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Short StoriesAbout MeMemory: Joey Not This Love Mr Fix It Snow Sleeping Beauty Frat Boy About Me You want to hurt me. I can see it all over your face, broken into pieces and trickling down your chin like drool or misfortune. You want nothing more than to grab the nearest knife-sharp thought that comes to your mind and insert it between my ribs, cracking my sternum, puncturing my lungs or gutting my stomach. You’re pre med or some shit like that, you’ll be able to find it better than I ever could. What you’re really looking for, though, is my heart. You want nothing more than to dive into it and rip it to tiny shreds, just like I’ve ripped yours apart time and time again. Oh no, don’t turn the tables on me! I did so in complete self-defense, it was a guard against the evils I knew you would unleash one day. I kept you at arms length, kept you thinking you were disposable (you are) and unimportant (you are especially this) so that you’d spend every waking hour proving yourself to me. I’m sick of proving myself to men, it was only fair. Eve finally took revenge on Adam and the whole fucking church. I’ll give you a hint: tell me I’m ugly and fat. You’ll hit a deep chord. I know, I know, it’s superficial; it’s something you wouldn’t expect from me. I’m not fat and I’m certainly not ugly, but I tell myself this every time I happen by a mirror. I’ll tell you what I focus on – my calves are far too big for my body, my thighs are disgustingly muscular and lack any femininity. They would sooner belong to a sumo wrestler than a 20-year-old woman. I hate my skin, it’s disgusting and porous and far from the blank canvas of those girls in the magazines. Yes, I do compare myself to them and every other flawless material It girl of 2009. Make fun of me for that, too. Talk about my eating disorder, the one where I track my calories and weight so piously. I worship it. Point out how shallow and ugly and fat I am, I guarantee it will start the slow wilting destruction you’re looking for. Oh, don’t forget to tell me how I’m not fit for my future career. It haunts me every day, knowing that my grades are sub-par and there are others who study half of what I do and do twice as well as me. It breaks me down more than anything else to lose that spotless 4.0 of my youth. I’m so proud of it I refer to it as if it’s an excuse against the failure that is my college career. Point out that my excuses are ridiculous, I put myself into situations where I’m unprepared for class. You know why: I don’t take it as seriously as I should. I fail at taking anything serious seriously. I might as well graduate with a Bachelor of Arts. Want to hurt some more? Tell me I’m ordinary, I loathe the thought. Tell me I’m just as silly and petty as the next girl. Despite how vehemently I try to scream that I have no emotions, that I lack empathy or patience tell me how disgustingly feminine I am. Tell me that I am motherly, that I am self-centered and filled with the same insecurities as all the dime a dozen girls you surround yourself with. Point out that I have all of the emotional depth of the deepest seas and oceans, and that they’re painted across my face. Tell me you know how to hurt me, that it’s so easy to see that I cover everything with makeup. Point out how obviously insecure I am, I promise you my knees will buckle. The tip to the ice burg? Tell me I’m not enough for you. Tell me that you’ve found yourself a better version of me, one that doesn’t have these all too human faults. Tell me she’s smarter and prettier and that she’s less awkward and you can take her home to your family. Tell me all about how popular she was in high school, how she didn’t need a sorority to make herself feel important in college, how she doesn’t still cry over a failed relationship that means nothing to her. Tell me about how you’ve found a girl that makes up for all the pain and hate I caused. Tell me how I wasted your time. Tell me that you said you loved me for fun, a social experiment. Tell me that you get together with your friends to laugh at me and how I’m afraid of clowns and rejection and the dark. Laugh with them about how I can’t fall asleep alone, and that when I do I just toss and turn all night. Laugh about how I still sleep with a stuffed animal for any semblance of a connection, and that without love I’m lost. Tell me about how you can see right through me and know that I want to, no, need to, be loved above all else in order to feel human. You can see how I crumble without it, how I use boys that might possibly like me to feel attractive and needed. Remind me of friendships I’ve ruined all for my own vanity, remind me of how I break the most beautiful things in my life. You never will, though. The hurt on your face is draining to anger. You’re angry because you could never see any of these things about me because I never let you close enough. Please, get angry, scream at me, tell me all the stupid things you hate about me. You’ll never know which button to press because I kept my cards too close to my chest. Please, walk out, storm away and leave me here without a single tear in my eye. You know why? You’ll never know a single damn thing about me. Memory: Joey The Big Fish Pub is hardly a romantic location for a rendezvous. It’s filthy, walls bleeding old posters from long dissembled and reassembled local bands lusting for fame. The stage barely fits the band setting up now, composed of your picturesque drummer, two guitarists and a bassist. It barely fits inside the ‘underage’ section of the bar, which is sectioned off by yellow caution tape that is easy to dodge beneath when the lone bouncer turns his head. The air is smoky like every other bar on the planet, and the floor is sticky due to a janitor’s inability to scrub the grime and alcohol out of the floor. My mother would never let me go here on any occasion, even though my best friend’s band was playing after this next nameless band. Thinking of him I looked to the far wall just in time to see him peer up from beneath his lush halo of black hair, thick-rimmed glasses framing his brown eyes. He waves and I return it, nearly hitting Andrea in the process. “I’m so out of place,” she whines, shifting her weight from one ballet shoe covered foot to the other. She’s really not, she does this for attention from time to time. She’s playing up the more EMO aspect of the underground metal world we’ve thrown ourselves in, wearing her Buffalo Exchange cardigan and skinny jeans. It’s really an unfitting name for the jeans, Andrea is far from skinny, and she literally poured herself into the jeans. I was there when we zipped them up, and boy was that a task. “Where did you even get that shirt?” she comments to me, shifting her weight back and crossing her arms over her chest. I gazed down at my outfit, which was pretty standard for me – a random band t-shirt with jeans and converse. I faded into the crowd with the exact obscurity I longed for, god forbid anyone notice me. I was just a mousy blond with bad skin and an awkward build. Plus, I was so obviously 16 at what was supposed to be an over 18 event, so I wanted to be as nondescript as possible. The last thing I needed was to have to call my mother and have her pick me up from a bar in Mesa. “How do you know these songs?” she pressed further when I didn’t answer, taking instead to humming along to the songs that were barely discernible under the clamor of talk and a bad sound system. If I weren’t so afraid of dying by circle pit or mosh pit I would have left her bitching and moaning ass at home. “When am I going to meet this boyfriend of yours?” I retorted, wanting a reason for her to shut up. It worked well enough, red rushed to her face quicker than I could finish the sentence. She shifted her weight uncomfortably, gazing over the crowd, elevating to her tiptoes to try to see. It was stupid, Andrea was 5’10, there was very little she couldn’t see. Stranded at 5’4 I would have been lucky to see even a glimmer of her alleged boyfriend from this angle. It just so happened that his band was up next. When he walked onto the stage the lights dimmed. If they really dimmed or if I had tunnel vision was up to debate, my state of mind was nowhere near clear. He was flawless, more like a misplaced picture from Rolling Stone than a real human. Andrea squealed and waved, to which he responded with a half-grin and a coy wave. My heart skipped a beat. For the entire 45 minute set all I could see was him, his dark brown eyes eating up the crowd as he sang and played guitar, his voice crooning and sweet. The metal riffs mixed with his heartbreaking voice and equally emotional lyrics nearly brought me to my knees with need, with want. I wanted to be the girl of his songs, not stupid Andrea and her petty insecurities. When he finished his set and came toward us I couldn’t breathe, my heart was stuck in my chest. “Hey babe,” he said with a surprisingly thick Brooklyn accent, swooping the few inches to kiss Andrea candidly on the cheek. All I could focus on was the way the tattoo of an angle on his neck glistened under his sweat. He caught me watching him and hesitated, waiting for an introduction. Who was this ridiculous child that was staring so openly, practically gawking? “Joey,” he said, extending his hand. “Courtney,” I said, jerking my head to Andrea, “Andrea’s ride while her parents commandeer her car.” He grinned, showing off a set of perfectly white teeth. Swoon. “You were great babe!” Andrea crooned, leaning into his chest, refusing to be outdone by anything I could say. She folded herself into him with ease, placing a soft kiss on his neck. It was then I noticed the tattoo on each bicep, the multiple piercing along his ears and face, all markers of the exact type of boy I didn’t want to bring home to mommy. But god, why did I want nothing more than to steal him away from Andrea and win him over? He wrapped his arms around her, but never bothered to break eye contact from me. “How’d you like the set?” he asked, launching us into a discussion about his musical influences, leading into a debate over who is a stronger female: Tairrie B or Otep? Is Flea really the greatest bassist of all time? Who was the better singer for Killswitch Engage? Andrea tapped her foot, angry to be left out. “Joey,” came a male voice, the bassist with the thick beard appearing behind him. “C’mon, set’s moving.” He unfolded Andrea from his arms, giving her a fleeting kiss goodbye. “Nice to meet ya,” he said to me as he disappeared into the crowd. Andrea let out a sigh, a dreamy smile on her face. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she crooned. “He seems awfully old for you,” I retorted. She made a face. “No way, he’s 19, that’s only 3 years. Actually, it’s 2 years and 7 months for us.” Totally within my reach. Bands came and went all night, yet I couldn’t focus on them. I couldn’t focus on Matt’s band as he played, finding myself too distracted by sweeping the crowd for any sign of Joey. Matt joined us in the crowd, bobbing his head to the music, enjoying the bands with Andrea and I. “Hey,” he said to me later, grabbing my arm and pulling me to the side. “Why were you talking to Joey Capelli?” I furrowed my brows, tilting my head. “He’s Andrea’s boyfriend, why?” He let out a relieved sigh, shaking his head. “Oh, nothing. He’s bad news, that’s all, he…” Matt was going through his laundry list of misdeeds, but I didn’t hear any of it. From the corner of my eye I caught the flash of his black and silver shirt moving against the wall. He was standing there talking to his band mate, all smiles and all beautiful. He turned enough to catch my eye, watching me from across the room. A lump rose in my throat. “Promise me you’ll avoid him?” Matt said, coming eye level with me, knocking my vision free. “You worry too much,” I said with a fleeting smile, patting Matt on the shoulder and heading to the parking lot to meet Andrea. Not This Love “Tell me about last night.” Her pen was balanced in her left hand, not quite in a writing position, but ready in the event that she’d give a clear answer. As always her legs were crossed, her all-too-official skirt in perfect synch with the rest of her body. She was the hard type, the type that believed in a uniform to work. Shrinks were firm and hard women, none of that hippie crap for her. She had the glasses, the blonde ponytail, the slightly lined face, the black woman suit. She was too traditional for Kay, Kay who was prone to odd whims. “It was cute,” Kay began, lying on her back in the overstuffed armchair. Normal clients sit, Monica had said before, perhaps a little too motherly. Maybe that’s why Kay didn’t get along too well with her, she was too damn motherly. Kay was under the impression Monica hadn’t had the opportunity to be a mother, she was too damned frigid all the time. “We went to his favorite restaurant, kissed in his car, then fucked in his bed.” Kay spoke with a flippant tone, the same tone she always seemed to use when she was particularly disinterested. Kay wasn’t interested in being psychoanalyzed. Monica flinched at the word choice. Kay tried not to smile. “Cute.” Monica was curt, perhaps still recovering from the slip, giving that stern look she always gave. Kay turned her head enough to give Monica a rebellious smile, mouth partially open, black bangs falling a bit into her eye closest to her. She took perverse pleasure in that. “Is that it?” “Is what it?” “Is that all that happened?” “Summed up, paraphrased…yeah. Well, you can’t really paraphrase our fuck, it was short enough, but yep.” Again. This time it illicted a twitch, and Kay’s smile wasn’t in passing again. It was more permanent. Monica couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you love him?” Kay was shocked into silence, but as always her recovery was slick. Felines were good at landing on their feet. “Love? Mm, never thought on it. Does it make noises when its aroused?” “I doubt you’ve loved a thing in your whole life, yourself included.” Kay became annoyed. “What the hell is all this hippie shit about love yourself?” She chided it, molded it into a disgusting obscenity. Love love love. “It’s what humans feed off of.” “I feed off something, all right, but that doesn’t make me less human.” “It makes you a whore, that’s what it makes you.” Kay was shocked into silence. Her foot slipped, and with a little less grace she could retort moments later. But it was too delayed, Monica felt her upper hand, Monica had her wooden spoon. She could beat the child into submission any minute, she could… “Just because I don’t wall myself up in an office all day and listen to everyone bitch and moan and have a large frigid stick up my ass doesn’t make me a whore. I need sex, I need it as much as I need the rich men who supply it. I’m a shopaholic, I’m a sexaholic, I’m a workaholic…hell, I’d be an alcoholic if it didn’t kill you faster. You have no passion, that’s your fault.” Monica smirked. “Passion? Slinking around men’s rooms like a used rag is hardly what I’d call passion.” Kay’s knuckles were white. “Fuck you.” Monica set her pen on her desk and folded her hands on top of her top knee. Her head tilted at the perfect angle to be condescending, something Kay hated. “Don’t you fucking turn into Tiff now,” Kay hissed, almost in desperation, clinging to something to shut her up with. “With that motherly look. I’ll serve you the same way I did her, I’ll serve you now.” She became rigid, sitting in the chair like a normal client. For once. But her leg rose, she slunk back, she wanted to pounce. She looked like a cat who knew it’d be cornered soon, one that took the defense and prepared for the offense. Mr. Fix It It didn’t take an eagle eye to see the whites of his knuckles as they gripped the back of the chair in front of him. His shoulders were hunched over, his head shaking from side to side, his entire stance a juxtaposition of aggression and passivity. She didn’t even flinch, she gave her normal impassive stare that shared the depth of emotion with a birdbath. She doesn’t even bother to brush the stray strand of brunette bang that fell haphazardly into her left eye, though it was surely poking her lively green eyes. She cared about it as much as she cared about him. “I don’t get it,” he says at long last, looking up from between his tightened shoulders. He has blue eyes, beautiful blue eyes that throw his heart, bleeding and pulsating, onto his sleeve. He might as well of had a marquee streaming his thoughts across his forehead; he was never the master at being discreet. That’s probably what landed them in this situation. Check that, it’s the exact reason they were in this situation. “Don’t get what?” she asked, shifting her weight to her left, resting her stray hand on the back of her chair. That did it. He couldn’t stand it, and his anger exploded like red-hot fireworks burning smoke and cinder in the room. She could have coughed for the thickness in the air, but she cared so little about relieving the tension. It surely would have shifted the focus, even if for a moment, which she could have escaped. She didn’t mind confrontation, her entire existence was about it. She created it, she molded it, she often tossed it at the weak and stood back to watch what happened. She was a woman of power, a woman of influence, and nothing as silly as emotional tension in the air would bring her to her knees. He’d have to pull something better than a harmless white bunny from his hat this time. His explosion caused him to toss the chair to the side, and still she doesn’t flinch. Even as it falls to the ground, making that deafening sound of a lovers quarrel she doesn’t so much as avert her cool gaze from his own. He broke it long ago, lifting a hand to his chin, rubbing the shadow that lingered there. His hands move up and down, going through the motions of emotional distress. He doesn’t know what to do with them, he doesn’t know where to put them, he can’t think straight. And she stands there, cool as a cucumber, sarcastic remarks threatening to spill from those soft pink lips. He can’t stand it, he throws something else, some nonessential vase of flowers he probably brought her as a peace offering. He’s done nothing but hand her white flags of surrender, but the barricade never comes down. “Why do you do this? Every single god damn time! I’ve told you everything, you know me inside and out. You know things that I haven’t even told my dog, but you still don’t trust me, do you? You still refuse to act somewhat human and acknowledge that we are perfect for each other. You know we’re soul mates, you know that I love you more than anyone else will, you know all of this and still you refuse…you just…” His voice breaks into a million little pieces, shattering and fleeing to the corners of the room like one of those balls dipped in nitrous oxide and dropped so carelessly. She watches them fall away from her peripheral vision, refusing to drop her chin, refusing to give in. She isn’t weak, she won’t bend to yet another show of emotional immaturity by him. This is why she loathes him so, this is why she often wants to disappear from this stupid little town and find somewhere with more men. She hates his stupid emotions and the way he rubs them in her face. She hates his vulnerability, she hates the way he is simultaneously egocentric and self-conscious. But strong women don’t let their feelings get the better of them. If she retorts, if she raises her voice or even tilts her head she’s letting him know that he’s won. He’ll have proven to himself (but not the world, not those who really matter) that somewhere beneath that designer necklace and that meticulously ironed blouse there is a person. He’ll prove that when she moves close to him in her sleep its for company, not warmth. He’ll prove that her eyes are that electric green because she lives so deeply in the moment she cannot stop smiling. He wants to prove that she refuses to lower herself because even the slightest movement of her body, the slightest shift of weight, will let those pent up tears fall down her face without mercy. She still believes she lacks tear ducts. “Please,” he says now, his voice quieter, his steps taking him closer to her. She moves then, taking a step back, avoiding what she knows he’ll do. He’ll wrap her into one of his suffocating hugs, he’ll pull her into that spot where she fits like a puzzle piece, he’ll rub that spot along the left side of her neck that always pulsates when she’s angry. Despite the way she clams up so historically he knows by instinct what to do to pacify her, to beg for her forgiveness without letting her concede. He stops himself though, stops inches from her. He doesn’t want her to concede, he wants her to say something, anything! “Please, just…just say something. Anything.” He takes her right hand in his, his heart crushing as she jerks it away. “The dinner was lovely,” she says quickly, quietly, her eyes all at once vacating their unwavering position and falling meekly to the ground, towards the exit. “But I think you should leave. I work early in the morning and I need to go to bed now or else I won’t get enough sleep.” She is rambling, and for a moment he thinks he can hear her voice waver. “But…” he says, taken aback, shocked by her outright dismissal. Normally she just folds into him, then they head to bed in a mess of arms, legs and clothes. Her eyes raise and he knows he is wrong, there isn’t a single tear behind those soft eyelids. Her eyes aren’t even red from strain, her face a perfect clarity of complexion, no blush or shame to be seen. The eye aversion is lost on him, and he can only stand, mouth agape, watching her with hurt and denial. “Lock the door behind you,” she continues, her eyes turning away as she moves to clear the table. She moves with deftness, as if he’s not even standing there, as if she has no reason to be upset and hurry or hesitant and slow herself. She moves with the effortless grace he fell in love with, the way she can command the room without saying a word. He grabs her wrist mid air, stopping it from gathering the first piece of expensive white china. It’s the nice dishes tonight, it’s a special occasion, it’s been a year since she moved into the apartment. “Baby…” he says, pulling her wrist towards him. She tries to snake her hand away but he refuses to let up his grip, he’s much stronger than she is. She’s so small compared to him, her top of her head barely reaching his shoulders, looking more like a whisper of smoke against his strong form. “Let go,” she commands, and he almost listens. It’s hard to disobey that tone of voice. The moment of weakness is enough for her to break his grip. That’s how it always is – he gives a little, she takes it all back, the chips stacked high in front of her. “Fine, but I’m not coming back, not until you promise you’ll talk.” He warns this, but it is an empty threat and she knows it. She’ll never talk, she’ll never budge, not even for him. He’ll call her in three days like clockwork and beg to see her again, beg to be forgiven for something he didn’t even do. It’s really a misunderstanding, he took her on as a project. No one thought she had the capacity to date, much less love anything other than her dog. She was a great thing to fix, and he was a handy man who knew his way around a girl. She was no girl, she was a woman unlike any he’d seen before, so he’d come back for more tomorrow. It was only a matter of time. “I guess it was nice to know you then,” she says, balancing a plate on her hip. New again, she normally feigns a task and busies herself with it. She is stark still now, tapping her fingers in a mock show of impatience on the expensive plate balanced on her hip. “Don’t bother to call, I won’t answer,” she continues, sweeping up the last of the plates without getting within range of his hands again. She disappears into the kitchen and he’s left standing there, another victim of a woman who refuses to budge. Snow She packed the snow in a little tighter. Her left hand held a giant glob of it, white and frozen solid like snow really is, her right hand patting the top of it to ball it up. The ball had to be the right shape, the right size, the right depth. Mulling it over in her hand she found a flaw, and added another small handful of snow to it. Another few pats, a finger sliding along the top to shave off the excess. “It’s a game, Geneva, not an art,” came the ardent voice of Holly. She had a hand on her hip, her longish hair braided in two pigtails that fell just beneath her collarbones, the top hidden under a brown beanie. Despite how girlish it might have been, she still looked older. She still looked beautiful an immaculate. “If you don’t pack it down the snow will go everywhere,” retorted Geneva, perhaps a little too defensively. Holly shrugged, and took that moment that Geneva turned back to her snow globe to scoop up a patch haphazardly and throw it at her. Her point was made when it effectively hit Geneva dead on and caused her to drop her perfect snowball, making it shatter into a million little snow pieces all over the ground. Each piece became displaced and sank into the snow in it, and once more became the monotony that is the snowy ground. Holly outdid her again. “That wasn’t necessary,” Geneva said with a sigh, trying to fight back whatever it was she felt. Despite how trivial that act was, she wanted to cry. She wanted to beat Holly to a blood pulp, then cry her eyes out and make a real snowball and hit her with it. Hard. Right in the face. Instead, her voice was drawn and her patience prevailed. Holly remained unharmed and Geneva went to work at another perfectly shaped snowball. “I’ll be back in 20 minutes when you’re done with that one,” Holly said, flipping her braid behind her and turning away. Spite, maybe even hatred, caused Geneva to fling the half-finished snowball at Holly’s back and hit her square between the shoulders. She lurched forward, stumbling a step, her head snapping back. It was unexpected, and despite how painful it might have been for Holly, Geneva smiled. She knew it was wicked, she knew it was cruel and unkind…but she felt free. Free until Holly turned and gave her a look, when Geneva hid her smile and shrugged. “Its just a game,” Geneva said. “Like fuck it’s just a game,” hissed Holly. “Don’t get so worked up, it’s just a snowball.” “Yeah, but I turned my back. I was walking away. You shot me in the back.” The back, the back. Oh no, not the back! “You have no concept of what a friend is.” Sleeping Beauty Aura was not in a particularly charming mood as of late, something I wish I could attribute to a cold or a death in the family. Nary was the case; she was in her foul mood that made interaction with her impossible. I warned Merryweather that such was the tide, but the fairy claimed the girl would do her no harm. Had she not been the one that bestowed upon Aura the ability to sleep instead of die when pricked? Of all the things you’d think a girl would be, grateful was one of them. Aura had never really been all that merry in the first place. “I told you never to call me that again!” came the screeching and hollering of Aura from behind the door. I gave a knowing look to the maid next to me, who shook her head and collected her skirts, turning away. I ventured to crack the door open, letting the curious maids all around get an earful of the chaos inside. “Call you what? Aura? Why, that’s your name!” Merryweather replied, a bit taken aback by the girl’s nature. A peek inside confirmed my fear, Aura had thrown the plate next her to bed at the fairy, who promptly lifted her plump self off the ground to avoid it. She was now fluttering about, hovering just above the ground, her wings straining to support her. “NO IT’S NOT!” Aura shrieked, throwing her fists down onto her bed in anger. “I TOLD YOU TO CALL ME BY MY REAL NAME, SLEEPING BEAUTY.” Oh my, this one again. It had become a popular tune in the castle since Aura’s prompt awakening and wedding to Prince Phillip. The poor sod didn’t know what he was getting into, kissing her and waking her up and all. She might have been gentle enough when she lived in the forest, far, far away from all humanity. She wasn’t thrown there to make sure she was safe; she was thrown there so we could all be safe from her. When the Prince learned of his betrothment to her, he was ecstatic. At the moment of kissing her he’d been so captivated by her beauty, the same beauty that brought about her newfound name. Sleeping Beauty. It wasn’t very fitting anymore, she was very much awake, much to my dismay. “Good morning Princess,” I interrupted, fluttering into her room and disrupting the scene inside. Merryweather’s arms were crossed over her chest, her wand in her right hand, ready to strike if her life were to ever be in danger. Hell hath no fury. Aura shifted, wiping tears of anger from her eyes to see who had come into the room. “You are dismissed,” she commanded haughtily of Merryweather, who flew out of the room, giving me a sideways glare. I watched her impassively, coming to Aura’s bedside to sit on the edge of it, hands folded neatly in my lap. “Have you any news?” she asked, unable to hide how hopeful she was from her voice. She was, of course, referring to Prince Phillip. Ever since he learned of his dearest wife’s persona he’d promptly enlisted himself as a war captain for the coming siege. I hear he’s on the front lines, perhaps hoping to be shot. I would very much enjoy the same fate, but as a woman I’m reserved to gossiping about the princess when she’s not around to the others. “Some,” I said absently, fingering the threads of her comforter as they poked out. She slapped my hand away, crossing her arms over her chest. “You will tell me now, Hesia, and you will tell me everything and repeat nary a word.” With a shrug and a sigh I said, “He sends his love, but the war carries him so far away. Just yesterday he’s half to the desert.” “The desert! What’s there that’s not here? Nasty sand and ugly women?” she huffed most undesirably, her bottom lip quivering angrily. “I hate this war business. Can’t we just talk to them?” She was whining now, it was most unbecoming of her. Sometimes, I hope her vapid personality will cause her mother and father to remove her of her position and instead enlist someone more fitting as the princess. Unfortunately, hubby dearest secures the power they so long for, and we minions are stuck to do her bidding. I just hope they never reproduce. Before I could say a thing in response, her door flew open and The Three whisked themselves in. I call them The Three because there are three of them, and they’re hardly apart, and their names usually escape me. They make for good gossip though. Indeed, the first thing that the blonde one says is, “Oh Aura, we have the greatest word for you!” Aura forgot about her previous outburst, allowing her name to be used as interest took over. “Well, don’t be daft! Tell me these things.” They huddled closer, pushing me precariously out of the circle. I resigned to pulling up a chair, forfeiting my spot on the bed. “Joullete! She has gone and presented herself to Herald as if she were a common wench!” The redhead with the silky hair squealed. The blonde, who first initiated the news, shook her head in dismay. “He was to become my husband. I have more status than her, and I am prettier.” She tossed her head, snorting defiantly. The brunette one nodded earnestly, not usually inclined to say much one way or another. If anything, she just made it obvious she agreed with everyone else and definitely belonged amongst them. She was a charmer. “Well, did you lay claim on Herald?” Aura asked skeptically. She thought Herald was fat and ugly – which he was – but she would not tell this to the blonde one. Secretly she hopes they will make ugly fat little babies that will one day be killed by her tall, gorgeous ones. She tells me this in confidence, and I let it known to one of The Three or Joullete. The gossip is hardly, if ever, traced back to me. I’m a bit too clever for that, much to Aura’s chagrin. The blonde paused. “Why, no. What would you like me to do? Lay my claim clear as day, be a wench like Joullete?” She was losing steam, hating that Aura would not take her side. It was most unfortunate for her, most interesting for me. “Well, then it is no fault of Joullete’s, but yours,” Aura said simply. “It’s the principal!” the red head exclaimed, angry with that as well, but less willing to relent to Aura. Aura’s eyes were like daggers, turning on the red head like a dog onto meat. She slunk back a little, but otherwise kept her position. “It has nothing to do with principal and all about fact,” Aura hissed, not liking to lose her upper hand. The brunette, who was strikingly intelligent in these moments, nodded along with Aura. “Fact,” she repeated, as if it was her own idea to begin with. Aura didn’t bother to pay attention to her. “I shall have to talk with him then,” the blonde said, gathering her skirts, defeated. The redhead rose accordingly, but her motions were a little more defiant. The brunette paused, and then rose as well, but without the look either of them had. I wondered vaguely if she had any idea where they were going, or if she even intended to follow. Then, one by one, they filed out of the room. “To-morrow then!” cried the blonde, not doing the customary curtsy. Aura didn’t notice, instead she groaned and flopped over in bed, probably forgetting I was there. “She’s just in such a mood because her father is poor and she will lose all her influence soon,” Aura complained to me, and I changed my mind about leaving. “She needs to marry some fat tot like Herald to get anywhere in life,” she continued on. “No one will have her, not after Jason soiled her reputation so. They all know she’s a used rag.” Aura took pleasure from this and smiled maliciously, sitting up in bed. “I wonder if he knows.” I took this time to leave, using my father’s carriage as an excuse. “The nerve of her,” said the blonde, falling into step with me as I left Aura’s room. “She’ll be shut up soon enough,” seconded the red head, her eyes alight with mischief. “Oh?” I asked, pretending to be uninterested but fully ready to indulge in whatever gossip I could. “Yes, it seems that Prince Phillip is currently missing in action. He’s feared dead, his empire crumbled.” This was shocking enough to arrest me of all movement entirely, tilting my wide eyes at her. “Are you sure?” I asked, flabbergasted. “Sure as pie!” the blonde said, shocked that I should think otherwise. “I heard it this morn. I was to deliver the message to her…but I think it can wait.” They all exchanged looks, hurrying off to do god knows what. I was left alone to wander the castle. “Hesia,” came my name from behind, and I turned to see none other than Joullete. Her black hair was messy as usual, her all-too-big breasts nearly spilling from her shirt. She was a bit toity. “Have you seen Aura?” I nodded, unable to resist. “How’s Herald?” She froze, then smiled warmly. “He’s a most interesting creature, if I do say so myself!” I didn’t know how to take this, so I instead went on. “The blonde one, what’s her name? Stephanie? Yes, she seeks to speak to him about you, soil your reputation. Her family’s gone poor and she wants Herald to keep up her lifestyle.” Joullete scoffed, laughing. “Why, she’s too late, he’s claimed me, he has!” She tossed back her hair, saying, “Did you hear about Prince Phillip?” I nodded. “Indeed, Aura has no idea.” “Let’s keep it that way. Perhaps we can use up all her good favor and then let it be known that she is poor and broke. That’d be most interesting.” At that moment The Three came around the corner, erupting in screams and squeals of delight. “Why, Joullete! It’s been ages!” said the blonde, Stephanie, throwing her arms affectionately around Joullete’s neck. She returned the gesture, the evilness wiped from her smile. “Have you heard about Phillip?” asked the redhead, and they erupted into fits of gossip. So much for Princess Aura. Frat Boy He’s the devil in frat boy attire, resting against the banister of the staircase that leads up to his room. Every inch of him spells disaster, it spells danger, it spells absolute need. Confident, that lofty smirk painted across his smooth skin, those deep eyes searching the crowd. There’s no need, a female has plastered herself so relentlessly to him, tittering about how funny he is, how charming he is. She is beautiful, as always, dressed to the nine with her skinny jeans, her ridiculous stilt-like heels, the heavy canvas of makeup brightening an already sublime face. Young, rich, more than likely stupid, and willing… Just another night, just another woman. I can hear their conversation from here, drifting from between her red-painted lips, toilet seat white teeth peeking from behind them. “Well, I’d have to see the comforter to know if it was girly or not…” Oh, he’s pulling this one. I know this one. The new comforter farce, enticing the willing prey up the stairs to his room, so she could investigate the comforter from on top of it, under it, beneath it, whatever. They all fall for it, fall for Mephistopheles with Lacoste polos and designer boxers. They all sink beneath that cool, confident stare, so different from the cocky beer-guzzling group to the side. He’s smart, he’s going places in life, he’s handsome, he’s blah blah blah. No need for GHB here, they follow him like an addict to their hidden stash, sinking beneath him like some pious worshipper. The music is blaring, it’s pulsating, it’s causing gyrations of bodies to my right and left, but I don’t move. It’s dulled, pacified beneath the thudding of my heart, beneath the heat that rises to my face when his eyes meet my own. This is what he really wants – I am the real prey. He’s enticing me through the skanky blond, or brunette, or redhead that throws herself at him. See what I can do? See what I have to offer? He says it without parting those chapped lips, without hesitation as he takes a leisurely sip of his beer. See them line up? Watch them fall, listen to them talk about it tomorrow. He knew who to hit. The girl, now inches from his face, blowing hot air of compliments and desperation into him, happens to be my next door neighbor. Town gossip, town bike, town everything. She’ll spill every intimate detail of how she rode the Great Stallion, of how she was chosen above the other milling infantile children that slink away, abandoning hope. They still whisper, they still glance, they still smirk and promise that next time, next time it will be them. Next time he wants me, he always does. They’ll journey upstairs, they’ll disappear beneath the haze of drunken mistakes and throbbing top 20’s music, fading into relative obscurity. He doesn’t even know her name. She excuses herself, trailing a hand on his chest, knowing full well the next time she does it will touch bare skin. She disappears to the bathroom, nothing blocking him from approaching me. Despite my better judgment I can’t break eye contact, I can’t look away and find myself in the clusterfuck of dancers. He couldn’t touch me there, he couldn’t find me there, he couldn’t entice me with the wonderful scent of his cologne or the way he touches my arm just the right way. But he’s coming, he’s approaching faster than I can anticipate, and my heartbeat rivals the repetitive clamor of the beat. He does it – he touches my arm, a glance off the side, letting me know he’s there. “She’s a talker,” I warn, tilting my red cup of whatever fraternity concoction they’ve stirred up tonight and try not to make a face. “She’ll blow your comforter story and you’ll be forced to be witty and original.” He tilts his head, allowing his lips to part over his teeth, a full grin. He doesn’t give anyone else that smile, no one else except me. “This is why I keep you around,” he says, floating closer to my ear. I can feel his breath on my neck, the flashbacks reeling. Flashback to his mouth on my neck, flashback to my nails on his biceps, flashback to… “You keep me on my toes,” he continues, knowing full well why my gaze went glassy. Bastard. I want to say something witty, I want to have the upper hand, I want to say something to set him in his place. You don’t own me, you can’t control me, you can’t… I’m saved by the loud mouth skeeze, who looks rather upset at having to track him down. He didn’t stay where you so adamantly told him to? Welcome to reality. She purses her lips, balancing her weight toward her left. “Hey,” she says to me, writing me off. I’m no threat, I’m no anything. I’m just that girl, the one that knows them all, that fades into the obscurity of the guy’s girl. I’m the one that’s only wearing mascara, I’m the one wearing flats and a top I probably wore that day to class. I’m that girl, not a threat to a real woman, not a threat to a trained hunter such as herself. I fade into the background of throbbing music. I should go to the beer pong table where I belong. “Hey,” she says again, this time to him, upturning her eyes through her thick fake eyelashes. He smiles down at her, but no teeth this time, they’ve disappeared behind a retreating face. “About that comforter…” she says under her breath, biting her lip. I can hear, I’m not deaf. He turns his eyes up to me, tilting his head to say goodbye. Not even a word, just a flinch of the head, not worth the effort to waste saliva that could be used on her later. He parades her passed, parades her right up the stairs. “Who hasn’t he hooked up with?” asks my friend, materializing by my elbow the minute they’re out of sight. “Well, other than you,” she clarifies. Flashback: he cleared the catch of my bra in one try, flashback to the look of his silhouette against the fading light of the rising sun, the straining of… “Nothing’s sacred anymore,” I say with a flippant shrug, downing the rest of my fraternity concoction. Flashback: “I love you…” | ||