Sneaking through the dark hallway, I turn the corner, tiptoeing into the kitchen. It's late—freakishly so—and I don't want to screw myself over by waking my parents. Or Noah, for that matter. They'd question me, and questions never led to answers. Not when it concerned my fluctuating hunger. 

        The fridge creaks and the floor screams. I pause, giving the room a moment to relax and give its laughter a chance to die off. 

        I give the fridge a second chance to cooperate and peek into it, the bright bulbs doing a number on my eyes. I squint, reflexively drawing away, then reevaluate the pros and cons of midnight binging and plunge, grabbing the first thing that catches my attention. It's a bowl of freshly squeezed mandarin oranges straight from the fields of Asia. 

        Oranges have never been a first choice, but life's a tedious game of 'yes,' 'no,' 'maybe,' and 'this is doable.'

        Testing the firmness, I shrug and bite into one. The juices ooze out and fill my mouth with a tangy fulfillment. Some, a rather large sum of the liquids, sprints along my cheeks, having a party sliding down my jaw. 

        After polishing off that like a pro, I move on to a second, then a third, a fourth, a fifth—

        "Outstanding," a voice mocks, sending hot and cold shivers down the crevice of my spine. "You always up this late?"

        I turn, gaping unappreciatively in the lazy darkness, in the hallucinative and enigmatic shadows. "I am outstanding." 

        They scoff, "certified citric-a-holic." They shift, shuffling into a beam of moonlight. "Ain't that so like you, hun?" 

        "Indeedy, Minerva-pooh." I hug her loosely, allowing her to comb back the stuffy ponytail of my hair, "what's got your fancy?"  

        She puts up her hands, and once she holds them up to the light, I cringe at the bloodied mess. You're telling me I have parasite blood on my night robe? Epic. 

        "You're kid-brother," she smiles, batting an eyelash, speaking a number to how their relationship has grown these past six months. To go from friends to sleeping together to openly declaring their love is quite the achievement. 

        Putting it into perspective, Zander and I aren't even there yet. 

        "Oh? Making you blush again?" 

        She shakes her head, "I cut myself." it seems as though she sees how wide my eyes become as she states next, "I cut my hands on his katana." And, like she thinks it's worth speaking again, she adds brazenly, without even considering my feelings, "He loves me more than you." 

        Commonly, I wouldn't take such a taunt to my heart, but Noah was my kid-brother, my brother. "Pathetic," I smack her nose, watching it turn reddish. "P-a-t-h-e-t-i-c! No way he does." Then I remember why she's wandering the vacant halls of the house. Looking like the newest member of the Olive Skin Group. "Bandaid's in the bathroom; can you handle that?"

        "Not a baby," Minerva grunts, moving past me. She carefully slips into the bathroom, flipping the switch on. I'm surprised she didn't scream, as she's ultra-light sensitive. "Left shelf or right?"

        I put the plate of half-eaten oranges back in the fridge, my appetite long gone. "Neither," Before I close the door, I skim inside for anything tastier than fruit. "Top one." 

        "You're joking, I can't reach that." She whispers, "I'm short, really, really short." 

I lick the last bits of delicious fruit on my thumb, "Oh, I know." I radiate sarcastically. However, that doesn't stop my legs from moving; it doesn't cancel out the way I lean half my body across the door frame to admire her admirable efforts, and that doesn't give me a second to consider, even once, that she's dating my brother. 

        It always always went over my head. 

        "Help a sister out?" She says strictly, breathing in quick spurts. Heave, out, heave, in. Her forehead's slick with sweat. "Would improve my mental picture of you." 

        "You're a goddess," I say, sliding until only my head is through the door. "Figure it out."

        Minerva hops on the counter, balancing like her life depends on it, hands darkened by blood, by the sweet, sticky, metallic smell of blood. "You're a real help, future sister-in-law." Her body shakes unnaturally, like using her core muscles is a sin. 

        What can I say? I'm an evil little rat. 

        Besides, I can't oppose the opportunity to humble a budding butterfly. She knew I worshipped her, and for good reason, too. 

        "Yes, m'lady." I bow, observing her for only a moment more. She swings open the cabinet, nearly into her face, and rips a bandaid out of the packet with so much force she falls onto the toilet seat. It vibrates, with her excessively curly pink hair getting soaked in the (thankfully clean) water. "Need some help?" I finally offer, seeing no alternative route.

        Minerva sighs, "Well,"—she frowns, softening the mood—"if it's not a burden."

        I step foot in, then hesitate. That was my line, not hers. "Uncharacteristic," I say, grateful that I'm not the person I used to be. Sure, she spoke my words even down to the tone, the simple dragging nature of the word 'burden.'

        Minerva smiles as if she's about to cling to me and sob. "You're rubbing off on me." 

        Pure, she's so pure. "I'm honored," I bunch up the unrivaled mass of hair and squeeze it. "Sister-in-law." It had a nice ring, but the thought of being related to her through holy matrimony was exhausting. The only feasible way this could happen would be by marrying Noah. 

        And in that, they'd have sex, reproduce, and a ton of disgusting, NSFW things I'm not mentioning.  

        Minerva parts the veil of curls, "Thanks again, Violet." 

        "No problem, you're practically family already." My heart throbs, "Plus, with all the heavy lifting you did in the Tether, you've more than validated this." My soul yearns, a sedated satisfaction, a grand infatuation with this divine creature; she's warming the shambles my heart has dissolved into as if it's on the verge of death. "Anyway, I'm headed to bed, goodnight, beautiful soul." 

        "So eager to leave?" Minerva cautiously states, bounding to her feet in one flawless motion. "You're good at hiding, at concealing, but I know you." 

        "Truth be told, Minerva, nobody knows me. Not like I know myself. This game, this strategy is going nowhere." To be able to admit that, straight up, with her eyes glaring at me, the motherly sheen making my brain go psycho, was impossibly hard. 

        Minerva nods, smiling cruelly. "Oh my gosh, I get it." She instructs me to sit down, and I do with a scowl eclipsing my clenched jaw. 

        And I wait. 

        I cross my legs, stubbornly gawking at the wet floor, then up at the pink of her locks. "I'm not some pawn," I breathe, releasing the carbon dioxide, "no one's."

        The door shuts, and if someone crossed our path en route to the kitchen, they'd assume naughty things. They'd no doubt think I wanted Minerva, but I didn't, not a sliver, not a chance in hell. 

        "You're not a pawn," Minerva says, eyeing me strangely like I have the potential of making her cry. "But, you've changed." She hums, "I'm here to talk to you."

        "Sorry to spoil your fun," my blood begins to boil, "that's what my counselor's for." 

        Minerva staggers mundanely, "I don't require money to operate." 

        "True," I let my facial features droop, "I prefer loneliness." 

        "Why? You can't bottle—"

        I stand from the toilet seat, "I can," I push by her, stopping as she grabs my sleeve. "And I will." I knock her hand away, apologize, and scuttle to my room to sulk in peace. 

        That's how our conversation came to an abrupt end. In retrospect, however, the fun activities were just beginning. As soon as I waited a few minutes, I'd open my window and hurry to Zander's. We had made this our dangerous little secret. Once a week, after my parents went to sleep and Apollo stopped bothering me with questions, the covers of my bed would fly off, and A) I would crack the window high enough for Zander to smuggle himself in or, B) I'd run to his house and bunk there. Apollo knew Noah knew, but Minerva might have a hissy fit if I explained it, so I hid it.

        It wasn't a smack against her.  

        Nothing about Minerva annoyed me quite as much as her persistence when it came to grasping the situations of everyone. I had to put my foot down on her tail to remind her I wouldn't let her reprimand me. To be this glorified bimbo boss holding me accountable. 

        I love Minerva, but sometimes she's a handful. And, even if I went too far, I just needed to nudge her into submission. 

        ╔═══════ ೋღ 🌸 ღೋ ═══════╗

        "You spontaneously decided to come see me?" Erika spouts, rolling her eyes. She's standing on the porch in silk pajamas and clutching a worn-out teddy bear. "Wasn't this your night to see Zander?"

        I teeter on the bottom step, the one defying the laws of physics, with half the wood and support deteriorated. Similar to standing on air. "Got Erika-deprived." 

        "We haven't hung out in months."

        "I disappeared from planet Earth, remember?" I say, clasping my hands, hoping to stay on her good side. "Sorry, won't do it again." 

        "You insensitive prick," she flips me the fabled middle finger, then gestures for me to come in, "Interrupted my movie time."

        We're silent at first, our bond having been neurologically severed. Erika and I, childhood besties from an era long gone, don't know what to do. Should I pat her head like I used to? Would she benefit if I told her a dark humor-inspired joke?

        As Erika enters her room, a wave of nostalgia ravages my body. Every one of the 1300 poems we wrote about guys, every sleepover, every weekend spent wreaking havoc on her portable, 88-key Yamaha piano. 

        I was living my youth over again! No! I cannot allow the vestiges of a past life to return to haunt me, guide me, impart their reflective witchcraft, vomit on my lap. They're nothing but feeble nightmares. 

        And I won't listen to their distended gurgles anymore. 

        "You okay?"

        I flap my arms, smacking her chest, and she squeals, vaulting backward on the bed. 

        "VIOLET!" 

        Yes, go on, scream, yell, kick me, maim me, hurt me, kill me, I deserve it—all the punishment in the world couldn't make me feel worth the trouble I cause. "Sorry," I humbly bemoan, putting my diaphragm into it. "Can I talk to you?" 

        Erika shakes her braids, blinking rapidly. "Obviously." She lays on her stomach, letting her feet dangle off the ledge—those brilliant, beautiful, tiny baby feet. "What on?" 

        "Umm,"  the wind flees my lungs, and I'm left gasping. I steady myself, focusing on a single point in the distance, on the picture on the chest of drawers. "S-S-S..." 

        "Violet?" Erika moves across the grey blankets, upending the tucked-in sheets. "Are you okay?"

        "Yes," I say weakly. "Suicide. Have you ever wanted to? Or," I pause, refusing to acknowledge that she was frozen. "Wanted to end someone else?"

        Erika stays quiet, and I let it all flow, but there's no tears, no weeping, no gnashing of teeth, just words. They flow like a river. It's peaceful, like I trained hard like this is some crazy competitive sport. 

        "Ever since coming home, since I woke up in the hectic hospital, in my gown, with stitches in my stomach, ever since I came back to this world, something's been eating away at my mind. It consumes, consumes, consumes." My hands flex and depress, flex and depress. My eyes dart to and fro like I'm expecting a predator to jump out and kill me. "Erika! I'm not okay, but—" I stare at the foreign shape of my fingers and the visually appealing smoothness. Under the dermis and epidermis, there's a coldness that used to be immeasurable warmth and the supple, healthy skin that used to have deformities. "I'm not who I used to be." I gaze at those often complimented hazel nut-colored eyes. I lift my hands, shaking. My own eyes bulging, throbbing inside the narrow cavity of my brain. They wish to desert me, to throw me away, to pop from my skull. "I'm. Not. The. Same. Woman." 

        But I didn't have to say it; my body reeked, bathed in the fact that the Violet she knew, the childish, ignorant boar, died the day I returned. 

        Erika covers her mouth, moving backward, bringing up the covers to the line of her jaw, to the perplexion written in black ink all over her cheeks. "Violet..." Then, like she's run out of things possible to say, she goes quiet. 

        It enveloped us both in a sensitive situation. 

        On one hand, I was an intruder, a stranger, who came in the dark of night under the influence of tension. I was a being that no longer knew her place in this world, that grasped so tightly to the strings of conformity—I couldn't, in any sense of the word, be called normal. Opposite of being a stranger, I was also her best friend, swearing an oath to be there.  

        "Erika, I'm sorry," I say, meaning it more than ever. "I'm so sorry. You're the only person I could think of to rant to." 

        "You have friends beside me. Why now?" Erika quivers, "You haven't talked to me in ages." 

        "I told you why," I say, feeling lightheaded. "I got trapped."

        "That's not—" she stops, sighing, "I had no clue you were in the hospital." 

        "Should I have set a reminder on my phone to tell you?" I huff, sitting cross-legged on the pleasant sage-green carpet. 

        "If you're my best friend, you would've told me first." 

        I stall, "The twins were technically my best friends." But that sounds wrong like I say it only to puncture her heart. 

        "Yeah, you made that clear." She lays back against the headrest. "We're childhood friends, though; doesn't that own a special place in your soul?"

        "Sure." 

        She sighs heavier, more mundane, more anger-laden. "What's the real reason you came?" Erika speaks fast and to the point. 

        "Zander," I mumble similarly. "I love him, but..." and I trail off, thinking about being in the same bed, in the same room, under the same covers as him. 

        Erika waits. 

        "I love him, but..." I can't continue like this. I don't know what I'm talking about anymore. 

        She continues rocking back and forth, allowing me time to gather my thoughts—to find the right combination. 

        "I'm telling you the truth," I sprawl out on the floor, pressing my cheek into the ground, "I do love him..." my brain hurts as it processes what I'm about to utter. But I have to finish what I started. "There's also an urge to, you know," I feel the captivating lull of my heartbeat, the steady, imperfect rhythm clashing on my ribs. And with one inhale, I spit it out. "Kill him."