liquid acid

2: Alaya

I wandered around the visual arts center for a while, checking the various art studios and galleries for any sign of Alaya. I wasn't even sure why I wanted to find her. When I did, what the hell would I even say? We didn't really spend any real time hanging out together. Whenever I saw her, I just invited her to do acid in my bedroom with me, and that would be the most of it. Even if I knew what to do or to say, would she even have any interest? Clearly she didn't care enough to stick around in the mornings.

My thoughts were put on hold when I stopped in a common area and spotted Alaya working in the corner. She was focused on the work in front of her, a sketchbook with a set of photos and drawings sitting to the side. I was frozen in place, for a moment captivated by her presence. It was the little delicate details I took note of in her appearance. The way she held the pencil as she sketched, each swift stroke fluid and unrelenting, the way her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked throughout each minute, and the way she moved locks of her hair away from her face with her free hand. She tended to wear lace gloves throughout the day, but as she sketched, her gloves had been set aside, allowing the graphite and charcoal to smudge on her palms. It was a stark contrast to the way she dressed and how her posture and demeanor was; she was dressed very elegant but gothic—very refined but also strangely doll-like. I couldn't possibly begin to count the amount of ribbons and bows present along the shape of her dress and each ruffle in the skirts. Today, her outfit was more understated, but was still unique and flamboyant enough to be noticeable. Some days there was the rare spot of color amongst the various blacks, but all there was today was the same shadows I'd come to recognize.

It took me a moment to realize she was staring right back at me, and immediately felt embarrassment flood through me. Her expression hadn't changed—it had merely been a change of attention as her dark eyes focused on me. And that frozen visage, when she didn't move her lips even the slightest bit, was the cherry on top of the doll she was undoubtedly trying to be.

Alaya lifted her free hand and gestured for me to join her at the table. After another minute of hesitation, I accepted her invitation and sat down beside her. It wasn't until I was at her side that she broke her steely gaze and her lips curled up into a smile. The same kind of smile I'd seen the night before, albeit, more dull.

"You look so out of place here," she said.

I blinked in surprise. "Am I hearing that from someone who dresses and acts like a porcelain doll?"

She chuckled, turning her attention back to her illustration. "I mean, you don't look like someone who would hang around the art studios. Not the artistic or drama sort. So it's funny seeing you here."

"If you say so, I guess."

Alaya's hand paused for a brief moment before continuing to sketch. "How has your day been so far?"

"Shit," I muttered. "Just shit."

"Want to tell me about it?"

My instinct would be to immediately say no, but something about the tone of her voice made that answer seem like an impossibility. Something about just being near her allowed for some relief away from the rigidity of my frustrations. So I said, "I mean, first off, I wake up feeling terrible and late for exams, Cillian comes bursting into my room, making a big fuss out of nothing and being such a 'oi bloody hypocrite mate'! Who is he to bug me about taking acid when he smokes weed just as much? I just wish he'd learn when to back the fuck off.

"And then I barely make it to class, completely zone out of the exam and end up getting a pity make-up opportunity by the professor, because I guess I looked sick. You know, sometimes I wonder what the point of even going to school here is anymore. It's not like I even have a major.

"Cillian bugged me about meeting up with the guys after class, so I head all the way across campus to meet them at a shitty picnic table, just to get fucking picked on by all three of them again. Elias even called me schizophrenic. He's one to talk, I mean, his dad is the one with the chronic mental issues. And all of this because they want me to write a new song in less than a week for a stupid performance I didn't even agree to. They just think it's so fucking easy. Like, god, man. How much longer do I have to keep putting up with their bullshit?" When I stopped talking, I came to realize how much my heart was racing and how intensely my hands were trembling. Was I really that angry?

Alaya was looking at me with a sympathetic expression painted across her face. It was nothing like how I'd seen her any time before. It had always been a cheery or blank visage, and rarely anything else. She leaned forward slightly, just close enough so that I could hear her breathing, and said quietly, "I'm sorry about that." She held my hand in her own and gave it a gentle squeeze, a small little gesture of comfort that provided me with more relief than I could've thought. That was all it took for me to relax once again.

I found myself chuckling. "Every time I see you, you make me sick."

She blinked in surprise, pulling away from me. "Oh? I..." She paused, processing what I said, then smiled. "I hope that's a good thing."

"Yes, yes it is."

In the time that I'd been sitting with her, she hadn't asked why I'd come to see her. This thought came to me in a few moments of silence as she continued drawing in her sketchbook. It was the first time I made a conscious effort to seek her out on my own. Any other time we talked had been a result of us running into each other or she'd come looking for me, though the latter was more rare. In the end, I decided to set the thought aside and let it go, rather than spend any more time thinking about it.

"If you can't tell," I said to her, "I don't really like my friends."

"Then why stay friends with them?" she responded instantly, in such a nonchalant manner.

I shook my head. "It's not that easy."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Have you never had friends before?" I snapped. After seeing how I'd briefly startled her with my tone, I attempted to calm myself down once more, and spoke more softly. "Cillian and I have been friends since middle school. Ryan always means well, I guess. He just never knows what to do. They just don't really understand what it's like. I probably can't blame them for that, but... I don't know. It's hard."

Alaya was quiet for a moment, before saying, "Have you tried talking to them?"

I scoffed. "What good would that do? Elias would call me a fucking pussy and say that I can't take a joke. The most I'd get out of a conversation like that is more of the same shit."

"But have you tried?"

I went silent. I turned away from her, staring at a blank wall across the room. "You already know the answer, why bother asking twice?"

"Because how could you know that's the outcome when you haven't even tried?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. I found it hard to describe how angry that sentence made me, but I kept myself from yelling at Alaya. How could I? She was only trying to help. And even that idea was so alien to me. Why would she even bother?

The setting of her hand on my arm made me jump. I glanced over at her, and she gazed at me with that look of sympathy once again. "Okay, I'll stop talking about it."

Her touch wasn't enough to calm me down this time, though. Instead, I pulled away and stood up from the table, stepping back. "I'm just gonna go. Coming here was a mistake." I didn't bother waiting for her response or checking to see what her reaction was—I simply turned away and headed back the way I came. I don't know what I was even thinking, trying to talk to her like everything was normal.