Pure Illusion (12 page)

Meltdown

Harmony
and I go through racks upon racks of magnificent dresses that Vic has handmade
from scratch. Dresses made of lace, tulle, gossamer, silk, mesh, and fabrics I
have never seen. A metallic short dress made of a thousand tiny reflective
mirror-like gems catches my eye. The smooth glasslike jewels are cut in so many
facets that I sparkle from every angle, even in the dimmest light like a disco
ball. Harmony glides by the door in a tight black leather dress and black
heels. Her hair is long and silky straight and her makeup is dark and dramatic,
flaring out in an elegant stencil floral design from the corners of her
grey-green eyes.

Victor
pauses from buffering my face with a soft makeup brush. His eyes expand as he
drinks her in. “You are sickening, honey.”

Harmony
smiles and puts her hands on her hips, twirling in small circle so we can get a
three-hundred and sixty degree angle view of how beautiful she is. “You think?”

“Yes,”
I whisper in awe. “You
are
stunning.”

She
leans her hip against the vanity table and watches as Vic continues to polish
my face in what feels like layers of makeup. “Maybe I’ll find a young munchkin
who likes to play.”

“You’re
into
the
lifestyle?” Vic asks in astonishment, turning to face her.

Her
black-coated lips spread into a slow, sexy smile. “I like to play.”

“Mine
is Buttercup, but harsher ones get the job done too. What’s yours?”

“Miss
Mickey. It has something to it that takes me to place only my munchkins know.”

“You
guys are seriously kinky,” I say, teasing them. “What am I, Kitten or
Mistress?”

“Kitten,”
they both say together, laughing together.

Falcon
has transformed me yet again. My face is surprisingly soft. Pale rose cheeks,
bubblegum pink lips, dark lashes and wide glinting eyes. My hair has lots of
volume and waves that spill over my shoulders and breasts. I look like an
exotic doll. Instead of girly heels, I wear black boots with shiny black studs
that make my feet feel and look incredible. The only problem is my scars on my
arms. The dress in strapless and it exposes every inch of my dark secret that I
always
keep hidden under long-sleeves.

Looking
into the mirror, I tilt my head as I stare at the short fine scars that mark my
flesh. “I need a sweater or jacket…something long-sleeved.”

Harmony
strolls to me, placing her chin on my shoulder and wrapping her arms around my
waist, pulling me from behind into a loving embrace.

“You
look hot, lovebird,” she assures, staring at me in the mirror. “The scars don’t
take away from your beauty. They only add more mystery to your allure.”

I
let my eyes fall to a purple slender perfume bottle on Vic’s vanity table. “I
feel like a freak. My name at Cherry High was Cutter. I was very careful about
keeping my scars hidden, but on this one particular spring day, it was so humid
in school and I had on a cotton navy cardigan. The cardigan was thin, but I
still couldn’t feel any type of ventilation or breeze. My clothes were sticking
to me, so I rolled up my sleeves, forgetting all about the scars that run up my
wrists. Students saw, people gossiped, and everyone knew. They started calling
me Cutter after that.”

Harmony
drops an arm, tracing a scar on my upper arm. “When was the last time you cut?”

“The night of
Tyler’s funeral.
After Tyler passed, the cutting got worst. I just wanted the misery to go away.
I’d slash deeper and rougher and see how much pain I could take without passing
out. The pain intensified, but I never would blackout. I think I’m too much of
pain whore. I don’t know what made me stop, really.”

“The reason you stopped doesn’t matter.
As you long as you stopped.”

The unshed tears burn my eyes and
throat. “I think I want to go a rowdy teenage party and get drunk now,” I
whisper, locking eyes with Harmony in the mirror.

***

Falcon drops us off at my house because Harmony
wants to drive my car. It’s a white Lexus my mom got me for my sixteenth
birthday. After Dad died, we had a bunch of money from his life insurance plan
to just throw around. She bought me and Tyler many gifts to help “cheer” us up.
This car is one of them.

I lift the empty clay pot on my porch to
retrieve my house key that rests underneath it. Handing the key to Harmony, I
tell her where to find my car key: hanging on a small blue hook nailed to my
wall on the left side of my bed. I can’t go into this house where it almost
came to an end for me. My father took his life in the basement; my mother took
hers in her bedroom. I’m not strong enough to face that reality yet.

“So your practically a millionaire,”
Harmony, says easing out my driveway, after I tell the address of Rex’s house.

“Basically.
Mom made sure
our lives were all insured, half a million for each of my dead family members.
Yep. I’m living the life,” I mutter sarcastically, looking at all the bare
cherry trees blur into dark streaks outside the widow.

“I didn’t mean it like that, lovebird,
and you know it. I’m just saying why not go on a much-needed vacation. Rome.
Paris. Mexico?”

“Tyler and I always wanted to go to
Egypt and swim in the Red Sea, thinking maybe it’ll cleanse our souls. He’s
dead. I don’t want to go anymore.”

The rest of the drive is quiet. Harmony
doesn’t even turn the radio on, which I’m thankful for. I just need silence for
now.

Harmony pulls up to the curb of Rex’s
massive colonial brick mansion. Ear-shattering dupstep music quakes the ground.
Glossy sports cars are parked in a disarrayed order all over the green
manicured lawn. Groups of stylish teens are huddle together, laughing and
drinking and smoking.

I step out the car, closing the door
behind me as Harmony gets the small, flat present wrapped in shimmering paper
off the backseat. She was in charge of getting a birthday gift for Rex. I just
hope the gift is good enough to allow us entrance.

“Ready?” she asks, closing the car door.

I nod, fidgeting with the hem of my
black long-sleeved cardigan. I don’t like parties and large crowds. I feel like
a bright spot light is shone down on me whenever I attend social events. I’m
awkward enough and I don’t need other people judging me.   

We move around the car and up the paved
walkway that leads to Rex’s porch. Harmony slips her hand in mine, lacing our
fingers together as we approach the house. My stomach is in knots and my heart
is racing. I feel like the ground beneath me is spinning. Trying to slow my
breathing, I count four stone steps that we have to walk up before reaching the
front door that’s wide open. I pause when Harmony’s free hand reaches for the
latch of the storm door. Someone pops a balloon in the distance and I freak
out.

I shake Harmony’s hand off and sprint
across the lawn, in the opposite direction. The frigid air cuts my breath short
and whips my face and hair. I jump over a short picket fence, dashing around a
house. I run as fast as my body will allow me. It feels like my lungs are about
to burst, but I don’t seem to be moving fast enough. Before I can make another
move, I trip over something hard as stone and fall, cutting my hands and
grazing knees on the rough gravel. My lungs ache with a blistering sharp
pain, my nose is runny with mucus and I’m trembling. I look back at a
stupid garden gnome with its pointy red hat, rosy cheeks, long white breed,
holding a lantern with a stupid fucking smirk on its clay-painted face. It’s
like the damn thing is mocking me.

I scramble off the ground and wrap my
hands around the small gnome, trying to pry it from the earth with all my
might. I think it’s rooted in the ground. It takes a couple of attempts before
I pull it out the ground. With a murderous gleam in my eyes, I lift the gnome
high above my head with both hands and declare, “I HATE FUCKING GNOMES!” With
just as much strength I throw it on the ground. It hits the wet grass with a
heavy thud and rolls over on its side. The gnome didn’t even chip. Yanking it
from the yard, I move over to the grey brick pavement that leads to a huge,
glowing oval pool. Gritting my teeth, I raise the gnome above my head once more
and smash it against the pavement, as if it’s the cause of all my stress and
grief. It cracks in large fragments with a loud shattering noise.

Breathing raggedly, I drop to my knees,
the tears finally spilling over my eyes and cheeks. Picking up a big fragment
of the gnome’s red hat, I clutch it so tightly that the sharp edges of the clay
lodge into my palm and cut me. Blood starts to flow over my hand. I just ball
up and weep as loud and as ugly as I want, clinging onto the broken piece of
red clay as if it’s the dearest thing to me.

“What the fuck,
Isabel?!”

Someone is yelling at me.

They’re angry because I busted their
smirking gnome and having a meltdown late at night in their backyard.

I don’t look up.

I just rock and cry with the fragment of
gnome hat in my hand.

Don’t Play In Her Garden or Smell Her
Flowers

A
strong set of hands curl around my upper arms, hauling me up. “What’s the
matter? Did someone hurt you? You’re bleeding.” The male voice is slightly
familiar.

It’s
difficult to make out his face through my tears and darkness of the night. I
blabber incoherent things, holding my bleeding hand out.

He
takes my hand in his, rolls up my cardigan sleeve and inspects it close up. I’m
fascinated with his silver lip ring that glints under the pale light of the
full moon. My eyes lift and roam over his young face as he picks out small
pieces of clay from my hand. Dark, thick, long bangs are swept over his
forehead; the rest of his longish hair is messy and curls upward at the nape of
his neck. His skin is smooth and flawless. Every feature of his face is
handsome, aggressively handsome, as in a strong masculine way.  

My
eyes drop down to his full lips again. I recognize the curves of those lips.
I’ve kissed a pair like those countless times and they are almost exact. The
awareness hits me like a brick to the face.
“Oh my God!
Lark!”
I wrap my uninjured hand around his back and
pull him into a tight embrace, ignoring the stinging ache in my palm. It is
Falcon’s little brother. “I didn’t recognize you. You look so different.”

He
laughs sheepishly, squeezing me a little, then eases out the hug. “Puberty will
do that to you. It’s been what? Two years since I last
really
saw you?”

“I
think.”

He
stares at me for a moment, eyes thoroughly scanning my dress. “I was at the
funeral, but yeah. It’s been a while.” Lark glances down at the broken gnome on
the ground and back up to me, his face contorting into concern. “What
happened?”

“
Your
stupid gnome tripped me,” I laugh, wiping a stray tear
with the back of my hand and dusting my knees.

His
brows lift, his lips tipping up in a smile. “So you broke it?”

Feeling
ashamed and stupid, I stare at my boots, the tiny black studs gleaming in the
darkness. “I did. I’m sorry.”

“That’s
my mom’s gnome. She loves…
loved
that goofy-looking thing.”

“I’m
so, so,
so
sorry. I’ll buy her a hundred different gnomes,” I say
frantically.

He
laughs and gives his head a slight shake, “Nah, it’s all good. I’ll take the
blame.” Lark stares at my wounded hands and knees, his brows creasing. “I can
clean your hand and knees for you. It looks sort of bad.”

Before
I can answer he steers me towards the patio sliding glass doors by the elbow.
We step inside his dark living room that smells of welcoming French vanilla and
cream wax candles. Lark carefully slides the glass together with his free hand.
A gleeful voice is freely chatting and laughing away on the phone upstairs. Our
eyes meet in the dark and he rolls his. “Mom gets drunk off mojitos and calls
her two-faced friends to blab about the latest gossip. Tonight all the exciting
news is about how Mrs. Gabai is letting Rex ‘destroy’ her lovely home. I can’t
wait to get away from the phony-ass people and the madness.”  He shakes
his head and leads me through the lavish furniture and up the stairs, to the
first room on the right.

Lark
pushes open his room door and I’m propelled into darkness. He pauses at the
door, flipping the light switch on. Dark blue walls, plastered with gruesome
videogame and amine posters come into view. I glance around, taking in Lark’s
bedroom. The black sheets of his king-sized bed are bunched and unmade. Thick
piles of clothes and belts and shoes blanket the floor. His desktop computer is
on and his leather desk chair is spun around, facing the door. He appeared to
be in the middle of something. I must have interrupted him.

A
tack board splattered with pictures and handwritten notes and maps, hang above
his bed. Intrigued, I move closer. Most of the pictures are of Lark, Hero, and
Tyler. It’s this one particular photo that stands out amongst the rest. The
three of them are huddled together, eyes crossed and tongues poking from their
mouths. Tyler, the smallest one, is squeezed in the middle and their arms are
slung over one another’s shoulders. They all are dressed in camouflage apparel,
complete with large bucket hats and black hiking boots. It’s like they’re going
hunting or camping.

Feeling
my heart swell with an emotion I’m not sure of, I run fingers over the glossy
picture.  

Lark
clears his throat in the background. “Come. I have rubbing alcohol in my
bathroom.” Lark takes a hold of my elbow again, directing me to his bathroom
that’s completely decorated in red, yellow, blue, Superman theme. He follows my
gaze to the shower curtain with huge Superman S symbol.

“Sorry.
I never thought to change my bathroom. I was twelve and I thought Superman was
the shit. I still think he’s the shit, but I must admit that it’s kinda awkward
with a female in here.”

“I
love Superman.”

He
smiles, pure and genuine.

I
smile back, not so pure but totally genuine.

Lark
releases my elbow and opens the medicine cabinet. I hop up on the sink
countertop and watch him pull down several bottles. The last time I saw Lark he
was boy, a cute and growing teenage boy, but still a
boy
. With his long,
lean, cut muscled body, Lark doesn’t resemble the cute growing boy I remember.
He has surpassed that stage with remarkable results. Lark is a young man now.

A hot young man.

“I’ll
put peroxide on it before the alcohol. That’ll ease the burn,” Lark says, hazel
brown eyes serious and on mine.

Thinking
these thoughts and wanting to flirt with Lark is completely wrong and immoral,
he’s Falcon’s little brother for God’s sake, but the impulse is just too
powerful to deny and my only other choice is to have a breakdown and feel
every
emotion I refuse to give into.

He
grips my wrist, bringing my hand over the sink. He sees some of my scars but
doesn’t linger on them too long. Lark twists the cap off the peroxide and
douses my palm with the cold liquid and my knees next. It bubbles on top of the
cuts and drops of foamy peroxide and blood slide down the basin, swirling down the
drain.

Lark
places a hand on my cheek. “The alcohol might hurt a little. Are you ready?”

Nodding,
I bite the side of my lip.

He
nods as well, dropping his hand and quickly untwisting the cap of the bottle and
swiftly pour alcohol over my wounds. It burns but it’s not too bad. Lark pads
it dry with a clean paper towel and then gingerly wraps my hand in white badge.

When
he’s all done I lean forward and rest my sticky forehead on chest, my hands
clenching the sides of his black graphic T-shirt. Lark supportively strokes my
back, chuckling. “It didn’t hurt that bad, did it?”

“No.
Thank you,” I whisper seductively. “I’m really glad you helped me.”

I
feel him tense.
“N-no problem.
Anytime.”

I
pull him closer between my legs. “How old are you, Lark?”

“Umm,”
he nervously clears his throat, “turned eighteen three months ago. Why?”

“Just
making sure you’re legal.” My fingers dig into his sides as I stare up at him,
wide-eyed and pleading.

His
hands rest on my hips and his brows draw together, and for the first time I
notice that he wears thick, smudged black eyeliner on his lower lids. It brings
out the gold flecks in his eyes. Lark is dressed in a black graphic-T that has
a picture of a human heart ripped inside out, fitted black pants with many
slanted zippers on the sides, black boots. His style is very edgy and rocking
roll.

Leaning
forward, I press a kiss at the base of his throat. He smells slightly like
Falcon but sweeter somehow.

Lark
sucks in a sharp breath. “What’s happening?” But it’s like he’s asking himself
more than me.

“Whatever
you want to happen,” I purr, pulling him closer against me.

His
fingers flex on my hips. “I think you’re trying to seduce me Mrs. Robinson.”

“And
I think you’re absolutely right, my dear Benjamin.” Guiding his hands, I urge
them up inside the skin of my thighs. They pause with defiance at the opening
of my dress.

“You’re
hurting, Isabel,” he states softly, eyes narrowing, finding something I don’t
like.

My
hands fumble to his studded belt and begin to unfasten it from the buckle.
“Make it better then.”

His
head drops and his eyes shut tight, the features of his face morphing into
emotions that resembles pain, desire, bafflement. Lark’s fingers bury into my
flesh, causing me to groan. “I don’t know what’s more fucked up, you wanting to
use me to fill an empty void or me wanting to get a taste of you because you’re
pretty and smart and
off-limits
. You’re forbidden fruit, Isabel. You’re
my brother’s ex-girlfriend and my best friend’s sister.” His hands glide up my
thighs, fingers skillfully brushing the lace sides of my panties, gripping the
delicate material in his hands.

My
heart is roaring in my ears, like powerful and uncontrolled thunder.

One
hand strays away from my hip, lowering to the area under my dress and between
my legs.

I
wrap my arms around his neck and he presses his lips to the shell of my ear.

Two
fingers skillfully stroke at the wetness outside of my underwear.

Stifling
a moan, I hold Lark tighter to me.

“What
happens after a quick fuck in my bathroom? You thank me and we part ways,
pretending it never happened? We both live with the crushing guilt and never
speak a word of this to Falcon or anyone else? And when we happen to
occasionally run into each, we both smile and say hasty greetings, trying our
best not to appear awkward and ashamed of our secretive past? Because I can
almost guarantee that’s how it’s gonna go. And I respect you way too much for
that bullshit.”

Lark’s
fingers have me on edge. Every muscle in my body is twitching, coiled so tight.
All I need is few more light strokes to reach my heavenly orgasm that I’ve been
deprived of for so long now. But he doesn’t continue. He drops his hands at his
sides, chest heaving and takes a few backward steps, eyes locked on mine.

What
he said is too true to deny. Because of this, I burst into tears.