last resort

t h i r t y s i x

He grabs a black gel pen from the spiderweb of stationary, popping the cap. His fingers flutter through the book, settling on the introduction page where the name is sprawled in black ink in typewriting font.

"What the—" I jump up from the edge of the bed, almost tackling him from the side. "Don't write in the book, you asshat!"

Too late. He smears the ink on the paper in his messy handwriting.

"Calm your tits," he grunts, pushing me away with his free hand. "I wrote the damn book," he mutters. "See it as your own personal copy. I'll just give Dorame a new one."

I recoil, my mouth opening and closing repeatedly, no sounds able to ricochet. I blink, my entire body turned to stone, my ears to deaf and my eyes too blind.

I pucker my lips and knit my brows, shock quickly exchanged for anger. Then every muscle relaxes when the puzzle pieces slam into each other.

C.E. Vincent.

Casey Elisha Vincent. My jaw is having a difficult time to keep in contact with my skull, gracing the floor with sweeps of skin to wood.

How did I not see it? Am I that blind?

The words were—literally—written in front of me, it was that inevitable, but I was too blind to open my eyes. I was too occupied with myself, and him, that I didn't even take to mind; this very book Dorame had given me, was given to me for a reason.

He said to label the book. He asked me what I think this book is about and what it says about the writer, but I didn't even think it would tell me secrets of Casey. In this book, the father was abusive and the father left. The main character suffered from anorexia and self harming, and he wrote about his pains on a blog.

He wrote in the school magazine.

Casey is the author. Casey is the main character. I gape at him, my whole body numb. Casey closes the book, clicking the cap of the pen back on. "You...you have a published book?" I stammer, pointing to the book on my table. Casey shrugs off my question as if it's not such a big deal. "H–wha–wh–how long is it published?"

Casey does the math above my head, flicking his deep brown hair out of his eyes, evenly sprawled over his forehead. "About ten months published, why?"

My jaw dislocates, clanging onto the ground. "Y—that's how you bought the biggest fucking TV ever! I knew there was something fishy when you said you bought it!"

Casey laughs at me, picking up the book. "Casey," he drops his finger heavily on the C. "Elisha," he streaks his finger to the E. "Vincent." He pops his finger on top of his surname. "You watched my diary videos, still you couldn't remember my name, ya' sneaky lil' Padawan." He flings the book onto my desk like a frisbee on top of all the stationary, before crossing his arm like a drama queen, he cocks me a brow.

"Why didn't you mention it before?" I almost yell on him, shocked.

"Bragging is a desperate man's advertisement," he shrugs.

I shake my head at him. "But how was I supposed to smell you wrote the book?"

"First of all," Casey picks up the book again, "C Vincent was supposed to give it away," he shrugs again. "Secondly," he opens the book, pretending to struggle with his search for only what he wants. "To my mother. Mom, you're strong, you're the reason I'm still alive. Thank you for waking up when I called you at three a.m. for my flawless lungs."