Olivers (POV)
"I'm the sick one but Andy's fucking..." I changed my clothes, hoping that it would make me feel kind of better. After that I slipped into the bathroom and washed my face. I don't know if the water was cold or hot. I didn't experience it anymore. All the nerves in my body were dead, like myself. Why would Thorne want to throw away the privilege of feeling? "She's the sick one", I said to myself. "She's the one risking her life by hanging out with him." I took a look in my bathroom mirror. I looked alright now, maybe a bit haggard, so I walked back into my bedroom and laid down on the bed.
Even though it felt like forever, my alarm clock read 11:04. "Everything just goes by so slowly when nothing's new", I sighed rolling over onto my stomach. I watched the clock turn to 11:05 before I stood up. For no reason, I walked to Thorne's room. I didn't knock on the door though, I just walked in and found her curled up in a ball on the bed. Thorne's eyes traced me cautiously as I sat down in an arm chair across from her. Despite wanting to I just couldn't bring myself to apologize. I was in the wrong but I was also right. So I settled for second best.
"Do you really want to go see Andy?" I questioned.
Thorne's eyes turned to a steel coloured hate. "Yes", she whispered coolly. "Because so far he hasn't hit me, harassed me, or-"
"Yeah, I know, bitten you", I grumbled. "Just get up and fix yourself. I'll drop you off."
Thorne sat up slowly and watched me walk out. I marched downstairs and outside to the carriage house. The sun was particularly bright today. "Gross", I groaned, unlocking the door. I went inside and opened up the big doors, where the car or, back when I initially bought the property, the carriage would come out. Today though, I had a 1969 Chevelle in black with duel exhaust. What can I say? Old muscle cars are the best. Eight cylinders of raw power roared to life as I backed the car out of the carriage house. I waited quietly, listening to an Ugly Kid Joe cd when Thorne appeared on the porch. Silently she got in the car and I drove us to the shop she mentioned, blaring Everything About You.
"Well I", crooned Whitfield Crane, "hate the rain and sunny weath-ah. And I hate the beach and mountains too, boo hoo. And I don't like to think about the cit-ay, no no. And I, I, I haaaate the country side too! And I HATE everything about you!"
