"You've barely talked to me since you came in sobbing," Apollo says, switching on my bedside lamp. The light casts an electrifying shadow on the wall. "Didn't strike me as someone who cried over spilled milk."

            He never learned; this maggot was incapable of evolving!

            Pushing the book I was reading onto my chest, I give him my trademarked pouty side-eye. "Well, not to spoil your mood, but you don't know me." This shameless parasite doesn't know how babyish I am. Does he know the hundreds of times I've thrown a tantrum because I wasn't allowed to cross the blurred lines between socially acceptable? If he did, he'd be able to rattle off common facts about me. Like, my favorite color. "Nobody does." 

            I'm still waiting for the day my best friends remember my birthday. 

            "Okay, from this conversation, I can deduce you're dark and moody." He pretends to jot it down in an imaginary notebook. "Also, judging from the added edge you're giving me on your period."

            Did any of this matter? He was being an apathetic, insensitive asshole. Who, in their right mind, brought this up to a woman? NO ONE. "Shut up." I turn sideways and resume the exciting book captivating my thoughts (don't take me for someone who reads billions of stories about oversexualized women tending to the extravagant needs of their tyrant boyfriends). The book's illustrious title was The Shape.

            Apollo scoots further up my bed, ruffling the duvet under his solid legs. "Eh, it all adds up."

            "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I throw my book at the wall, cracking its spine. It folds in on itself, settling flat. "It's that time of the month; stop blaming my mood on it." I have no reason to crumble and give in to what he wants. I'm a woman; confidence spills over my pristine complexion. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

            "I do, Violet; we're more alike than you realize." He shrugs like he has no idea the significance of what he's just said. His hair bounces, and I get this unruly sense that he's about to give a speech.

            I roll onto my stomach, unamused. "My brother told me that," My mouth dries, my heart speeding up. "But he said us being similar wasn't a bad thing."

            Apollo cackles to himself as he drops his arms dismissively. "He's a smart kid; I should meet him sometime." He snickers like it's a joke. "But, seriously, being like someone else isn't something to whine about."

            My head bangs against the headboard, "I'm not whining; don't clump me in with those people." I stare at him, "How 'bout you leave me alone?"

            "Wanna get out?" He asks, cruising around my question.

            Whatever patience I have left is drowning and in need of life support. It struggles to lift its head above murky, poison-infested waters with sharks and piranhas. Wearing nothing but a tight, bright red and yellow life jacket, it swims in circles, searching for any signs of hope. But the shark, fantasying about a rare human delicacy (a model to snack on), has other plans. It uses an approaching wave as cover, slinking back into the darkness before soaring hundreds of feet into the air and CRASH! Dead, gone, dismantled– those are words I'd use to describe my patience. Nothing more than food for a monster.

            By the time I've finished my story, Apollo is inches from my face. Beady eyes rest somewhere on my body. His breathing is heavy and jagged like a rock on the side of a mountain. I lurch backward (again hitting my head; this is a cause for brain damage). "DUDE!" I shriek, taking my cover and wrapping it around my torso. "Not cool!"

            "Not cool?" He tilts his head, "I'm not cool?" Now he's acting like an innocent dog that shattered my favorite vase. "I'm the coolest, don't clump me in the group with non-cool people." He staggers away from me, sitting on the tail end of the twin-sized mattress. Lifting his chin, he looks offended. "Violet, you crush my spirit."

            "Keep your lunatic talk to yourself. Well, I dunno about you,"– I yawn– "but I'm taking the fattest nap in the history of fat naps." As I go to force Apollo to scuttle off to the dark void (my corner), he takes my hand.

            I struggle violently and pointlessly with his iron grip. I'm no match for the demi-creature himself! Push, push, PUSH, shlink. My body flies through the sheets like a paranormal fiend. Up and away I go! My spine bumps into the corner of my nightstand, and I crumble like gooey fudge.

            "Violet, you see if you didn't–"

            "Oh my gosh, go die in a hole! If this continues, I'll end up in a box, six feet underground," I close my eyes and cross my arms like a deceased woman. "Like this."

            For whatever reason, Apollo doesn't seem thrilled by my particular reenactment. From his bland face and the way his left eye twitches every 10.25 seconds, he's pissed. I put my fingers together and try to change the conversation. "Did I frustrate you?"

            "More so shocked than anything else." He leans forward, grabbing my cheeks and stretching them to Timboctwo.

            "I gish it, I gish it, leggo." I frown, suppressing the urge to scream, "Pwomise it won't happen again." My feet land in his crotch. Apollo squawks, nicking my cheek with his fist, and before I know it, we're wrestling on the sweaty carpet.

            I'm losing disgustingly.

            "Get off me!" My head pounds ferociously from how out of breath I am. My violet pajama top (which matches my name and personality) has a stain of dark purple. It extends from the straps to the single button adoring it.

             Apollo laughs and backs away, "Fine then, but I have a favor to ask you."

            Reaching into my drawer, I grab a hair tie and put my hair back into its unapologetic bun. While doing that, I try not to stare awkwardly at Apollo. Was he about to ask me out? Was he about to conjure up the power of a demon and cook me to a pile of cooked meat? "Go ahead, don't get me riled up for nothing more than a gentle stab at my current condition." My eyes dart around, avoiding any interaction with the towering menace in front of me. Stay calm, that's the number one goal. "Don't make a fashionista wait." That last part was quite possibly the dumbest thing I've ever said. Fashionista? Seriously? I can barely coordinate my outfits, and it's even worse keeping up with all the female trends (are ripped jeans still in season?)

            "Current condition? Save the fact you're in a crop top that contrasts the yellow pants you wear." Apollo tilts his head, "are you being sarcastic?"

            I wave my hands, "Forget it! A-Anyway, what was the favor?" My thumbs touch, and I force my attention upon that. I'm not staring at his developed physique or how he spins his locks like a weaver. Don't stare, don't stare, DON'T STARE.

            "Let's go for a walk," he says, smiling wryly. "It would do us both good, as it's hotter than the Sahara."

            My cheeks flush, "what makes you think I want to?"

            "Telekinetic Parasitic-Prowess. It's one of my specialties." He bows elegantly, and in the background, I swear classical music from the Baroque period begins serenating me. Along with shared pain."

            "Shared pain?" I question, scratching an itch on my face. "So, if I were pregnant, would you be able to feel each contraction?" Internally, I'm prancing around like the devil, laughing like a maniac. I hunch over, cackling; he might be the first guy to understand how difficult women have it (seriously, give credit where credit is due).

            Apollo shook his head in a mellow manner. "Nope, not even close. The most I'm capable of is sensing you're struggling, sorry, no sensations or whatnot." He doesn't look bothered at all. "Either way, this is boring; let's go before it counts as sneaking out.

            I muster a sound, though I'm unsure what it is; it's like a mixture of a gurgle and a grunt. It's unladylike and frustratingly arousing. Yes, I'm a grade-C enigma. "Sure, where, though?"

            "Any parks around here?"

            As I go to snag my phone and ask Siri for directions to the nearest playground, an empty dresser reminds me of my consequences. There are two more weeks until I can rejoin civilization and hang out with my posse of friends. 14 days. "Yeah, I don't have any devices remember?"

            He hangs his head but perks up a moment later. "Come here; I'm sick of planning this out."

            "Go out the window. I'll shout to my parents that I'm going out." I slip a baggy T-shirt over my crop top, with the words Disruptive Diva scribbled in hot pink. "I don't need the humiliation tonight."

            Apollo opens the window several inches and swings a leg out, but before he leaves me to face the noise alone, he addresses me. "Was it humiliating the first time?" Before I can wrap my head around the tone and inflection of his voice, he's waiting for me on the front lawn.

            Staring intently at me, I'm sure he's licking his lips, thinking about devouring me. The funny thing is– I think that turns me on.

            Closing the bedroom door softly behind me, I tiptoe into the silent hallway. The recently refinished hardwood squeaks and holds its breath under each arched foot. It waits patiently, shuddering. As if to say, "We're old, and our bones aren't what they used to be." Of course, I understand and do my best not to put all my weight on a single board. I inch forward, moving with prolonged ease, making haste toward my parent's bed chamber. Then, like a cannon exploding into the forces of General Washington's army, a pop resounds through the house.

            The flipping of the hall light switch and the stagnant stares of my father echo resiliently in my soul. He rubs his eyes, yawning. "Whatcha doin'?" My dad asks, leaning somberly against the doorframe. His pupils glared at me with unquenched resentment. "Is something wrong?"

            I played with the bottom of my shirt, which hung like a hospital gown on my frame. "No, haha, perfectly fine," the hiccup that shortly follows makes me blush. From that, I twist my shirt harder. "I'm going for a walk to clear my head. Is that okay with you?"

            My dad nods, "Sure, just be mindful of your surroundings. I trust you can do that." He turns to re-enter the master bedroom. "G'night, Viola, love you."

            Eek, he hardly ever outright said he loves me. But now that I hear it, my stomach drops into the abyss of my gastric juices. I shrink away awkwardly, "Yeah, you too." Then, with the thought of my dad still burning in my mind, I toss on my old running shoes and exit as quietly as possible.

            Whatever this warmth emanating inside my body is, I'm all for it.

                                                ╔═══════ ೋღ 🌸 ღೋ ═══════╗

            We turn right, dodging the creepy house where the owner likes to watch me through his window (and however many other young women taking walks now and then). The houses lined up in a single file line shine against the backdrop of the starry summer sky. Great oak doors, old stone walls, long winding driveways, and the two-story buildings towering over us are beautiful.

            "Have you ever fallen in love?" I halfheartedly trip on a crack in the atrocious sidewalk. Large arms wrap around my belly, and Apollo gently lifts me back up without a skip in his response.

            "Who hasn't?" He calmly says, hands in his pockets. "I'm sure you have, as I've sensed your heart throbbing; wanna elaborate on that?" He smiles, poking my shoulder to force my attention.

            "Oh, Zander?" I felt weird about discussing the depths of my love life with a blood-sucking (excuse me, that's a vampire, which is equally, if not hotter than Apollo) parasite. I stop at the corner of the street under a flickering lamppost. Up next to him, I look like a baby, tiny and meek. "Why are you so interested? I'm not mad, just curious because women are curious beings." Okay, bad joke.

             Apollo shrugs, staring out into the quiet roads of the neighborhood. Where cars snore peacefully, taking a break from the day's activities. "Because I'm your parasite, so tell me." He grabs my shoulders, not harming me, which is alarming since I annoy the living hell out of him. His expression, stoic and confiding, gazes down at me with serene enchantment.

             Blushing, I take a step closer to him. "He's not important right now, but someone is," I murmur, wiggling into the lower half of his tummy near his forbidden zone. I'm pink and red, symbolizing my profound weakness. "You are." My heart thumps inside my head, and I can't believe what I'm rambling on and on about. Am I sick? I'm being so inappropriate. This is like a scene pulled from the pages of adult fiction. Something about this is intriguing– like I've just won the lottery. I can't decide what to do with the winnings. I'm hopelessly lost. It's in a good way, with, hopefully, devious results.

            Apollo squeezes an ounce tighter. "I'm important? How?" He knows what I'm talking about. He knows I've helplessly fallen in love with my parasite. He cocks his head right approximately 60 degrees. "You're flirting with me, aren't you?"

            I shake my head so fast that my neck creaks, and my brain jiggles. I swallow, allowing my eyes to adjust to the bewildering darkness. "So what if I am?" I lean on my back foot to appear as sexy as possible. Then I thrust my pelvis into him. "I'm a teenage girl,"–I push my hands as far as I can around his waist–"People say I'm at my hottest when I'm trying to make 'em mine," I whisper, hugging him.

            "Oh man," he sighs, "Someone's–"

            "Shush up, bitch," I snap with authority woven into my voice, grabbing his chin. I gather all my courage, directing it into one final offense, and kiss him. Desperation has taken over, and my tongue pierces the back of his throat.

            From the looks of it, I'm not the only one enjoying it. That's one small step for the human race and one giant leap for Violet Gwendolyn.

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