeth. "I'm not a fucking monster, Butch. You're my brother." The fact rings true throughout the room and Brick notes that Butch seems briefly halted in his next words. He lets go of Blossom and begins to pace across the room.
"Since I thought somethin' else after you threw me out of your apartment this morning, forgive me if I don't want to come runnin' back to your pretentious bullshit," sneers Butch roughly. He pauses to squint his eyes at an abstract painting Blossom has hung on the wall. Brick hears an indistinct mutter of "what the fuck?" under his brother's breath.
Shaking his head, Butch continues, "I took a walk through our old neighborhood, if you can ever remember what lower-middle-class is—" (Brick offers a sneer of his own) "—and did a little bit of grocery shopping with Bubbles so I could cook myself supper, since not all of us have a fucking chef in our homes—"
"Hang on," interrupts Brick, still stationed directly in front of the door where he had initially walked in, "you were with Bubbles today? Does Boomer know?" He is aware of Boomer's temper when it comes to Bubbles and knows that the rest of them are as well. He notices Blossom's sudden stiffened posture.
A brief look of pure, unadulterated rage crosses Butch's face but it disappears before Brick can get a closer look.
"You could say that," Butch says, clenching his jaw tightly. "So I went home, shit happened, and my house is gone. I came here. Now," Butch continues, crossing the floor to where Brick is standing. They are nose to nose, pictures of quivering anger. "What's your excuse?"
One punch—swift, to the gut, no, knock him to the ground, hit his face. He's right there.
Brick makes the mistake of allowing his gaze to travel from Butch's stalemate glare to Blossom's fearful expression. Fear—it is out of character on someone as confident as Blossom. He notes her tightened fingers around the edge of the chair, the quickened pace of her rising chest. Her face, white as powdered snow, grows steadily whiter and he begins to fear for her.
"I came to pick something up for Buttercup…"
"Liar," refutes Butch immediately, glare deepening.
'Fuck,' Brick says to himself, 'he's right. Buttercup would never send me over to Blossom's by myself.' He wracks his brains further, cursing himself for breaking down.
He felt incurably weak around her. Buttercup hardly ever invoked such feeling in him, fostering his guiltless ability to speak mistruths to her. A natural capability, like eating, breathing, sleeping, more pleasing than sex—at least with her. There are no mechanics behind it, no desire to be perfect. It flows through him like blood coursing through his veins. It is simplistic.
But at the same time he finds, on some deep inner level, he resents her for it. Brick Ronalds, destined to stay his own person, to never let himself change for anybody. Admittedly, he was not entirely himself as he struggled through his unrequited love for Blossom, so romantic and gushy. Once or twice, Butch had accused him of turning into Boomer. He certainly remembers vowing never to allow any girl to create such a change within him ever again.
Before he can divulge further into his self-pitying, there is a thud. Brick's head whips forward in unison with Butch's, jaws dropping simultaneously.
"Blossom!" he cries, rushing forward to the fallen woman. She'd collapsed on the carpet, cheek brushing against the soft fur of her rug, arms and legs sprawled ungracefully. Her chest heaves rather noticeably and her lips are parted in vocalized breaths. He sinks down to his knees beside her, pressing his hand to her back.
She does not wake.
Please be alright…
December 10
Dear Professor,
I'm quite relieved they fired me from Wendell & Burkes! That Harvard law degree was worthwhile, but not for me. Boomer and I are going to open our store very soon.
The wedding planning is going great! Vegetarian course meals, gluten-free wedding cake, completely eco-friendly—I'm sure it will be something new for everyone to enjoy.
My sisters are awesome, my relationship is amazing—Boomer treats me like an angel. We couldn't be happier. He is completely sober, too!
Sorry for worrying you in my other letters but everything seems to be okay now! Everyone is feeling perfect. I am feeling perfect.
See you soon,
Love, Bubbles :)
The apartment is suffocating. It clenches at her throat with a ghostly grip and squeezes her bones until she can feel them begin to grind into dust. The walls narrow in, trapping her heart into her lungs so she can barely stand to breathe, skin and hair and eyes and bones. Staleness dries her down. She draws cigarette after cigarette until she has none left.
She slips on her belted coat and leaves the apartment before it crushes her to pieces.
It's after midnight, almost one in the morning. Phil is gone and the night doorman, Earl, has taken his place. He tips his hat accordingly to her, though does not speak, not quite as familiar with her as Phil is. She smiles tightly back and escapes through the revolving door.
The air is fresh out here, no trace of mustiness or rancid cigarette. She gives a prolonged sniff. It's bitingly cold, comforting to Buttercup, away from the hot, stale air eating away at her in her penthouse. She gazes up at the distant moon, which has vaguely lit up the street of apartment buildings and sprawling suburban homes. She spies a few lit Christmas trees decorated a front window or lawn, and feels decidedly nostalgic.
She and Brick have not ever celebrated Christmas together. Brick is an atheist and she is uncaring, and their minute celebration consisted of an excessively expensive piece of jewellery from him and a bottle of designer cologne from her to add to his ever-expanding collection. Never has she felt the familiarity of home with him, though she always manages to convince herself that it is better this way. They are high class, society people. Surely they do not need petty, childish holiday traditions.
Shivering, Buttercup pulls her coat in tighter around her. She is wearing nothing but lounge pants over her lace corset as well as Ugg boots that have seen better days, hardly appropriate winter attire. She finds it rarely snows in Townsville, but the city seems to succumb easily to cold, snapping wind that perhaps is no better than snow.
He had rejected her. Only once has Buttercup ever found herself rejected by a man, and that had been Butch. True, Blossom seemed to be the most appealing of the trio of sisters at the time, but Buttercup, amid her tough demeanour, vowed to change that. She would be more cunning than her sister, employ more feminine wile. Rejection would soon escape her vocabulary into oblivion.
It had worked—not a single man was able to escape her talons. Long had she given up on Butch, aroused her feelings for Brick, appealed to him, and claimed him as her own. It seemed she had soon wrapped him around her finger, calm, stern, solid Brick Ronalds, who outwardly declared to never change for anybody but himself.
Though now, as she thinks back to the scene in their bedroom, she wonders if that had even been the case. Had he really changed for her? Doubt begins to cloud her previous pride for this matter—she assumed she had changed him, but their relationship has never been passionate like she always assumed. In the early stages, perhaps, but thinking back a sort of dread mounts in the pit of her stomach. A façade, it seems; she's deluded herself.
There is no place for her to go usually out her building. Buttercup considers herself a kind of trophy wife, though not by her own choice, having never properly utilized her college degree. The Professor had not been pleased; "what are you going to do with this Mickey Mouse degree?" he'd shot out, and she made a point to ignore him. Brick is enough to provide for the pair of them and soon Buttercup found herself intertwined with society events that she pointedly refuses to join.
The night is deathly still, the moon bright and foreboding. There is no sense of company, only emptiness and nothingness and loneliness, as if there is nobody else on earth. It's a silence that deafens and a coolness that whistles through one ear and out the other. Her mind is abrupt with swirling thoughts having nothing else to focus on but her own pathetic existence.
She can't seduce him; he does not accept her advances. Her bitchiness does not affect him; he is filled with his own sullen coldness. At these times she does not hesitate to wonder what else is left for her with him. He's withdrawn from her, mentally, socially, sexually, and it crosses her mind, not once or twice but multiple times, if he has found someone else to take her place. Someone more like him, more ambitious, kinder, softer, more approachable—someone like…
No, she refuses to entertain that notion. As strained as she feels with her sister, their relationship continues to flutter through the timeline, weak, but still there. A frayed knot, ends fringed with wear and disappointment, but strong enough to withstand it. Neither will jeopardize it, Buttercup insists to herself, Blossom takes more care than that. Her thoughts linger over to her sister's announcement of her pregnancy…no, there was no way.
Looking around the dark abandoned street, she realizes she doesn't want to go back home. Alone with her cigarettes, liquor, and thoughts does not appeal much to her, knowing that Brick is most likely not going to come home tonight either. But where else is there to go around here? It's one am…hardly a suitable time for someone like her to go walking around the neighborhood by herself, even as unafraid as she is, even as supposedly safe the area is. She approaches a nearby arboretum, not with even a glimmer of hesitation, pulling her coat tighter around her.
Her boots shuffle against the dark cobblestone, whatever of which is lit up by faint moonlight shadowed by the dark, towering feathered trees positioned arbitrarily on either side of the path. There's a small playground near the end of the path nearby a series of lampposts overlooking elegantly carved wooden benches. She wanders to the playground and, kicking sand over her boots, settles in on one of the swings on the lone swing set.
Dragging her feet through the shadowed sand she pushes herself forward slightly and then backwards. The cold breeze she's grown accustomed to snaps at her cheeks as she moves through the air, feet never leaving the ground. It's been so long since she's been on one of these; nearly as long since she's allowed herself to forego her stiff, rampaging thoughts into carefree spontaneity. What Brick would think of her now…
She wishes for once she can stop thinking about him, but all that seems to constantly cross her mind is what happened to them that everything they do is completely emotionless? Buttercup clenches her fists tight around the chain link of the swing. Goddamn Brick…doing this to her when she's supposed to have everything.
Her cell phone rings, echoing through the otherwise silent park. Who is calling her at one in the morning? she wonders to herself.
Glancing at the phone, she raises her eyebrows when she sees Brick's name decorating the screen. Sliding a finger across the touch pad, she places the cell phone to her ear.
"Hello?" she asks, not without inquisition.
A slight pause, then...
"Buttercup, come down to the hospital," his voice comes through static-filled.
Her heart rate quickens. "Why?" she questions hurriedly, "are you okay? What's wrong?"
"I'm fine, but Blossom isn't," he says, cracking through the phone. Buttercup furrows her brow at the tone of his voice…much more worried that he's ever been for her, as far as she can remember. The same tone he employs when something has been stressing him out to the point of not sleeping, when he doesn't eat or speak, when there's only one thing on his mind and even she can't distract him.
"What happened?" she asks, a bit more shortly than she intends. She stands up from the swing and makes her way back to the path.
"She fainted and wouldn't wake up so Butch and I brought her to the hospital," he replies, sounding strained.
Buttercup allows her words to sink in, fury leaking into her thoughts. "What are you doing with Butch and Blossom?" she spits out accusatorily. "Is that where you went tonight, Brick? To meet up with your brother, who you hate, and your ex-girlfriend?" She hates that he can make her feel so vulnerable.
Brick sighs like she is an ignorant little child. "Buttercup, now is not the time for your insecurities. Your sister is lying in a hospital bed. Forgive me if I thought you might like to know. We're at Townsville Memorial Hospital, if you decide to come." And he hangs up before she can respond.
Damn Brick! She throws her phone to the ground in a fit of rage, watching as a crack etches along the screen. Then, after bending down to pick it up with a frustrated sigh, she dials a number for the cab company and requests a taxi for the hospital.
What the fuck had he been doing with her sister and his brother? Butch and Blossom are two people neither of them carries much desire to be around, respectively, and she finds herself filled with a familiar irritation with her sister. Of course, even sick Blossom will always find a way to upstage her.
She waits for the cab.
Damn them…
"Blossom, I left Buttercup," he murmurs into her ear as he holds her. His touch is so warm and his skin is so soft. He strokes her silky hair with the tips of his fingers, encasing her hand with his other. He kisses her neck softly, trailing his fingers across her cheekbone, down her neck, her chest, her beautifully supple skin. His heartbeat beat steadily against her back, seamlessly coinciding with hers, smooth and effortless.
She smiles into her pillow. Her eyes are closed as she lies with him in perfect serenity. The last thing she remembers is collapsing to the ground in her living room, suddenly lost to the world. After waking up, she found herself settled in comfortably beneath the cotton-threaded sheets of her queen bed, Brick pressing into her from behind.
"Am I okay?" she had asked and he only smiled and kissed her forehead before relaying the news about Buttercup.
"How did she take it?" she inquires, readying herself for his fingers now tracing her collarbone and moving up slowly back to her face. He draws over her lower lip and she kisses his finger softly.
Brick leans in over her ear. "Our marriage fell apart the moment we got married. I'm sure she understood," he replies, sounding amused. She turns around until they are face to face and she can feel his breath tinted against her nose. They are so close, so inviting…
She leans in and presses her lips to his. He reciprocates immediately, moving his mouth in gentle motion with hers, allowing her to melt as softly into his arms as she could breathe. The heat shocks the butterflies in her stomach into a harried race, conveying tingles to the very tips of fingers. She never wants to let go.
He pulls her onto him and wraps his arms around her waist. He tastes like chocolate and strawberries, the most delectable concoction she has ever savoured. He kisses her neck runs a loose hand down her thighs, outer, inner…he makes her feel like no other man has ever managed. He's intoxicating and poisonous and his kisses are more toxic than cigarettes.
She finds herself standing at the door of a store called "B&B Essentials", adorned in the windows with candles and jewels and crystals and various herbs. Walking through the glass door, hearing the bell chime above head, she makes her way slowly to the cashier desk, where Bubbles is standing. She is serving customers happily, packaging their items gently in recyclable paper and scented tissue.
"Blossom!" she calls once she is done with a customer. Blossom runs her fingers over a shelf filled with energy crystals and another of tall wax candles. Mind, body, spirit…things to bring peace and calm to her life—though, now that she thinks about it, she can't think of a single instance where any part of her life is erratic.
"Wow, Bubbles, looks like everything is turning out really well," she says, sounding impressed. Bubbles looks pleased. Her blond hair is loose and wrapped with a blue gypsy scarf and there is a collection of beaded necklaces and gemstones around her neck. Loose, carefree, utterly in touch with her mind, body, and spirit.
Boomer walks through the beaded curtain leading into the back room holding an enormous cardboard box. "Babe, where do you want me to put this stuff?" He gazes adoringly at his fiancée, his face smooth and unworn, blue eyes bright and shining.
"Oh, anywhere," Bubbles says breezily. He settles the box down on the counter and suddenly grabs Bubbles from behind into a tight bear hug. She squeals loudly and giggles, eliciting a laugh from Blossom, who watches amusedly. She peruses through the candles, pausing at the vanilla-scented ones. She considers purchasing one when a tall silver candle catches her eye.
"For dreams," she reads on the card positioned at the base of the candle.
A loose breeze curls around her head and she looks up. She is no longer in Bubbles' New Age shop, standing in Buttercup's penthouse apartment. It is completely silent in the apartment and she notices a few changes from her last visit. Brick's laptop, which seemed to never have left its spot on the glass coffee table is gone, and the ugly ceiling logs have been replaced with thick marble. Something catches her eye on the mantle of the fireplace and she approaches it carefully.
The picture of Brick and Buttercup is gone, replaced by a series of framed photos of Buttercup with Butch—in his arms, laughing freely; arms around his neck, left leg kicked up behind her; hands pressed to his face, kissing him and smiling. A noise behind her causes her to jump and she turns around, only to find Buttercup standing in the kitchen, watching her.
"We just got them done," she muses, approaching Blossom. Her black hair is cut into a short bob at the nape of her neck and her verdant eyes are make-up free. She is dressed in yoga pants and a loose green jersey, evidently not her own. She looks relaxed and carefree and smells like spiced chocolate.
"It's beautiful," Blossom agrees. She smiles at her sister, who envelopes her in a hug.
"I hope we can forgive each other," Buttercup murmurs into her ear, holding tight. "Brick and I evidently were not meant for each other but you are, and I know you two will be amazing parents for little Bailey."
The thought of her daughter makes her heart melt. She musters a huge smile and says, "thank you." Buttercup leads her to the kitchen where Butch is now making three cups of tea. He kisses Buttercup on the temple and sets a cup in front of her and her sister.
She watches the couple carefully, sipping her fruity tea. She cannot seem to remember their wedding or giving birth to her child, though every instance of the name she'd always planned on giving her future daughter and the idea of her are enough to fill her with surging warmth. She can't, however, put a face to the name no matter how hard she tries.
Glancing out the window, her eyebrows rise in shock. The sky is completely drenched in violet, spattered with purple clouds and a blue moon. She feels a familiar, loose breeze wrap around her head. Buttercup and Butch become distant figures in her eyes as she moves farther away from them, surrounded by an expanse of black nothingness. There is nothing to keep her grounded and suddenly she feels herself falling, falling, falling…
"Will she be okay, doctor?"
"She should be fine. Just a lot of rest, I think."
"What happened to her?"
"Seems she was incredibly stressed and dehydrated. Her body was worse for wear. It just couldn't stand it anymore."
Footsteps. There is nobody in the room. She can hear herself breathing but can't see anything but darkness. She cries out but can't hear anything but her own heart.
It was just a dream…
I sat at my laptop, typing up my final class paper. There were one hundred words to go on a Saturday night, with only alcohol and light classical music to keep me going. I took a sip of my ginger ale and vodka mix, and hesitated over the keys of my computer. I was so close to the end…I glanced at the clock; it was after one AM.
Sighing, I leaned back and closed the top of my laptop. It seemed I was unable to focus on finishing this goddamn paper, even with so little left. I gulped down the rest of my drink, shuddering at the thick alcohol burning my tongue. A thick buzz was beginning to settle in around my head, but alcohol did not affect me as much as it did my sisters.
Suddenly the buzzer to my apartment sounded. Getting up and padding across the scratchy beige carpet, I pressed a button on the intercom, wondering who the hell was calling so late at night. I did not assume it was Brick, knowing he was out of town this weekend visiting his mother.
"Hi, Buttercup," came a slurring voice. I frowned. What was Butch doing here? I let him up, though not without reluctance.
Minutes later there was a loud thump on the door. I had been resting my back against the wall next to the door, eyes closed, breathing stilled. Sighing, I slid off the chain and unlocked the door, opening it to reveal a very inebriated Butch resting against the doorframe, a sloppy smirk situated on his face. He stumbled in, collapsing on the corduroy couch.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, pulling my dark hair into a loose ponytail. I found that, even after all these years, and even though I certainly did not love him anymore, he still managed to elicit these strange nervous feelings in me. It did not help that he looked particularly good tonight, despite the overt drunkenness in his appearance. His black hair was tousled messily and he wore loose jeans with a tight polo shirt that I remembered loving so much way back when.
"I just wanted to see you," he slurred. He stood up and stumbled over to me, placing a hand on the wall on either side of my head. My heartbeat quickened. What was he doing?
"We never seem to talk anymore, B-Cup," he murmured, using a nickname I so despised. He leaned in, pressing his lips close to my ear. I squirmed, pressing my hands to his chest in an attempt to push him away. But while I was strong, he was stronger, not to mention drunk, and he would not budge.
He moved his mouth over to mine, but I quickly averted my head. His lips landed on my cheek but he was not deterred.
"Come on, Buttercup, Brick's not here," he said, grabbing my chin and yanking it towards his face.
"Stop!" I shouted, shoving him as hard as I could. He stumbled backwards but did not go very far. Instead, he managed to grab my arm and I fell to the ground. He lowered himself on top of me and tried once more to kiss me. I squirmed beneath him, attempted to knee him in the crotch, and tried to free my hands from his tight grasp. He wouldn't budge and I could feel myself beginning to grow fearful.
"Butch! Get off of me!" I cried out. He leaned down and pressed his lips to my neck.
"Come on," he muttered once more, "just once. I'm so lonely without you…"
"NO!" I screamed and found the strength to raise my leg up and slam it heavily into his crotch. He swore loudly and fell off me, hitting his head against the wall. I scrambled to my feet and fell back against the couch, my heart pounding thickly in my ears. He rubbed the back of his head and looked up at me, horrified.
"Buttercup, I'm so sorry," he said, reaching out to me but I didn't want him anywhere near me.
"Get OUT!" I snarled and he left, casting me one last dismayed, apologetic look. I heard him stumbling through the hallway and wondered where he was going briefly, before I realized I didn't care. Heart still hammering painfully against my chest, I collapsed on the couch and buried my face into a pillow, cursing.
X X X
I lit a joint and inhaled it as deeply as I could. Butch cackled nearby, nearly rolling over the couch as Brick mused silently to himself in the corner. I coughed, trying to ignore the burning sensation in my throat. As many times as I'd done this, the burn never ceased to hurt. I inhaled once more, relishing the idea of getting high much faster.
The room was thick with the scent of my favourite plant. There was a light haze of smoke that hovered around the ceiling, something I seemed to find hilarious for some reason. I fell onto my back, staring wide-eyed at the grey painted ceiling. We were in my basement, surrounded by booze and pot and cigarettes. Graduation party, I had suggested to my brothers. To Bubbles, it was a brothers' night out. Bubbles loved the idea of family. She did not object.
These moments with my brothers were some of my favourites. Drinking beer, doing shots, smoking weed, and then attempting to play video games. Were we too mature for this shit? Not at all. Before real life even attempted to begin, why not act like little fuckheads for a bit longer?
"Butch! You fucking asshole!" I raged as Butch slammed my player into the boards and proceeded to score a goal. He merely smirked hazily at me and continued to rapidly press the buttons with his fingers. Butch was the only person I knew who was good at video games when he was drunk and stoned all at once. Ironically, he was no good when he was just one or the other.
Brick watched lazily from the couch, occasionally taking stretch to place his joint to his lips and smoke it deeply. He seemed to be more out of it than us, though that did tend to happen. Butch and I are a lot more rambunctious, bouncing off the walls, violently playing video games, as loud and boisterous as we can be.
I set my controller down momentarily to take another hit from the bong Butch had put out. While time had seemed to slow down, I wanted to push through it as fast as I could. I burst into laughter as Butch dropped his controller to take his own hit, and soon the three of us were laughing like complete idiots.
"Boomer?" I barely heard her voice, still laughing. I didn't notice her until she was standing overhead, staring down at us collapsed on the ground. The rancid smell of pot stung delectably through my nose, but I saw her wrinkle hers disgustedly. I laughed again.
"This is your graduation party?" she yelled, stomping her foot on the ground. I grinned lethargically up at her.
"What are you so mad about, babe?" I asked, grabbing at her legs. "Come join the party!" I tried to pull her on top of me but she slapped me across the face and moved away. My face was numb and I didn't feel it, but Butch burst into laughter once more and I had to comply.
Bubbles narrowed her eyes at me contemptuously. "I can't believe you," she hissed. "You. Are. An. Asshole."
She left, slamming the door behind her, but our laughter did not cease.
X X X
"Brick!" she called, but I didn't want to hear her. Instead I quickened my pace and ignored her.
"Brick," she pleaded, trying to keep up. She was fast, but she wasn't faster than me, and I bounded for the steps leading up to my front door. With my hand on the door knob, I intended on going inside when I made the mistake of looking back to her. She had tears in her eyes. Amid my anger and domineering male pride, I couldn't leave a crying girl by herself. Frustrated, I stopped and let her approach.
"What?" I growled.
I couldn't look at her face. Tears or not, she was a bitch. I felt like an idiot, allowing myself to become so drawn into her. What the fuck had I been thinking? Guys like me didn't trail after girls like fucking puppy dogs. They came to me. Blossom was never supposed be anything more than a mere desire. Instead, I found myself increasingly falling in love with her. What a joke.
"Don't be mad at me, please," she said, leaning out to grasp my hands. I yanked them out of her grip and turned to glare at her. She flinched at the vehemence that had taken over my expression but I ignored it.
"You are unbelievable," I said to her, my tone low and furious. "You knew exactly how I felt about you but you used me, and I then I had to walk in on you and Butch together? I don't want to talk to you, Blossom, get the fucking picture."
She did not leave and instead stared up at me with her wide, pink eyes. It infuriated me how she could just stand there and pretend to look so innocuous when she knew just how despicably she had acted. I clenched my fists, hating how she could elicit these emotions in me that I never knew I had. Heartbreak.
"I never used you," she tried, but I wasn't hearing any of it. I barked out a laugh and shook my head, disbelieving that she was trying to deny any of this.
"What a joke," I shot back.
She grew angry. "What the hell are you so mad about?" she snapped. I stepped back, surprised. "We weren't dating. I am allowed to hook up with whoever I want. You don't control me!" she shouted and I found myself staring down at her with shock. Pretty Blossom, once seemingly pure and untouched, now stained with the touch of my younger brother. I could barely stand to look at her.
"Just leave," I said and left her.
She turned on her heel, shot me one last contemptuous glare, and left. I tried to dispel the thoughts of her leaving to find Butch. Then, cursing myself for allowing her to make me feel this way, I walked into my house and slammed the door.
"I'll go with her in the ambulance, you follow us in her car," Brick said, throwing him the keys. Butch opened his mouth to retort but his brother was out the door after the paramedics before he could even say anything. Grumbling to himself, he settled himself angrily in Blossom's Acura and followed the ambulance down the street.
Now, sitting in the waiting room, Butch feels a little anxious. He hates hospitals. He hates the sense of foreboding he gets from a place like this, and he hates the constant discomfort. There is no comfort in the waiting room. Everyone is nervous, or sad, or angry. He does not blame them, but it does not make him like it any better.
Brick is pacing back and forth, body stiff and tense. Butch watches him carefully. Despite himself, he can't help but feel a little bad for his brother. He too is worried about Blossom, but, as he continues to watch his brother pace, evidently not the same extent as Brick. He knows Blossom will be okay, but it had been a shock to him to see her collapse like that…
"Brick, just sit down," Butch says wearily. Brick shoots him a dirty look.
"This is all your fault, you know," he hisses back. Butch raises his eyebrows. He feels a minute cloud of anger rise in the back of his mind but shoos it away, not in the mood to get into an intense confrontation with his brother right now.
He takes a deep breath before speaking. "How's that?" he asks as evenly as he can.
"You stressed her out with your bullshit," Brick continues, his expression derisive. "Whatever problem you have with me you should take it up with me and not with her. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with her." He does not sound entirely convinced in his words but hides it well, and Butch does not notice.
Instead, he is completely floored. He stares at his brother with shock. How can anybody, let alone Brick, be so dense? He squints his eyes as if to see him better, hardly believing that he is completely unaware of what Butch had been getting at before Blossom had collapsed.
"Brick," he says exasperatedly, "enough. It's over."
"If by that you mean this conversation, then I agree," Brick replies stubbornly, crossing his arms across his chest. "Because I have no idea what you're talking about."
Butch, well versed in fighting, resists the urge to slam his brother into the wall opposite them. He is so stubborn and unaccepting of things that would only indicate his own defeat. Instead of retaliating, Butch merely shakes his head and stands up. He is hardly in the mood to get into another argument with his brother, particularly in such a place where the only feeling he is getting is one of utter uneasiness.
"Where are you going?" Brick calls after him.
"To see Blossom," he retorts shortly, and walks through the open door of Blossom's room.
A nurse is standing at her bedside, positioning the pillows around her head. Butch feels his heart lurch at the sight of her lying on the bed, messy red hair, strangely tinted with orange, splayed messily around the pillow and down to her shoulders as if they have not taken care to comb through it. Her left hand is inserted with a needle, extended with a cord hooked up to an IV. She looks delicate, almost as if she can shatter at any instance.
Suddenly he hears footsteps and a doctor enters the room. He has greying hair and charming wrinkles decorating his face, and is dressed in a lab coat and grey trousers.
"Oh!" he exclaims, sounding surprised. "I didn't know Miss. Utonium had visitors. I'm Dr. Layton and you are…?"
"Butch," he introduces himself, shaking the doctor's hand. "I was the one that brought her here."
"Are you a relative or…?"
Butch contemplates this for a second. If he tells the truth, he will not know what is going on until one of her sisters gets here. At that point, he will surely not have another opportunity to confront Brick for a while. There is only one thing he knows he has to do.
"Yes," he lies, "I'm her brother. Butch Utonium. What's wrong with her? Will she be all right?"
Dr. Layton scribbles something into Blossom's file. "Yes, she will be fine. She was dehydrated and evidently very stressed. We will most likely be keeping her overnight just in case."
Butch feels a sense of relief escape from the tightness in his chest. She will be okay…
"However," Dr. Layton continues and Butch freezes, "it turns out that she is pregnant. The stress is not good for the baby and we will need a second reference just in case. Were you aware of her pregnancy?"
Butch cannot speak. He turns to look at Blossom, small and delicate amid her white covers and hospital gown, and stares. The realization that she is carrying a little child, Brick's little child, does not dawn on him for a few moments. Blossom, intelligent, beautiful Blossom, impregnated by her sister's husband…Butch feels sick to his stomach.
"No, I was not aware," he manages to get out, finally turning away.
I can't believe this…
TO BE CONTINUED
Polska – Woo, well now Butch knows that Blossom is pregnant. Looks like their façade is about to come crumbling around them, depending on what our lovely green Ruff decides to do. Anyways I'm so extremely happy with this chapter you have no idea. Best chapter UNDOUBTEDLY. Buttercup's part was one of the best scenes I've ever written and I absolutely adored Blossom's dreamscape. The fluff in that scene was essential to the plot, so if you hated it, I'm sorry, there probably won't be any more in the future; and if you loved it, I'm also sorry haha. I'm trying to put these characters in a very unsympathetic light because they are not pitiable people. They are extremely flawed and essentially self-centred and if you got that, great! :) Anyways, please review and tell me if there is anything you would like insight on! I love you all. Hopefully I can update by the end of this month before my midterms start.
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REVELATION