☾A L I Q U I S☽

"You good for nothing slut!"

"I'm not a slut!"

"Yes you are! Fucking whore, where the hell were you all this time, huh?"

Silence.

Blaine stares at his fiancée, nothing but a raw mix of disgust and disappointment on his face. Fists clenched at his sides, eyes narrowed to slits, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Anger courses through his veins, filling him up to the point that if he opens his mouth he'll explode.

At least the woman opposite him has the decency to look ashamed. Though, deep down, I know she's nothing close to ashamed. She's proud. She's proud of what she did. Of what she does. And she wouldn't change anything for the world.

Her blonde hair is a disarray of curls, piled precariously on top of her head. Her eyes are focused on the floor beneath their feet, but as she looks up at her fiancé, the love of her life, her light orbs dull until they're the darkest shade of brown, sadness swirling in them.

"P-please, Blaine, believe me. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't sleep with another man," she begs in a wobbly voice, blinking away tears as Blaine's face remains impassive. She links her trembling fingers together in a bid to stop her nervousness from showing. "I would never do anything to jeopardize our relationship."

Internally, Blaine's walls are crumbling down. Each tearful look she gives him is like a sledgehammer to his chest, knocking all the wind out of him until he's suffocating underneath it all. His fingers ache to brush away those tears from her cheeks, to run themselves through her hair. She is his life - the center of everything beautiful and mysterious.

"I-I," she tries to say, her chest rising and falling unsteadily. Her breaths are shallow and her voice is wavering.

"I love you."

And just like that the tension in the room is lifted and replaced with another kind.

Sexual tension.

Their lips crash against one another's before either of them knows who made the first move, her hands winding around his neck and fingers curling in his hair as he cups her cheeks. Their scents of expensive cologne and honey shampoo mingle, creating a fusion that evokes excitement within them. Eyes tightly shut, hands running over the others in a desperate bid to satisfy the lust that wells within them, I watch as the couple pull away from each other, their gazes the only heat source in the cold, dark room.

His lips latch onto her neck as his hands grab the back of her thighs, hoisting her up on the dining room table. Her hands trail frantically over his shirt, fingers clawing at the buttons as breathless sighs leave her lips. Her back arches when his teeth nip at the sensitive skin at her clavicle, heart thumping as wildly as his, beating in sync.

Blaine's fingers dig into her hips, the wave of need and desire crashing over them stronger and stronger each time while they're left gasping for air, both drowning in each other's sensual moans until they're drunk on love.

∞

And when they've finally come down from that high that turns their insides to liquid, when they've cleaned up, dressed and head to bed, she stares at the ceiling. He wouldn't understand, she muses sadly, eyes unblinking. He'd mock me for being a psychiatrist. It's just who he is. It's just the type of person he is.

It always happens. He verbally abuses her, manipulating her into feeling guilty without laying a finger on her until she breaks down and gives in. He may not see it, but his words have more force than he thinks. They're bullets in her chest, knives in her back, bruises covering every inch of her skin until she's left battered and bleeding to death.

∞

❀ E V A ❀

It's been a week and five days since I've last cried.

That was when Evelyn underwent Phonosurgery - where they repositioned her vocal cords. Everything - except bruises and mental trauma - has been repaired and recovered. Bruises will fade but I don't think Evelyn will be able to ever shake off that traumatic event.

"What do you want for lunch, sweetie?" I ask Evelyn, my fingers wrapping around the handle of the fridge to pull it open. She barely looks up from her slumped position at the kitchen island, shaking her head. Her expression is closed-off and distant.

"I'm not hungry," she whispers, going back to swirling water around in a glass. I try not to show my dismay, my hope burning to ashes and dust, but it's difficult.

I know she's trying. We all are; we're doing our best to treat her . . . normally. Normally in the sense that we - Charlie and I - are not fussing over her and acting like she's a porcelain doll. Yes, we're extra worried about what might happen because of the accident. I've heard that many either have vivid night terrors, lapse into a depressive state or cut themselves off from the world, which all sound terrible.

I don't know what Evelyn sees when she looks at herself in the mirror; perhaps a broken girl who has no purpose in this world. Or maybe she can't even bear to look at herself in the mirror.

But what I see - what everyone who cares about her sees - is a beautiful girl. Stunning features, willowy, bird-like frame, silky shoulder-length hair. A smile that can charm anyone. A smile that she can only flash if she believes she can. She's so much more than her faults and flaws and mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes every once in a while, even on a daily basis. We all have our own faults, quirks. And we were built to be flawed. Nobody is perfect. Even the most perfect-seeming person is hiding something, something that has broken them and wounded them internally. We're all fighting an internal battle with ourselves, but just because we're suffering doesn't mean we are weak. We're all brave. We're all equal. We're all attempting to achieve the same goal, which is utter perfection. But, the thing is, we're already perfect.

And I wish Evelyn could see that.

∞

✯ E V E L Y N ✯

Everyone is treating me differently.

Everyone being my parents. I can see it in the way they hold themselves when they're around me; slightly stiff, on edge.

I sigh heavily, throwing my bouncy-ball at the wall over and over again until my wrist aches. My eyes flick to my bedside clock. Two hours have passed by and nothing has happened.

I should be catching up on my schoolwork. I don't even know what the date is but it's February. I groan at the thought of it being the second month of the year. I was in hospital for almost two weeks, recovering. I can't believe I survived being in that stuffy, starchy hospital bed for more than a day. It was torture, the only word to describe it. But I'm glad Eva didn't demand a new room like how I begged for them to let me change out of those itchy gown things. 

Anyway, February is usually the month where teachers give us heavy assignments for us to complete and hand in by the 28th. So, instead of fussing about who'll get a card from a mystery admirer on Valentines Day - an overrated holiday that I'm dreading - we have to suffer from aching wrists, tired eyes and sleepless nights in which we panic over deadlines.

There's a knock on my door, but I figure it's Charlie wanting to see if I'm okay, or Eva hoping I'll talk about the accident. As if I'm not forced to answer intrusive questions on a daily basis. I huff at the thought.

Ever since I was released from hospital with a bunch of meds and a wheelchair, I've had to resume my sessions with Dr. Paige. Which meant probing and critical analyzing - her - and unwanted tears - me - which I hate with a passion.

I hate when people ask me how I am. It's irritating, because they can see I'm not in the mood for any fake shit, if my moody expression, slumped shoulders and tired eyes are any indication. Usually the people who ask if you're alright either do it out of civility, or they simply can't see how much it hurts to breathe.

"I'm not in the mood for any visitors, sorry," I call out as I lay on my back, letting my hair flow down to the floorboards whilst I'm upside down.

"Not even me?" My head whips up in time to see my bedroom door opening, revealing Jesse.

He's dressed all in black, from his beanie to the knapsack slung over his shoulder to his combat boots. I know what he's wearing is more of a choice than a fashion statement. He leans against the door frame, both hands casually shoved into the pockets of his jeans. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. Here, in my neighborhood, in my house, in my bedroom. Here.

I fumble to sit back up, blood rushing to my head from being upside down, and sit on my bed with my legs crossed. His gray eyes light up when they land on me, a small smile upon his lips that could melt ice. Get a grip, I scold myself.

It's surreal that he's here. It's even more surreal that he'd want to be friends with me. Voluntarily. I mean, why would he, a popular guy with looks that could charm anyone, want to be friends with me, a fucked-up suicidal loner who isn't even bullied; she's shunned. Why would someone like him even look my way?

"Hey," he says, eyes not once leaving mine or blinking. He looks . . . hesitant and yet at ease. "So, you can talk again. How did this happen?"

"Speech Therapy and surgery," I reply, dazed that he's less than five feet away from me. Jesse nods once, eyes breaking contact with mine to glance around my room appreciatively.

"Nice room," he compliments, eyes lingering on my wall covered in Polaroid photos and random stuff, "and house. Or should I say mansion?"

I let out a sharp laugh, my awkwardness slowly dissipating. "This house isn't a mansion," I say modestly.

Jesse gives me a flat look. "There's four floors, seven bathrooms, two kitchens, a giant basement, a huge attic, five bedrooms excluding the guest rooms, and one giant study room while the other room is a makeshift studio your mom uses for designing," he deadpans.

"Wh—how'd you know?"

He suddenly grins, flashing me a wink before sitting beside me on my bed, kicking off his boots. I try to calm my rapid heart as his faint cologne reaches my nose, wiggling my shaking fingers so that it doesn't seem like I'm freaking out. Which I am definitely not.

"I did some investigating," he answers mysteriously, tilting his head towards me so our eyes lock. Our faces are less than two inches away, and Jesse's eyes flick down to my lips before he looks away, visibly shaken for some reason.

"So, w-what are you doing here?"

I hate how my voice sounds trembly, but this is the first time any guy has come over - has been in the same bed as me - and I can feel all those hormones rushing towards me, hitting me like a freight train until I'm a nervous, stammering, flustered mess.

"We–" Jesse begins, propping himself up against the headboard. He pulls out an USB stick, wiggles it in my face with a grin and tosses it towards me before grabbing his bag. "–are going to have a movie night. Or, afternoon."

I catch the USB, reading the label that says movies in scrawled caps. I watch in amazement as he dumps the contents of his knapsack, multicolored sweet packets flowing over our laps in a tsunami of chocolate and calories. "Holy shit. Where did you get all of this?"

"I made a quick stop on my way here." I shake my head at him, unable to hide my smile and the butterflies taking residence in my stomach. "What do you want to watch?"

I shrug. "Anything but a horror movie." Jesse scoffs but nonetheless inserts the USB into my MacBook, getting to work.

"Pussy," he coughs audibly, a smug smile playing on his lips before I elbow him sharply in the ribs. He laughs.

"I'm not scared—"

"I never said you were scared," he replies suavely, briefly giving me a cheeky smile before pressing a bunch of stuff on my laptop.

"—I'm just not in the mood for overrated horror movies and overused plot lines," I finish, ignoring his teasing laugh.

I get up to close the door, the floorboards cold against my bare feet. "Oh, by the way, your mom said the door shouldn't be closed . . . ?" he trails off with a smirk, and I can feel my face catching on fire. Of course she said at. She probably also told him I'm a virgin and I used to pee the bed until I was 12. Which isn't the slightest bit true.

I blow my fringe out of my eyes, rolling my eyes at Jesse. "Screw her," I mutter loud enough for him to hear, and dive into bed beside him, ready to stuff my face with candy as we watch the screen nestled on our laps.

∞

At midnight - when Jesse is gone and we've stopped laughing uncontrollably at awful movies because of the sugar rush we were hit with - I grab my bag that was used to carry my stuff home from the hospital.

The only light source being from the moon that hangs amongst the dark velvet sky, I squint in the faint light at the items on my bed. My toothbrush, my nightgown, the origami cranes that Lio made for me, the small notebook Dr. hall bought me, and . . .

My brows furrow as a stuffed book comes into vision, and I instantly grab it, confusion washing over me. It's black, with the name Cali studded with gold glittering stars. It takes me a few seconds for realization to hit me. And when it does, it's like a bucket of icy cold water.