Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 5

"No choice? Right. Yeah, because keeping your position at the head of the pack matters more than keeping your best and closest friend."

"You're angry and you have every right to be, but right now, you're just looking for someone to blame. And realizing that you can't attack the entirety of the nameless, faceless mass of people—the group—you come and target me out of pure and simple convenience."

"They're neither nameless, nor faceless. They're our—your group—the popular group—"

"Perhaps not nameless or faceless—I'll cede to that—but they are a mass of people—and they are not something any one person can successfully attack—nor resist, for that matter. Those points are still true, are they not?"

"So, you won't go against the group, even though you defended me. Where do we stand?" I ask, hating myself for still holding the hidden hope that he'll somehow turn on the group, even though that I know, deep down, he won't.

"I'm sorry for everything that's happened, I really am. You're the brother I never had—and I'm sorry, but I think you've already answered your own question," he says, sincerely, stunning me with his admission, because this is the first time that he's voiced the idea that he considers me as close as a brother. I reject it. I certainly won't admit to sharing that idea. It's just another one of his tricks to illicit sympathy.

"Brother? I'd thought brothers would stand by each other, but what would I know, because I never had any," I say, pointedly, watching his eyes lower in what seems to be genuine hurt. I almost feel bad, but I catch myself. I remind myself that this is all just an act. It has to be. I turn around and walk away, telling myself not to look back. Halfway to the Corvette, I bid him my bitter farewell, "goodbye, Brogan."

"Wait," he says from far behind me. I stop, but I don't bother to turn around. I don't want him to see my face, because I don't want him to see what I'm sure is written on it—I don't want him to see that brief flash of hope. I don't want him to know that despite everything, I still find myself hoping that he'll change his mind—the hope that he'll come over to my side—the hope that he'll reaffirm our bond—but I also hide that hope, because it's a terrible weakness—and weaknesses can be exploited—weakness is one of his specialties—and, also, because I already know, that hope, is misplaced. I keep walking to my car as he says, "you be careful with that Jordan guy."

"And what is that supposed to mean, exactly? Condoms? Because it's not like that," I say as I keep walking. I can hear his footsteps following behind me although they keep to a distance. I pick up my pace—I don't want to hear anything from him ever again unless it's to admit that he's wrong and to beg me to be his best friend once more. Since we're no longer friends, he doesn't have any right to discuss my personal life—he doesn't have the right to pretend he still cares about me. Besides, I mean, hell, Jordan didn't even kiss me—properly, that is—although, I don't think I even want him to.

"I know that he's hiding something, even if I don't know what that something is just yet. And, he has more than enough reason to hurt you, if just for the sake of getting even."

"Whatever." I waive off his warning as pure nonsense as I walk up to the Corvette and get in. Jordan's not like that—I know he has every reason to seek revenge from me, but I know him.

"I mean it! Be careful!" Brogan yells just before I start the roar of the engine, but I pretend that I never hear him while I pretend to have never known him. I speed off, tires chirping.

~ ~ ~

I get home, park the Corvette, replace its cover and return the keys to Father's drawer. Lying in bed in my empty room and in an empty house, the emptiness in my chest throbs. I really need a friend right now. I pull out my phone from my pocket to text the only friend that I have left—Jordan. As I unlock my phone, my contacts' list window is still open—names of popular group people who have all long since stopped talking to me. I remind myself to go through and delete every painful reminder, every contact. For now, I'll just delete the first two that are still on my mind—Brogan and Base. I delete their contacts—mentally laughing at myself, because their phone numbers have long ago been forever etched within the fabric of my memory. I move on to my messages app to text Jordan, I type, 'Hey, can we meet up?"

After an hour of waiting for his reply and nearly dozing off, I check my text messages, but there's nothing there. He did text me this morning saying that he's off from work today if I want to meet up, but it's fine, it's not like we made plans, or anything—because, we didn't—he was just offering. I'm sure that he's just busy—I mean I'm the only one who has nothing to do anymore—and no other friends to text. Unlike me, I'm sure that he has lots of friends to keep him busy. So, I wait, patiently.

After another hour of waiting, there's still nothing. I think about calling him, but I don't want to be annoying, nor do I want to appear desperate—even if, I'll admit it, I am desperate at this point. Still, I wait.

After another hour of waiting, I check again, but this time I see that it indicates that he's read my message. It's fine. Maybe he forgot to reply. I find myself scratching my arm, even though I'm not itchy. I'm feeling anxious—something that I've never had to deal with before. I walk out of my room and head over to Father's liquor cabinet, pouring myself a glass of bourbon—just one to calm the nerves. I down it in one go. I return to my room and lie down on my bed, checking my phone. Still nothing. I wait.

Yet another hour goes by—still anxiously scratching. I still don't have any messages from him in return. So I give in to my anxiety and call him. Straight to voicemail. My chest tightens and it gets hard to breathe and I have to will myself to breathe as I focus on every, single breath. Is he ignoring me now, too?

By the time I catch my breath, the world appears a little fuzzy and hazy, and I'm lightheaded. I close my eyes and I feel the heavy call of sleep. Is Jordan not my friend anymore? Why? What's happened? What's changed? I rack my brain, but I can't think of any reason, unless he's changed his mind about punishing me for everything that I've done to him—in that case, I deserve it—but I know that he's not like that—he wouldn't just change his mind and abandon me and his promise to be there for me. Why is he ignoring me?

I allow the darkness to consume me. Perhaps I'll sleep in tomorrow. Perhaps I'll stay in bed all day, since it's not like I'll have anything better to do. Perhaps it would all be so much easier, if I didn't even wake up at all. The pain and emptiness fester, growing within, the cancer in my chest, the heaviness in my heart, the defect within my spirit.