✯ E V E L Y N ✯

The front door creaks open. "Hi, sweetie," Eva greets me quietly.

"Hey, Mom." I give her a small hug, wrapping my arms around her small, frail shoulders.

She pulls back to plant a kiss on my forehead, cupping my cheeks to stare into my eyes with her own watery ones. Not again. "Oh, please don't cry," I beg, sidestepping to enter the house. "I just left for work. I'm fine like I always am."

She turns to me with her hands clasped, her features laced with caution. I sigh, hating the way she looks at me like I'm a China doll suspended above a surface, about to fall and break into millions of shards that can't be pieced back together.

"I know, honey, but I'm just worried about you," she quivers, blinking quickly so her tears won't fall. When did she become so emotional?

I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the coat rack, unwinding my scarf from my neck, leaving me in my T-shirt, jeans, and combat boots. I place my hands on Eva's shoulders, squeezing lightly. "Mom, this happens every day. I'm fine, I'm here now. I didn't get robbed, or raped, or kidnapped, or harassed - if you exclude annoying customers at the ice cream parlor," I say, attempting to lighten the mood.

Eva nods her head, smiling slightly. "Okay, then." A tear rolls down her cheek, and I gently brush it away.

"There we go," I murmur, and she pushes back some of her hair. It's so weird that we look so alike. We both have brown-black hair, light eyes, and small, slim figures. Dad - Charlie - is the only one in the family with sandy blonde hair, but he also has blue eyes.

Speaking of Charlie . . .

"Where's Dad?" I ask Eva as I lead her into the living room, grimacing at the sight of snow falling outside the window. I've always hated snow. There's just something about freezing your butt off, slipping on snow mixed with mud and having numb fingers, that doesn't sound so appealing.

Eva sits down on a sofa beside me. "He's in the kitchen, making lunch." Suddenly, she grabs at my hands and gives me a disapproving look. "Evelyn, your hands are freezing! Why didn't you bring gloves with you? Oh, let me go make you some tea or hot cocoa . . . "

I gently tug at her hands, stopping her from getting up. "Mom, it's okay. I'll go greet Dad and get some cocoa for both of us; your hands aren't any warmer." I stand up and enter the kitchen, which is connected to the dining room via an archway.

I spot Charlie at the stove, popping tomatoes into a pot with a bunch of other ingredients that I don't recognize. I watch him for a minute, noting how he's humming as the extra enthusiasm is injected into his cooking. He's definitely in a good mood. "Hey, Dad," I say, my voice a few decibels too loud. He visibly flinches and almost drops an empty plate at the sound of my voice.

I hold back a laugh, watching him fumble for the plate before it has the chance to fall. His eyes light up when they land on me, and he quickly washes his hands and dries them off before engulfing me in a bear hug. "Evelyn, you're home so soon," he notes, kissing my numb cheeks before fondly ruffling my hair.

I fix my messy hair, shooting him a mock glare behind his back as he resumes loading the dishwasher. "Yeah, I was let off for the day," I tell him, remembering I need to make some hot cocoa. I pull out the stuff plus two mugs, and carefully measure the milk.

"Well, that's great. Less work, more time at home." There's a smile in his voice. "So, how are you? I would ask how your day was but business is slow on Sundays, right?"

"Yup," I agree, "And I'm fine, I guess. A little tired, though. I didn't get much sleep last night because I have this History test on Monday that's, like, basically a replica of the exam."

"I'm sure you'll do great," Charlie assures me.

Benefit number one of being dumb: no matter how hard you study, none of what you just studied for three hours sinks into your brain, and you're left feeling even more stupid and panicked.

"I think otherwise," I mutter, not loud enough for him to hear, and then raise my voice to an audible level as I mix cocoa powder and sugar. "Whatcha cooking?" Why is he making lunch instead of the cooks? I suppose he told them to take the day off; something he does only when he's in the mood to show off his culinary skills.

"I'm making lunch. Tomato soup, since it's minus something degrees out there, and those leftovers from Thanksgiving." Charlie then turns around to me. "Oh, make one for me too?" he requests, referring to the hot cocoa.

"Sure." I pull out an extra mug and quickly add the rest of the stuff in.

"Thanks."

From then on it's silent, but it's a comfortable silence. The kind you treasure rather than resent, as we're stuck in our own thoughts. I try not to dwell on mine, not wanting to suffocate in them. My thoughts are poisonous, selfish, choking me and squeezing my lungs so I can barely breathe.

I heat up the drinks in the microwave, barely stopping my hand from shaking and splashing milk all over the place. Quietly breathe in and out through my mouth, feeling that gaping hole inside of me widen until my eyes are welling up with tears at the ache in my chest.

I brush them away discreetly, pulling out a mug and topping the cocoa with marshmallows before handing it to Charlie, who thanks me with a smile. I try not to sniff too much as I carefully walk to the living room, where Eva is watching one of those old black-and-white movies that she loves.

"Here, Mom," I say quietly, and she tears her gaze to the hot beverage.

"Oh, thank you, love. You're a star." Eva takes a mug from me, immediately wrapping her thin fingers around it. She then looks up at me, and worry fills her eyes. "Are you okay, Evelyn?"

I force a smile to my lips, my fingers gripping the handle of the mug so tightly I'm sure it'll snap off. "I'm just tired. You know what? I think I'll go take a bath and then have a nap."

"But your hot cocoa . . . "

"I'll reheat it later and have it with lunch," I tell her, and kiss the top of her head to assure her everything's fine.

"I hope you sleep well, you look so tired," she comments out of concern, placing her hand on mine.

And this time the smile isn't fake or forced. It's small, barely curving my lips upwards, but it's there. "I think you sleep best when you're exhausted."

She nods with a soft smile and goes back to her movie, not knowing the double meaning behind my words.

∞

☾A L I Q U I S☽

Fuck up.

Fuck up.

Fuck up.

Those are the words that swirl around her head as Evelyn's vision swims, her agonized cries filling the en-suite. They're choked sobs, the ones where you feel like you can't breathe, and you're writhing on the ground in pain.

The mirror is cracked, the crevices and spider-leg-like cracks leading to the center. Her whole hand is bleeding, and so are her wrists, crimson blood pooling over the floor like the broken glass on the tiles. Her T-shirt is blood-red, the smell of copper heavy in the air.

Evelyn's chest rises and falls rapidly, her face crumpling like paper as another bout of cries takes over her. She's sure anyone in her bedroom would be able to hear her, but thankfully she locked her bathroom door.

Pressing her hands against her face, she tries to muffle the cries that make her head split open and her eyes go puffy. That five-lettered name is engraved on her wrist, rebranded by the sharpest shard of glass she could find. There's whispering in her ear, something inaudible that makes her lift her head from where she's curled up on the floor.

Standing in front of her, in that navy baseball cap of his, is him.

She claps a hand over her mouth, tears crawling down her cheeks at an agonizingly slow pace, rolling over her bloody fingers and leaving streaks of pale skin in their wake. He just looks at Evelyn, his dirty blonde hair falling over his icy blue eyes in that careless way that it used to before . . . before—

"Evian," she chokes out, gazing at him through blurry tears and red eyes. His whole being lights up, the aura around his glowing and pulsating a faint rose color that makes her stomach churn.

She wants to stand up; wants to get up and hug him and tell him she loves him and tell him everything was her fault and she misses him with all her heart. But her body is paralyzed. She watches him as the tears are still rolling down her face, the headache about to make her head explode, the nausea so overwhelmingly familiar.

Evian takes a step towards her, a light smile not on his lips, but in his eyes. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his blood splattered over them like red paint on a black canvas.

"Wash it off," he says, but his voice is a hiss, a whisper in her mind. His lips don't move, not once, and the sound of his voice is enough to make her break down in confusion and despair. "The blood. Wash it off."

Somehow, she finds the strength to stand up, her legs shaking as she stumbles in her own blood. Her wrists are still bleeding, the streams trickling over his jaggedly carved name. Water rushes from the tap, filling the bathtub with warm water. Evian fades away like a mirage, and she shakily strips off her clothes, gently lowering her bruised body into the tub.

She floats on the water, the blood that was once coating her skin now saturating the water until she's surrounded by a sea of pale pink. Her open wounds sting as they come in contact with water, but she has no tears left to shed.

A weight pushes her body deeper into the red water, her legs disappearing, then her torso, until all that's left is her head. Wet hair clings to her cheeks as a force drags her backward, sinking her face into the water. She screams for help, struggling to breathe with bloody water filling her mouth and her nose, pain shooting in every part of her body. She tries opening her eyes, the water stinging them, and all she can see is the blond boy's eyes, laughing down at her as she drowns.

"Goodnight."

And everything goes black.