***trigger warning: suicidal thoughts***

Just as Cerise scales the stairs to the front porch of her house, her phone rings. The sound of it nearly gives her a heart attack. Quickly fishing it out, she sees it's Devin calling. She declines the call and shoots him a series of short, hurried messages promising to call back a soon as she can, then turns the device off. With her set of keys, she enters the house, cautiously moving towards the kitchen when she finds the hall empty.

There, Cerise is met with a red-faced Jennifer sitting on one of the tall stools near the kitchen island and nursing a mug of black coffee. "Where were you?" she asks when she sees her.

"I was at Mathes--"

"And don't you dare lie to me. I already rang up Matheson's when you weren't answering my calls. Clarisse said you didn't show up."

Cerise stays quiet; her mind completely blank, her arms glued to her sides, and her feet rooted into the spot she stands on. The last remaining alcohol still flurrying in her system is not helping; she feels the ground tilting every now and then.

Jennifer sets her coffee on the counter and nears Cerise, the clicking of her heels sounding like doomsday's clamoring oncoming. "I'm gonna ask you one last time, Cerise. Where were you?" Jennifer's voice is cold and makes an unsaid, malicious promise.

Cerise slowly shuffles back in an attempt to maintain a few feet's distance between herself and her soon-to-be stepmother. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again," somehow wrestles out of her.

"Just answer the question." Jennifer takes another step forward, making Cerise take one backward.

Before Cerise can make another attempt at a lie to save her skin, Jennifer's mask of annoyance slips into a disgusted frown - eyes narrowing and nose scrunching. "Good lord... you've been drinking!"

That is all it takes for Cerise's blank brain to jumpstart as she blurts, "it was just this one time. Some friends wanted to celebrate--"

"I don't care!" Jennifer slices in sharply, "what I do care about, though, is how Christian will feel when he finds out his daughter's turning into a juvenile delinquent..."

Panic settles deep in Cerise's stomach, turning it to cold dead load. Her hands are clammy as she fists them to keep them from shaking. "Please, Jenny," she implores, "I'm sorry and I promise it won't happen again. Just, please, please don't tell Dad."

Jennifer looks at her with such disdain that Cerise wishes for the earth to crack open and swallow her - take her away from here, away from this cursed house, and from this even more cursed life.

"Fine," says Jennifer and Cerise almost heaves a sigh of relief, however, she hasn't finished. "But I can't let you off the hook just like that," she clasps her palms together, "...now, can I?"

Cerise holds her breath, following Jennifer with her eyes as she returns to her perch on the stool and takes a contemplative sip from the mug. She finally speaks, "you're grounded..."

And Cerise exhales. That isn't so bad.

"For a month."

Unable to restrain the sound of protest that she lets loose, Cerise says, "but what about school? I have mid-terms coming and--"

"You should've thought about your mid-terms before you went out to get drunk and break the law against underage drinking!" snaps Jennifer. "Now, either you accept the punishment or I tell Christian about your despicable shenanigans. The choice is yours."

Helpless, Cerise can only nod and acquiesce in defeat. "I'll accept the punishment."

"Of course, you will. You deserve it."

The mordacity of those words sting Cerise as if barbed wires are twining and tightening around her being. Slowly, she swallows the hard mass in her throat and makes for her room, but Jennifer calls her back.

"I'm not done yet, Cerise. You know that phrase--'empty mind is the devil's workshop'?" Cerise searches Jennifer's vitriolic eyes, wondering where she is going with this. The answer comes soon enough as the woman says, "I fear that's what's going to happen if I leave you unoccupied and unsupervised."

"I wouldn't--"

"Just... let me finish, will you? God, you are such an insolent and spoiled child. No wonder you're going frolicking down that lawless path in spite of being the daughter of such a reputed lawyer."

The prickling grows behind Cerise's eyes, burning tears build and pool along her waterline. She fights them back, inhales a deep breath of self-control and suppresses the emotions straining against her crumbling walls. Digging her nails into her palms as she wishes for the physical pain to overpower her internal meltdown, Cerise resolves to not give Jennifer the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She manages to choke out, "I'm sorry."

"Hmm," Jennifer completely disregards her apology, resuming, "one of my salesgirls resigned, the other is on leave... and I have to be in Seattle for the redecoration of the outlet there. It'll take me three weeks, maybe more. So, I was thinking of keeping the store closed for the time because I can't leave Cecilia to take all the responsibility alone. Now, I think I don't have to..." Finishing the last of her coffee, she goes around the kitchen island to leave the empty mug in the sink.

Cerise looks at her feet, the grass stains on the white canvas of her old Converses blur as tears glaze over her vision while she waits patiently for Jennifer to finish. "I'll be leaving for Seattle coming Monday, in the afternoon. You'll come to the store with me and start then. The work should kill that rebellious hooligan growing in you and give you a taste of the pains we take to earn the money you so liberally spent on inebriation. Goodness, did you even think about that? About everything we do for you and your wellbeing?" Scoffing with odium, Jennifer delivers the ultimate blow; a fatally scathing insult - "I know you hate me, but you could've at least thought about your mother. Do you think she'd be proud of what you're becoming? Did she even cross your mind at all?"

Fingers curling, fisting tighter, Cerise embeds her nails into her palms, feeling the skin break - the pain abrasive, searing, but doing nothing to rescind the festering negativity in her mind. Her legs feel like they'll give away under her weight any second now. She wants to scream, she wants to shout at Jennifer - no, at everything, at everyone... at herself for existing. Vacuously, as if from somewhere beyond, she hears Jennifer dismiss her and turns on wobbly limbs for her room upstairs. Each step feels like a mountain, each breath is gaseous acid inhaled - her lungs burn, her very heart burns.

At the top of the steps, she pauses, holding on to the banister for support, struggling for air that doesn't seem to be making it past her trachea. Dazedly glancing down, Cerise feels the vertiginous pull of suicidal thoughts - the stairs beckon to her; a lovely appeal to let herself go. To let herself be freed. Hopefully, she can break her neck and die, or maybe become comatose. Because living without sentience is easier than feeling and being anything at all.

She leans over the edge, hands gripping the railing tight as the nefarious idea works its slow seduction. A full minute passes. And another. Then she steps back, moving towards her bedroom as her gaze remains fixated on the edge of the staircase. A means of salvation.

Cerise Miller cannot do it, the coward that she is...

I am weak.

She enters the room and shuts the door.

I am useless.

She drops on her bed, turning on her side and pulling her knees to her chest, taking on the brunt of all the caustic realizations.

I am pathetic and useless and selfish and... I'm so sorry, mom. I let you down.

All Cerise wants is to slice her wrists and let the agony, the desolation seep sluicing out with her blood. Yet, all she can do is bite the back of her hand to muffle her sobs as the tears finally flow. Her dam is broken, her psychological inhibitions come disastrously undone, and a flash flood of anguish comes loose to plunder her frailty. She smothers her cries, her grief into her pillow till the last reserves of her energy is drained, her throat scratched raw, her eyes swelled shut.

Weakened, crippled, tired, Cerise's eyelids droop. In her dreamscape, she finds nebulous warmth and solace. Familiar, strong arms hold her tight, keeping her from falling apart; fingers brush her hair back with the gentleness of a spring breeze - she drifts off. Vestiges of her active subconsciousness see eyes that have imprisoned the skies of summer, tousled hair atop a sculpted visage, and a smirk so poignant, so sardonic, from which dangles an unlit cigarette.

***

Devin Jameston has already studied the messages ten times at least, still he rereads them again. And again, until the text branded into his mind's eye.

| Please don't call now |

| Something came up at home |

| Promise I'll call back asap |

That was last evening. Even though a full day hasn't yet gone by, Devin has this anxious feeling in his gut - a churning that slowly drags him down in a bog of unsettling fear. Fear, not of anything or anyone, rather fear for Cerise and what she must be facing at home. What could've come up that was so urgent that she disappeared on him him without a word? What if she is in trouble because of their flunking and outing yesterday?

Both of the questions appear to have very discomforting answers. He never should've taken her to The Underworld. If she's punished, it is on him. The urge to call her and find out how she's faring, if she's hurt, is explicit in every cell of his body - inveigling, forceful. It takes all his self-control to keep himself reined. She said she will call, and he will wait for her.

Snubbing the spent cigarette underfoot - his third today - Devin leaves the hickory forest, the place where it all began, and indolently makes for his World History Class. He knows full well that attending the class is useless, for his mind is not into it, but he will try to focus only because it will keep him engaged temporarily.

After school, Devin takes his routine drive to The Brewery. The rush hour is underway, the café bustling with its pother of patrons. Entering through the back door, he clocks in, pulls his apron on, and gets to work. The steady influx of customers and their orders occupy him enough for that itch to contact Cerise faze, mollify, if only slightly, like an afterthought left unsaid. An afterthought which will later demand his attention with a renewed fervor.

By the time he is done with his shift, Devin is exhausted near death. His body bids for rest, however, he is certain he will never be at rest until he knows Cerise is okay. And so, he drives to Thomas Beach, parks at his spot near the divider. Once he has settled upon the hood of his pick-up truck, he types out a message for Cerise:

| Hey |

| Are you ok?? |

He is about to light a cigarette before he decides to send her another text:

| Do you think you can come to Thomas Beach |

He doesn't have to wait long for the response; he is only on his fourth drag of the cigarette when his phone vibrates with Cerise's reply. And he has never felt repose so great in his life.

| Hi. I'm fine |

| You? |

| Sorry about bolting yesterday |

| And sorry, can't come today |

| Been grounded |

Devin's recent repose is short-lived as worry steadily grows in him. He texts her again:

| I'm good |

| Can I call you |

Her answer comes almost instantaneously:

| No! |

| Horseface watches me |

| Call you when I can. Ttyl. |

This abrupt shutdown on Cerise's part leaves Devin only more worried than relieved. He sends her one last message nevertheless:

| Ok. Take care |

After that, knowing not to expect a reply from her, he finishes his cigarette while reveling in the melancholic serenity of the dark gray clouds and the even darker sea. The weather sends his thoughts wandering back to the day they had first met in person. Here, at Thomas Beach. Under the same stormy firmament. It feels like lifetimes ago. Maybe it was lifetimes ago, because each day he spent with Cerise has been like a new life.

***