.
..
…
"…elling you she just collapsed!"
Eh?
"Aubrey…god I don't know what to do. I think she–where was she? I found her in the bathroom looking really high. You don't think she does drugs do you?"
Ehhh?
"Yeah. Yeah, she had just finished washing her mouth with soap or something. I think she may have passed out in the bathroom before. Plus…" there was a pause, and it took everything in my weak energy to resist flinching when a flicker of a finger brushed the hair away from my ear. "Yup. She's got a hickey. Didn't think Beca was that kinda gir –wha?"
Ehhhhh?
"What do you mean I gave it to her? I'll have you know I pride on being in control of myself when I'm drunk! But…now that you mention it…"
Ehhhhhhhh?
"…I do distinctly remember making out with someone last night. Think it was Beca? Oh. Oh? M-hm. Well I personally don't really mind to be honest. I'm more worried for her. Poor thing right? I must've been terrifyingly sexy for her innocent mind."
Ehhhhhhhhhh?
"She walked me home? Mmmm. Yup, no doubt it was her then. Shit. Must've looked ho –hm? Oh yeah. She's still out. Suggestions?"
"Eh."
"Oh MY gosh she's awake! Aubrey she's awake! What do I do!?"
I peeked open my eyes, not even bothering at an attempt to sit myself up. Already I could feel the nausea resurfacing, cold sweat wasting no time to washing over my form as the orange colors of the room brought a swirling motion to my head. Instead, I closed my eyes again, taking in a deep breath and releasing it through my mouth.
"…what? N-…no. I think she passed out again. Lemme' check." Silence, then a poke at my forehead. For god's sake Chloe…
My response was another grunt, much to my amusement causing her to jump back in panic.
"I think she kind of just dozed off Bree," she whispered. Thank god to my killer migraine. "Should I wake her up?"
Noooo…
"No?"
Yeeesss…
"Alright. I'll wait then. Yeah. M-hmm. Don't worry, I'll make sure she gets home safely."
FFFNooooOOOOOO…
"Yes. Okay."
…OOONONOOONOOOOOOO…
"Yes ma'am. To her door step."
…OOFFFUUUCCCFAKFAKFKAFAKFAKAFA…
"Gotch'ya. All right, thanks Bree! Talk later!"
…
Here here. Let it be known to the public that I am henceforth –fucked.
So, to make a plan. A plan –that is, concocted thorough the endless alarms and bells as the co-captain of mine came to plop herself right on down next to me. Then, having the audacity to fucking lie down, assumingly take her phone out, and stream on by while making sure to wrap an arm just under my neck and scootch me in way too close towards her side. Way too cuddly and way too snuggly this one is for just figuring out that she straight up molested me last night.
But here comes the serious question. Now what?
No way she'd let me walk anywhere by myself, and no way she'd oblige to leaving me alone for a minute. Once I supposedly "wake up", I'm pretty sure I'll be subjected to the guaranteed discovery of my –ehm, condition if you will. Take it from my perspective, would you really want someone pitying over you and your life situations? Nay child. And knowing Chloe, I mean like, really knowing Chloe, she'll do just about anything to make sure my life is happy and rainbows.
Absolutely unacceptable. And absolutely redundant.
So. I settled on waiting her out.
Lying there and struggling to control the hitches in my breathing every time she'd pause from her phone to unnecessarily shimmy away bangs across my head. Other times would be an unexpected brush of her hand across my forehead, as if checking for a fever of some type. Sweet actions, but absolutely nerve wrecking on my mental strain and (hoping) not too obvious tension. And despite the whole fact that I could feel just about every inhale and exhale off her body since I was literally being cuddled against my will to her side, I did end up dozing off for real. Hard not to if I'm to be honest. That Chloe is quite the snuggler.
But she'll have to leave eventually right?
I ended up dozing off a total of two times. Each moment after awakening I was nearly sent in cardiac arrest at the feeling of another body next to mine. Luckily though, it seemed as though my brain was in control during those moments because I didn't make partake any sign of consciousness, a small stifle of the breath or flinch of a muscle being the only excuse.
Hours must have gone by, and the very thought of, Jesus. When does this girl go to the bathroom, hardly left my mind as I peeked open a slither of my eye, still finding her in the almost same exact position as the last doze off. I almost figured defeat after the realization of this, probably just sticking to the plan of run-and-totally-lose-her-with-my-sucky-running-stamina until finally –ugh finally there was a rustle to my side, signifying that yes! –finally she was getting up.
"Be right back Becs," she whispered, ruffling my hair with one hand, hesitating for a second through the feeling of her movements before a ghost of a kiss was brushed quickly at my cheek. I could feel the burn of the flush storm its way upwards from my chest, clawing its way upwards but –no. Keep it together… The weight of the bed was then sprung up, a couple of steps before the sound of a door opening and closing was heard.
At once the covers were pulled off and I was up, swaying only slightly at first before shaking it off. No doubt Chloe was only going to use the restroom. My getaway would have to be swift and rushed.
"Quickly quickly," I hummed to myself, grabbed a nearby notebook and yanked it open to a blank page, quickly scribbling a note consisting of "Yeah I woke up and didn't get kidnapped and thanks whatevs", leaving it open on her desk and rushing to the door. But wait –what if she was coming back already? What if she was in the hallway already?
…
Tiptoe through the window. By the window…~
…
Fuck. I was going out the window wasn't I?
The sagacity of my mind was hardly heard because almost a full minute and a half has gone by already. In a few seconds I was crossing the room and rolling up the window, thanking any god out there for giving Chloe a dorm on the first floor while lifting both legs up and out until my butt was the only thing anchoring me to the room. I glanced back into the room, taking in the comfy interior for only a moment's hesitation before sliding out and landing in some prickly bushes, pausing, and finally closing the window with a sliding "thump".
Done and done.
Thenceforth, I was off. An escapee, a deserter dashing away from the reality refused to be comprehended and into the twilight atmosphere. Dizzy, lack of food. Energy dwindling down to a sweating mess of tripping limbs and bloody scrapes. First aid kit that I just didn't have, didn't have the time or vigor for. Arms were pumped to the side, urging me on as my knees begged and cried to bring an end to this anguish, buckling and tossing me continuously onto the warm cement's jagged exterior. Panting, gasping, I was almost sure I'd pass out again –stopping constantly and having to leave the sidewalk to nearly collapse on the dewy grass, instead settling on leaning heavily on a tree for support. Shaking uncontrollably, imagining a fantasy that maybe I should've just told Chloe and maybe she could just make everything right. A daydream, blown to the side as my legs were forced into work again, jogging replacing the dizzying run because any further work would no doubt cause me to collapse into a snarled mess. I didn't want her help, and I especially did not want her pity. Ever.
"…eca…"
The scary thing was that I knew this would happen. Because it's just the kind of thing she would do, always going way above and beyond to look out for others. Like the five hour quest to find Stacie's special hair tie, or a mortifying gift of multiple lacey bra's to me after discovering my lacking amount of the particular undergarment. This is why I had ran to such a desperate extent, loathing the precious time wasted at taking the much needed breaks to my weak stamina.
"…eca!"
She knew I didn't take the taxi, and she knew the Barden University buses weren't in function during the summer. She knew I didn't have a car of my own, and she could tell through my worn out sneakers and flip flops that I walked more than I asked for a ride. She would've asked the people around if they had seen a girl in tank top and flip flops, and they would've pointed in the direction of where I ran. Like said before, a straight path by sidewalk there and back.
She knows.
"Beca!"
Dread had seeped into my light jog, feet picking up a new sense of adrenaline at the sound of her voice growing stronger in sound. But despite the new sense of urgency at the situation, the adrenaline was weak, already used up previously. I had thrown up all food the night before, and have eaten not a single bite throughout this entire day. Completely worn out, now I was worried. Because the rumbling of a car was coming closer, to the point where the headlights were just about to rise over the hill. These combined, the anxiousness rifling at the pit of my stomach, drained adrenaline, dreaded helplessness –brought on a new form of dizzy to a dire extent.
Cliché, all those stereotypes proven true, the ground was swimming, I was swimming in it, languidly sinking and drowning in the grey and florescent lit folds of the sidewalk.
Last came the fateful stumble, a trip that stubbed at my toe and pushed me to the floor face first. Energy was done, gone and fizzled out, shaking arms attempting at pushing my upper half with futile attempts. Hot and cold at the same time, sweat turning into a chill that brought a cough, soon morphing into a retching motion as –there was nothing to gag out.
"Beca!"
The sound of the car was approaching, her voice was just in the distance and I was still on the ground. Joints were aching into numbness, the car the motor the engine was nearing. A final crucial decision, desperation fueling the action –I pushed off to my right, straight down the steep hill to the sidewalks side. Rolling down I went, faster and faster and faster with the smell of grass engulfing my entire senses as the feeling of twigs and rocks plowed into my side –chest –face. The stop came abruptly, bringing a pained cry from a desiccated throat as my back connected hard with the trunk of a tree. I'm sure it hurt, in fact it did hurt. To the scale where I just couldn't feel anything anymore. Completely numb, lying on my side and watching as a familiar car pass by slowly, catching only a glimpse of red hair before the car was gone.
"Heh." Success. To an extreme degree.
Autopilot took over and my muscles began to relax, eyes stopped fighting, head came to rest in the leafy flooring. I was tired, and I wanted to rest. Recharge. Everything about me, was exhausted. So the choice, rationality of passing out in the open doing its best to compete with just complete and utter fatigue, wasn't really something to be competed over.
I did pass out. Not given an alternative towards the end.
Really hoping I didn't break my spine or something.
…
…
…
I'm ugly.
Said bluntly because, in a matter of speaking the truth –it is true.
I am. Ugly.
Simple and straightforward.
Hygiene on one hand has never really appealed to me in an alarming way. Smells sort of just mingled together after a while of walking and sweating, the comprehension of odors not really being implied unless it was stronger and fresher.
So when I arrived at Barden University, I was deemed the ugly one. At least by myself, yet no doubt mentally done by all the other attending freshmen. Scissor cut, slickly greasy, and thinly malnourished hair, tied back by a wearing out ponytail. Baggy jeans that hadn't been washed since the week before –and by wash I meant dumped into a bin with water and shook halfheartedly around for a good minute –a tank top flagged by a gray sweater that had once been white. No deodorant, no perfume, no make-up, no nail polish, no nothing. Literally. The only thing sitting inside my dorm room was a bag (same one since the beginning) filled with one other sweater, two pairs of baggy pants, and three other tank tops. Accompanied by one brush, toilet paper, a chocolate bar, wallet, a pocket knife, hardly used toothbrush, some chips, a small bar of brown soap, and other insignificant items I can't really remember. A couple of textbooks here and there, two pencils found while walking to the dorm, one or two notebooks, and a folder.
So honestly, me. Literally being held together by sweat and dirt alone, me! Why would this angel from heaven call me over to join some fancy rich white girl singing group? Her pal had gotten the right vibe, looking me over and mumbling something about "ear monstrosities" before peering back at me and flashing a fake smile.
"Give it a try?" she inquired with a tilt of her head, smiling as though I was the key to their success.
"Sorry, but I don't even sing."
Disappointment no doubt, her friend on the other hand happened to just smile even brighter, triumph on her part.
I'm ugly. I can't sing. Something learned, something believed, something to see out of the obvious. Two things that just connected, fit and snuggled right together.
So late at night, bathroom all to myself. Who could ask for more? I was happy, showering in public baths –no curtains and no privacy what so ever –was finally put on break. No matter how late or early you went to those baths, there would always be people there. Creeps to lower class. All staring at an ungroomed, unnaturally skinny girl. So with this new sense of seclusion, a curtain, god damn a curtain, of course I'd be humming a tune to myself. Not really something I could essentially control in a way.
Besides. Who the hell would be taking a shower in these wee hours of the night?
…
"How high does your belt go?"
"Oh my god!"
"And gosh, you're so skinny! Definitely did not peg you for the anorexic type. Beca was it?" She didn't even try hiding her roaming eyes, looking me up and down before coming to settle at my eyes. Pushy persona, and not to mention physically naked. Fucking stark naked. I could feel the embarrassment of "anorexic" burning over my face, backing me up into a corner as she advanced with this radiating confidence of "keep staring twerp". Twerp, without a doubt, being pretty much everyone to ever come into existence –or more specifically just me. Me, and her, in the shower stall, naked. Alone. Um.
"I am nude." An obvious fact she had apparently skipped over. "Please get out of my stall."
"You were singing Titanium right?" Totally ignoring everything I just said. But on the other hand, have I just met a fellow David Guetta fan?
"You know David Guetta?"
"Have I been living under rock? Yeah! That song is my jam." Her head bobbed back and forth before a mischievous glint was smiled through smirking lips. "My lady jam."
And the discomfiture of the entire situation was multiplied by fifty million quadrillion bazillion-
"That's nice," I nodded quickly, resuming my stare at the wall.
"It is. The song really builds," and this chick has the nerve to fucking wink at me. I could hardly spit out a "gross" remark because damn this lady just doesn't know when to stop talking. "Can you sing it for me?"
"Dude no." Oh my god this is not happening. "Get out!"
"Not for that reason! I'm not leaving until you sing so…" Hands on her hips, she stood proud, waiting for my voice to be projected and heard. Stubborn –jesus what's her name again?
So I sang. And then she sang. And damn, boy did we sound fine. And boy did she look fine. And –and…and her boyfriend. Her boyfriend. Boyfriend. Or fuckboy. Boy. Guy. Man. I never really did ask to differentiate between the two. Who cares right? I went to the damn audition anyway.
Later, I adapted back into the basics of hygiene (forced if you will, hanging out with preppy woman can get fairly pressuring). Bought some deo, brushed morning and night, showered regularly while using the provided shampoo and soap bottles, and washed my clothing regularly.
Still didn't change the main point at hand.
No matter what she says, or the way she looks me over otherwise. Dirty and smudged, filthy and caked with mud around every corner and every thought.
I'm ugly.
Inside and out.
…
…
…
So I didn't break my spine (yippee).
On the other hand, I could hardly raise myself from the ground upon waking up the following morning. The soreness was overwhelming, discomfort of even sitting up raised a series of irrepressible whimpers. It hurt. Fuck it hurt a lot. I can't –it proved to be futile to even stand up after several attempts of face plants and nauseated gags. So I sat there, bruised back leaning excruciatingly lightly against the trunk of a tree, glad there was a hill to hide me from the higher-up oncoming traffic passing by.
…
Everything hurts.
…
It was still early in the morning when I was finally able to crawl out from the shrubs, maybe six or seven, stumbling up and out into the open. Then –I walked. Walked, very very slowly. A falter in every step, a sway throughout the pace. A simple goal was inserted into a fuzzy functioning mind –get to the shed, eat the leftover provisions, clean up, go get more provisions. Over and over this was repeated, urging sore appendages and stinging abrasions. Perhaps observed to be an irresponsible high school kid too caught up at a party by the few passerby's, sending only a nod of greeting my way before continuing their morning stroll. Can't say I necessarily cared, can't say I really noticed at the time either. No doubt my appearance appeared awful, that said, appeared more awful than normally.
By the time I had arrived at the small barn, there was a limp in every stride and waver in my visions watch. I collapsed onto my set out sweater bed, reaching over and practically tearing open my backpack to get to the awaiting chips food inside. Barbeque chips and water were feasted on, switching to a left over candy bar and enjoying the sudden rush of sugar flowing through my bloodstream.
Yes, awake and alive.
…
…
…
"Hey! Hey Beca!"
I walked a little faster.
"Beca –Beca wait!"
Pace quickened more.
"For fucks sake Beca stop!"
Ugh. I did stop, clenching my fist tightly before irritatingly turning to face her.
"What."
She scoffed, smiling in disbelief. "What do you mean what? Why didn't you wait for me last night?"
"I had to get somewhere fast. What's it to you?"
"What's it to me? Beca I was worried sick about you! Why are you so stupid about this?"
"Stupid about what Beale? My own fucking business? I don't need you to worry about me. Now if you'll excuse me…"
That was it. Forgive my rudeness and all but to be put plainly out there –I'm tired and in a great deal of pain. Duh I'm going to be slightly pissed off. Literally, every step brought a stroke of pain across my back, the clothing's continues brush being the cause.
"You –just –that's it!" Before I knew what was happening, she had grabbed by the wrist and yanked me back to her. Then I was stumbling after her as she dragged me along to god knows where.
"Hey! Fucking –Chloe let go of my wrist!"
"Shut up Beca. If you're not going to tell me where you got all those fucking scratches on you're stupid stupid face, then I'm just going to have to take care of them myself."
"For Christ's sake Chloe!" I tried tugging at my wrist, aghast to find a grip strong enough to resemble as a steel lock. "I don't need your help Chloe!"
"I don't care Beca!"
"Well you should! Because it's my body! Now let go of my god da-" She stopped abruptly, causing me to nearly slam into her back. Then her head whipped around, and jesus christ it would be impossible to even try and describe the amount of emotions being reflected off her expression.
"Beca, you need to shut. The fuck up."
I almost opened my mouth to argue with her; in fact I actually did open my mouth to say something, but ended up closing it shut quickly from honest fear that she would slap me if I actually did say something.
"Now," her fingers loosened from my wrist, retracting back and instead being crossed at her chest. "We are going to my room where I will not only treat your visible cuts, but also search your skinny-ass body for more. You on the other hand will sit quietly, and make a single peep throughout this entire process. Have I made myself clear?"
"What the hell!? Of course no-"
"Good," she rudely interrupted, turning back without a word and making her way into the direction of her dorm room. It was here I had a choice. Leave and suffer though an agonizing amount of guilt and infection –or go and be absolutely, mortifyingly, revoltingly, disgustingly –humiliated for life.
…uggh.
I never really did stand a chance against her.
…
…
…
"Ow."
"Shut up."
"I only sai-"
"I said shut up."
I huffed out a frustrated breath, clamping my mouth shut and glaring at her. Her and her pretty, perfect, really close-
"Hold still."
"I am holding sti-"
"Shut up."
"What did I even –"
"Shut. Up."
Apparently the only phrase she actually can say. We've been at this for a total of about ten minutes so far. True to her word, first my face was washed, then smeared with some weird antibiotics. After that is when the dreaded order came, to take off my sweater. Of course I didn't oblige at first –or pretty much at. It later ended with me being face-first pinned down to her mattress, nearly straddling me as she stripped off my sweater and threw it to the side of her bed. Through my unnatural silence came a gasp, a stifled breath as her hand slowly lifted my tank top, and the abrasion was revealed. A dark, swelling, purple and red bruise larger than the size of her hand.
"How did you –?"
"Car."
I could almost feel her anger just shatter then and there, replaced with an almost surprisingly quick change of concern and absolute distress.
"You got hit by a car?!" she shrieked, still pretty much sitting on top of me. "Oh my god Beca!"
"M-hmm, yes yes I know mother. Always look right to left when crossing the road next time."
"Beca this is serious! You could be seriously injured right now!"
"Well," I sighed, leaning my head back in the folds of her Chloe-smelling comforters. "You best get on it doctor."
"I can't believe…" there was a loud exhale of air, and then she was climbing off me, going to retrieve a second first aid kit apparently. I watched her, head tilted and laying one side as she searched around Aubrey's belongings. Then she was coming back, hips swaying, eyebrows furrowed, eyes never leaving the horror on my back.
She dragged a chair over from Aubrey's desk, scooting it close to the bed before sitting in it. I peered up at her, and she looked down at me. A silent conversation was made, and I shifted slightly, still maintain eye contact when my fingers came to grasp at the sheets. I know I must've looked really pathetic, small and weak. The way she was watching me, staring into me, as if she could see everything and everyone and everyplace and every time it hurt. Hurt me. Pained me. Made me feel something.
Then her hands were on my skin, and I immediately jerked at the touch, visions and senses of our previous encounter outside her dorm room rushing back into memory. But her hands were soothing, and her fingers were dancing –gliding and massaging around the affected area. I closed my eyes at hearing the sound of crinkles, knowing fully what was next to come. And it fuck fuck facking fac fuck it came, sizzling alcohol poured and for a moment I was concerned for her bed –but just as it was thought, it was gone, washed away with the sudden flow of intensifying heat. Burning hotter than any stove, any ember touched. My face went red, and I could feel the scream making its way out before it even came out, a cry of exhaustion and fury intermingling with a pounding at the core of the wounds surface. It was rubbed, cleaned, patted –and I was sweating and whimpering and letting the tears flow with clenched teeth, fists and knuckles a ghostly shade of white from excess pressure and force.
"Beca." She said it softly, gently even. Frustrated yet worried. Angry but relieved. "Why can't you take care of yourself more often?"
I could've answered if I really wanted to. But I didn't, I just kept my eyes closed and sunk back into comforters that didn't belong to me. Fantasizing with an imagination running too wild because Chloe Beale isn't gay. Sure she kissed me in the hallway, but that was drunk related. Besides, I am –for lack of a better term –fucking poor. There is no future with me until have quality shelter above my head and top-notch food to be consuming.
Daydreaming, as she continued to resurrect. Imagining, as her touch lighted a path across my skin. For god's sake…
I, Beca Mitchell, have a god damn crush on Chloe Beale.
"Get some rest Becs," breathed into my ear before a kiss was lightly pressed onto the silks of my hair. Felt and perceived and lifting, yet breaking the spirit of an already dead being. I wasn't even tired to be honest, just –worn out.
But Chloe has this thing. The thing where she always gets what she wants. Even if it's dealing with one of the most stubborn and currently in loads amount of pain –people to live.
So I ended up sleeping anyway.
…
..
.
.-.