spilled milk, chanel. [post 93]

Beck has been gone nine weeks.

I've been counting them on my calendar with ugly, frowning faces. I put x's where the eyes belong, decorating every seventh day. They didn't let him stay long, Ren Tanaka saw to that. I don't know if I expected them to. Not everyone wants to pull the strings like the Moreau's do, finesse the system so that an oppressed might become an oppressor.

I wonder what Beck thinks about my opinion of his friend Nico Thorne. I wonder if he thinks about me.

Bug came to me in a fever dream when a fly wouldn't leave me alone one stray Thursday morning. Imagine, nearly 4 o'clock in the morning, when the sun starts breaking through the dark but it's all still grey—a fly, buzzing all around my head, I can't help it when I "AHHH!"

I swatted the damn thing, or tried to; insufferable damn pest, I couldn't believe when all was said and done I got so upset about a bug. 

I went to Duke's right after. I don't know.

"Did you..?" Trash behind me says against the ridge of my ear thirty minutes later. I hate the roast beef I can still smell on his breath. "Did you, baby?"

I just nod and roll my eyes, grateful he can't see.

His hands are suddenly everywhere instead of clinging to my hipbones for dear life, shuffling under my shirt and all along my stomach. Ugly, calloused hands push my hair off my neck and then his tongue is in my ear. I remember thinking he'd looked lonely when he sauntered up to me at the bar, the pathetic way sadness clung to him.

Now nothing feels like enough.

I don't sleep well that night. I tell myself I am going to go home after, the moon hiding behind late autumn clouds when I walk out the front door. Someone shuts down the lights, and the red neon of the bar lights flicker out, leaving the pavement shimmering in the darkness. Mist clings to the pavement as I walk home, cold air mingling with road warmed by all the streetlights. Pure oxygen, I ignite, lose my mind—home is ruined. Home is clean out of pure air, everything there feels heavy.

I stand on my front stoop, and the world feels so heavy.

The trees welcome me when I walk through the familiar paths of my second home, their boughs bending to hold me in. I lay on the cedar bench there, labeled in honor of someone whose name I've never bothered to learn.

I tell Doc I don't believe in God anymore and she asks me did you ever? You know what, she's got me there.

The session was Mom's idea. She couldn't last ten minutes without commenting on the dark circles bruising my eyes, which left me feeling desperate for the feeling of being grown. I can still feel her thumb, pressed against the corner of my left eye.

A ringing starts in my ears.

"Tell me about Bug."

"What's the matter with it?" Combative, fidgety, I shift out of my skin and slip back into it a second later. I tug on the neckline of shirt, pull on the collar. "Insufferable."

An eyebrow can say a thousand words.

"Why do you want to talk about the book?"

"Why don't you?"

"I'm supposed to talk to you about improving my sleep habits." My hand slips into the beast pocket of my jacket. Doc always keeps the windows open, even though the cold October air sends a stiff breeze in. I swear I can almost see my breath on the air when I exhale. From my pocket I pull a loose cigarette, if you can even call it that. Emi had swapped it when I was at the house, left me with these unknown herbal concoctions.

God bless the teenager that rolled it. Olympic effort.

I have a box of matches to go with the thing; at least she spared me this one small favor. The things seem to lack nicotine, as far as the buzz seemed to suggest earlier, but it soothes the habit all the same. Muscle memory, or something.

"You can't smoke in here."

I stand, go and push the window open further and sit on the casement ledge. I knock a couple papers off in the process of getting up, and a book or two for good measure, but that's not my business.

"Emi tricked me into her secret blend. Stole my cigarettes." I flick the match against that rust colored strip on the back of the sachet. When the flame goes out, the scent of sandalwood lingers, continuing to burn like a stick of incense. "And swapped our matches."

"You know, Chanel. It seems like you're avoiding my question."

Doc is right, of course, because she usually is, but she's usually better at letting me beat around the bush. I can't explain why I don't want to talk about Bug. I don't think it's about what I keep telling myself it's about. Of course the team at the publishing house had showered me with offers. The plied me with offers of advances, ideas shadow writers had pitched that they wanted to attach my name to. Some people just wanted my illustrations, gothic fantasy suddenly again trending after some footage of the Plastics goes viral again ahead of Halloween.

"I only smoke to feel bad. I think she forgets that."

"Did you learn that on your night out with Emi?"

"Deep cut, Doc." 

"You're the one who won't talk about Bug."

"I met this girl named Winter the other day. Think she's supposed to be named after the Wynter, but she thinks it's the season. Wonder when her parents will clarify, or if she'll just decide one day. Maybe she'll wake up and think Wynter Rochelle was a scene stealing bitch and change her name to Chanel. Shit, I'd be honored."

"You would hate that."

"Yeah," spineless, I cave immediately. "I'd probably consider setting her curtains on fire."

"Is she one of the bugs plaguing you?" Air quotes. Doc actually uses air quotes.

"God, you really suck the air from the room."

"Say more about that."

We have a very long stare off after this, in which I halfway finish my cigarette which really just tastes like weed and lavender, but there's worse things in the world. Naturally, I fold first.

"This annoying fly was buzzing around my head one morning, and it was super annoying. End of story."

"And yet, as someone who has read the book—which is beautiful, for the record—I'm fairly certain you hada metaphor in mind. I don't know many self-important mosquitos."

"God, would you look at the time?" I gesture to a watch that doesn't exist and mime checking it before stamping the faux cigarette out on the external brick of the building. I just toss it back in my pocket haphazardly, which will make the jacket stick for weeks, but sacrifices must be made in the name of a fast exit. "Wouldn't it be better if I wasn't here?"

"Slow down. Sunday, same time, Chanel. Can you just pause and confirm with Amelia so she can put it in the calendar?"

"No, actually I really need to cry, so I'm gonna go now." I walk backwards out of her office, giving a salute to the young brunette who sits just outside it. Usually I see her going though files, and I wonder what she could possibly be doing. Mostly, I figure she's just a nosy bitch. I give her a three finger salute, then flee to the elevator. "See you round, Doc."