The Last String

Chapter20

That left him... surprised.

He never really knew how it felt. Now he has a pretty clear idea of what his sister is facing. He understands.

They sat in silence after that for a while. Then out of the blues, she mumbled, " Since I hate me, I might as well hate you too."

Taken off guard, he was.

"Since I don't give myself respect, you can whistle for it, or go jump, I don't care which. Everything is black or white, but never right or wrong; you are either a person to facilitate my next fix or someone in my way."

To Jessy, property is something that can be sold and traded, simply another form of money, winner takes all, taker wins. Theft is an idea for middle-class saps with jobs; the poor steal and the rich rob everyone blind. Love is for losers. Life between each high is a nightmare of frenetic activity, but every hit is a jackpot win.

Addiction is her nemesis and her closest friend. Her higher brain applies logical thought, as if that could make a difference, and then avoids the sharp pain of failure by backtracking and granting excuses for the slip. Her primal brain doesn't care, it feels the screaming of her body chemistry for more and takes over to "preserve her health." There's no way to educate that part of her brain that she's been poisoning herself and the chemicals it craves aren't anything to do with survival. So it's her against millions of years of evolution and you can guess who's losing.

..

She had a spring in her step, and sparkle in her eyes that morning. Peculiar. She's not cranky today, Katelyn isn't a morning person.

"Oh God, here he comes Lilly."

"Punch him in the face for me?" She asked her friend politely.

"Shut up," Lilly whisper-scolded her.

Although she kind of found Katie's hate for him hilarious, she couldn't get herself to show her inner amusement. Weird, she knows.

As the young but, very intelligent adult was approaching them, walking gracefully and slowly in the corridor with his Polo man-bag over his shoulder, Lilly observed his appearance.

Flynn had the kind of face that stopped you in your tracks. I guess he must get used to that, the sudden pause in a person's natural expression when they looked his way followed by overcompensating with a nonchalant gaze and a weak smile. Of course, the blush that accompanied it was a dead giveaway. It didn't help that he was so modest about it, it made the girls fall for him all the more. Despite all the opportunity that came his way he was a one-woman-man who prized genuineness and thoughtful conversation above lipstick and high-heels. He was handsome alright, but inside he was beautiful.

Though did anyone see him in that way? No. He was stuck in the stereotype. The guy who's labelled as a "hot hunk" who would most likely be a heartbreaker but the girls don't care, they can't resist the beauty.

He loathed that idea. It disgusted him. Plus, he didn't even see himself that good in anything. Believe it or not, that cheeky guy was really insecure about himself but he never showed it.

The boy wore a loose black silk shirt with leather cuffs and black trousers. However, he got better the more a person looked at him. His rich chocolate hair that had tousled griminess which promised finesse. Lustrous, it was. He had strong arched brows and eyelashes so thick, it could be illegal. And then his eyes- they were deep and catastrophic, a mesmerising vivid ocean blue that softly melted into a milky green, flecks of silvery light performed ballets throughout. His face was strong and defined, his features moulded from granite. He had distinct cheekbones and an angular jaw, his pale skin made him look devilishly handsome. And let's not forget the playful smile that never leaves his face.