A/N

Trigger warning.

(Also, here's an over 5k word monster to make up for lost time!)

But also, trigger warning.

__________

1 0

l i t o s t

[Czech]: A state of torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery.

GROCERY SHOPPING WITHOUT Gabby usually went one of three ways:

i. She would carefully pen down every item we needed on a piece of paper, or alternatively, text them to me. Because in spite of my good memory, all the names of intercontinental spices and special ingredients I still couldn't pronounce would just end up flying over my head.

ii. Somewhere along the line, I'd have to call Gabby, because as much as I'd been around her food for years, I'd never be as good at picking out substitutes in the absence of her first choices. She was the natural, I was just good at following instructions.

iii. I always ended up spending twice the needed amount of time.

In today's case, it had been all three.

With a basket filled halfway at Marisol's, I checked the next three ingredients on the list and nodded in familiarity. Queso fresco, more corn flour for the tortillas, and of course, Italian seasoning.

Elementary stuff. I knew that.

As I was about to turn into the next aisle, I stopped short at the sight of coffee beans, and remembered I hadn't stocked up. As far as I was concerned, I'd pick hot chocolate and an endless amount of strawberry milkshakes over coffee any day, but Gabby would have my head on a silver platter if I didn't get her her personal brand of heroin.

Taking the jar from the shelf, I suddenly felt a pinch in my gut at the make. It was the same kind we used at Haven; the same kind he never failed to drink on other other side of the table.

It was a little hard to believe sometimes, that it had been a full week since the argument Brian and I had. A full week since I lashed out at him because of his preposterous idea, and his mistake. Attempting to block the incident from my memory, or pretending none of his visits ever existed in the first place, didn't even come close to making it all any less ugly.

And I'd never admit to anyone that I actually had to lock myself in the staff bathroom for a good twenty minutes, frustrated tears staining my cheeks after practically telling him to go to hell for putting a price tag on me.

A blank one, no less.

To be honest, I didn't know exactly what it was between us. Were we friends? Less than friends? Some ambiguous in between? I had no idea, and he'd ruined it all before I could even begin to tell.

Marriage. He actually proposed marriage to me. I didn't even know how I felt about the prospect anymore. Maybe a younger version of me would have wanted to. She'd dreamt about it and doodled hearts in her notebook, added a Mrs to a familiar last name with flushed cheeks, all before hugging the entire page to her chest. Maybe, in that life, there was a certain brown haired boy with rosy cheeks and a smile like sunshine, whispering stolen promises of a forever neither of them were even sure they'd have. Maybe then.

But this was now, and I no longer dreamt. Well, certainly not about that. No whiskey haired boy existed in this present, and all that was left of princess-style wedding dresses and petal covered aisles and (sue me, a Mrs), was nothing but ash and dust.

Still, and despite my current indifference towards the concept, I was more than sure about one thing. I definitely wouldn't want something as significant as my marriage to be equivalent to the value of such a—such an elaborate lie.

To Brian, I was well aware I said some things I shouldn't have—the Kenzie remark was a low blow, and I hated as soon as the words tumbled out of my mouth. But in that moment, all I saw was red. Red because whether or not I liked to admit it, it hurt. Him, the situation, and me being in the middle of it. The fact that the five casual days we'd spent together could have been nothing but a ploy, just so he could rope me in to his complications. That his care and molten concern could have been nothing but a strategic ruse. In a twisted way, I wanted him to feel at least a fraction of what I was.

And I didn't need any more complications. Lord knows I didn't. My life was already filled with nothing but oceans and tumultuous waves of them.

His absence also didn't go unnoticed by my co-workers. But thankfully, after bit of prodding, they all understood it wasn't a topic I wanted to discuss. Gabby, on the other hand, had to deal with my passive-aggressiveness for a few days.

Ridding my head of my thoughts, I put the coffee beans in the basket and went ahead. But immediately, my nerves went buzzing as I all but crashed into someone, just as we turned at the exact same time.

I heard a muffled scream, and on instinct, I quickly moved to catch the person's peanut butter jar, before it became nothing but a mess of littered glass and gooey brown chunks. And, of course, a waste of cash.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Thank you. Thank you."

I heaved a sigh of relief, and then finally stood erect to hand it to her. "It's no proble—"

"Oh—oh my gosh, it's you!"

My eyes slightly widened as I came face to face with none other than the waitress from Lauren's gathering, almost a month ago. She looked about the same, her bright blue eyes shimmering under the fluorescent lights of the superstore. But then again, she seemed different in the sense that reflected a more comfortable demeanor. Understandably, the woman appeared more at ease and less worked up than when we first met. Her brown-blonde bangs fell over her forehead, and the rest of her hair was put up in twin pigtails.

She looked...cute.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I remember," I spoke at last. "Olivia, right?"

"Yes." She let out a little laugh and nodded, her cheeks tinted with blotches of faint pink. "And you're Cass. It's so nice to see you again. Well, you did save me this time around."

I snorted. "I'm glad. We honestly don't need you losing any more money on my account."

At that, she flushed again. Although I was more silently pissed off at the fact that clearly, I was right, and she did get money taken from her.

But there was nothing I could do now. Not more than changing the subject, anyways.

"So it's gonna be that kind of night?"

"What?" She looked confused, before she followed the tilt of my head and glanced down at her basket. The red carrier was filled with bread, another peanut butter jar, Doritos, cookies and (a quite frankly, worrisome) number of large sized bags of Flaming Hot Cheetos. "Oh—oh! This is just, um, I was just getting dinner." The tips of her ears reddened, and she let out a rather guilty sounding murmur. "I might have overdone it a bit."

I arched a brow.

"I can't cook," she blurted. And immediately after, the canon just about went off. "Fine. I just moved into a new apartment on Teldoy, and it's been hell finding one, and I've been so hungry all day, and the moving truck guy was so darn mean to me. And I can't risk burning my new kitchen, and my entire new apartment, and I—I can't cook."

I blinked, and refuted the urge to let out a low whistle.

She offloaded nicely.

But suddenly, my brain snapped back like a boomerang.

"Did you say Teldoy?"

Olivia looked like a poster child for first hand embarrassment—a ridiculously pretty one—but other than that, she still seemed to be holding her own. She nodded.

"Yeah, why?" she asked. Then all of a sudden, her eyes widened. "Oh, no. There aren't criminals there, are there? Please say no. I can't get my money back."

I fought the urge to burst out laughing in the middle of the damn store. Thankfully, it only came out as a little chuckle, and I shook my head.

"No, there're no criminals as far as I know in the building complex," I said to her, my amusement still as potent as the cherry patterns on her dress. "Mr. Ying's shady at best. And I mean, in the sense that he's still got a stash of his ex wife's old bras. Think I caught him sniffing one a couple of weeks ago. Highlight of my evening."

At that, I could tell Olivia was caught between wrinkling her nose in disgust or exploding into hysterics. Fortunately—or unfortunately for her, it ended up being some weird in between. If we were friends, I wouldn't hesitate to spring a shot on her weird facial contortion.

But then, the realization dawned on her, too.

"Wait—y-you live in my building?" she gaped.

"You must be new tenant number five." I stretched out a hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm your neighbor at seven."

As soon as the words left my mouth, Olivia just about shot herself to the moon.

"Oh my gosh! That's so amazing! I can't believe we're going to be roommates!"

"Whoa, more like complex mates, tiger," I said with a laugh. "But yeah, similar situation."

Her cheeks were about the same shade as the basket in her hands now (clearly she colored really easily), and after a while, she just let out a content sigh.

"I'll really be looking forward to see you around, Cass."

It wasn't weird, and it shouldn't have felt weird. But somehow, Olivia's casual goodbye just sort of did. It took a while, but gradually, and like a progressive epiphany, I saw the invisible dots and started to connect them.

There was no I can't wait to visit your apartment, or I can't wait for you to show me around. Not even a we should totally walk home together!

Granted, I might have inwardly cringed a little at the last, but still, it wouldn't exactly be an illogical offer.

I took a moment to glance at Olivia's still smiling face, but noticed it had started to look rather bashful, uncomfortable, maybe even...ashamed?

Did she think she was already overstepping? Was I looking mean? I mean, I laughed and joked with her and everything, so I didn't think so.

Then it hit me. She looked like she was restraining herself.

Was she...not used to being wanted around often?

"Bye then!"

All of a sudden, her quick chirp drew me out of my thoughts, and before I knew it, she was already slowly walking away.

I glanced down at my basket, and then at hers.

"Hey, wait!" Not thinking at all, but acting on sheer drive, I asked her, "Would you like to have dinner with us? My best friend and I, I mean. We live together. That's if you want to, of course."

Her eyes grew like twin saucers.

"Re—really?" she asked. A nervous chuckle followed, and she shifted on her feet. "I mean, you really don't have to. I'm sure you're busy and everything."

"You're the one who just moved in," I reminded her. "I think you'll be busier than us both."

Immediately, I observed her shoulders sag in seeming relief.

"Thank you," she said, her voice much smaller now. Instantly though, it felt like she 'caught' herself. Her eyes brightened again. "I'd love to—I mean, yes! I'd love to have dinner with you. And your best friend."

"Great," I said. "Although you'll have to tag along with me a while. I've still got some stuff to grab."

Olivia came closer and got a good view of my basket. She looked intrigued.

"You eat a lot of Mexican food?"

I snorted. "Well, we eat it all," I told her, swinging the the groceries for emphasis. "But yeah, my best friend's Mexican, so you can tell we've got our favorites." Shooting her a sly grin, I added, "Speaking of which, we're having enchiladas for dinner."

Olivia beamed like a child who just got told she could eat candy until she choked.

"I've never had enchiladas."

I feigned a gasp, and then slung an arm around her shoulders. "Oh, honey. Prepare to have the best enchiladas of your virgin-chalada life."

And somewhere along the line, Olivia seemed to have regained the little spring in her step, and unlike what my usual reaction would have been, I didn't think much of it when she looped an arm through mine. I finally got to be the pro and taught her how to pronounce names of ingredients her poor tongue couldn't pull off. Only the ones I could ace, naturally.

And at the waiting line, she turned to me with the brightest smile. "Thanks again for having me over. I can't wait to meet your best friend. I'm sure she's lovely."

Thinking about the three still unanswered texts I left in Gabby's inbox, all I could do was manage a hopefully assuring smile.

Amen to that.

__________

She wouldn't stop bleeding.

The horrid combination of sweat, blood, and tears clung to her skin like an outer robe, scratch marks and deep gashes marring her paleness. Her blonde hair didn't look blonde. Not anymore. It looked missing in spots, with bald patches, and the sparse locks evident drenched in mud and blood clot.

She looked ruined.

And she just wouldn't stop bleeding.

Frantically, I tried to call out for her, my tongue attempting to curl itself around the monosyllabic line that was her name. But my voice came out as nothing but a horrible retch. Like a myriad of thistles had somehow found their way into my diaphragm, prickling and compressing until I choked on the sharp, spiny bristles.

Her sputtering only worsened, one battered, crimson-clotted hand reaching towards me, stopping mere inches away.

Run. Just run.

And then, right in front of me, her entire body started to convulse, shaking and shivering to the same horrific rhythm crashing through my ears. A hoarse gasp escaped my mouth, goosebumps prickling my skin as I let out a muted scream. Again. And again. And again.

But quick as a flash, she was gone.

With a treacherous heave, I jerked up from the bed, frantic and terrified, my hands rapidly flying all over the thick covers.

I'm here. She's gone. I'm here.

She's gone.

The wind was nearly knocked out of me, re-registering the fact I'd known for a little over sixteen years now. That I was here, and she was gone. That she'd left, when I hadn't even gotten the chance to be strong. To understand it. Understand her.

A bead of moisture fell from the tip of my nose to the skin on my collarbones. I felt the lone drop trickle all the way down my chest, the slithering movement only causing my skin to itch and my nerves to spike into overdrive.

I was drenched in cold sweat.

My heart was going to burst out of my chest.

With a whimper, I tried to lug myself out of the sheets, but they only turned into mountains of cotton and polyester hauling me back, threaded arms twisting around my ankles and waist to trap me here.

Wrestling with nothing but my bed covers, a disgruntled cry pushed past my lips as I ended up landing on the floor with a thud.

I felt the strain spread through my back, but I ignored it, only crawling the short distance to reached for my drawer. With miscalculated aggression, I pulled it open and dragged myself up to my knees, desperately searching for it. My salvation.

My fucking bottle.

Wildly rummaging through personal items, several of my spray bottles and pens went crashing to the ground. And just when I thought I would go stark raving mad, my gaze finally landed upon the white labelled container.

Like a crazy person, I snatched it from the compartment and hurriedly struggled to unscrew the cap. Come on, come on, come on.

Finally, it clicked, and then—

It was...empty.

No. Oh, God. No. No. No.

How could I let this happen? How the fuck could I let this happen?

A guttural sound came out in place of my voice, and with herculean effort, I hoisted my body up so I could get on my feet. My knees were wobbling beneath me, the entire room spinning so badly, I could barely see a thing.

I needed to get out. I had to get them.

Bracing myself against the wall, I tried taking a series of huge, deep breaths. I just needed to get at least, a little steadied. A little grip.

Time was a blur but somewhere along the line, I realized I'd managed to get a coat around myself, and I all but stumbled along the corridor. In the next room, I spared a glance at Gabby's sleeping form and thanked God for the wine, all before properly shutting her door close with bleary vision.

She didn't need this. Not today.

New York never slept. But unfortunately, Teldoy was dreary and sufficiently tired around this time of night (well, morning). Cars and taxis still zoomed past, but at longer intervals, and the street and traffic lights added a glaring brightness to the nocturnal scene. A few pairs of legs could also be seen briskly walking to their respective destinations. At least they were heading towards. I was only straying farther and farther away.

I was basically asking for it tonight. But I had no choice.

The sounds of my footsteps seemed to increase in volume, my mismatched flip flops making an annoying and unsettling flapping sound with every step I took.

I couldn't even take a bus. I'd have to walk the entire way.

Trying to hum a song to keep my mind occupied (and horribly failing), I wrapped my arms around myself as a meagre security blanket against the nighttime chill, and the world in general after dark. My fingers went on tugging at the fabric of my woolen coat every so often.

One step. Two. You'll get there, any moment now.

Three steps. Four. Any moment now.

The nearly blinding, glowing lights that disrupted my vision, drew out the letters belonging to the sign of The Nocturne—about one of the most high end nightclubs in the city. And despite the fact that no, it wasn't my scene, I actually let out an audible sight of relief at the sight of the thoroughly imposing building.

Because it meant I was close.

I turned around the bend, opposite the large bar, doing well to keep my eyes fixed ahead, and not risk making eye contact with any of the few people gathered outside. The sounds of deep murmurs, and even the crescendos of drunken banter filtered through my ears, but they weren't my concern.

I was close. That was all that mattered.

Sure enough, a little distance forward and I could already spot the bright lights of the pharmacy. It wasn't a stone's throw by any standards, but it was the nearest option I'd always had.

And Taylor never made a fuss.

Heaving a sigh of relief in spite of my thundering heartbeats, I resisted the urge to keel over so I could breathe into my palms. I finally got to the front doors and pulled one slide open.

The pills. The pills, the pills, the pills.

"Hello, good morning. How many I help you?" a young man said. His tone was as monotonous and as dry as sandpaper. Although I didn't think I'd rather be stuck anywhere else but my bed by this time either.

And that wasn't what was even important.

I halted in front of the cash register, my breaths coming out in short puffs, and my hands balled into fists. I was sweating through my light cotton shirt, my coat and everything in between.

No Taylor.

The man in front of me didn't have wild, blue hair, and neither were his ears lidded with the piercings that belonged to the woman who was almost as familiar with my need for alprazolam as I was.

Shit.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I forced my feet to move forward, and stopped directly in front of—I glanced down at his name plaque—Wyatt.

Wyatt, please. Please don't be an asshole.

"Uh, I—I need a bottle of Xanax," I said to him, my voice as shaky as the hammering in my chest. "2 mg, please."

"I'm gonna have to see a prescription for that, miss."

Shit.

"Um, I didn't come with one." I made a false show of digging my palms into empty pockets, my heart already sinking into the bottom of my stomach like a rock. "I'm sorry. I left it at my apartment because I was in such a rush."

He shot me a patronizing glance, and by the weak and pathetic smile he threw my way, I already knew he was about to let me down in a manner even more deplorable.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to help you out without—"

"Listen. It has been a long, long night for me, okay?" I snapped. "I'm on the brink of losing my mind, my stress levels are through the roof, and I've just walked over half a fucking hour to get here. Your colleague, Taylor? She's seen my prescription, and I always get my refills here." I shuffled on my feet, and pinched the bridge of my nose with a shaky sigh. "Look. Please just get me the pills. I really need them right now."

At that, Wyatt deemed it fit to give me one of his other shit-eating smiles. The kind laced with pity and empathy and all that other horse crap. Then, I watched his fingers hover over the telephone on the table.

"Alright. Just take it easy, alright?" he started, his voice painfully slow. "You sure you wouldn't like me to call someone for you?"

It took a while for me to get smart.

But after I did, I was suddenly taken aback and I stared at him with such annoyance, I envisioned myself snapping him in half. "Wait—hold on," I said, "d-do you actually think I'm a junkie? Are you actually trying to feed me that crap right now?"

"Listen, miss—"

"Give me the damn bottle, my goodness!" It took a lot not to throw my hands up in frustration. "That's literally all I need from you. Look, I get it. You're trying to do your job. But I'm trying to do mine, too. I need to calm down like yesterday. And right now, you're not helping for shit."

"Lady, you've got to understand. I just can't—"

"What on earth is all the ruckus about?"

At the sight of the middle aged woman who emerged from the closed curtains, I all but slumped to my knees in heavenly thanks.

Her eyes widened. "Cass?"

"T-Taylor. Oh my God, thank you," I sputtered out. "I need a refill. I forgot my prescription. Please."

Without blinking, Wyatt turned to her, steely determination on his face. "I've been trying to tell her that we can't—"

"Give her what she needs."

He did a double take. "B-but, you know—"

"I said, Wyatt," Taylor spoke up, her voice as hard as ice, "give her what she needs. Now, please. Get me a bottle of Xanax, 2 mg."

Grudgingly, and as though his entire bloodstream had been infused with Lysol, Wyatt dragged his feet to the back of the store. I didn't know what kind of hold Taylor had over him—or over this place in general, but whatever it was, I was eternally grateful for it.

As soon as he was out of earshot, the woman in question turned to me with a glare.

"Why the hell did you run dry before refilling?" she half whispered, half yelled. "And by this time? What if I wasn't here? I might not have been here, you know that? Do you know that?"

I nearly bristled under her scrutiny.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Taylor, I—"

"Next time, please don't forget your prescription, okay, love?"

My eyebrows pinched in confusion, but I quickly straightened my posture as soon as Wyatt stepped out.

"Yes," I said, trying to make my voice as stable as possible. "Once again, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience."

Our brunette companion dropped the medication on the register, with a sufficient amount of force that made it known to us and maybe even—the world—that he was fully against whatever was going on between these two women.

That was okay. I wasn't looking to rally anyone on my team, anyway.

Taylor put the package in a bag, and absentmindedly collected the money from me before tucking it into the cash register, and handing me change. I knew it made her skin crawl, having to do this in front of her co-worker. I couldn't imagine the trouble I was getting her into either, but for her sake (and selfishly, mine), I only hoped she'd come out unscathed.

Wyatt returned to the inner area, the potent air of annoyance surrounding him disappearing, and leaving only Taylor's in the room. Guilt stricken, I attempted to take the bag from her, but she only pulled up the barrier and then grabbed my hand as she led us both outside.

The night air seemed ten times colder.

"Taylor, I'm sor—"

"To the man in there, Cassidy, I practically just sold drugs to an addict," she stated, her light brown eyes flashing. "I'm doing illegal shit. Do you get that? You cannot show up here at three in the morning. You cannot show up here without your prescription. And you absolutely cannot show up here like this. You look like you're having withdrawals, for goodness sakes, not powering through an anxiety attack."

I couldn't help it. My eyes started to sting.

"B-but you've always sold to me without a prescription," I uselessly mumbled. "At least since the first one."

I remembered my initial and only doctor's prescription tucked somewhere in my bedroom, crumpled and long expired old thing it was.

"Yes," she agreed, her gaze softening, "and it hasn't been doing you, or me any good."

I reckoned it was out of sheer desperation, I didn't think about it when I blurted out, "Can I have an extra bottle?"

Her eyes snapped to mine. "No. No. Listen to yourself, my goodness," she said to me, rattling with exasperation. "You're not getting another bottle. You're only going to the hospital to renew your prescription. You might not even need them any—"

"I get it. Okay, I get it."

Taylor rubbed my arm. "Honey, I know I sound like nothing you want to hear right now," she muttered, "but I only want you to take care of yourself. It's been too long this way."

"Okay." I nodded and tucked my hair behind my ears. "Fine. Okay."

"Now, go easy on those," she instructed. "I mean it. And you better wait till you get home."

What Taylor meant to say, in other words, was if you dare overdose, I'll kill you. And if I find you passed out in the corner of the street, I'll kill you.

She didn't need to worry. I already had a girl back home who'd do exactly the same.

"I got it. I promise," I assured her, trying to keep my trembling hands at bay.

She looked almost satisfied at that, and I watched her slowly retreat. "Be careful. And call me, you hear?"

"I will."

I watched Taylor head back into the pharmacy, all the while feeling like acid and raw bile was stuck in my throat.

And then, I left.

I walked down the street in a haze, time seeming to pass by in nothing but distant fragments, as I only focused on putting one foot in front of the other. I felt like a shit show. Echoes of Taylor's words, and the look on Wyatt's face ran through my mind in deafening circles, and neither of them would stay quiet.

And perhaps that was why I didn't even register it when I'd passed the nightclub, nor did I register the louder voices.

Why I didn't notice my feet dragging me to the middle of the main road.

Although the electrifying lights in front of me snapped me back into focus soon enough. Following suit, the loud honking of a horn. Once. Twice. Three times. There was a slew of curses, and then the unmistakable feeling of being yanked backwards by the collar of my coat, all before I went crashing into a solid, hard chest.

Did I scream? I wasn't exactly sure.

"What the fuck? Cassidy?" The voice sounded eerily familiar. Instinctively, I glanced up and nearly lost what was left of my bearing as soon as I spotted a familiar bed of dark hair, and currently blazing gray eyes. He looked upset, shocked, angry. He looked like I hadn't ever seen him before. "What on earth are you doing? Are you—were you trying to freaking kill yourself?"

Oh, God. It's you. It's really you.

And so, instead of absorbing the fact that I was currently being yelled at in the corner of the street at an ungodly hour, by a man I never thought I'd even see again, I only lunged forward and wrapped my arms around him. Like he was a fading piece of light. He smelled of alcohol, a hint of cologne, cigarette smoke and dizzying night life.

I burst into tears.

And he went absolutely rigid.

"Don't yell," I whimpered, my words coming out as a miserable sounding croak. "Please. Please don't yell. Don't let me go."

I didn't know when exactly it happened, but slowly, all but shakily, Brian's large arms were around me, securing me tightly while I shuddered and sobbed into his suit.

"I won't," he said, calmer this time. Almost like he meant it. Almost like a promise. "I won't. I'm here."