Sitara

One month had passed since the horrible night we crossed paths with the serial killers. We were lucky to have made it out of that God-awful cellar alive. Thankfully, I was able to get Marcus and Wrench to a hospital just before they succumbed to their wounds.

Wrench only needed the dog bite on his leg cleaned and stitched, whereas Marcus had to undergo emergency surgery. His injuries were severe— internal bleeding, broken jaw and ribs, as well as a concussion. The surgery lasted hours, and at the time, I honestly thought he wouldn't make it.

It was a miracle he did. The doctors stopped the bleeding and stabilized him. When they finally allowed me to see him, he was unconscious, in a deep sleep from the anesthesia coursing through his veins.

I was at his bedside that entire night, until the end of visiting hours the following day, waiting for him to wake up. But he didn't.

He's been in a coma ever since. The doctors believe it's due to the swelling in his brain from his head injury. According to them, there was nothing we can do but wait and hope for the best. It was devastating to hear. I felt so powerless.

Every day, from dawn to dusk, I remained at his side and watched over him, wishing he'd wake up already. Time itself seemed to be at a standstill as I waited for him to open his eyes for weeks.

Nothing was the same without him. Heartache weighed me down, and casted a shadow over my life. The everyday activities I used to enjoy became little more than tedious distractions from the pain. I was glad to still have my friends, but the hackerspace felt bleak without Marcus' energy and upbeat spirit. Being forced to carry my heartache everywhere I go was so grueling and exhausting. It was a struggle most days to even get out of bed.

I still had so many good memories of him— his cute, goofy laugh, his sweet smile, his warm, gentle hugs. The nostalgia of it all would sometimes ease the pain, and so did my daily hospital visits. I could see, touch, and ramble to him about whatever I wanted to. I doubt he was listening, but it was comforting to know he was still alive and breathing at least. I often pondered whether he was dreaming as he slept soundly. If so, I hope he wasn't having nightmares.

I always made sure to bring along my sketchbook. When I got tired of sitting around and rambling, I'd begin to draw. As much as I adored being around Marcus, hospitals were awfully boring. I had to do something to preoccupy my mind or else I'd go crazy. I've drawn some pretty good sketches so far. I was dying to show them off to him the moment he woke up, that is, after I finished bombarding him with hugs and kisses. Please, let it be sometime soon.

It was a vibrant summer morning. The sun's strong, golden rays shined through the large window of Marcus' pale white hospital room, providing warmth. I sat beside his adjustable bed, sketchbook and pencil in hand, absent-mindedly tapping my feet to the beep of his heart monitor, as I doodled random squiggly lines on my paper. My phone's been buzzing like crazy with text message notifications from just about every DedSec member on the face of the planet. Today was a special day for the team.

It was Independence Day, where people got together and enjoyed outdoor picnics, and watched enormous, spectacular firework shows explode in the night sky. And every 4th of July, all of DedSec would band together to throw an amazing, wild party for our followers, as a thank you for their support. The money and effort we put into the tradition was always worth it in the end, because it'd nab us hundreds, even thousands of more followers. It was a blowout every year. The party this year was undoubtedly going to be the craziest we've ever thrown. We had more followers than we ever dreamt possible now.

I did a fair amount of blogging about the upcoming event, to get the word out to our followers. Wrench and Josh have been working their asses off for weeks now, coordinating and planning the event with other DedSec members. I would have offered to helped with the preparations, but I wasn't feeling up to it. I wasn't planning to attend the party this year anyhow.

A soft knock on the door captured my attention. Wrench appeared, casually strolling into the room with his arms crossed. He needed crutches to walk for a couple of weeks, but he seemed to be getting around just fine now. There was a slight limp to his stride, but it was hardly noticeable. "Hey Sitara, what a surprise to find you here," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

I merely shrugged my shoulders.

He stood beside Marcus' bed and stared down at him. "How's M doing? The doctors give you any updates?"

"Well, he's still in a coma," I replied. "They just recently took him off oxygen. Apparently, he can breathe just fine on his own."

"So why the fuck won't he wake up already? I mean, he looks perfectly fine, doesn't he? His broken bones have healed; he can breathe on his own now. His condition is clearly improving. Maybe it won't be too much longer before he wakes up."

"I hope so, Wrench."

"Yeah, me too. Cause' I fucking hate hospitals, it always smells like old people and medicine in here. Oh, I got some good news by the way. The feds are making strides in the missing persons cases thanks to the evidence we turned over to them from that shitty night in the killer's cellar. A lot of their recent developments have made the news. You should look into it Sitara."

"I'm glad they're making progress, thanks to us. I just hope everything we went through…" I sighed, glancing at Marcus, "everything he went through, was worth it in the end."

"Knowing Marcus, I'm sure he thinks so. Poor bastard would go above and beyond to help people. Remember how much shit he went through just to get my mask back?" Two hearts formed on his mask as he chuckled at the memory. "M's the best. They don't make em' like him anymore, you know?"

We had so many good memories of his selflessness and kindness. But whenever I thought of them, I wasn't filled with the happiness and warmth of nostalgia. The recollections only saddened me more. They reminded me of how much I missed him. I sniffed, my lashes brimmed heavy with tears. I tried to hold back the emotions washing over me, I didn't want to cry in front of Wrench. But I couldn't hide the sadness I was feeling. Life wasn't fair. Bad things like this shouldn't happen to good people.

Wrench turned, and winced at the sight of the tears on my face. "Crap," he muttered under his breath, pausing to clear his throat awkwardly. "Did I uh, say something wrong?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, I just… I miss him."

He stooped down low, his eyes coming to level with mine. His work-roughened, calloused fingers enveloped my hands, and squeezed lightly. "I miss M too," he said softly. "You should come to the beach party tonight Sitara."

"We're doing a beach party this year?"

"Fuck yeah we are. It'll be good for you to get out and do something fun for once, don't cha' think?"

"No, I rather stay here."

"Sitara, c'mon! You can't miss the event. It's a DedSec tradition, which you totally made no effort to help make happen this year— I forgive you by the way, given the circumstances. I know how close you and M have grown before he went into a coma, the timing really sucks."

"It hurts, Wrench. Missing him is like a heartache that never goes away."

"There's a remedy for heartache. It's called cheap booze, drugs, good music and friends. You don't want to miss this party, it's going to be fucking rad. Mark my words."

"Wrench—"

"Please, you have to be there! We need you, your art is the face of DedSec. There's a shitload of our followers dying to meet you. It's gonna be a blast, everyone's going to be there. If not for yourself, do it for the fans. They love your work. Show them how much you love them too by showing up. If it wasn't for the processing power of our followers, we would have never taken down Blume. C'mon, Marcus would want you to be there—"

"Fine," I grumbled. "I'll go to the stupid party, just for appearance's sake. But I'm not staying long."

"That's fine with me, so long as you at least show up and check it out." He stood. "I gotta run, there's some last-minute preparations I need to attend to for tonight. I'll text you the when and where. You so won't regret this Sitara."

Wrench quickly scrambled out of the room. He was gone before I could mutter a word. Smart, he probably left in such a hurry so I wouldn't get a chance to change my mind. I wiped my tears and gravitated to Marcus, clutching his motionless hand.

"Well, I guess I'm doing this for you," I mumbled.

I sat at the shoreline, my bare feet buried in the beach's warm sand. Moonlight reflected off the wide expanse of ocean lapping the shore, causing its deep blue ripples to sparkle gently. Small, white foaming waves swept over my toes, and spread across the golden sand. Loud music overwhelmed the beach, the bass thumping fast and energetically. The sound of the beat pulled people together like magnets, their sweaty bodies molded together as they brazenly rocked to the beat. I could barely make out the soft cackling of the bonfire over the blaring music and faint chatter of our guests.

Josh was setting off firecrackers in the distance, the fiery sparks and red flares capturing my attention from the deep blue ocean every now and then. He seemed to have it all under control, and was having such a great time, a tight-lipped smile on his face as he carefully examined the flickering sparks.

I've been at the party for a good thirty minutes now. I had finished greeting our followers about ten minutes ago and debated going home, but I heard rumors that there was supposed to be a massive firework show soon, so I decided to stay. The party actually wasn't half bad, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. The vibes were good, and the drinks were free, an added bonus. It wouldn't hurt to stick around for a little longer.

I was on my fourth bottle now. Wrench was right, cheap beer and good music really did cure heartaches. The world was getting pretty fuzzy at this point, but I didn't care. I kept on drinking anyway, I needed an escape.

Speaking of Wrench, where the Hell was he? I haven't seen anywhere. Maybe he's planning to be fashionable late. As stoked as he was about the party, I figured he'd be here sooner—

"Excuse me?" A finger tapped my shoulder.

I glanced behind me. I spotted a pair of eyes gazing down on me. They were a deep, vivid green, filled with specks of golden light around the pupils. I've never seen such striking eyes. I wasn't sure whether it was because of the excessive amount of alcohol in my system, but I found myself mesmerized just staring into them.

The captivating gaze belonged to tall man, with tousled, thick brown hair and a face full of soft freckles that dotted his broad cheekbones, forehead and square chin. "Sorry for bothering, but you're Sitara, right?" He asked, his hands tucked casually within the dark blue fabric of his skinny jeans. His soft voice carried a thick, elegant British accent.

"Could be," I replied, my voice slightly slurred from all the beer I downed. "Who's asking?"

"My mate over there," he pointed to a chubby dude hanging out by the bonfire. He wore the strangest looking red hardhat on his head, with two beer cans strapped on each side, accompanied by a large, tube-like straw. "He's been following your blog for a long time now, and has been itching for your autograph since we made the trip here from London. But he's too nervous to ask you himself."

"Oh, you guys are tourists?"

"That we are, for one night only. We're both huge supporters of DedSec and wouldn't have missed this event for the world. You guys are absolutely inspirational."

I blinked. "We have rep in the UK?"

"Quite a bit of it. Most of it bad, might I add. People are afraid of what you can do. But bad publicity is still publicity all the same right?"

"Sure is. Most people are too brainwashed to realize the message we've been trying to get across to them. We're not the bad guys. We expose the truth to the people for their own good. I don't know about where you're from, but stick around San Francisco long enough and you'll realize just how corrupt the media and the soulless tech giants are." I waved a hand at his friend, beckoning him over to us.

He shuffled his way over, his walk weaving and unsteady. The poor guy must be even more drunk than me. "Sitara!" He exclaimed happily.

"Heard you wanted an autograph?" I asked. "Got a pen?"

"I have one." The one with the pretty green eyes retrieved a black ballpoint pen from his back pocket. "Here." He handed it to me.

"Thanks. Where do you want me to sign, big guy?"

He took a moment to suck on the tube hanging from his drinking hat, yellow liquid seeped from the beer can attached to it, and into his mouth. "My stomach," he stated. "Sign it please, with your name." He lifted his beer stained shirt, revealing a hairy, pudgy pale belly.

It was a weird request, and kinda disgusting too, but I was too tipsy to care. I etched my signature across his hairy stomach to the best of my ability. The chubby dude beamed at me and took off for bonfire, tripping over his own feet the entire way.

"I think your friend had too much to drink," I stated, returning the pen to its owner.

"Nothing out of the ordinary for him," he said. "Wish I could take a swig myself, but unfortunately, I'm the designated driver. Sucks to be me."

"Sure does."

He smiled. "Would you like some company? I noticed you've been on your lonesome for a while now, love. I could bugger off and leave you to it—"

"No, you're fine. Word of warning though, I'm down in the dumps and I don't think I'll be crawling out of it anytime soon. So, if you want to waste your precious time hanging around a killjoy like me, be my guest. But if I were you, I'd run for the hills."

"That's rubbish. Indeed, you've been off, drinking on your own the entire night while everyone else is having the time of their lives. But you don't strike me as a killjoy. A killjoy would have told me to bugger off at first glance." He crouched down into the sand beside me. "You seem like more of a loner to me."

"I'm actually known to be a social butterfly. But lately, things have been different."

"You mentioned being down in the dumps. Did something happen?"

I shook my head, hugging my legs to my chest. The last thing I wanted to do was waste the night confessing my sorrows to a stranger. I was tired of dwelling on my issues, I wanted an escape.

"You know the best thing about confiding in a stranger?" He asked.

"Nope," I responded. "I didn't know there was anything good about it."

"It never comes back to bite you in the arse. Your secrets are safe with me, solely because I haven't soul to spill them to. Come morning, I'll be back on the road." He pulled out a notepad from the depths of his pocket, and began flipping through the pages until he reached a blank sheet. "My name's Oliver by the way." He gaped out at the water for a second, and then shifted his focus to the notepad in his lap. Pen in hand, he carefully began to scrawl a rough sketch of gentle, sparkling ocean before us.

"You draw?" I asked, surprised by his ability to create faint, contrasting shades to clearly depict the night's shadows cloaking the horizon.

"I got my BA a year ago," he answered.

I silently watched him draw for a moment. "You're good. I'm impressed."

"I've seen better. Realism is my style, portraits specifically. People have real depth to them, faces alone can tell powerful stories. I strive to capture that depth in every portrait I attempt, but it's a work in progress. Most of the time, I fall short. Most of my work is subpar at best."

"Good and bad are subjective terms when it comes to art. Drawing isn't about recreating exactly what you see. A good artist considers not only the subject their drawing, but the message they want to convey to the world. Overall, your art is good if it pleases the viewer currently interacting with it. What looks good to one person, may look like total crap to another. If you want to get better, it's all about choosing your audience, and trying to improve their relationship and connection with your pieces. Remember that beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

Oliver lowered his pen, and gazed at me. "That was… very well said. Thank you. I've seen your work, it's jaw dropping to say the least. Would you give me the pleasure of witnessing your brilliant craftsmanship firsthand?" He passed me his utensil and notepad, our fingers brushed lightly.

"Realism isn't my style," I feigned a smile. "You're much better at it than I am."

"You said it's all about conveying a message, and making a statement. If I wanted to capture meaning in my art, like in my portrayal of the ocean for example, what should I be looking for?"

"You have to search for the answer inside yourself. Study the image you want to recreate on paper and gather the impressions it gives you based off sight alone. I think that's the first step, and after that, determine how it makes you feel, and try to incorporate it into your art so viewers can see and feel the exact same. Portraits are your specialty, so you're just gonna have to dig and look deep into the person you to plan to draw."

He nodded. "I suppose I'd have to. Ever thought of getting your own self portrait professionally done?"

"No way. I look at myself enough in the mirror, I don't need a giant painting of myself hanging on my wall too. Seems narcissistic to me."

"A shame. I'd love to take a crack at sketching you one day."

"Sorry, but I doubt you'd be able to accurately capture my depth, hotshot." I grabbed my half-buried beer out of the sand and gulped down the remainder of it. "I've got multiple layers," I continued. "And they sure as Hell aren't easy to see through."

He studied me, the heat of his gaze caused my temperature to skyrocket with nervousness. "There is a lot more to you than meets the eye," he mumbled, scratching the neatly trimmed, rugged beard stubble adorning his refined jawline in thought. "No offense intended, but you didn't have to warn me about your funk. There's sadness weighing down on you, and it's blatant. It's a tragedy really, that a woman as beautiful, talented, and inventive as yourself could be so afflicted."

I glanced at him, thrown off guard by his delicate words. My inhibitions and sound judgement was swept away by a tingling, fuzzy feeling in the depths of my stomach from my heavy drinking. Oliver and I made eye contact, his luxurious green gaze captivated me. Thin lips curved into a smile, he cupped my chin, his face slowly nearing mine. Under normal circumstances, I'd never kiss a stranger. I just met this man, it didn't feel right, at all. But I was in a daze, nausea suddenly gripping my insides.

Truthfully, the only person in the world I wanted to be intimate with was Marcus. He treated me like a princess, his touch always so tender, caring and careful. There was also his tendency to carry me around everywhere, as if I were fragile as glass. He was such a sweetheart, I missed him so much. If only he were here… I wouldn't be trapped here in a drunken haze, about to kiss a total stranger. I wouldn't feel so damn depressed and alone all the time.

I may have been lonely and drunk, but I wasn't gonna let this handsome stranger take advantage of me. I still had some sense of willpower and dignity left within me. His lips were about a centimeter away from mine before I mustered the courage to whisper, "we shouldn't—"

"Sitara?" A deep, familiar voice snapped me from my stupor. I whirled around in the direction of the voice. Marcus appeared, with Wrench at his side, standing tall and alert, as if he hadn't been in a coma for weeks on end. Wide-eyed with disbelief, Marcus stared at me, his thick brows furrowed.

Wrench's mask blinked with exclamation points. "Well, this is awkward."

I pulled away from Oliver and scrambled into a stance. "M-Marcus," I stammered. "It's not… I wasn't…" I tried desperately to explain myself, my lips moving but no sound coming out, like a fish out of water. I was at a loss of words, still processing the fact that he had finally awakened, with the strength to have made it all the way out here as well. He had recuperated so quickly.

Behind the thick frames of his glasses were rich brown eyes laced with pain. Unable to hide my shame, my sight blurred with tears. He shook his head, and then turned away from me.

"Marcus!" I cried, my voice quivering. I stumbled after him, my steps weaving and unsteady. It was such a struggle trying to keep my balance. He was walking so fast, I had to push past multiple people just to keep up. "Marcus, wait—"

My feet abruptly slipped from under me. I tumbled down face first into the hot sand. The sand's tasteless, grainy texture filled my mouth. I could feel the heat of everyone's eyes on me as I lifted my heavy head and spat out a cluster of dust. My cheeks burned. I've never been this embarrassed in my entire life.

Marcus' blurry, masculine frame crouched before me, his hand combing through my strands gently to rid the sand from my hair.

"Marcus, I'm sorry," I said tearfully, my throat scratchy from the tiny particles of sand I accidentally swallowed. "I'm so, so sorry."

He took me into his strong arms with ease. I hid my face in his jacket as he whisked me away from the prying eyes. The beat of the music and the hazy voices of the partiers began to fade in the distance. I still felt queasy, but I was determined to keep it down. I didn't want to embarrass myself more than I already had.

Marcus' movement had ceased after a minute or two. I shifted my face from the protection of his jacket, finding myself in his lap. He stopped to recline on a wood bench perched atop a small, grassy hill overlooking the deep blue ocean. From this angle, I could admire the sea's calm, gleaming waves in all their glory. The tides pushed in and out onto the shore in an endless cycle, stretching itself thin, only for the wind to tug it right back where it started.

I gazed up at Marcus. Lips pressed together in a slight grimace, he quietly gaped at the horizon. There must be so much going through his mind. Even though we weren't officially a couple, I still felt horrible about earlier. I had a lot I wanted to say, but for some reason, I could only manage to mutter two words.

"I'm sorry," I cupped his stubbled cheek.

He sighed, lowering my hand from his face. "Ain't nothing to be sorry about. You and I had a thing going on, but we never agreed for our relationship to be monogamous."

"Marcus—"

"I woke up this afternoon," he continued. "I got in contact with Wrench the first chance I could, I remembered all the blood he lost from the dog bite. I was worried he didn't make it, I didn't realize how much time had passed. He picked me up from the hospital, and told me all about some crazy beach party going down tonight, and how you were gonna be there. We thought it'd be a cool idea for me to show up and surprise you." He grinned stiffly. "I guess we ended up surprising each other, didn't we?"

"I'm a horrible person," I mumbled, a burp escaping my lips. I cupped my mouth, unable to stop myself from giggling. "God, that was gross. I'm sorry."

"Damn girl, how much have you had to drink?"

"Too much."

"How much is too much?"

"Three bottles. No, four I think. Maybe five? Wait, definitely four for sure. I feel like I'm going to puke any moment now." I frowned. "Are you mad?"

"That you might have alcohol poisoning? Or at the fact that I caught you about to kiss another dude?"

"Um… Both?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "To be honest, I don't really know how to feel right now. I mean, I just got out of a coma not long ago, I'm still processing everything—"

"Can you take me home?" I blurted out, the disgusting tang of vomit on the edge of my throat. "I really need to puke and I wanna do it behind the safety of four walls, where everyone isn't freaking watching. Wait, is it a good idea for you to drive? Maybe you shouldn't be operating machinery. You probably shouldn't be out of bed in the first place."

"Nah, it's cool. Your place ain't far, we'll be fine. Just don't puke on me, it'll be much easier for me to focus on driving that way, alright?"

"No promises," I muttered.

I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far. Leave a comment if you are!