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umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]
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bombard the barrier | {briar} Jul 23, 2015 23:11:19 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Jul 23, 2015 23:11:19 GMT -5

. DUSTYN .
fallin' for a stranger, a player
singin' "i l o v e you"

Three years ago, he was a boy untouched by liquor and knew only love for her, as he always had. As he always would.

"What if we..."

"Don't, Dustyn. Please."

"Okay."

Three years ago, he was a boy who seemed to love the feel of a stomped on heart, but a boy who could still feel it beating within him. That changed. A part of it stopped when he saw Tiger's head rolling in the sand, stopping at Gavin Barker's weeping form. Part of it died when he saw the pain -- the real, visible, tangible pain Bette bled. A part of it died when they were all each other had, and still he was not good enough for her.

Now, he had no heart to worry about getting broken and the taste of spirits was all too familiar. It was sad, but he was becoming a professional at a rapid pace. And it wasn't just sad because he had once been such a bright, cheerful boy with hope to hold onto and dreams to achieve, but sad because he no longer was. Sad because Dustyn Chase was now someone who made questionable decision after questionable decision.

Like avoiding the girl he had loved for a lifetime, which was hard to do at home since she lived right next door to him, so he stayed gone. There were times he would see her: walking to school in the mornings, at lunch every day. She was always alone, of course, as as he. The difference was, she was not content with loneliness. It was a new thing for her, and Dustyn already had years of experience. Perhaps the most notable thing he did, though, was not keeping his distance from her, but lessening his distance from old flames and friendships.

Roxanne Decker, for instance, brought him to his first party. He had only kissed her, though he was sure more would have happened if his conscious hadn't kicked in. He wasn't drunk enough. So, he decided, in the future he would be.

This time, however, he found himself stumbling away from his own neighborhood until he stopped in front of a doorstep he did not belong at. (Then again, did he belong anywhere anymore?) Juliet Beaumont had been one of the many friends he had growing up. Which means, like the rest of them, he turned her away over time because he wanted to execute any ideas that he would ever be unfaithful to his precious Bette. He made decisions and at the time they were glorious and made perfect sense. Now?

"dumdumdumdum" the door cried against his fist.

He knew she didn't have the best relationship with her parents. Most careers didn't. Dustyn was not a typical career. He did not see the games as a lifestyle, but as a side-job, something to get to when he had the time. His parents saw them that way, too. Or they used to until his little brother had arrived and shown so much promise.

He waited a few seconds and when no one came to the door, he realized it was probably because it was in the middle of the night. And if he woke her parents up, it would be her ass that was in trouble. So, instead of knocking oncemore, he did a trick he'd done time after time after time with Bette: he scaled a wall and sat perched outside Juliet Beaumont's window. It was considerably harder to do while toting a half-empty bottle of vodka and still tasting the other half in his mouth, but he managed. He tapped the window thrice with his index finger and squinted his eyes to see if she would come out.

"Jules?" he asked in a hushed whisper. "Jules!"

Last Edit: Jul 24, 2015 17:29:52 GMT -5 by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}

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bombard the barrier | {briar} Jul 24, 2015 19:25:37 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jul 24, 2015 19:25:37 GMT -5

J U L I E T .

{ this is as good a place to fall as any }

Tap tap tap at my window, and my slumber is shattered. My bones are like stones, weighed down by drowsiness, adhering me to the mattress. A low groan rolls out of my lips and my eyes flutter open. I expect sunlight seeping in from the window to flood my vision, but I awaken to only a sea of darkness stretched before me. Night still buries the sun, and the light of the moon and stars does not prevail through the smokescreen of clouds.

"Jules?" someone calls from outside, muffled by the glass between us. "Jules!"

Their voice, barely audible, tugs at a memory in my mind, the image of a face of the past. Many ties have been severed by the blade of distance. People leave and they do it frequently - I would have to flip through countless faces to connect it to the voice that calls my nickname.

Jules.

The name leaves the speaker's lips so casually. They are calling to not a stranger or an acquaintance, but an old friend. Their audacity to knock at my window in the middle of the night takes me aback, but I find it comical rather than rude. A giggle catches in my throat, but I swallow it down in fear that it will ring out too loud and yank my parents from sleep.

I pull myself up from my reclined position, dragging my upper body against the headboard of my bed. Blindly, I reach out and search for the pull chain that dangles from the lamp on my bedside table. My hand touches something metal in the shape that reminds me of a thin vine - the pull chain. The surprising coldness of the chain sends a chill down my spine upon contact. It is like a thread of ice against my skin, warm from the heat trapped beneath my covers.

With one gentle tug, golden light bursts into the room, illuminating the face in the window.

Blond hair, blue eyes, a rounded face. These are the first features that immediately catch my eye. The memory in the back of my mind drifts to the surface, a name attached to the image that matches the boy outside the window.

Dustyn Chase.

Our friendship slipped away as our bones stretched taller and childhood chipped off of us, inside and out, bit by bit. I turned my back and he turned his, though I'm not sure to what. I found myself facing rows of daggers rather than familiar faces with eyes that regard me with kindness. I was turned to barks of orders and ~~constructive~~ criticism.

("Hold the knife higher, dammit. No, not that high! You're never going to be as good as your siblings, are you?")

But now he has found his way down my street and through the path that leads to my house in the middle of the night, perhaps on a crazy whim.

I shove the covers away from me, to reveal bare legs only slightly covered by the over-sized gray T-shirt that hangs on my body. A gray T-shirt and underwear - that is all that covers me. At the realization of my lack of appropriate clothing, pink creeps into my cheeks. But changing is out of the question, with Dustyn as a spectator and doors to the bathrooms that may creek just loud enough to provoke the awakening of someone in the house.

My feet land softly on the hardwood floors of my room. There is not the quietest thud in the wake of my footsteps as I near the window. Drowsiness clouds my mind in thick wisps and tips my balance, but I am quickly adjusting to consciousness. Years of career training have honed my body to move like a panther on the hunt, and it does not fail me, even now - I am just a clumsy panther rather than a perfectly balanced one. It is a graceful movement that has become natural to me.

I pass by my mirror on the way to the window, and though I do not approach it to assess my appearance, my eyes avert from Dustyn to its surface, only for a moment. A flicker of slightly ruffled blonde hair and steel blue eyes dull with tiredness, a fog that is slowly receding, is all I see in the mirror before turning my head back to the window.

A few more quiet steps, and I lean down to open the window. Gelid wind pours into my bedroom, gliding its icy fingers across my skin, leaving goosebumps and chills in its path. Nights are often frigid; once the blazing summer sun yields to the darkness and the luminous moon, cold sweeps across the land. (Or perhaps the weather is not as intense to Dustyn as it is to me - I have been tucked away in a warm bed while he has been roaming the streets for who knows how long.)

"Dustyn, what the hell are you doing here?" I whisper. "Do you even know how late it is?"

But I am not irritated by his sudden arrival at my window, of all places. Euphoria blooms in my heart to see him again after all this time as passed by. The nostalgia of old friends does not leave a bitter sting in my chest. It is a warmth that chases away the ice.

Last Edit: Jul 27, 2015 4:50:09 GMT -5 by я𝑜𝓈𝑒

"even stars burn out."

umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]
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bombard the barrier | {briar} Jul 24, 2015 22:42:17 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Jul 24, 2015 22:42:17 GMT -5

. DUSTYN .
fallin' for a stranger, a player
singin' "i l o v e you"

He found himself pleased when she arose from her slumber -- both because he had accomplished getting her up and because she looked like a normal human then, in the first moments her eyes opened. Since he could remember, she was Juliet Beaumont: the beautiful serpent of District Two. She was the most deadly with a knife and the most skilled with a make-up brush, and he had enjoyed watching the route she had taken through the years, while he had been stuck at a fork holding hands with Bette.

Time had erased Roxanne and Holden and Wynter and, yes, Juliet. And he wondered if it was now time to wave goodbye to Bette for good, to let go of her hand and choose his own path.

He perked up when the girl with the sleepy, icy stare pulled her window up. "I came to see you, duh. Move over, I'm coming in." Without invitation, he crawled in and after a heavy second, rose so that had to look down just the slightest to meet her gaze.

"I brought alcohol." he prompted, shaking the contents at her. It wasn't a school night, was it? He hardly remembered. He hardly cared to remember anymore. He had decided to grab life by it's slippery horns and hold on for dear life as it took him for a ride of unexpected twists and turns, and when a person threw caution to the wind as he had, caring about things like school was next to impossible. It didn't matter anyway, school. If he was lucky he would grow up and work with his mother at the dress shop, or maybe he would get reaped and die on camera. Maybe he would end up working at one of those forsaken training academies he'd spent too much of his life in already. Maybe he'd decide to leave for the peacekeeper training academy.

The options were endless. And none of them were decided by a high school degree.

"Do you like Juliet?"

"What?"

"I mean like her as in- You know."

"I dunno. Why? Jealous?"

"Don't be silly. I just... I never thought about the two of you... you know, ending up together."

"You never think about me ending up with anyone, Bette."

"That's not true!"

"No? Then name one person you have thought about. Just one. I bet you can't."

"... Let's go to our spot."

"What? No! Tell me first, then we'll go."

"I'll race you!"

"Bette! Damn it!"

He eyed his old friend, suddenly hating himself for leaving her behind so quickly. She hadn't deserved it, but to be fair, none of them had. The moment he thought Bette might finally be opening her eyes, the moment she even questioned the idea of Juliet as his girlfriend, he acted as if she no longer existed. (And he was so, so sorry.) He kept watch on her, saw how she had many friends and also had no friends at the same time. He saw the plastic smile and the proud walk, but he saw the falter in her step, the tears she blinked away just as soon as they arrived. He saw the hollowness in her chest and he couldn't help thinking he had something to do with it.

But he was going to make it better.

So he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She smelled nice. Clean, sweet. It was nice. Or perhaps it was the drunken euphoria talking. When they broke apart he kept his hands on her shoulders.

"Get dressed. You're coming out with me."

Last Edit: Jul 24, 2015 22:45:58 GMT -5 by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}

я𝑜𝓈𝑒
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anyway don't be a stranger

bombard the barrier | {briar} Jul 25, 2015 6:49:58 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jul 25, 2015 6:49:58 GMT -5

J U L I E T .

{ we'll build our alter here }

The moment I look at Dustyn, really look at him, a heartstring is struck and the impact rolls through my body in a great wave. He is not the boy I remember. The childishness in his face has been weathered away by time, sculpting him into the good-looking man he is meant to be.

In other words, Damn, puberty has done this one well.

I wonder what thoughts are circulating through his brain - what he thinks of me. The last we spoke, I was a fourteen-year-old girl with a cherub face and giant blue marbles for eyes. Not yet had I mastered the makeup brush or the eyeliner pen; makeup was a stranger to me. I was a doll that my mother stuffed into velvet and lace and satin and shoved off to school still blinking tears out of my eyes from her morning ~~lecture~~ diatribe. Does he remember the weak little girl, or does the image of me now - armed with fangs and claws - burn out the past?

Though embarrassment still clings to me from my attire, it is the lack of makeup that hinders me vulnerable, bare, and exposed. I am accustomed to a polished face and glossy lips and long, sweeping ebony lashes, not imperfections and freckles.

But I don't think Dustyn cares, if he notices at all. He only says, "I came to see you, duh. Move over, I'm coming in." There is no request or invitation, only a statement. He just climbs into my room without another word.

When he rises to his feet, it finally strikes me just how much taller he is. He has ascended into the sky like grass after a heavy spring rain, and I am left on the ground, dumbfounded. (I thought I was the tall one last time we stood this close.) He is certainly not a little boy anymore.

And I am not a little girl.

Dustyn tilts his head downwards to meet my eyes, and says, "I brought alcohol." He holds up the bottle grasped in his hand and shakes it, sending the amber liquid sloshing against the walls of the clear bottle. Ecstasy sparks within me at the thought of so much as tasting the satisfying bitterness of alcohol and feeling the fire that follows in its trail down my throat.

"Get dressed," he says. Once again, a statement, not a request. "You're coming out with me." His words provoke an uprising of butterflies in my stomach.

Perhaps I should decline and respond with a dour shake of my head. Maybe the right thing, the good thing to do, is sigh and say, "Dustyn, what the fuck. It's the middle of the night, are you crazy? I'm not going out."

But I am not known for clinging to rules.

Instead, the corners of my lips turn up in a smile that irradiates my eyes. No is not the word that spills from my mouth.

"Okay."

---

The bathroom door creeeeks open, revealing a Juliet with smoothed out hair, no longer in a baggy T-shirt, but instead adorned with a blue dress with a flowing skirt that pools around me when I turn around to close the door. My heart has transformed from muscle and tissue to a hammer that no longer pumps blood, but instead sends adrenaline coursing, blazing through my veins. The fear of my parents' wrath - what if they awakened now or when I'm gone? - tries to hold me back, but the thrill of rebellion and Dustyn pushes me forward.

Within moments, I have crossed my room from the bathroom back to Dustyn, trying to suppress the grin that threatens to surface and broaden the smile that already shines on my face. Despite the dress covering all that is necessary, I feel more naked than I would if my clothes were lying on the floor instead of on my body. My bare face in the presence of another drops a heavy damper on my confidence, but there is no time for makeup and boys don't seem to mind it at all - so long as I don't look drained of life.

"So where exactly are we going?" I ask, eyeing the bottle with a twinkle in my eyes.

"even stars burn out."

umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]
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bombard the barrier | {briar} Jul 25, 2015 19:27:19 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Jul 25, 2015 19:27:19 GMT -5

. DUSTYN .
fallin' for a stranger, a player
singin' "i l o v e you"

When she returned, she was more of the Juliet Beaumont than she had been. The pretty clothes, the fixed hair -- yes, that was that plastic warrior so many people knew and adored. He wondered if that was who she planned on being that night, if she was going to fake her smiles and hide the cracks in her armor. He hoped not. He hoped he could see the old Juliet-- the one he had a crush on all those years before.

"Ravishing." He claimed when she beckoned nearer. It was true: she was ravishing. She always was. Incidentally, he found himself even more attracted to her when she was just her, when she first opened her eyes and when she was dressed more comfortably and when her hair was a mess and her eyes were sleepy. She was gorgeous like this, but she was beautiful in her natural state.

"Several places. The first is to the market." he answered. He handed her the bottle. "Hold this so I don't fall out of your window. Why does everyone always have to sleep on the second floor?" He continued wondering odd things and questioning generally made questions, sometimes mumbling under his breath things like "Damn spiderwebs." and "Jeez, it's like they don't want strangers scaling their walls!" until his feet finally found the ground again. It felt like a lifetime had passed, and he wondered if he had taken so long that Juliet had decided this was a bad idea and headed back in.

He turned just in time to see her land only seconds after he had. "Hi there," he said, his eyes kind. He let them linger on hers for a second too long, noticing how the moon bathed them silver instead of blue, noticing the kindness she thought she hid so well within them. He finally looked away, and his eyes flicked to the bottle of liquid flames in her hand. A bit had disappeared, he thought. Perhaps she had spilled some on her way down. Or maybe she was embracing the night as he had. He hoped for the ladder, since it would have meant a terrible waste otherwise. "To the market!" he called, reaching for her hand and dragging her along.

Once the two entered the biggest shop in the Square, Dustyn turned to Juliet. "I'm looking for... something. I dunno. I need ideas. What stinks? Like has a stench?" He tied racking through his clouded train of thought: Oil? No. Asparagus? Yes, but it wouldn't work. "I need something I can hypothetically, like, hide in someone's house and cause the whole thing to smell like death. Ideas?"

^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}

я𝑜𝓈𝑒
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bombard the barrier | {briar} Jul 28, 2015 5:01:09 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jul 28, 2015 5:01:09 GMT -5

J U L I E T .

{ make me your maria }

Dustyn speaks one word that sends flames into my cheeks.

"Ravishing."

Compliments are rare within the walls of this house, but not beneath the sun or the stars. Kind words, even the most insignificant, "You look nice today, Juliet," coming from boys, always plunges deep into my heart regardless of how frequently they come my way. But not like a dagger with a blade laced with reaped souls and mercilessness. No, words like those are beams of sunlight bursting through the surface of a dark, inky sea.

I wonder if he realizes what compliments mean, especially to a girl who still bears the scars of her parents' scorn.

"Lots of places. The first is to the market." He passes me the bottle of alcohol. "Hold this so I don't fall out of your window. Why does everyone always have to sleep on the second floor?"

Dustyn climbs over the windowsill and disappears over the side. For a moment I wonder if he has plummeted to the ground, betrayed by hands and feet that could not adhere to the stone wall. But there is no thud following his exit, and I hear him muttering under his breath. His words are too tangled and shredded by the distance and volume of his voice for me to piece together a single sentence.

Peering down from where I stand at the edge of the window, I can see the silver threads of silk intersecting to form a masterpiece web, the ultimate trap for a naive insect. I have always thought myself to be the clever spider, patiently awaiting its prey to fall victim to its fangs, dripping with venom and buzzing with anticipation. But tonight, perhaps I am not the spider but instead the opposite.

The prey. The insect empty of a brain and instincts vital to survival. I know just as well as anyone that Dustyn has hands gentle enough to coax a heart into, but strong enough to crush it to dust and shards.

But Dustyn does not have my heart, only my attention. Even that is difficult to obtain, and he has managed in a matter of minutes.

I doubt his intentions, but I don't think mine could be called pure. Despite the thoughts that have surfaced, I follow after him, after taking a swig of the flames in the bottle, thanking Ripred that I remembered to wear shorts under my dress. Upon contact of the coarse white stone, I transform. No longer am I tender flesh and porcelain bones, but grace and poise. For several moments of down down down, I am the panther that was woven into my body by a needle driven by a forceful hand. I am the panther shouted into my ears until they succumbed to numbness.

The panther falters when my feet touch the ground at last, and when my eyes rest on Dustyn, it shatters. Here, with an old friend, I no longer suffer beneath the title career. I am Juliet, ~~sad weak soft bitter selfish disappointment least favorite~~ whatever that makes me.

"Hi there," Dustyn says. His soft gaze lingers on mine, the touch of his vision sending heat into my cheeks, a warmth that lights a spark, kindled into a flame by - by anticipation? Excitement? Enthusiasm? The rebellion itself of sneaking out with Dustyn?

Or maybe it's just the alcohol making its way through my veins.

Feelings are not often within my comprehension.

I was taught to have none.

In the night, we are silver like the spiderwebs that hang between the tree branches and cling between the stones of my house. The moon, peeking out from clouds thicker than the smoke drifting into the air from my father's cigarette, strips us of color, rosiness and all. Our hair is slivers of the moon and our eyes are silver platters and our skin is snow.

The silence of lingering eyes is deafening.

I break the it with, "Hi there," and a smile.

And then he grasps my hand and rebellion rings out in, "To the market!"

---

The square is barren of movement and heartbeats other than ours. Stands and displays appear almost grim and forlorn in this light, while we shine with livelihood and the sheen of the pieces of broken rules still hanging on our clothes.

"I'm looking for . . . something. I dunno. I need ideas. What stinks? Like has a stench?" Dustyn asks me. He pauses to ponder in his drunken thoughts for a moment. "I need something I can hypothetically, like, hide in someone's house and cause the whole thing to smell like death. Ideas?"

His words summon a peel of laughter from my vocal cords. I don't know what he's planning, but whatever it is, it must be insane and absolutely hilarious - perhaps a joke with a literally sickening punchline.

I shouldn't expect less from Dustyn, especially a drunk, or at least tipsy, Dustyn.

"Eggs?" I suggest. "Surely there's some rotten ones here." I narrow my eyes and ask, "What exactly is going on in that drunken head of yours, Dustyn?"

And with that, I down another gulp of amber that sears the walls of my throat. Fire, fire, fire is all there is, and the burn sates my ever returning craving, but only temporarily. Fire, fire, fire, from my lips to my throat to my chest, and I love every second of it.

"even stars burn out."

umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]
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bombard the barrier | {briar} Jul 29, 2015 16:38:43 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Jul 29, 2015 16:38:43 GMT -5

. DUSTYN .
fallin' for a stranger, a player
singin' "i l o v e you"

Eventually, after asking a market man specifically for eggs that had gone bad already and receiving a rather judgmental stare for a few moments, he was on his way, Juliet in tow. He'd gotten them for free, since apparently no one wanted rotten eggs. He had heard Juliet's question, but chose not to answer. Not just yet. He enjoyed the puzzled look on her face, enjoyed that she kept repeating the same questions and expecting him to answer.

"You'll see," was all she would get, and then he would change the subject: ~~"So, how's training?", or "I like your shoes."~~ Anything to keep her mind off of the task at hand, until the stood in his neighborhood. As the end of the street, his own house was obscured from view by Bette's house. He allowed himself to look once before turning his back to it. This was not for her. This was for someone else.

"Okay, I've kept you in suspense long enough. You know Roxanne Decker, right? She used to hang out with us all of the time? Well, she invited me to this party and I got beyond wasted and anyway when I woke up the next morning, I was missing my underwear. And my pants. And I was in the living room. As was everyone else that slept over." He paused, hating himself for admitting his humiliation to such a pretty, familiar face. He let it sink in that, potentially, his social life could have fallen down the drain, then continued.

"Anyway, I was the first one up so no one saw me, but I'm sure someone intended on embarrassing the shit out of me. Since I don't know who exactly took my clothes off while I was asleep, I have decided Roxanne must pay the price for it."

He looked over at her in the world glowing silver. She was a diamond among the coal of darkness that surrounded her, a beacon of light that was somehow too bright to stare at for too long, and too beautiful to look away from all at the same time. He was sure she would think this was ridiculous and stupid and maybe it was, but that was precisely why he wanted to do it.

He leaned in a bit. He was so close to her that he could feel her breath against his chin and his neck. He lingered there for a moment, enjoying being this close to her: enjoying being this close to anyone. She smelled nice, clean, and he found himself a bit shocked that he could still remember her scent from all that time ago when they were still friends. Nothing had changed. He liked that. Finally, he broke the silence. "How strongly are you opposed to breaking and entering?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned down a bit so that his eyes were level with hers, and turned to run for the back door. He cradled the carton of eggs like a child. Sure, it would have sucked if he dropped them and didn't get to seek revenge for what was nearly the most terrible thing to ever happen to him, but mostly he wanted to be as far away from the smell as possible when the shells cracked open. "Don't be a wimp!" he called over his shoulder, and a smile crept across his lips. A real smile. And he couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd been able to do that.

Last Edit: Aug 3, 2015 15:15:17 GMT -5 by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}

я𝑜𝓈𝑒
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anyway don't be a stranger

bombard the barrier | {briar} Aug 3, 2015 15:35:50 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Aug 3, 2015 15:35:50 GMT -5

J U L I E T .

{ i'm already on my knees }

After taking the rotten eggs in his hands, rather than allowing me an answer or the slightest hint, he dangles me in suspense further. "You'll see," is all he says, and I am left hungering for an explanation. He seems to relish my puzzlement, dragging out the concealment of his plan to savor the thrill.

Juliet Beaumont is not often left in the dark.

And yet, Dustyn manages to harness control over the light and blot it out at the exact moment he wants.

I am carried in his current of suspense, helpless against the crashing waves and sudden bends. As he pulls me onward, he steers the conversation away from his plan, delving into new, unimportant topics. My voice trails along with his between sips of alcohol as we walk through the night, reluctantly adhering to his will of hiding his intentions. The lack of knowledge is a gaping hole in my mind, its emptiness nagging.

Our feet bring us to a street I have walked upon many times - Dustyn's street. Childhood memories pour into my mind from the touch of the pavement. Catching butterflies. Tumbling into garden beds from a clumsy fall from quick strides. Bursts of laughter like uneven music notes. On these lines of concrete lies echoes of the past. Glancing behind me now, it looks like a long, winding path blurring from the passing time - or maybe that's just because of the blinding light cast on the stone.

And at last, Dustyn relents and as the mist of suspense slowly dissipates, my heart pounds harder against my chest like a boulder dropping on hard ground. "Okay. I've kept you in suspense long enough. You know Roxanne Decker, right? She used to hang out with us all of the time? Well, she invited me to this party and I got beyond wasted and anyway when I woke up the next morning, I was missing my underwear. And my pants. And I was in the living room. As was everyone else that slept over."

Laughter rises in my chest, barely suppressed by lips pressed tightly together in a thin, wide grin. "Anyway, I was the first one up so no one saw me, but I'm sure someone intended on embarrassing the shit out of me. Since I don't know who exactly took my clothes off while I was asleep, I have decided Roxanne must pay the price for it."

Revenge is a perilous, stony road, even for something as small as this. There is a part of me that wants to advise against it, to protest and suggest we turn around and carry the tipsy recklessness and rebellion elsewhere. And then he looks at me.

When his gaze touches against my skin, suddenly, the smog of the doubt disperses, rolling out of my mind in broken tufts of black and toxins. Perhaps everything I feel is a fantasy forged by the alcohol ricocheting in my veins. Maybe the caustic hum in my heart and growing flutter in my stomach is just the thrill of midnight mischief and encroaching intoxication.

The most idiotic thing about this all is I can see the amber tide and its merciless undertow creeping its way onto the shore. But I stopped caring the moment I climbed out of the window with Dustyn. I am on the back of a horse riding into a haze of possible regrets and stupidity and trouble. The reins came undone long ago by now and I'm ready for the free fall, the crash to the ground in the aftermath of the wild blur of - of whatever exactly is going to happen.

(If I even remember.)

We could end up with a brain flooded by alcohol, passed out and scattered all over the ~~crime~~ scene of Roxanne Decker's ruined home. Or, we could make it back home safely but absolutely wasted.

Preferably the latter, but fate tends to keep its secrets.

It is when he says, "How strongly are you opposed to breaking and entering?" that I know for certain all hope is lost for keeping my morals close to me.

(Who retains morals in drunkenness?)

He gives me no time for an answer, perhaps in fear that I'll hold my ground and refuse. He bolts for back door and almost without hesitation, I find my feet working ahead of my mind. I am running after Dustyn and as the world smudges to black and pale gold around me, I begin to feel the lighthearted, childish joy I had long forgotten. It's like we're kids again, tripping with two left feet into trouble everywhere it catches sight of us and running through the district with lungs drained from laughter.

"Don't be a wimp!" Dustyn teases me, a smile broadening his lips. Perhaps he's urging me as well as teasing me, urging me to please follow along and please don't be a wimp.

(Challenge accepted.)

I raise an eyebrow and giggle at his words. "I wasn't a wimp when we were kids, and I'm not one now. That is one of the few things that hasn't changed," I say. "Though I probably wouldn't have done this back then." I raise the bottle to my lips and gulp down another acidic stream of ~~whiskey~~ liquid bliss. Its taste is bitter on my tongue, but its effects are sweeter to me than candy.

My hand grasps the doorknob, to find that it is locked tight. But I'm not one to give up when faced with a simple locked door.

Half of me, the impulsive part slowly sinking in the whiskey building up in my stomach, wants to kick the door down or smash a window with a rock -

That's it.

"The rocks," I say, my voice distant, muddled by thoughts. My eyes scrounge the flowerbeds for a rock of a certain not so rough texture, with a slightly glossy, plastic sheen. I crouch to the ground and hastily turn over several stones, until a metallic glint among the mass of dirt and scattered rocks catches my attention.

A key.

I swipe it from the dirt, brushing off the filth with a grimace, and quickly rise back to my feet. I press the key into the lock - a perfect fit - and with one satisfying click and an eerie creeeek, the Decker house becomes a playground open to mischief and vengeance.

Last Edit: Aug 3, 2015 15:36:38 GMT -5 by я𝑜𝓈𝑒

"even stars burn out."