The moment Mum and I are inside our house, I falter at the entrance, waiting for the inevitable.
Because of the fight with Veronica, the principal had to call our guardians. Usually, Dad takes care of anything that has to do with school, but since he’s not here, Mum was forced to come out of her beloved studio for me. I could tell she was irritated by the way she snapped at the principal and Veronica’s parents, telling them to rein their morbid daughter in. The video cameras showed that she slapped me first. In Mum’s words, my punch was a ‘knee-jerk’ reaction.
I wasn’t delighted she stood up for me, though. Mum is never on my side. She’s on the side of the press and her image. If the great Jeanine Reed is known to have a violent daughter, it’d fuck up her upcoming exhibition.
That’s why she gave it her all in the principal’s office and even offered the school tickets to her exclusive pre-show that costs tens of thousands of pounds. A form of donation, she said.
Then she talked to her agent on the way home, sparing me a glare every time I breathed wrong.
Now that we’re all alone, she’ll tell me not to pull her name down, that she didn’t spend years slaving in her studio to have a brat like me ruin her first exhibition in two years. She’s been in a slump and has finally found her muse again.
Quick fact about my mum – she’d rather kill me and Kir and the whole world as long as she has her precious muse.
I steady myself at the entrance, waiting for the onslaught of her words, secretly happy Kir is spending the night with his friend Henry and won’t witness this ugly scene.
Mum sighs and shakes her head, causing the perfect strands to move in an elegant kind of way. “Why do you have to be a disappointment, Kimberly?”
And with that, she retreats upstairs, oblivious to the blood trail she’s left behind.
It’s as if she stabbed me with a pointy knife and is taking the weapon of crime with her, letting the blood drip from it with each of her steps.
But this blood is different. It’s the type that you can never wash off nor sew the flesh back together.
My chin trembles, but I inhale deeply and slowly go to my room.
“What would you like for dinner?” Mari asks me on my way up.
“Nothing.” My voice is dead as I get past her. “Absolutely nothing.”
The moment I’m in my room, I lock it and curl into bed, wrapping the sheet around me until my own breaths nearly suffocate me.
It’s dark in here, serene almost.
The fog won’t be able to get inside. It can’t. If it does after what Mum said, I don’t know what to do.
Kir isn’t even here to stop me.
Maybe I should go get him. I can kidnap him from Henry’s house or I can at least see his puppy eyes and hug him to recharge.
Without the warmth he emanates, I’m left in a cold, desolate space of my own making.
Tendrils of that fog seep under the sheet and surround me in a tight hold. I clutch the cover harder, needing the camouflage it provides.
No, no, no…
It’s not supposed to come in under the cover. It’s supposed to stay the hell away.
My wrist scar tingles and my nose does, too. There’s this overwhelming urge to cry, but I can’t. No tears would come out, even if I let them loose. Unlike common belief, there’s no relief in letting go and crying.
At least not for me.
Whenever I cry, that fog crawls faster under my skin and the next thing I know, it’s invading my brain and occupying my thoughts. It turns from a need to an impulse, and without a strong presence like Kir’s to stop me, I just give in to it and let go.
Completely. Thoroughly.
I’d be sitting in the bathtub and making a step I can never take back.
I blink the tears away and try to think of bright thoughts.
That’s what my shrink used to say. Bright thoughts.
As if I can conjure them and produce them and somehow tuck them for the bad days. The days where everything disappears and everything hurts – the breaths I take, the contact of the sheet against my skin, the tingling of my veins underneath the scar, demanding release, the tears that want to come out and play with the fog.
All of it.
Every fucking thing.
“Help…” I murmur in a small, haunted voice. “Someone help me.”
No one will hear me. I know they won’t, because even though therapy tells me it’s good to admit I need help, they also said I need to ask it from people.
And I’ll never do that.
People just don’t care. And if they did, they’d merely give me those pity looks that make me want to crawl to someplace no one can find me.
If my own mother, the woman who brought me into this world, doesn’t care, why would anyone else?
My phone vibrates and I startle, nearly falling off the bed.
I’m about to silence it and go back to my little halo, aka a one-person party of self-pity, when I make out the name on the caller ID.
Dad.
I wince, staring at the flashing phone in the dark. Did the school call him, too? He’s not like Mum. If he knows, he’ll sit me down and discuss my therapy options because he recognises I wouldn’t hit someone for no reason, it’s an accumulation of pent-up frustration and blah freaking blah.
I can almost hear the therapist say those words, and that’s why I don’t like them.
Dad thinks therapy is the only solution, but there’s also a simple one he could’ve made nineteen years ago – he shouldn’t have participated in my creation.
He’s a brilliant man and Mum is a successful woman. I shouldn’t have been their daughter.
I don’t pick up. If I do, I’ll start crying, and that’s a no-go right now. Besides, I’m unable to speak when the fog is wrapping its ghostly fingers around my throat like a noose.
If I break down on the phone, Dad will return on the next plane and I’ll have to live with being a disappointment again.
Soon after the call ends, my screen lights with a text from him.
It’s a long one. Dad is as eloquent as anyone can get, even with his texts.
Dad: Hey, Angel. If you’re studying, I don’t want to bother you, but I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. I’m sorry my calls were sparse yesterday and today. I’ve been working on an important project that will bore you to death if I talk about it. Anyway, I received a call from school, and I’m upset about what happened from the other girl. I’m sure you had your reasons, and you’ll tell me about them one day. It pains me to think you’ve been hurt in any way. Kiss Kirian for me. Daddy loves you both and can’t wait to come back and see you. We’ll go on that family holiday Kir has been asking for. Stay safe, Angel.
A drop of moisture falls on my phone screen as I finish reading the text. I wipe the tear away so the others don’t follow.
Damn it, Dad. Why did you have to put it that way?
Every time he calls me his angel, I’m almost tempted to believe it, to think that I’m someone’s angel, that someone actually feels pain when I’m hurt.
Kimberly: I love you, too, Dad, and I miss you so much.
I erase the text before hitting send. If I do, he’ll just call me, and I don’t have the physical or mental energy to deal with those emotions right now.
So I check the other texts instead.
Ronan: Kimmy!
Ronan: Kim-my.
Ronan: Pay attention to me, la merde.
Ronan: I’m hurt, I’m going to cry in a corner.
I smile. He stayed by my side until Mum came earlier. I have a feeling it was his testimony against Veronica that saved me from suspension. I’m sure the others didn’t testify in my favour.
Kim: You don’t cry.
The reply is immediate.
Ronan: I do now. So, party at my place?
Usually, I would be all over that because the letting go, the drinking and dancing, takes my mind away from the fog.
Today isn’t the day, though.
Kim: I have to study.
More like crawl further into my blanket and stay up all night, trying to fight these cancerous thoughts away.
Ronan: Come on, don’t be a bore.
When I don’t reply, he sends another text.
Ronan: Xander is here and he’s so drunk, he can’t stand.
I type before thinking.
Kim: Why would I care about that?
Ronan: Dunno. Thought you’d be interested in seeing me whipping his arse in a drinking competition?
No. I wouldn’t be interested. That bastard is the reason behind this in the first place.
If he hadn’t come in class with Veronica, blatantly parading his night with her in front of me, I wouldn’t be in this damn predicament now.
Screw him.
I check the other texts from my best friend.
Elsa: Want me to come over?
Elsa: I’m worried about you, Kim.
Elsa: We can go to Ronan’s party if you want?
If my parties’ terrorist friend is offering to go to a party for my sake, then she really is worried.
If I don’t reply, she’ll burst through the front door, and I can’t have Elsa see me this way.
Kim: You going to a party? Who are you and what have you done to my best friend?
Elsa: I go to parties.
Kim: Are you sure?
Elsa: Sometimes.
Elsa: So are you coming or should I come over?
Neither?
Still, I type.
Kim: Let’s meet at the party!
At least that will give me time to stay with my head a bit more, bargain a little, tell it to leave me be for a while.
The whole thing.
I’m about to throw my phone away when it vibrates with another text. I expect it to be from Elsa or Ronan, but it’s not.
Unknown Number: What are you doing?
Kimberly: Who are you?
Unknown Number: You better be not doing that nasty business or I swear I’m coming through your fucking window.
I pause, my heartbeat escalating. My fingers tremble as I type.
Kimberly: Xander?
Unknown Number: The one and only.
Oh, God. Oh, shit. Why is he texting me?
Kimberly: Since when do you have my number?
Elsa would never give it to him.
Xander: You think Ronan can have your number and I can’t?
He stole it. I know it without a sliver of doubt. Even as kids, whenever Xander couldn’t get what he wanted, he pretended not to care about it anymore, then he snuck behind everyone’s backs and took it anyway. Just to prove he could.
Before I can give him a piece of my mind, another text comes from him.
Xander: What did Jeanine tell you?
I bite my lower lip so hard, I’m surprised no blood comes out. I really regret opening up to him about my relationship with Mum all those years ago. Not only does he know all my dirty secrets, but he’s the only one in the know about how my mum makes me feel so small and insignificant.
I wish I could tell him things have changed since a long time ago, but that’s not the case.
That doesn’t mean I can’t lie about it.
Kimberly: Nothing.
Xander: You expect me to believe that tyrant actually let it go as if it never happened? Try again.
Why is he being weird all of a sudden? My head has been working overtime since Elsa’s bathroom. It’s like being on a constant high and refusing to come down.
Kimberly: You have no right to talk about her like that. She’s my mum.
I hate myself as soon as I hit Send. Why do I have to be such a hypocrite? But then again, Xander doesn’t get to school me about my family as if he has every right to.
Xander: The one you wished you never had.
Damn him. Why does he remember everything I’ve told him? And if he does, why the hell can’t he remember those times I practically begged him to never leave me alone with her?
Then he went ahead and did it.
He stepped on my heart and crushed it to pieces, so why does he think he has the right to return and tell me what to do now?
Kimberly: Leave me the hell alone.
Xander: How about no?
Kimberly: Don’t you have your bimbos to keep you company?
Xander: Uh-oh. Someone is jealous.
Shit. Keep calm, Kim. Keep damn calm.
Didn’t Ronan say he’s drunk? This must be the alcohol, and all I have to do is ignore him.
Kimberly: In your dreams.
Xander: Good.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Another text comes soon after.
Xander: You didn’t answer my original question. What are you doing?
Kimberly: The lack of an answer is an answer. Take a hint.
Xander: That fucking attitude will get you in trouble. Now, answer the damn question before I find out for myself.
Kimberly: And how the hell will you do that, genius?
Kirian is out, so even if Xander calls and asks him, he won’t get anything.
Xander: Told you. Through the window.
Kimberly: From Ronan’s house? Just how drunk are you?
Xander: Enough to run from Ronan’s house to home. Or make Aiden drive me. I have plenty of options.
Kimberly: You can’t be seriously serious about this?
Xander: Seriously serious, yes. That’s it. I like the syntax of that.
Dammit. He pushed me back to my most basic form. Why the hell would I even repeat serious?
Kimberly: I’m doing nothing. Happy now?
Xander: Nothing, as in you’re sitting around? Or nothing, as in you’re hiding under your covers, trying to pretend the world doesn’t exist?
My blood boils and my legs shrink further underneath me.
Kimberly: Nothing, as in nothing. Ever heard of the word? It means empty, nada. Now leave me alone.
Xander: So you can drown in that nothingness of yours?
Kimberly: Yes, which is none of your business, by the way.
Xander: Is that what you think?
I’m almost punching the keyboard with my fingers as I type.
Kimberly: Yes! You can’t come here and pretend to know me. You don’t, okay? You never fucking did.
Xander: Let me see, I know you dance to upbeat music on your own, and it’s the only time you’re not fake. I know you hide behind that makeup and new wardrobe because you see yourself as an ugly little monster on the inside. But not the hair, the green is you. It’s the only real thing about you, because you’ve always been obsessed with that colour. You stopped eating your favourite pistachio gelato and green M&M’s because they don’t go well with the whole look, but you still take notice and stare when you see others eating them. You like Elsa too much, so you do everything to appear perfect in front of her, and by doing that, you kill parts of yourself slowly, thinking if she actually saw your true self-harming, vein-cutting, pill-popping self, she’d give up on you. When you were talking to Jeanine that day, Kirian came to me frantic and told me about that night. He saw you fainted after you popped some pills, and for that reason, he’s been hugging you more often lately and asking me if adults keep their fucking promises. I know you don’t look long enough in the mirror, if at all, because you hate the person you see there, and if you stare long enough, you’ll be out to destroy her, so you choose to hide behind the designer clothes and the layers of expensive makeup instead. But here’s the thing, Kimberly, you can hide from the world and from your fucking self, but you’ll never be able to hide from me.
Oh my God.
Oh. My. Freaking. God.
My hands tremble as I re-read his words and pinch my thigh to make sure this isn’t some nasty dream hitting me out of nowhere.
How…how does he know all that? How can he figure out so much in such a manic, detailed kind of way?
Unless he’s been watching me, too? He’s been noticing me, too?
But Xander doesn’t watch people. He doesn’t stop to make room for me. He doesn’t even look at me most of the time.
I’m the only one who does. From afar. Like a stalker.
Xander: So? How well did I do?
Xander: I can go on if you want. I can psychoanalyse your relationship with Jeanine and Calvin and Kirian, and even with Marian.
Kimberly: How about the one with you?
Xander: You have no relationship with me. Know your fucking place.
I push the covers away and jump to my feet, my muscles pumping with destructive energy.
He can’t tell me all that and then decide he wants nothing to do with me. He has everything to do with me. Hell, he knows things I refuse to admit to myself. He can’t pretend nothing happened and that he didn’t just stab a different type of weapon in my already chipped armour.
That he isn’t peeling underneath it and seeing what no one else has seen.
Me.
It terrifies the fuck out of me, to be seen by Xander out of all people.
But at the same time, it feeds a starved part that’s been waiting for this since forever.
It’s time I confront him about this whole thing.
