Rule number one: don't bring your cellphone with you.
ISLA'S FINGERTIPS tighten against her blue ink pen when she stops writing. Her journal that hasn't been written in for a very long time is now finally getting a kiss of ink imprinted on it. The constant buzz of her cell phone is only boosting her thoughts to sprawl on paper.
After Blaire's burst of colorful words, Isla has been targeted on social media. The whole situation feels like karma has bit her in the ass after Jessie. Now, Isla's getting texts from unknown numbers and Snapchat requests from numerous people. The texts consist of psycho or stalker.
That only adds more fuel to the crackling fire as Isla furiously continues to scribble in the journal her mother has given her. On usual days, Isla's cell phone may as well vanish into thin air from obvious silence, but for the whole day, Isla's phone has been blowing up.
And even if it was because of Blaire's doing, it is all Felix's fault. He is the mastermind behind all of Isla's distress and her crippling downfall. The more she thinks of it, the more one word rings through her head.
Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why not?
Isla's name is under the psycho category list yet, the only person that truly belongs there is him. Felix, and his perfectly rehearsed act of the normal teenager -- as normal as a billionaire's son can get when in reality, he hides so much behind his glassy blue eyes. Felix reminds her of an iceberg, not just for his eyes, but how he portrays himself.
He reveals so little but deep down, under the fury of waves, is so much more. And it's not pretty.
She hates him. God, she hates him. Why not? What does that mean? Isla is not a toy. Isla is not a robot. She just wants to move on but, God, he won't let her, will he?
Her lips are quivering and her bones begin to shake. Even if she tries to move on, and even leaves school, he'll always be there -- in the back of her mind, and she can't stand it. She can't stand that he has so much power over her.
When her eyes close to calm her, she hears her mom call from downstairs, "Honey! There is something waiting for you downstairs!"
Isla wants to roll her eyes and yell back with an I don't care! but, her lips that are unable to stop trembling, can't seem to form the words. There is a lump brewing in her throat, and no matter how many times she swallows, it doesn't fade away. But Isla refuses to cry. All she does, nowadays, is cry -- because of him.
Not anymore.
She is not going to let him destroy her any longer. So, with one last look aimed at her finally written in journal, she drops the pen in her hand and stands up from her seat at the study desk. Her blinds that are usually wide open, mask the beaming sun from outside. God, New York weather is so unpredictable.
However, it seems Isla prefers the pouring rain over the blinding sun now. Her room is dark and lingers in shadows, her sheets sprawled and clothes cast around the room. She doesn't care. Her satin red sheets have always been her favorite -- the silky material sliding down her skin. Now every time she awakes, she feels she is suffocating under a sea of blood.
She can't sleep anyway, not anymore. Sleep used to be peaceful until her dreams constantly consisted of Felix, and the thickness of blood.
When she opens her bedroom door, she is astounded to see just how light the house is, even more, when she realizes the sun hasn't set yet. Summer seems to be right around the corner now that the beginning of May is here. The senior year ends on July the sixth, and though the date seems far away, for a girl like Isla who hasn't got any college acceptances -- it's all too close.
And she's failing. She knows she is, and it's no wonder the Headmaster has been phoning her parents more than usual, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because Isla can already see her life pass by her with no importance to the name Isla Reynolds.
A part of her doesn't even care.
You see, what Isla failed to notice is that high school draws on in a blip. Everything is temporary. The labels. The people. The popularity. After high school, that's when life really begins, and when Isla's will most likely end.
Because she isn't going anywhere.
It sort of reminds her of Felix, when they were seated in Lavo's, when Isla thought she was beginning to fall deeply for him.
"After high school," he took a sip of his drink. "Nobody cares."
You're right, Isla wishes she had said. But you will always be Felix Boulton, son of the mastermind of New York's architecture. You will remain untouchable. Powerful. And I will always be scarred from your touch.
But, she tries to shut off all thoughts of Felix and notices her mother sat by the dining room table. Ever since Isla's new hairdo, her mother approaches her with a look of distaste, which she tries to mask with a hesitant smile.
"Oh, you just wait here," Patricia chirps, leaves the room, and for a few seconds, Isla stands dumbfounded. Florentina usually keeps Patricia company, so when she slips through the door that leads to the kitchen and into the dining room, Isla isn't surprised to see that she is holding a tray with fine china on it.
"Would you like some herbal tea?" Florentina offers to which Isla declines with a shake of her head.
Isla can hear Patricia's low footsteps come closer and when she reappears, Isla doesn't see her, as she is holding a black vase of roses that tower over her head. Isla freezes when she notices just how identical they are to the other roses she has gotten, and she doesn't have to think twice to know who they're from. Felix.
She is frozen on the spot when Patricia places the vase before Isla, and Isla can't hear her speak over the alarming buzz sounding in her ear. She feels the world collapse around her and she can't breathe. She can't breathe. She can't breathe.
"There's a note," Patricia's voice is distant. "Who is it from?"
The vase is taller this time, more demanding for acknowledgement, and so are the red roses. A lot bigger than those before, blooming with a sickly sweet scent. But what remains the same, is the small red note attached to a lone rose. Isla's fingers reach for it and she opens it.
In Felix's cursive writing, it says:
Be careful. The thorns are particularly sharp.
Wouldn't like to make you bleed. ;)
- Felix
Be careful.
It is not only Felix's words that have imprinted themselves on her skull but oddly enough, so have Nate's. After racing down to the lobby, and chucking the vase into a large trashcan -- the impact of her throw making the vase shatter in pieces -- Isla proceeded to go for a walk.
The sun is finally beginning to set and Isla has no idea where she is going, but she knows she can't stop. Be careful. Those are exactly the two words Nate has last said to her before leaving for college on his last visit. He was worried after seeing the bruise Felix has given her.
He had warned her, and she pushed the thoughts away. The guy's bad news. No, Nate, he is a living and breathing nightmare.
She has swapped her everyday Louboutin heels for a pair of just as expensive Jimmy Choo flat shoes that are a little worn out, and pierce the side of her little toe with every step she takes. Her hands dig into the pockets of her blazer jacket, and the pockets are so deep they are able to hold her cellphone and wallet.
She thinks of visiting Angelie Denner, however, Isla who usually reacts on impulse -- suddenly has no energy to demand an appointment and go all the way there, so she doesn't go. She just walks within the crowds of people rushing out of work. Isla presses the middle button on her cellphone. Then again. And again.
She needs somebody to talk to. She needs her brother right now, no matter how ridiculous it'd be to admit that. Isla and Nate have never been the sharing type. Isla usually pushes him away, but this time, this time she needs him to pull her a little closer.
But he's so far away, and he doesn't care about me.
Isla has a clutch bag draped over her shoulder with her notebook and pen secure under the zip. When Central Park is in sight, she crosses a road to pass the gates. For a busy city, New York's anthem may as well be a police siren. But today, it is rather quiet. Not peaceful in any way, but quiet.
You don't need anybody. Not Angelie, not Nate, not anybody.
When Isla wanders through the park, she knows she won't be able to find that bench she sat on before. Central Park is exaggeratingly large, and there are far more beautiful places to relax here. Although she is not here for beauty or relaxation.
She had to leave the house and the soft scent of roses that Felix's sick gift has polluted her house with. There are families surrounding the park, and runners sprinting by her, and she just wants to be alone. So she explores some more for a vacant area, the sound of beaming laughter and cheers ringing in her eardrums.
Central Park is always busy, but then again, it's so big than an empty spot will always be found. Surely enough, Isla finds a bench located on the cement pavement and looking over at the towerlike trees and beds of grass. There are hardly any people around, and all that can be heard is the chirps of birds above and the distant noise of chatter.
Isla takes a seat on the bench and pulls her knees in close. The bench is slightly cold, but she doesn't mind. Resting the side of her cheek on her knees, she breathes in the fresh air and the smell of freshly chopped grass. The sun is beginning to dip into the horizon, and the clouds above become dark and gloomy.
Isla wishes she can turn back time. She wishes she has never met Felix Boulton.
Wouldn't like to make you bleed. There's nothing else to bleed out, Felix. But he most likely already knows that.
Isla has always been the type to demand affection yet shy away from an embrace from her own mother. When Isla reacted so suddenly to the vase of roses, Patricia knew there was something wrong. Another reason why Isla doesn't want to be in the house, she can't bear to look at her mother, who is willing to give her support and love.
Even though Isla doesn't deserve it. She is the worst daughter that anybody could ask for. I'm sorry, mom.
Just a little too late, Isla.
Isla wipes at her suddenly watery eyes and sniffles slightly, before unzipping her bag. She pulls out her pen and notebook and rests both on her lap when she puts her feet down from the bench. The breeze begins to get a little bit chilly, but Isla doesn't mind.
She flips open her notebook to the same page as earlier, where only one sentence is scribbled in, and then places the tip of her uncapped pen on the first line. She needs a title. Whatever she is doing, however sick it is, it needs a title.
At the time, Isla didn't think much of it. Just a sheet of paper she can take her anger out on. It's just a list. A collection of rules for her eyes only. That doesn't particularly mean she'll go through with it, it's ridiculously harmless.
Right?
It needs a title, and Isla's pen begins to glide onto the paper. When she's done writing, she reads over it maybe ten times.
Ten ways to kill Felix Boulton and get away with it.