Chapter 3 - News.

*WARNING - Includes Sexual Content*

I suggest you listen to this while reading:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Te37DgFi7CM

I fell asleep in his arms, his safe and comfortable arms. I woke up in them too. One full day of sobriety and counting. I turn around and sigh, Erik was up too.

  “I’m guessing you enjoyed yourself last night, I heard my name enough,” he smirks. I blush and smile sheepishly as he touches my cheek. I had a gorgeous man in my bed… And he was naked. So was I. I prop my naked self up on my elbows and look over at the clock. Eleven twenty seven. I had promised Grace yesterday to meet for lunch at noon.

   “Oh shit!” I curse. Grace despised Eric. Eric was still here. “You need to get out of here!” He was puzzled. I explain why, and when he stands up, I can’t help looking. He notices me looking, not staring… I wasn’t staring. Erik Sanders winks and I’m turned on in that instant. I wish desperately that I could pull him back onto the bed. He dresses, kisses me on the forehead, shoots me an “I’ll text you later” and lets himself out.

There’s nothing to strip, so I just jump into the shower. I turn the handle and icy water sends chills down my bare back. I shrill and step out of the way of the frigid water’s path. Then, I get a quick glance at the mirror. The carved in word has sprung cracks near the corners of each letter. It looked almost extra terrestrial, or like a book cover. I feel warm water pool around my feet and step under the raining showerhead, soaking my hair and body with warm bliss. An image of Emilie standing over my crumpled self on the floor flashes epileptically in front of my eyes. I’ve decided I’ve stayed in the shower long enough and dizzily step onto the cold tiled floor. I wrap a white towel around my body and walk out of the bathroom. On my way there, I open the window to rid the apartment of the lingering smells of alcohol and sex. When I reach my tiny bedroom, the front door opens. I take jeans and a tank top from my dresser; grab my underwear from the floor and dress.

   “I’m here,” Grace shouts from the living room. Still pulling my shirt on, I walk out of the bedroom calmly, and see my cousin lounging on the couch, using her hand as a type of visor to shield her eyes from the overhead lights.

   “Headache?” I ask, although I already know her head is probably pounding. I swipe the apartment keys off the island and then realize something. On Tuesday, I had thrown the keys and they’d slid off… And I put them on the counter, not the island.

   “What the hell?” I breathe. Grace is as unhelpful as ever as she takes the remote, flicks on the news, turns up the volume, and stays unresponsive. I cook up some grilled cheeses, although I have absolutely no appetite, and set the plates on the coffee table. I look at the news channel that’s displayed on the TV.

  “Am I hearing this right? Death by… Pencil?” a blonde reporter stammers. She presses two fingers to her ears as she is fed information through her earpiece. “Apparently, someone had a pencil skewer their eye, very… Gruesomely, like the Joker did in the Batman movie, The Dark Knight.”

   She was cut off as the news station aired the Joker clip. I stared in horror at how someone would’ve done this in real life. This was taking movie reenacting a bit too seriously. The blonde’s face pops back up after the clip and she clears her throat.

   “The victim was one Bren Stevens, from Toronto, Ontario.”

   My jaw dropped as they showed a picture of the guy. Three words flew around my mind. I. Knew. Him. 

“He’s cute,” a familiar voice whispered in my ear. I felt Emilie walk around me and stand next to me. I set my drink down and leaned back against the counter. I looked around the ship’s only club, illuminated by black lights, and spotted the guy Emilie had been talking about in a matter of seconds. He was cute, extremely cute. He had dark brown hair, mysterious eyes and a tall figure. He was also staring at me. He winked and gestured I come dance with him. Emilie must’ve thought he was silently communicating with her, and he might’ve been, because her posture had straightened up fast. She leaned against the bar and sighed.

   “I was talking with him earlier, his name is Bren,” Emilie purred. “And damn.” She liked him. It was incredibly obvious. I picked my drink back up and took a sip. I leaned in close to Emilie. Her dress was basically glowing different colors from the lights.

 

 “Go dance with him then,” I started as I tipped my martini glass in his direction. I downed the rest and put the empty glass back on the bar. “If not, I will.” This caught her attention. She whipped her head around to shoot a glare at me. She didn’t move though, not one little movement.

  “Go right ahead,” she whispered, staring off into nowhere. She turned around and put her elbows on the bar. It was killing her to tell me I could go, but the alcohol in my system refused to let me believe it was hurting her then. Pulling up my dress just in case, I walked up to Bren, who still had his eyes on me, and started dancing with him. The atmosphere that night was hot and sexy, music pounding through the speakers and couples nonchalantly making out on the seats in the corner. Maybe I’d be lucky and find myself in that corner later.

   “What’s your name beautiful?” he whispered as I grinded against. I looked over at Emilie, upset and sipping on her drink.

   “Effenie. My friend over there tells me your name is Bren,” I smirked at him and pressed my body against his again. I grabbed the back of his neck with one hand and rested my head on his shoulder.

  “Maybe we should get to know each other a little better,” he suggested, whispering it ever so closely to my ear, then kissing behind it, leading down to my neck. He had great ideas.

   Making out with a stranger who smelled sexily of cigarettes wasn’t technically my thing, but I enjoyed this change. His hands pressed against my head, pulling me into his forceful kiss. He was rough. I liked it rough. I let my hand run from his neck to his chest. We were in the corner, next to another couple who seemed unaware of the other people. I had been straddling him for the past half an hour or so, and Emile must’ve left after ten minutes. After a couple of minutes, his hands have left my hair and head towards my ass, trailing against my back. I felt the warmth of his fingers through my skintight dress. When I felt his hands nearing his target, I straightened up on his lap and caught his wrists behind my back. I smiled and snaked my body back down onto his.

   “We’re just getting to know each other, remember?” I whispered against his lips.

   The rest of the night surely led up to more than “just getting to know each other”. He’d led me back to his room on the ship. I’d sat with him on the miniature couch, bare legs across his lap. We’d also drank a few shots of Vodka. We’d chatted. Then he’d started sliding his hands up my legs. My dress came off, and the rest of what happened is pretty predictable. One last thing to say: He’d found is target, and he had easily hit the bullseye.

He was dead. We had a past, you could say, a relationship. Nobody could be accidently stabbed with a pencil in his or her eye.

  “The police have not released any information on this case, but we can assume this was murder.” the reporter continues.

  If assumptions could be made, I knew exactly what I was assuming. I was assuming I knew who the criminal was. One could only have suspicions, right?

Chapter 2 - You again.

*WARNING - Includes Sexual Content*
I suggest you listen to this song while reading:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bpzxf_flm8M

Is anybody else paranoid, like, all the time? Being paranoid was a bad habit of mine, and I had to get rid of it. I slowly draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, putting more weight on the bed. It was obvious that the past ten or so hours had been extremely traumatizing. I still couldn’t find that wretched bottle of alcohol, so I still didn’t know what had happened last night. I remember yesterday though, being with Grace, possibly seeing Emilie (it could’ve been some sort of a doppelganger, you never know) and then after writing in that journal, everything became blurry, to both my eyes, and my memory. Sure enough, Grace comes barging into the apartment, barreling towards me. Then she stops, and sniffs the air. Her eyes basically tear through me. Yes, I’d called her, but I guess I forgot that if I drank last night, as bad as I thought, I would reek.

   “Alcohol Eff? Really? I thought you had yourself under control,” she scowls. Grace was not happy. I was in trouble. I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out, and I wait for my younger cousin to punish me like a little kid. “I mean, I understand that life is hard and all that shit, but you had yourself under control, how did you let go so… So easily?” I knew the answer to that one. I slowly let my hand move up to point to my journal on the ground. Her head turns, and she sighs. “More poetry,” she mumbles.

   “I’m getting back into it?” I say, realizing it came out as a question. I lift my eyebrows and plaster an innocent smile on my face in defense to her on-going scowl. Grace shook her head.

  “Where’s that thing you wanted me to see?”

 

   “In the bathroom,” I say, as a mental picture of the carved words flash before my eyes. Then, I feel someone’s breath on the back of my neck, whip around, and find nothing.

   “Holy shit,” I hear Grace yell from the bathroom. She peeks her head out, “Why would you to that to the mirror?”

Me? She couldn’t possibly believe it was me who had taken something and scratched the word “DEAD” into my mirror. Even if I were drunk, why the hell would I do that? The rest of the afternoon included arguing, coffee and the “Ever After” ending, where everything comes out okay. Although I still have an insecure feeling that has settled into the pit of my stomach, I tell Grace that everything is fine, I was just overreacting, and that I could control myself. Grace offers to stay, but I shrug the offer away.

 “Please, stay in control for me,” she whispers into my ear as we hug. As soon as the door shuts, I break down. Tears flow as if a dam had broken, my heart aches, and I slump to the floor, back against the door. I cry, and cry, until there’s nothing left. Numbness has taken over my entire body and mind. I contemplate reaching over for my journal, but forget the idea completely in a matter of seconds. I bury my face into my hands and try to think, but both numbness, and thoughts of my trip, invade my mind.

“I’m Effenie, and you are” I asked. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. She had shiny black hair and smoldering blue eyes. Her and I were sitting across from each other in the cruise ship’s library. I wasn’t much of a reader, so I decided to spark up a conversation. I wasn’t the best conversationalist.

  “Emilie,” she smiled, closing her book and putting it on her lap. Emilie, what a beautiful name. She relaxed into the back of her chair.

  “So, what brings you to the ship’s library?” At that moment, I slapped myself mentally. Why else would anybody be at the library? Could I get any stupider? Hopefully, I hadn’t just challenged myself.

  She laughed, “Well, you see, I came to the library to read. I don’t know if that’s what you’re supposed to do, but I like to call myself a rebel.” Emilie had the biggest smile on her face, and I could tell she knew I was embarrassed by my mortifyingly stupid question. I shift my weight in the chair, and try to focus the conversation on something else. The conversation shifts between cookie dough, old cartoons, and then our pasts, a topic I’m extremely cautious in. I found out how hard she’d had it, her parents abandoned her at the age of fifteen, where she was left alone to raise her and her sister, who died the year after of cancer. I had felt guilty, and I remember silently mourning her sister.

  “If I ever see my parents again, I’ll kill them,” she said at the end, and by the look on her face, I knew she was dead serious.

I heard a knock from behind me, and then remembered I was against the front door. I stand up, wipe my eyes, turn around and open the door. My jaw drops and my heart sinks. There stands Erik Sanders, my ex boyfriend. We would still be together, if he wasn’t a drunkard who liked to gamble. Hating him for being just a drunkard would be hypocritical. I begin to shut the door when he stops it with his foot and looks at me.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers. He had the most seductive voice I had ever heard. It was that sleepy guy voice, and he was lucky enough to have it all the time. I’m sure there were tons of girls who could’ve been turned on by his voice. Then, there were his looks. Blonde hair that he always spiked, his built body that sometimes made me quiver with anticipation to what he could do to me and his nose. Now, I was obsessed with noses, and he just had the perfect, most heavenly nose I’d ever seen. Male models didn’t have a better nose than him. Entranced, I pull the door open and let him in. As soon as I close the door, I’m pinned to it. He starts kissing my neck and holds my wrists above my head. Did I mention he was tall? I moan as he takes both wrists in one hand and his other hand travels my body, familiar territory. He pulls my shirt over my head and starts to unbutton my jeans, when I realize what’s going on. I try to push away, but he’s too strong, and maybe it was because I wanted it too and didn’t try hard enough. My jeans come off, and resist the urge to blush. I usually didn’t mind him seeing my in my underwear, but we weren’t together. I felt exposed. He pulls me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. He was still clothed. Why was he still clothed? I grab at his shirt. When his shirt comes off, and we blindly find our way to the tiny bedroom, he kisses me forcefully. His mouth travels lower, stops at my breasts, and then travels lower again, until he’s found my panties. He starts biting at them. Then, the rest falls into place, I realize how much I’ve missed him, and let him in.

Chapter 1 - Things are not always as they seem.

I suggest you listen to this song while reading: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJ3ZM8FDBlg

Ever had the feeling you were being watched before? Like when you're casually munching on fries and then all of a sudden, BAM! You feel someone's eyes on you. Well, I had that feeling right now, while finishing up my soup at 'Fill My Cup', the local soup restaurant. Had I seen her before? No, I didn't know her. I couldn't have. She smiled at me all the same. She looked familiar... Like, someone from my trip, but that girl told me she was from Wisconsin. I lived in Canada. Wisconsin and Canada, or where I lived at least, were not close. 

  "Effenie, aren't we going?" I hear my cousin Grace's voice. It's distant in my ears. 

   "Yeah, yeah," I say, absentmindedly taking the napkin and dabbing at my mouth. I slowly get out of the booth and loop my arm through hers. As we leave, I turn to see the girl give a small smirk and a wave. 

   "What was that?" Grace asks, as I snap back into focus as the cool wind hits me. I look back at the restaurant we were just in. 

  "Just, I thought that I saw someone I knew... It's fine," I say, pushing hair behind my ear. Grace sighs, almost in approval. We continue walking back to the apartment, crossing a few streets, chatting about whose soup was better, and giggling like crazy over the silliest of things. Grace was my best friend, and I was just lucky enough that I was related to her. When we reach apartment building, climb the many stairs and reach the door, I unlock it and throw the keys onto the kitchen counter just a few feet away. Unfortunately, they hit the countertop and slide right off.

   “So, who did you think you saw?” Grace asks, walking over to the island and placing her elbows on it. I laugh and bend over to pick up the keys. I slap them onto the counter and lean over the island like Grace.

   “Someone from my trip, but they live in Wisconsin, so it couldn’t have been her,” I say, looking at the picture frame on the edge of one of the kitchen’s counters. The girl from Wisconsin, otherwise known as Emilie, and I, were standing next to the railing, jokingly looking like we were about to fall off the cruise ship, in the picture. She was a beautiful, pale girl, with stunning locks of black hair and striking blue eyes. My square jaw, brown eyes and brown hair looked like nothing compared to her. I didn’t love her for her beauty though; I was more of the personality kind of chick. I loved her, for her. She was incredibly fun, and laughing with her felt like such a privilege. I feel Grace follow my gaze and turn back to me.

   “Her?” she says, walking over and picking up the picture frame. She examines it and puts it back. “She’s pretty, but I didn’t see anybody there that looked like her, cous. Maybe it was just your eyes, playing those damn tricks.” I smirk at her comment. My eyes were always playing “those damn tricks”, this was probably another one. Grace smoothly rounds the corner of the island, pulls the fridge door open and sticks her head inside.

   “Are you kidding me? We just ate!” I exclaim, giggling. What a waste of money, and soup. I would’ve surely eaten her bowl as well as mine. Her addicting laugh lingers through the air as her head pulls out of the fridge. After running the apple through the sink, she chomps down on the fruit. How could anyone be hungry after that meal? Well, the answer to that was Grace. After my cousin finished her apple and we watched a few hours of TV, she kisses me on the cheek and leaves. All is silent. I pull out my journal from under the couch’s cushions and open it up on my lap.

  I can’t believe I’m actually writing in this thing. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything really. That’s going to change. I need to start up on my poetry again. Start with haikus, end with free verse. Sounds like a decent, sustainable plan.

  I close the journal gently, then realize how I feel, and slap it on the ground. It was undeniable, I was always enraged after writing in that thing, no matter the length or time I put into it. Especially with my poetry, but emotion was good for us literal artists. My plan was to fall back into my love, my passion, but start off in the shallow end, one step at a time, until complete invasion of what I love took place. I was a poet, one who knew the roots of poetry like I had it encrypted into my mind. Grace never understood my love for a “silly little hobby”, but it was more than that. I had to get all this poison out of my head. Poetry was my love, but a clear doorway to a horrible path. I look over and see the bottle of alcohol, teasing me to make my way over to it. It was past six. It would be okay to have a drink, just one. Right? My feet didn’t seem to listen, and before I knew it, I found myself standing in front of it. I shakily grab a glass from the cupboard overhead. I fill the cup only to about a quarter full. I had to control myself. Prevent all that past shit from coming back. Flooding. Taking over as easily as poetry did. I press the edge of the glass to my lip, inhale the scent, lean the glass back, and lose myself.

What time was it? I groggily turn my head to the side and peer my eyes into slits, struggling to see the clock. All I could make out was the glowing two at the start. I rest my head against the couch again and sigh. I was slumped between the coffee table and the couch, my ass numb from the wood paneled floor.

  “I’m safe, up high, nothing can touch me,” I slur. Okay, so maybe singing P!nk at two in the morning, while drunk, was not a good thing. I didn’t seem to care. I sing messily, spitting here and there, belting out with my terrible voice. My vision dances, everything is blurred; the lights are dimmed for my fragile eyes. “Why do I feel this good sober?” I continue, then, I pause to laugh at the irony. No sobriety here. I can feel the alcohol, the mass consumption, seep through my veins. I could feel it tugging at the memories, what had happened on that damned ship. It wasn’t always butterflies and lollipops, was it? I also feel something else. Hate, pain, maybe sadness? It was too hard to tell in such a foggy haze. I start to pull myself up, and dizzily make my way to the bathroom. I flick the light on, which is sheer torture for my eyes. Then, I vomit. It was bound to happen, the bottle was dry and my glass was empty. Tears form as my throat aches, and I collapse to the floor. Emilie stands in the doorway. Or I think it’s Emilie. She couldn’t be her.

  

  “Effenie!” It’s her voice that shrieks my name. I feel her arm on my shoulders as I’m shaken violently. I close my eyes slowly.

When I open them, it’s morning, and the sun is shining brightly. My eyes kill, and my head feels like I was hit with something heavy, right to the temple. I prop myself up weakly on my elbows, and I realize I’m on my bed. I don’t even know how that’s possible, as I remember being on the bathroom floor, with a fuzzy view of Emilie. It was probably a dream. I wouldn’t have done that. It takes me a few minutes, but I head to the kitchen. I look around, and see nothing out of place, no empty bottle, nothing. Until I look closely enough at one item. The picture of Emilie and I. Emilie’s face was replaced by scratch marks, like someone had dragged a knife across it or something. My heart stopped. Chills run down my spine. Not only was Emilie’s face gone, but mine was too. I knew for sure, I hadn’t done this. Someone had broken in. Someone had come, scratched out our faces. Something was wrong. I took my time, and slowly wandered over to the bathroom door. It smelled clean, like lemon tile cleaner, the kind I used. Grabbing onto the moulding of the doorframe, I slowly swing my body inwards, to look into the bathroom. It wasn’t until I saw the same scratch marks on the mirror, with the word “DEAD” carved into the glass that my blood froze, and I heard the front door close.