Bliss

two

I'd love to say I woke up pretty and poised with sunlight filtering through the pastel shutters and birds singing in the branches outside. But my day began with dream fragments flitting in and out of my consciousness. The shards were shrouded in darkness and filed to a sharp point like the remnants of a nightmare. They grew, the foggy clouds parting, and I realised they weren't from a dream or a nightmare, but reality.

They were fragments of last night. Of the pure and utter carnage. Of the shouting, my shouting, and Mum's mortified gasp and his smirk. They were the dirty details laid out unpretentiously by my traitorous mind.

It was awful. A literal bloodbath, complete with the dripping guillotine and wolfish smile of the mammoth executioner, a pool of scarlet liquid and my head sitting in a stained wicker basket.

I can only imagine how dramatic this must seem to you, and for once, I can forgive you for that. Honestly, if I didn't know Isaac half so well, I'd ridicule myself for the melodrama, but it's not so simple.

I know Isaac. I've known Isaac my entire life. And, in the most cliché turn of events, the one person in this world I truly dislike is the son of my parent's nearest and dearest friends. Yes, my life is that basic.

If he weren't so heinous, perhaps I'd try to dodge the stereotype, but he is, so I can't. The only good thing about hating him is that I'm in no danger of loving him, saving myself from falling into a second trope-y trap. After all, I've watched enough romcoms to know the only thing worse than hating someone like Isaac is loving them.

I know you're going to tell me there's a thin line between love and hate, everybody does, and maybe there is, but Issac is—and always will be—the most dreadful person I've ever met. Knowing this, it's safe to say no matter how thin the line, I'm too far in hate to tread anywhere near love.

Thinking about him ruins me. I crumble into a heap and burrow under the thick cream duvet until I regain some semblance of normality. Once I find it, sink my teeth in and cling onto it for dear life. I even throw a smile onto my face for good measure before shuffling out of bed.

The villa is silent, eerily so. That is until I pass Henry's door. His snores burst out like a live grenade, and I hurry past, slowing down once I step out onto the warm patio.

Paula's outside lying on a sun lounger. Her left leg dangles over her right, and her fingers fly across her phone screen at a bazillion miles per hour. Taking advantage of her distracted state, I creep over, grab her shoulders and shake. She squeals, and her toned legs thrash through the air. The high-pitch sound of her scream intermingles with my laughter as I collapse beside her on another lounger.

"Good morning." I snatch her phone out of her hands. My nose crumples in disgust. "Why are you working so early?" I ask. "In fact, why are you working at all?"

"It's one email, Lizzie. It has to be sent. You'll understand when you start working."

I raise a sceptical brow but return it anyway. Paula is something of a workaholic. I've heard the important email speech one too many times; annual leave isn't going to change her unhealthy work habits, so I lie flat on my back and turn my focus to the sky.

This morning's blue is pale, hollow, and filled with clouds that are sparse and almost translucent looking. They remind me of marshmallows, undercooked marshmallows, but marshmallows nonetheless. Staring straight through one convinces me I need to float up and poke it, just to see if it's as flimsy as it looks. Without thinking, I raise my right hand, extend my index finger, and try.

Paula's laughter startles me back to reality, and my arm recoils. "What are you doing?" she asks, her giggles teetering out.

"Does it matter?"