I tried to talk about it with Dexter, the person I could trust the most, but he didn't care. Bridget killing someone point blank was a regular occurrence, and he found no problem with it. And frankly couldn't understand why I was so freaked out. I gave up on trying to talk about it with him and went to my room, not eating much, not sleeping much, not living much.
Isolationism became my new policy. I was constantly paranoid and constantly pacing in my room, only coming out for the bathroom and food. I didn't drink much in that time span in fear I'd denounce myself, or do something crazy to end up with my blood on the floor. I kept trying to draw up an escape plan, but Charlie could've had tabs on me at any time. He didn't keep the security cameras off, no possible way. What other explanation is there? He had them on and spied on whoever he liked, keeping an eye on me especially. There truly was no one to trust. The trust I thought I had with Dexter was as feeble as soap bubbles.
Along with the isolation came depression over the next few days. There was just no hope in anything, and I found it difficult to find a reason to keep going if I was destined to die. And I really missed Asher. It was stupid, but I missed him so goddamn much. I wanted one more night with him for some closure and maybe an apology, but that was another death wish. I had nowhere to run, not even home. Everything was lost, pointless, and I was expiring soon. If I stayed so pent up and unstable, I'd be exterminated without hesitation. I mean, I'd serve no purpose if I couldn't pull myself out of the paranoia. Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. I was hopeless. I swore I could hear Bridget's voice saying it in my head.
Friday night I forced myself out of my room and went downstairs, immediately going for the whiskey. After a couple drinks I was no longer depressed, just very cynical. Bridget came up and talked to me for the first time in days.
"Nice to see your face, for once. What've you been doing?"
"You know," I replied, pausing for a drink and a prayer to get me through the night. "Drawing."
"Ah," she began, delicate finger lightly tracing the rim of her wine glass. We were situated at the kitchen table again, where everyone was too caught up in their own conversations to listen to ours. "Someday you should sell your work," she said. "You could make a living off of it."
"Someday," I responded, staring at my empty glass. I was too lazy to get up and pour another, so I set it on the table and leaned back, trying to get the alcohol to clear my mind. The silence between us was only pushing the question I had inside me, however, and I ended up asking it anyway. "Why did you kill him?"
"Who?" she lightheartedly replied, eyebrows raised as she took a large gulp that didn't stop. She emptied the glass.
"The guy you shot in the head," I said.
"He already fucked me over once, I wasn't going to give him a third chance." Bridget's cheeks were beginning to flush, speech slurring as she set the drained glass down with distaste.
"Yeah, but he asked you for mercy," I said, leaning my elbows on the table. "Didn't you feel any remorse?"
"Hell no," Bridget jovially stated. She poured another glass of the wine she appeared to dislike.
"Why?" I pressed. She stood to get the whiskey, pouring more into my glass for me. I bitterly took it, swirling it around before taking a swig.
"If you ever run the business you'll understand, Lace. It's just so bothersome to deal with."
"If I ever run the business?" I asked.
"I'll probably die young, you know. So you're next in line." She held her glass up to mine and smiled brightly. "Cheers."
I clinked her glass and downed my drink with hers, throat and stomach coated in fire. I'll probably die, I'll probably die. The goal was death. They're the fucking same, Asher and Bridget. They lean on their goddamn crutches the same way, and it made me sick.
My eyes started to water from the burn and the memories, but the woozy effects of the alcohol quickly kicked in. I forgot what her suggestion was, but it must've been something really great if I couldn't remember it the next morning.
The next few days, I was in a peculiar mood. Everything was back to normal, I believed, but it felt like a new page had turned with different font and prose—but the same unavoidable end. I felt pressured by constant paranoia, even though everybody around me acted like nothing was wrong. There was something wrong under it all though, but it was dying down. The paranoia was still there, but at the same time it wasn't. It's so hard to explain the feeling. I suppose it was comparable to staying home alone: all fun and games, but there was still the twang of fear that a robber was going to come in or a fire would start, and I wouldn't know what to do.
Bridget made an extra effort to make me comfortable in the wake of the event, once my discomfort was apparent, and neither of us mentioned the incident again. We got out of the house a lot and went into town, even if we were just picking up something like gum or chapstick. Spring was slowly chiseling away at winter, so we stopped at the park on good days. It didn't feel like I was going to be seventeen in a little more than two weeks. It felt like I should've be twenty-two, since I'd been drinking underage on a regular basis. And I still hadn't killed anyone, but that dream was recently abolished.
Valentine's Day was also coming up in less than two days. I questioned Bridget about her and Tom and she admitted to wanting something more serious, but she always felt like that around the holiday (according to Dex). She asked me an odd question in response, though. Stuff like, "What about you and Asher?"
I had no idea what she talking about. We were sitting in a coffee shop on a sunny February day, aloof with couples and affection, and the question had a very broad answer in my opinion. "What about us?"
"Well, don't you feel kind of down too? Since Valentine's Day and all that?"
I twisted my mouth up in confusion. Bridget laughed a little and set her coffee down.
"Do you like him or not?" she asked.
And still, I didn't understand.
She laughed more wholeheartedly and leaned across the table toward me, hazel eyes glinting playfully in the light. "Like like him? I'm talking second grade term usage here."
"Fuck no," I automatically refuted, bitter as her black coffee. "That's stupid."
There was something else to add, but I couldn't think of it. All I knew is that he wasn't a friend anymore, not after what I did, not after what he said.
"Aw, Lacey," Bridget said, patting my hand. "You look sad."
I stared out the window, hot chocolate in hand. "He'll kill me if I go back to try and make amends."
"More than likely. It really sucks you can never see him again."
"Yeah," I mumbled, taking a sip. It really did.
The truth started to sink in more painfully than ever before. There was absolutely no possible way I could ever go back, for the last time. Why couldn't I understand that? Why did it suck so much? Why couldn't I tell myself I would never see Alex or Asher again?
Bridget must've noticed my scowl, quickly moving on to some cute girl she hooked up with Friday night. I half-listened. The depression had subsided until then, and I wanted to sleep as it hit full force, but she didn't want to leave my side. Apparently Tom and her were going through a "rough patch" (even though I didn't know how that was possible in a "relationship" like hers). I never talked to Charlie. I sat with Dexter and watched TV that evening, late into the night. It was all so pointless though. At least it sure felt pointless. Pointless, hopeless, hopeless, pointless. That was the motto.
Valentine's Day came with gray clouds and dreary rain. I didn't get out of bed until noon, and as soon as I was downstairs, Dex suggested going the library to escape the likeliness of an awkward love triangle/square encounter. That put a smile on my face for the first time in a week.
I'd already learned that Dexter literally did not care about anyone's problems at all, so venting to him would be nothing again. I took him up on the suggestion and drove in comfortable silence, since not having my permit on me felt like such a superfluous thing. And if Bridget could run a drug business in the hills at sixteen, I was sure the cops weren't that cognizant.
Eventually I arrived, stepping inside the glorious sanctuary of literature, twisting staircases leading up to the book-lined walls. A Carnegie library, with the steps. Greek influence. Abstract art on display for contrast. Excited, I explored on my own.
Everything was rigidly organized by strange numbers. Genre first though. I ended up in the children's department on the beginning of my book adventure, because I wasn't going to think hard about any of my choices for a fucking hour if I could. Little kids laughed, played, and read with their parents, watching me carefully. I tried to put on my best not-a-teenage-thug face, but none of them knew what atrocities I'd witnessed and committed. A sociopathic killer was walking through the children's department of a library.
I quickly felt out of place and uncomfortable, so I moved up a level to the first floor of nonfiction. Encyclopedias were all in one section, a whole collection of maps in another, biographies, reference manuals, everything from boat construction to origami. I wandered around the reference section the most, wanting to pick up some new hobbies. Canoeing sounded fun, as well as flower arranging and the study of feng shui. Stumbling across the art section was like finding gold, and I had trouble deciding what few books to put back. I'd picked up too many to carry. But they had little baskets I could put my choices in, so I dropped them off and went exploring again. That was nifty.
Rounding a corner, a couple of teenagers were kissing against the bookshelf, giggling and whispering. I turned around and went to the other side, in a very foul mood then. Libraries weren't places to makeout.
A section caught my interest, labeled aviation. Planes were pretty cool.
I wandered down an aisle or two before picking a book out, leafing through it, and then hearing little whispers and more giggles on the other side again. I stomped over to the other aisle and shut the book with a slam. The girl jumped, both of them hastily straightened themselves out, embarrassed.
"For god's sake, this is the aviation section," I reprimanded. "Take it somewhere else!"
The couple shuffled along while casting cautious stares at me. I put the book back where I'd found it, left in a really foul mood then. Valentine's Day was stupid. Everything was stupid. I was better than all of it, and everybody around me was stupid and bothersome and the world sucked ass.
The ladies at the fiction department eyed me suspiciously as I continued walking the library, and I was tempted to yell "I've had a shitty life, so don't judge me or I'll go murder your families," but the police station didn't sound too luxurious at the time.
So, I wandered up and down the aisles of the fiction books in silence. I stumbled across the classics display, Watership Down proudly sitting on the top. Nostalgia and remembrance flooded my veins, making me feel as if they were all turning blue. I had gone from angry to astonished to sad in a matter of minutes, all because of some stacks of paper with sticks and dots arranged in certain patterns. You know what? Fuck books. They make you feel too much.
On the way back home, my art books and two works of fiction in the passenger seat, I realized it was all exactly as bad as I thought it was. No one really cared much about anything in that damned mansion, and there was no way Bridget cared about me. Maybe I should've run. Where? I didn't know. Anywhere to escape everything for a little bit, to collect my thoughts and settle my mind.
I sat and read for the rest of the day, until it was too dark to read by natural light in the kitchen. Bridget came down, messy hair, disheveled pajamas, searching the refrigerator. She noticed me and smiled. "Happy V-Day, Lace."
"Whoop dee do," I grumbled, knowing exactly what made her Valentine's Day so great and despising her for it.
"Geez, no need to sound so thrilled," she commented, turning the light on and sitting down at the table with more wine, yet. For an interesting bit of information, I'd done research on all the wines she had, and none of them were less than $200. But anyway, she poured herself a glass and picked up the book I was reading, skimming the back, and then setting it down again with a sigh at my annoyed glare. "Someone's in a poopy mood."
"It happens," I said. I started to rifle through one of the art books instead, not wanting a conversation we'd already had.
"Maybe you should come out of your room this Friday and meet a few people. You might stumble across someone special. You never know." She gave me an eyebrow wiggle.
For a second, I thought she meant Asher. That he was actually going to be there one of those nights and I might just be able to meet up and talk again. That he'd get me out, and we could be friends once more. I could go back and see Alex and stay with them. I wouldn't be paranoid anymore. I wouldn't have to be scared. Of course, I eventually figured out that she just meant any random stranger.
I stared at the book pages until they went blurry. "It's not my thing."
"Course it is," Bridget chirped. I brought my head up, her mouth poised to say something too optimistic and cheerful for my sour mood. She noticed my lack of enthusiasm quickly, and her gaze fell too. "You really need something to spice you up."
I went back to my book, but a glass of wine slid across the table and splashed a little on the page.
"Relax," she said. "Unwind."
"No, I don't want to relax," I said, angrily wiping the wine off and closing the book with a slam. "I'm tired of parties and drinking."
"How could you ever get sick of parties?" she asked, sitting up.
"Because I hate drunken people," I said. I pushed the wine glass back toward her.
"There's nothing wrong with some alcohol every once in a while," she replied, pushing it back toward me.
"Excessive amounts every Friday night are a problem." I pushed it away again.
Slowly, she pushed it toward me once more. "You really need a drink, Lace."
"I don't need a goddamn drink!" I shouted, standing up. "I'm turning into an alcoholic because of you!"
She stood up after me, chair scraping across the tile. "Who fucking cares? I give you whatever you want here!"
I purposefully smacked the glass of wine off the table, shattering it, the scent of grapes and alcohol filling the room. "That doesn't mean I fucking want it, Bridget!"
There wasn't any response after that. Just an enraged and confused look in her eye. It was almost as if she'd never thought that being able to do everything she ever wanted was a bad thing. She never thought of it as self destruction, any of it; she had labeled her hedonism as a good time.
"That's four-hundred dollar wine you've thrown away," Bridget quietly stated, staring me down with nothing but detest.
"Interesting," I snarled, staring her down, anger and frustration clawing to get out. I knew I had gone too far already, but there was no helping one last comment: "Maybe your relationship should follow suit."
Hell, I was done. Done. I walked up to my room and slammed the door behind me, trying to decide how I wanted spend my last hours on Earth, because that was bad. Oh, that was bad, that was bad, I shouldn't have said that. Oh dear god, I should not have said something so low. I was screwed. Done. Dead as a doornail.
Sure enough, Bridget came in a moment later. I held my hands up, getting one last serene look outside. Nature was nice. It'd be a nice last sight.
"I'm not armed," she said. "You can put your hands down."
I followed Bridget's orders, turning around. "What?"
"I'm sorry," she said, crestfallen. "I didn't mean to force you."
I paused a moment, because something told me to trust her. Trust her, even though I wasn't supposed to trust anybody around there. And then I started to remember dandelions, and trees, and braided hair, thinking how in the world it ended up such a mess, and I couldn't stay mad. "I'm sorry too. That was a low comment."
"It's okay," she replied. "I forgive you."
I opened my mouth to protest, but she gave me a slight smile and walked right out of the room before I could. That...that didn't make sense though. I wasn't at fault. My actions didn't need to be forgiven, because all I did was break a wine glass and...oh. I guess it was my fault then. But no, she was pressuring me. No, I'm the one who lashed out and said a low blow on top of it all. It was my fault, but she'd forgiven me, so it was okay.
In a nutshell, however, it was the worst holiday I'd ever had.