Paranoia is but a leech that is the parasite for the host that our brain is. When it hangs onto us, it makes no plans of leaving whatsoever- thus, what seems like a cluster of supercomputers, in short- the ever-powerful human brain is converted to nothing but a hollow host for the attention-seeker that turns out to be a lingering confusion that eats us from inside out. The brain in fear can become scattered and unfocused, yet the primitive fears can also hijack the ability for logical analysis to produce a plethora of paranoid ideas that sound so plausible that even the teller fails to see them for what they are.
Cold water seeps into my hair. My face is soaked, the drops coming together to run into my eyes and drip from my chin. My heat has run to my core to shelter and hoard the warmth that remains.The ice falls against the glass, my fingers sliding on the condensation before my fingers regain their grip. I feel the chill run down my esophagus and my head makes an involuntary shake. A numbness creeps into my brain the way it did when I was a kid drinking too much slurpee too fast. I sip again, ignoring the iciness and the burn altogether- and it disappears. It's funny how the human mind can manipulate our feelings and thoughts, after all. We turn bare nothingness into a plethora of random art- it's all in the human mind. I smirk and then open my eyes, swirling the deep coloured liquid in the glass, as I take a long bubble bath. My eyes travel from the sparkly liquid in the glass to the angry red scratch around my wrist. The features on my face change with a numbing slowness and I sigh as the myriad of possibilities climb onto my nerves and cling stubbornly.
I slurp down the last of my drink- the exquisite Black Bowmore, from 1964. With unexpected aromas of pineapple and tropical-themed sweetness, it drinks quite unlike any other Islay whiskey you'll ever taste. That's assuming that you'll ever taste it. The sublime silky taste of mango, passion fruit and acacia honey interwoven with the power of fine velvet chocolate espresso hits my tongue and I savor the end of the taste, which is finely finished with a wonderful persistence defining its half-century history with syrupy black truffle and a nuance of spice.
Enough thinking. It's always the same- I think and think and get tired of overthinking and go to sleep.
I get out of the water and feel disappointed wanting to stay inside the tub a bit more- but I have shit to do. I hate stalkers. I love stalking. Weird, I know, but I suffer from something similar to anatidaephobia. Ducks watching me is gross enough- people are worse.
My ass is nobody's.
I dry myself with a towel and step out of the washroom, rubbing my hair with it, dragging water with me into the bedroom, but who cares? I slip on some comfortable clothes, wincing as I hop on a single leg, trying to wear the beige chinos. Pulling the navy blue t-shirt with 'Colorado' written all over it, over my neck, I run a hand through my semi-dry hair and decide against using the hairdryer. Picking up my keys off the centre table in the living room, I dash down the stairs, the curiosity fresh and exciting, but in a bad way. Sliding into the sleek Porsche Panamera, I speed down the road, into the roads that would take me towards a lane that I vividly remembered in the back of my mind.
As the agglomeration of houses comes into view, I feel my eyebrows pinch just the slightest. I frown slightly before taking in a few deep breaths and placing my hand on my chest.
Yeah, I've got this.
The front porch is familiar as ever, considering all the times I've waited outside the house, not quite in the mood to go inside- because I've always known what awaits me there. The countless number of times that I've pressed my forehead against the door, staring down at the elegant royal blue porch, my eyes nevertheless going round and round around the stark white marble.
I ring the bell and feel the sound coursing throughout my body.
The door opens slowly. Dad with the usual poker face he can't ever give up on.
He doesn't invite me inside. "I almost thought you'd forgotten we existed, Achelois," he says in a hard tone, before moving out of the way. I feel the irritation rise in me as I raise my eyebrows and suppress the urge to retort. Plopping down on the couch, I cross my legs and run my hand over the smooth leather. Dad sits down on the sofa across me and picks up the half empty cup of coffee. "I guess I'm just lucky to have you in the house, Achelois," he lets out a mirthless laugh, "What made my day so auspicious, huh?"
"It's funny how our guesses turn into expectations and kill us, right, Dad?" I smirk slightly, but without any traces of funny elements, "Like how I guessed my Dad was just busy and couldn't spare a second for his biological daughter," I sneer slightly and pause, letting the stress on the word 'biological' sink in, "Yet here we are, running into Dad on a random day, having coffee with his dearest sonny, Deccy."
"Those matters are off limits, Achelois," he replies after a long bout of stubborn glaring, "I've been really busy- but you haven't exactly come down to meet us."
"Oh, so now there's an 'us'?" I look to the side and laugh- I spot Mom. I wave at her as she stares back at me with a blank expression on her face, "Hiya, Mom," I turn back to Dad, "So, where were we?" I act as if I were cross-questioning him and then answer myself, "Yeah, Dad. If my absence doesn't matter," I shake my head with a disgusted expression on my face, "My presence is equally meaningless."
"Look at you, how arrogant and brash have you gotten, Achelois Circe?" Dad hisses, "Barely twenty five and you're already acting the head-"
"Already fifty seven years and twenty three years and five months of having a daughter, Dad," I cut him off, "And you still fail to keep in mind how old your biological daughter is."
The silence is so intense that you could hear a pin drop; the glaring so extreme that it could burn a city down.
"How have you been, Mom?" I ask her, not quite interested in how she has been, anyways- not taking my glare off Dad, either. I can see her nod from the periphery of my vision. "Fine."
"It's been about half a month since you've been back," he says again, after a long pause.
"It has been," I shrug and lean back. The awkward silence is back again. It's funny how we know expectations are toxic yet we cling onto it as if we were drowning in disappointment- it's like everybody knows love would only let you down in the end- they still believe in it. I wonder if they'd ask me about the journey, about the settling in part- nothing at all.
"Well, you seem to have a knack for being with that boy, what's his name again," Dad scratches his head, "The one who you pick fights with."
"Theodore."
"Ah, yeah," he states, "You've made quite a number of public appearances with him, yet do not have time to drop by."
"Or maybe it's just that you're never there, Dad," I sigh, "He's my boss and a friend, nevertheless."
"I thought you steered clear of boys and unnecessary rumors, Achelois," He opens his phone and flashes a few pictures that I'm quite bored of now.
"This is a drag, Dad," I shake my head and sigh, "People who keep reminding me of this stupid stuff are more annoying than the articles and tabloids itself," I shrug and lean back, "I don't have time to love or hate. This is a waste of time- ironically, I don't care either."
"Careful, otherwise you may end up wronged, Achelois," he jeers, "And what's with your clothes? You're finally becoming a 'someone' in the business industry, Achelois," he shakes his head, "Some people just don't grow up."
"I'm curious about what pushed you to finally admit these things about your character, Daaaad," I drag the word and pull that one on him. He shakes his head and gets up. "You meet us after almost two years and this is how you behave when you return," he tells me, "You're supposed to mature over the years, not just act."
"If I don't do stupid things when I'm young, I'll have nothing to smile about when I'm older, Dad," I smirk, "Just like you don't."
I bet that hit home.
"What's with that attitude, Achelois?" He looks down at me, "And those clothes? You're finally becoming a 'someone' in the business industry and you start being all high and mighty when all you really are is immature and irresponsible."
"It's not an attitude, Dad," I grit my teeth, feeling something snap in me- the control slipping away smoothly as usual- I let it. "It's called a personality and," I stand up, "I think you had the reins of my life for just twenty years of my life-" I shake my head, "I'm quite done with you dominating my choices- not that you really want to- you have Declan, of course."
I feel Mom wince by my side.
"You're still an immature, stupid girl who just relies on her emotions and snaps at people to seek attention," he says harshly and places the cup back on the table with a soft clang.
"You're still the father who couldn't afford to care yet thought he deserved the title of a father just because he'd helped in creating me, but oh Dad," I shake my head and stand up, "Only if you knew." I look down at Mom who looks up at me with the same blank expression, never quite partaking in the not-so-friendly conversation. "Mom, I dropped by because I needed intel, but I doubt you have it," I shake my head, "Because my parents care about how immature I am but have absolutely no fucking idea that Lucian Hawthorne attempted to kill me."
Dad raises his head, but too slowly to be normal. When she speaks her voice trails slowly, like her words are unwilling to take flight. When Mom finally picks her jaw off the floor, she is ashen, lips almost blue in this crazy summer heat. Her limbs move as if some inexperienced person is controlling them remotely and her eyes are wide, looking right at us, but not really.
"The name doesn't ring any bells," she finally whispers.
"Of course it doesn't," I mutter, "Besides the fact that he might be one of the biggest industrialists in the States, and I'd bet my life on the fact that we might quite be somewhat related to the Hawthorns, don't you think?"
"Lois....." Mom pauses with an apologetic expression.
"I shouldn't have come 'ere," I ran a hand through my hair, feeling exasperated. I walk past Dad, who doesn't move at all, as if frozen with the info I just gave him. Getting out of the house in a hurry, I lock myself inside my car and place my forehead on the steering wheel and feel the coolness soothe my forehead.
I shift after a few moments, pressing the side of my head to the wheel now, when my eyes catch on a black car behind me as I stare at the mirror, but not quite. The figure looks like a man- he wears tinted aviators and a black hoodie, covering much of his face. The extended turtleneck of his hoodie hides his mouth from me. Even though I can get a better view of him if I raise my head slightly, I don't- because if I do- he'll know I'm watching.
I act as if I've seen nothing; I just behave casually and start the car, not too fast either.
I drive out of the lane, avoiding any narrow shortcuts and streets and preferring the main roads, even though the traffic is a drag to get through. When the black car follows me from a distance, I smile at myself in the mirror- the corner of my lips twitches upward.
The next step is unavoidable- but I'm very intent on doing it.
Mind control has long been thought of in fiction as a form of magic, or a thing that may need a device, or technology. It is none of those things. Our brains naturally communicate with each other, a simple form of this is co-regulation. The mind control is such that it becomes a puppeteer and puppet. When you've got control over a person's mind, you can manipulate them anyway- human beings have eyes but not everyone can see through a person's mind.
I go down the deserted lane.
Hit.
One moment the road is there, wide open and safe, the next there are loud noises, acrid smells and pain that you may or may not recover from. My forehead smashes into the glass of the front of the car. My Porsche Panamera, my baby- but, this is more important and I have two more cars.
I feel the drops of blood gliding down my face and seeping into my mouth- the metallic tongue of it sending exquisite shivers down my body. I place my head back on the steering wheel, as I sway slightly, feeling everything blur in front of me.
I hear the car pass by.
Captured another head.
I raise my head and wipe my head clean. There's going to be a minor concussion- I can say that- and for the car to look good as new- well, it would cost me some considerable amount of money- but the mind games are worth it.
My hand instinctively reaches out to my phone, but then I draw it back.
I'm no damsel in distress.
A/N:-
What the hell, again!?
Yeah, again.
So, the thing is, the author AKA me has a thing for getting their MC in trouble. And most definitely likes killing off fan-favorite characters. The next thing is, the next few chapters might seem as fillers but they do contribute towards the plot.
Secondly, yes, there will be faster and more regular updates because Wattys is around and I hope I do have a chance to participate!
Thirdly, I'm cute!
LMAO.
QOTD:- What genres of music do you like?
Meh? I'm mostly pop, but then I'm also into metal and also bits of electronic. Besides that, I myself play the piano too lmao, but singing? No thanks. I'd sound like a constipated wolf. For singing, check out my friend Nayasha_Jena 's youtube account! She's such an incredible singer, LMFAO.
Okay, that's all!
Sincerely,
Your Little Box of Mischief,
D-sha! 🐤😎👊