✯ E V E L Y N ✯

"I'm sorry, God.

"I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up—no, I don't think I should be swearing in such a holy place. Well, I'm sorry for not being able to cope with everything that's happened, even if it's been years. A-and I know I shouldn't be . . . be depressed over it, but I can't help it. It's as if my brain has been hardwired to stay in a state where everything is blank, and meaningless, and either black or white.

"Th-there are times when I just feel like crying my eyes, and heart, out. Like now, for instance. I find it scary talking to you, even though, you know, I can't see you, but . . . I can feel you up there, watching and listening. And that's comforting. It's comforting to know that at least someone is listening to me. And so, because you are paying attention, I just want to say, Father:

"I feel like I have no control over myself. I feel like someone else is living, in my body, and they're making me do the things I do. And when I do feel like myself, I have these moments where the world melts away, and nothing exists. What happened two weeks ago, that was all me. I—I did it because I couldn't . . . I don't know how to say it— it was as if I was at war with my mind and my negative thoughts, and those thoughts—they won."

I break down, tears pooling and cascading down my cheeks as I bend over and hide my face in my hands. Silence presses onto my ears, the only sound the gasps escaping my numb lips as I rock myself to a less vulnerable state.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my bare knees burning as they scrape the floorboards. Grabbing a wad of tissues from my pocket, I wipe away my tears and blow my nose ungracefully. "Forgive me, my Lord."

I'm glad there is no one else to witness my breakdown except for Father Graham, who I'm assuming has better things to do than to watch me pathetically cry.

I shakily get up, rubbing my nose, and nervously brush my hands on my thighs as I walk down to the altar, where Father Graham is stationed at the porcelain bowl of holy water, praying in Latin under his breath.

I hover awkwardly adjacent to him, not wanting to interrupt him or scare him. "Um, good morning, Father," I say softly and watch as Father Graham says one last short prayer before he faces me, his face wearing a peaceful expression.

"Greetings, my child." A small smile forms laughter lines around his mouth. "What can I do for you?"

"Coul–could you bless me?" I stammer, clasping my clammy hands.

Father Graham nods gravely, his dark eyebrows furrowing the slightest bit as he looks somewhere beyond me. He never looks people in the eye; it's as if, when he's talking to you, he can see something hovering behind you, or see Him in the distance. "Of course. In Latin or mother tongue?"

"Both, please," I mumble, and let him hold my hands in his own.

He recites a few prayers in Latin - a language that I understand but not too well - before transferring to English, his eyes closed all the while. I decide to shut my eyes as well.

"Lord, may this child of yours find happiness, and love, and comfort. If she seeks solace, she will find solace through you and others. If she seeks contentment, she will find contentment through you and others. If she seeks love, she will find love through you and others. Whatever she seeks, you will provide, for you are generous and very fair. No wrong she has done will ever vanquish the place she has in your heart."

The tears are flowing freely, but I don't dare to sniff. His voice echoes around the empty chapel, bouncing off the stained glass windows and stretching around the room. His hands are cold, which is somehow comforting - it's comforting being able to hold steady hands. "Let your heart guide you, young one. Should you seek guidance, listen to your heart, and it shall show you the way. May all your grief, sadness, despair and inner turmoil be rid from your pure soul, and may your youth be restored once again. Amen."

At that last word that comes from his thin lips, I pry my eyes open, blinking back the moisture, and find Father Graham in front of me with holy water. He lightly dips his index finger into the water, signing a cross on my forehead and both of my open palms. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," we say in unison, and I'm broken out of a trance when Father Graham cracks a tiny smile.

"Thank you, Father." I've never sounded so remorseful in my life.

He nods once, linking his fingers as his white robe swishes over his wrists. "I know you are facing desperate, dark times, my child, but through patience and time and perseverance, God will deliver, and he will help you through this," Father Graham says.

I nod, bowing slightly and quietly wishing him a good day before I turn to leave. Walking past the stained glass windows, my eyes roam over the beautiful portrayals of the people before our time, my sneakers making discomforting noises against the floor. Once I'm out, I breathe in the fresh air, loving the cold wind on my flushed cheeks.

I know, as I stroll past people, that they notice my red eyes and slumped shoulders, but I ignore them as I traipse back home, ready to crawl into bed and take a quick nap.

∞

"Miss Evelyn. Miss Evelyn, it's time to wake up."

I groan at that croaky, curt voice, shifting in bed and opening one eye to peek at Noelle, our sexagenarian housemaid-slash-nanny, who purses her lips and frowns down on me.

"I—just give me ten more minutes," I slur, closing my eyes again. "And I thought I told you to just call me Evelyn." I'm about to fall back asleep when she rips the comforter off me, and I yelp loudly. My whole body starts shivering at its exposure to the cold air, and I hiss out a few profanities as I curl back into a ball.

"Miss Evelyn, your parents have requested for me to inform you that dinner is being prepared, and they would like to eat their meal as a family," Noelle's voice speaks somewhere by my ear, and I sit up, now wide awake. 

"They're home?"

Noelle narrows her eyes, folding her thin arms over her chest. Though she may not look like it, Noelle is a 5'1 force to be reckoned with. "Well, seeing as they're waiting for you, I expect they're most likely home," she replies sarcastically with a muttered insult. I scowl, holding back a sneeze and scrub at my eyes to remove the sleep from them.

"Oh, right! You're back from Paris. I completely forgot," I exclaim.

Noelle's face lights up before she puts an impassive look on her face. "I've only been standing here for ten minutes trying to wake you up, mon ange."

Where is here, anyway? I glance around, my heart freezing in my chest as the world stops revolving. Navy blue walls covered in medals, and shelves with trophies, the faint scent of bubblegum and laundry detergent lingering in the air. My face crumples at the sight of that thread bracelet on the dresser, at the sight of Noelle's empathetic, sad face.

I'm in Evian's room.

"How–how did I—when did I co—"

"You came home tired and mistook Evian's room for yours," Noelle tells me quietly, lowering her eyes to stare at my bare feet hanging over the edge of the bed. Evian's bed.

"Right. Okay." My voice quivers but I try not to show my fragility by climbing off the bed and pushing away nausea. "I should get dressed and head down for dinner."

I sidestep Noelle, my eyes fixated on my room on the opposite side of the hall. How could I have mistaken Evian's room for mine? My fingers are shaking as I rub my hands on my jeans and tug on my sweatshirt.

"Evelyn?" I turn and get engulfed in a warm hug.

I stay still, not daring to move or breathe for fear of spontaneously combusting. Noelle pulls back, gripping my upper arms. I catch sight of her liquid caramel eyes. Panic seizes my heart like an icy hand. I've never seen Noelle cry, not when her husband died of a heart attack, not when she discovered my bad habits that scar my wrists, not when Evian died. But then again, she is known for hiding her feelings and being - besides Charlie - the mediator in this family.

"I know you miss Evian, mon ange," she says softly, sadness oozing into her tone. "I do too, every day. He was like a son to me, je le pense vraiment. But this isn't healthy for you. You need to stop grieving over him. Your mental health is getting worse, and it pains me to see you this way."

I pull away, my heart pumping rapidly as anger courses through my veins. "You're telling me to get over the person who has been with me since birth? You're telling me to get over the person who was my other half? I don't understand how you think it takes that short of a time to get over someone's death. But then again you never knew him like I did."

I ignore the look of hurt on her face and storm out, slamming my bedroom door shut. No doubt I'll ignore her for a few days, then reconcile because of guilt eating me alive. Until then, we're not on speaking terms.

My bedroom is spotless, courtesy of Noelle, and smells like incense. I hold back a sneeze and head over to my closet, rubbing my stiff shoulder. As usual, everything in the walk-in closet is arranged by wearability, event, and color. Dresses for formal events that I no longer attend hang in the dark corner of the closet, whereas my much-loved jeans and baggy hoodies are upfront.

But seeing as this is dinner with my parents - who, for reasons unbeknownst to me, always insist I dress up nicely for dinner in tighter and snazzier clothes - I grab a random dress, quickly slipping into the black number and stare at myself in the floor-length mirror. It's a maxi dress, made of a silky material that flows over my lack of curves and sways around my ankles.

The dress isn't too bad - thanks to the padded bust that makes it seem as if I have more than I actually do -, it's just my body that looks . . . strange, alien, in it. I'm a little on the skinny side, my collarbone too pronounced, my shoulder bones too sharp. And my wrists - ugh.

I grab a dark cardigan and throw it on, tugging down the sleeves so my flaws aren't visible. If only I could cover my whole body, each inch of skin from head to toe, then I'd be flawless. I am a living, walking, barely-breathing bottle of flaws just about ready to break.

My skin, which is typically olive, looks pale, but then again that's how it usually is. I can never get that glow, like my mom. Sometimes I wish my eyes were brown so that they'd blend in with the color of my hair, and I'd blend into the background. But I guess we all can't have what we want in life, right?

I decide against wearing makeup, not wanting to waste my time trying to look pretty, and just step into a pair of slip-on shoes before heading downstairs. Noelle is nowhere to be seen, thank goodness.

The same can't be said for Eva, unfortunately.

She attacks me as soon as my foot hits the bottom step, rushing over to clasp my hands in her warm ones. "Evelyn! You look so beautiful, darling," she compliments me, her green eyes shining with appreciation as they wander over my outfit.

"Thanks, Mom." My shoulders droop when her brows crinkle together, and I brace myself for the disapproval. I can tell she's sizing me up, her many years of designing and modeling catching up to her as she gives what I'm wearing a critical eye. Here we go.

"But, honestly, did you really have to wear black of all colors? It washes out your beautiful skin tone, darling . . ." she trails off.

I pull away from her, swiftly tying my hair into a low ponytail. "Mom, just be grateful that I'm wearing a dress." She sighs and nods, her straightened hair spilling over her shoulders. "What I wouldn't give to be in my sweatpants instead of this damn dress."

Eva tuts at me. "Language," she scolds.

"Shit, I'm so sorry." Eva's eyes narrow at my sarcasm but there's an amused smile on her face.

"Don't try me, missy." Shaking her head at me, she grips my arm and steers me in the direction of the dining room. "C'mon, stand up straight: don't slouch. We have a guest over for dinner tonight."

I struggle to keep up with her, even though she's wearing heels, and I'm stunned at her words. A guest? Oh, for heaven's sake. "Wait, a guest? Who is it?"

Eva promptly ignores me, and my blood runs cold as I hear the laughter of two people. One being my dad, the other being;

Dr. Paige.

"—I couldn't agree more, Yulia," Charlie chuckles, his eyes crinkling as they drift to a pram beside him.

Wait, a pram?

There's a gurgling noise from it, and I assume it's a baby or some other life form. While I'm stuck in the doorway, Eva moves forward and the three of them crowd around the baby, unaware of my presence. "Ah, she's so adorable!" Eva exclaims, and coos when a tiny hand clasps around her pinky. "Hiya, Rose. Aren't you the cutest?!"

I roll my eyes, trying to shake myself out of my state of shock, and step forward. I clear my throat. My psychiatrist looks up as well as my parents, and they all have apprehensive smiles on.

"Evelyn," Dr. Paige greets me, looking very pretty in a tight-fitting red dress. At work - or during sessions, should I say - she looks worn-out and moderately attractive (I know that's very critical of me, and I'm a hundred percent sure I get that from my mother) but now she looks stunning, with her blond hair reaching past her jaw, and subtle lipstick making her brown eyes warmer.

I raise my hand in an awkward wave, not feeling the slightest bit comfortable with Eva and Charlie watching the whole exchange intently. "Hi, Dr. Paige."

There's a split second of silence before Eva jumps in, clapping her hands together. "Chef DeBlanc told me dinner will be served in ten minutes, so please, Yulia, have a seat." 

We all sit down at the long dining room table, Eva and Charlie sitting on either end of the table while Dr. Paige and I sit opposite each other. The baby who Dr. Paige had walked in with is fast asleep in her stroller, swathed in blankets. From the looks of it Rose - whose name suits her because of her pink cheeks - is incredibly cute, with wispy blond hair like her mother.

"So, how old is Rose?" I ask out of sheer politeness, sitting on my hands as I have nothing better to do with them.

Dr. Paige smiles, "She's about three months old."

All four of us turns to gaze at the sleeping baby, a sappy smile slathered over their faces. It's just a baby. Is this my jealousy talking? "Oh, so you had her not so long ago?" I confirm, but my statement sort of comes out as a question.

To my surprise, she chuckles, tilting her head back slightly. "No, Evelyn. This is my sisters baby, not mine. I'm just taking care of the little cutie," she says to me as Eva and Charlie talk to the butler.

"Right. My bad." I force myself to stop turning red and focus on the food Chef DeBlanc and the cooks are laying on the wine tablecloth. The scent of croquettes and something spicy makes my mouth water, and I'm eager to dive in.

My parents aren't overly religious people, but they do believe that we say grace before each meal we eat together. And so that's what we do, bowing our heads slightly and sending a silent prayer of thanks. Bless us O God as we sit together. Bless the food we eat today. Bless the hands that made the food. Bless us O God, Amen, I pray, squeezing my eyes shut before grabbing my empty plate.

"Help yourselves, you guys," Charlie says, and I make a move to pile roast potatoes on my plate and drown them in gravy. Eva chatters happily to Dr. Paige about a book she recently read on psychology while Charlie secretly scrolls through his Twitter feed, the mountain of food piled on his plate keeping his phone out of view. Eva has a strict no-phone-during-dinner rule, so Charlie is lucky because if she wasn't distracted she would have thrown his phone out the window or into the dishwasher, which she has done before. 

I take a little bit of everything from the excessive platters of food and spoon some stir fry into my mouth. Despite being left in peace, I feel like an accessory, so when the conversation between the two eccentric ladies is over, I quickly butt in before another topic can strike up.

"So, Dr. Paige, what exactly are you doing here?" Shit, that came out harsh.

Charlie lifts his head from his 'food', giving me a disapproving look while Eva quickly shoots me an appalled one. "Evelyn, don't be so rude!" she hisses, cheeks turning scarlet.

"It's fine, Evangeline," Dr. Paige waves it off with an airy laugh. Her gaze fixates on me in that intense way that makes me all shivery. "Your mother invited me to dinner."

"Oh, did she now?" I raise an eyebrow at my mother who's stabbing her salad and forking croutons into her mouth like her life depends on it.

Charlie chews, his eyes occasionally flicking upwards at the exchange so as not to arouse suspicion. "Yes," Dr. Paige answers, making my eyes drift back to her. "Evangeline and I were actually very close in high school but lost touch because we attended different colleges. We only just met a few months ago after years without contact, and here we are, trying to rekindle our friendship."

"That's nice," I reply, trying to inject as much interest in my tone as I possibly can. Dr. Paige breaks into her pie, lifting it to her mouth. In the corner, Rose stirs but doesn't wake up. "And, Dr. Paige, you probably did a course on psychology in college, right?"

She nods. "Yes, when I was studying in Italy I majored in General Psychology but was more focused on Clinical Psychology when I came back here. And please, Evelyn, call me Yulia. We're no longer in session."

I nod awkwardly, muttering, "Sure," under my breath and proceed to poke at my half-finished dinner. "Yulia . . . That's Russian, right?"

Dr. Pai—Yulia bobs her head again. I can't call her by her first name. That's too weird and informal. "Both my parents are Russian, hence the name and accent." I never actually noticed the accent she holds, which, come to think of it, makes her sound like a faintly Russian New Yorker.

"Ooh! We went to Russia last year, didn't we Charlie?" Charlie flinches slightly at the sound of his name and quickly looks up, shoving his phone into his pocket and smiling casually. I hold back a smile.

From them on, the adults converse about everything and anything, while I finish up my dinner and wonder why I'm surrounded by people that care about me, yet I feel so alone.

∞

Unknown Number: heyy

I stare down at the random text. What the . . . I don't remember giving my number to anyone as of late. I don't remember giving it anyone except my boss - for emergencies -, Landon and Aisha, who both never text; they call or video chat. "It's probably just someone who got the wrong number," I mutter to myself.

Eve: who is this???

Unknown Number: one word, five letters, two pairs of twin letters and one alone

If I didn't instantly know who it was then I'd be confused.

Eve: Ross???

Unknown Number: that's four letters

Eve: Tommo?

Unknown Number: he's from Private Peaceful

Eve: you never know, there could actually be someone out there with the name Tommo that's short for Tommy.

Unknown Number: Tommo is literally the worst name you could ever have

Eve: nickname*

Unknown Number: IT'S JESSE

Eve: who is Jesse???????

Unknown Number: *sighs* ay caramba

Eve: how did you get my number :O

Unknown Number - Jesse - : a good detective never reveals his sources ;)

Eve: a good detective wouldn't have sources ;')

Unknown Number: oh shit

Unknown Number: true :/

I can't hold in my girlish laugh. My toes dig into my bedsheets, and a nice gust of air breezes in through my open window. I should be asleep but lately, I've been unable to, either because I typically drink too much coffee or for some other reason.

And, unsurprisingly, my insomnia started the day Jesse spoke to me.