Disclaimer: I am so bored of writing these.
Author's note: So this is an odd little mish mash of what flittered through my head in online conversations (that I am so very fond of), and whilst there is an overarching continuity to the story, it will continue to remain a potential mixture of styles.
Which is how I like it in the first place; I am far more of a stylistic than a grammatically correct writer.
Sue me.
"You've carried on so long,
You couldn't stop if you tried it.
You've built your wall so high
That no-one could climb it—"
Labyrinth feat. Emilie Sands
Her life has become a tapestry of Chloes, the rest so rote that when she tries to pinpoint the differences, her head starts to ache with the echo of her father's words.
6th April Chloe: proving that the right redhead can definitely pull off pink.
13th April Chloe: destroying any buried notions of unlucky Fridays.
20th April Chloe: the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life.
28th April Chloe: "Let's go grab some early breakfast, there's this diner—"
The casual morphs into a threat mid-sentence.
There are no breakfast tapestries. No walks on the beach. No running through the humid Atlanta rain.
This is why there isn't even any mornings after.
She caught herself one day (January 26th—it rained), mechanical, a second cup of coffee being stirred; hand caught reaching for the sugar, when she remembered she didn't know how Chloe took her coffee.
Didn't care.
Shouldn't care.
Always honest to a fault.
"The burns on your hand aren't consistent with an accident, Ms Posen."
She conjured up her father's face at graduation, let her mind shade disdain on her face. "What are you implying?"
"The burns are too severe. A spill would have triggered a reflex. Something—or," a measured pause, "someone—stopped it taking place."
"You're mistaken." Her mother's airy whimsy: an altogether different reproach.
A loaded silence this time—probably just thisside of a minute.
"Perhaps you should let someone else make the coffee in the future."
Who?
Or is it whom?
Uncertainty of that sears worse than any molten lava blistering her hand, the memory of deftly muffled screams as liquid scorched a calculated path.
"No permanent damage, I would hope, but—"
—it's not her hope.
A badge. An honour. A reminder.
You're stronger than this, Aubrey.
"I am fine."
"I know that." Past and present seamlessly combine; the sterile white of St Joseph's fading into the teasing warmth of pale blue. "But I'm not. You've worn me out." An overly exaggerated eyebrow wiggle, followed by a dramatic flop. "I. am. hungry. feed. me,"each word punctuated with peppered kisses across Aubrey's palm.
The tingling feeling has to be the pulling of the still too tender skin, bathed as it is by Chloe's exhuberance; far too gently, the treacherous voice whispers in her head.
The immediate response: a staccato, "Feed yourself."
Fact.
This is just about sex.
Conversation is already an indulgence.
She doesn't—
Doesn't—
Doesn't—
Care when the blue dulls to a forlorn hue.
"Maybe next week, huh, Josephine?"
She hates the naming game.
Josephine de Beauharnais?
Josephine Balsamo?
Knowing Chloe's tastes, probably Joey from Dawson's Creek. (the fact that Chloe still talks about a show that hasn't aired for years is something Aubrey finds too disturbing to address)
No hovers on her tongue—but there is something else. Something dark and desperate, clawing its way to freedom. From where, she doesn't know.
She times its upward journey.
10.
11.
12.
Five seconds quicker than the last time.
The day that Chloe tastes it in the clash of lips will be the end.