Jocelyn27 (guest): I'm glad you liked it. You'll have to let me know how you enjoyed my other stories. I really need to finish the next chapter of Blurring. :/
thatkid (guest): I was trying to capture the fact that Spencer isn't quite in her right mind throughout the begining of the story. An old art teacher of mine put together a whole powerpoint on Mark Ryden and all I could think was "This guy looks like a clean-cut Mort Rainey and his name sounds like a good spy name- similar to the syllabic effect of James Bond- but his art is rather horrific and distasteful. It completely cancels out any good points he got for reminding me of Johnny Depp and Pierce Brosnan. I much prefer the truly amazing works of Salvador Dali. That is true Surrealism."
glorymania: Here is your continuation and techinically, as the author, I can end chapters however I want. ;) I hope you enjoy the next cliffhanger. :p haha.
DelusionalDaydreams: I really like your pen name. Sorry, it just had to be said.
A/N All mistakes are mine and I suppose I should put a trigger warning here just in case. It is not associated with cutting or anything of that nature, but those with a history of any kind of panic disorder, beware.
The bright sunlight that filtered through the windows caused Emily to stir and instinctively curl into the familiar body that lay half on top of her. The two brunettes were so accustomed to the feel of the other beside them that, after years of friendship and innumerable sleepovers, waking up in a mess of tangled limbs never surprised them.
They always woke up before Hanna and Aria, so their seemingly unusual familiarity with the others body typically went unnoticed. It wasn't unusual to them, but to the outside eyes of their friends, it would have sparked a curious look or two from the way that they resembled an intimate couple in their sleep. It was that same familiarity that allowed Emily to detangle herself from underneath Spencer's slender frame without waking her.
The clock indicated that it was far too late to even consider making it to school and Emily figured that she ought to call her mom and make something to eat. Slipping on a robe to fight the chill in the air, she made sure that Spencer was covered and continued to make her way downstairs.
Not long after, the chill that bit at Spencer's mostly exposed arms and torso dragged her into an unpleasant awakening. In the process of subconsciously seeking out the warmth, that had surrounded her moments ago, the injured girl had knocked off most of the quilt.
Deciding that Emily was, in fact, nowhere to be found in the bed, Spencer rolled onto her back with a whimper of pain. She forced her eyes open against the bright sunlight as she rose into a sitting position, suppressing the scream of agony that was fighting to be let out in response to her protesting muscles.
Tossing the rest of the quilt off, Spencer moved so that her legs dangled over the edge of the bed with her toes barely brushing across the cold floor. A quick survey of the room told her what she had already expected – Emily wasn't there. The brunette shivered, still in her practice clothes from the day before, causing a ripple of pain to follow. She stood and wrapped the smaller blanket, found at the foot of Emily's bed, around her slight frame. Proceeding to walk downstairs to locate the swimmer, Spencer caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and groaned at her haggard appearance. I look about as miserable as I feel.
Spencer succeeded in tracking Emily down by peaking around corners and finally spotting her in the kitchen, fully dressed and in the process of making breakfast.
"Morning, Em." Spencer greeted from the doorway, her voice a bit scratchier than usual after sleeping.
Emily jumped slightly before she turned to see her friend standing just outside of the kitchen. "Oh. Good morning, Spence. I was going to bring you breakfast in bed."
"I'm sorry. The cold woke me up. My back is still really sore so shivering was quite painful. It's a lot warmer down here." She remarked a bit off-handedly. "What are you making? It looks like it's going to be good."
"French toast, cut into sticks, and two eggs, sunny-side up - just they way you like them. I just started cooking so you have time to get a shower if you want. I can rub some medicine on your back after you're done and you know you're welcome to anything in my closet – It's really sunny but cold today."
Spencer managed to smile, despite the fact that it even hurt to stand there motionlessly, at how Emily knew her so well and seemed to shine with happiness in the vibrant light that came through the uncurtained windows. "Wait." The brunette did a double take at how oddly bright it was for a fall morning when, typically, the sun was still rising when she left for school. "Shouldn't we be in school right now?"
"Oh, It was almost 9 o'clock when I got up. I gave my mom a call, before she got a call from the school and started to worry, to let her know that I'm staying home sick with you because your parents are out-of-town again. She took care of it, Spence." Emily looked up from the thick slices of Texas toast, which she was cutting into strips, to make eye contact with Spencer who looked like she was about to breakdown and cry. "It's an excused absence, so you can make up all of your work."
Spencer forced herself to relax and let it go because the only thing that her tense posture did was make her back throb in disapproval. "Right… I knew that."
Emily had to chuckle at Spencer's response. "Sure you did Hastings. As if you've ever missed a day of school since we met, in Kindergarten. Go take a shower before I come after you with this spatula."
"A bit too much like Aria this morning, aren't we? At least she was drunk when she chased me with my own spatula because you dared her to run around like Wonder Woman and she thought I was some Cheetah character. What's your excuse Fields?" Spencer teased before turning to go do as she was told.
"You always have to have the last word, don't you?" Emily grumbled as Spencer ascended the stairs. "I just might burn your French toast sticks for that, Hastings."
The shorter brunette only laughed quietly and continued toward her destination.
Getting out of the shower and perusing her clothing options, Spencer chose to adopt Emily's dark jeans paired with a tank top and sheer-cotton shirt look. The white tank top was fitted, but the balsam-colored shirt hung loosely on her shoulders with slightly too-long sleeves, designed for comfort. The grayish green color complemented her extremely light complexion perfectly. She couldn't help but admire the athletic swimmers wardrobe, which was always beyond comfortable to borrow from.
Her least favorite accessory to the ensemble was the large, medicated patch that Emily left for her to apply to her back – they were always so smelly. She struggled to put the ridiculous contraption on the right way and ended up with it being slightly crooked. She had a similar issue with putting on the long-sleeved shirt over her tank top – her hands just wouldn't stop shaking and it inhibited her ability to grip things.
The dull pounding in her head was briefly overshadowed by the alluring scent of French toast and freshly made maple syrup. It drew her back down to the kitchen where she found Emily preparing two plates of food.
Noticing the shorter brunette's arrival, Emily addressed the question that she forgot to ask the first time that Spencer came down the stairs. "Hey Spence, whose car is outside – it looks really expensive – it's not your dad's is it?"
Spencer tucked her noticeably shaking hands in her pockets under Emily's suspicious scrutiny. "No, it's not. It's mine actually. Speaking of which, I left my bag out there last night. I'm going to go ahead and get it right now."
Emily covered her shock at the fact that Spencer would own, let alone drive, something that blatantly screamed money when the brunette was typically opposed to flaunting her family's old-money ranking in society. "But breakfast is ready. Can't it wait until after? I don't want the food to get cold."
Covering the urge to fidget, Spencer backed out of the kitchen with a pleading look, "Twenty seconds; I promise. I really need to get my bag, Em."
Before the taller girl could even attempt to respond, Spencer took off out the front door to her car. Emily simply sighed and proceeded to the family room with both plates in hand. She placed them on the coffee table and turned the TV on to the History Channel.
Since her sensor key was still inside of her bag, the car was unlocked when Spencer ran her fingertips across the biosensor panel to release the dihedral door. She slid into her seat with even less grace than she did the night before and instantly reached for her bag. Digging through the variety of small pockets inside the tan-colored canvas messenger bag, Spencer retrieved her backup prescription bottle and dumped two of the blue pills out onto her palm.
She closed her eyes after she swallowed the oval-like pills and counted the number of breaths she took, willing the pounding to go away and the world to stop spinning. Her parents convinced her that the attacks were just getting worse because she was developing a tolerance for the drug; just like her doctor told them could happen. They refused to even consider the alternative, for it would only bring more disgrace and solidify Spencer's imperfection in their eyes.
Swallowing back the tears that were burning to fall, Spencer rose from the low seat of the sleek McLaren. Shoulders back, spine straight, and head held high – she was a Hastings.
Upon reentry of the Fields residence, the slender brunette was welcomed by the sound of her best friend in the kitchen, once again.
"Hey, Em?" She called, walking towards the origin of the noise.
Preempting further questioning, Emily halted Spencer's progress into the kitchen. "We're eating in the family room. Just let me finish pouring you a glass of grapefruit juice and I'll join you."
"Wait!" Spencer hastily interrupted the taller girl before she could open the refrigerator. "No grapefruit juice. Please?" She added as an afterthought, remembering her immaculate manners.
Emily gave her a curious look. "But you love grapefruit juice, more that coffee – I'm almost sure. Personally, I think it's too sharp and tangy, but my mom always has some just for you because she knows it's the only thing you drink with breakfast on the weekends. It's been your preference since the first time you slept over here when we were five. What's changed?"
"It's nothing. I- uh- my doctor said that- erm-" She replied a little too quickly, unable to come up with a better reason that the fact that her doctor told her to stop drinking her coveted juice because it would interfere with the Xanax. "I should drink more milk! He was worried, at my last physical, that-" She wracked her brain for an explanation that would make sense – she use to be so much better at lying. "I might be at risk of dislocating my shoulder or sustaining hairline fractures if I land wrong in soccer. It's not a high-contact sport like football, but you know how competitive I can get."
There had never been a time that, in their thirteen years of shared friendship, Spencer's speech was anything other than eloquent – it was even perfect when she was heavily intoxicated. Emily was completely thrown and could only nod in acknowledgement.
"Alright." Spencer started a bit awkwardly. "I'll- uh, go wait for you then." She saw the shocked confusion written all over her best friend and knew she needed to get out of the kitchen to allow them both some space to collect their thoughts.
Sitting on the floor by the low coffee table, similar to the style of the Japanese, Spencer stared at whatever History channel program Emily had changed the TV to and idly munched at the pile of French toast sticks in front of her. Zoning out, she released an audible sigh of equal parts frustration and exhaustion.
She was tired of always having to lie to the single most important person in her life. It had already been an exceedingly difficult task, but after kissing Emily – after feeling just a hint of what could be – her façade was slowly being stripped away. She had kept her condition hidden from everyone but her family for months and all the lies were slowly eating away at her insides.
Whoever said that it gets easier to lie the more you do it is a damn liar. Over the past twenty-four hours, it has become more and more difficult to hide what's wrong with me. I already know that Emily is going to start asking questions.
I don't have it in me to lie to her anymore, but the truth is going to destroy both our friendship as well as anything more that could have developed. She has been my one salvation from all the pressure that my family puts on me and I can't lose her. I- I think I'm in love with her.
Her concealed vulnerability, which always became so raw after taking her medication, frayed her nerves and she struggled an internal battle over what to tell Emily and how to answer the inevitable barrage of questions that she felt coming her way. The Zanax in her system battled the physical effects of her panicked emotions, but the crushing metaphysical weight of her distress at facing Emily remained prevalent.
The moment that she felt Emily's lips against hers, she knew she wasn't simply lying to those closes to her about her panic disorder; she was also lying to herself. Her kind-hearted and intuitive best friend always knew how to get her to open her eyes to reality when she was too lost in her family's expectations, when she became lost in the realm of the Hastings.
In truth, it was no longer a disorder that she was facing – it was an addiction – and she couldn't possibly face it on her own. She already knew what was to come if she told Emily - the backlash, the withdrawals, the ever-present secrets. I honestly don't know if I have the strength to do this. There are no clear-cut answers. I feel so helpless.
I can't really say that I like how this chapter turned out. It seems more fillery and like a jumbled mess of thoughts, but feel free to review and express your take on the matter. I know authors are generally a lot harsher on themselves than the readers. I appreciate both positive and negative feedback, so long as it's contructive.