|The Past Should Stay Dead
Author: Two-Ways-Down-None-To-Go PM
Years ago, someone came along and ruined Trina's life. Now they're back for Jade. Can Trina overcome her past to save someone else's future? Trina/Jade friendship and slight Jandre *Co-written with BelleTheWickedWitch*Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Hurt/Comfort - Trina V. & Jade W. - Chapters: 7 - Words: 17,965 - Reviews: 17 - Favs: 6 - Follows: 10 - Updated: 09-10-12 - Published: 04-02-12 - id: 7982948
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
So this was the story I was supposed to be working on with WellNowWhat (previously GiveMeSomethingToBelieveIn). Now this is my story because she decided it would be better if we didn't work together on this particular story. But I promised that I would use the chapter that she wrote in the story, so I hope you like it. She's a great writer so go check her out and read her other stuff.
I also decided I'm going to finish writing The Preyingmantis, How Do You Love Someone, and this story before I work on the one about the shooting (which I've also decided will be inside the school). I'm going to write the story and see where it's going before I post it so I can draft a better summary. So heads up, be on the lookout for it soonish!
Now that that's out of the way, I hope you read and like this as well as leave a review!
"Tailored sheets to fix this dirty bed for once this dirt won't come all off. It can't be pushed aside. The wind is blowing through closed doors with shadows dancing in the hall. Now hit the floor crawl to the side. We've all made better moves despite the slowing of our feet." – Emarosa
Tori and her friends are going to a party. I wasn't invited. But, then again, I never am. It's better that way, or so I've tried countless times to convince myself. One day I'll get through to my brain and not care.
I plaster on my perky smile and get dressed – I'm crashing. It's the only way to get in on the gossip. Going to parties always seemed really trivial and meaningless back before the incident. Back then, I was beautiful and talented – people invited me to all the parties. Before the incident I had my choice of where to go and when.
I follow Andre's car. I wait about five minutes outside the house so that they won't know I followed them. I should've known it wouldn't work, though. Tori always knows I follow her and her friends.
I walk into the house and I'm handed a beer by some lanky, zit-covered, bleach-blonde guy with a douche-y voice. He latches his arm around my shoulders.
"Hey there, pretty lady," he slurs. He reeks of alcohol. I roll my eyes and roll out of his grasp, putting my beer on a counter somewhere. I never really liked parties. The idea of them is fun, I guess, but once you get there it's all sweat, loud music, beer, and idiots.
I mingle my way through the crowd, being perky and irritating until people just leave me alone. I don't mind being alone so much. It's just less time being with people I really don't want to be with in the first place.
"Check out the movie director making moves on Scary Girl over there!" Great. Blonde Douche is back, slinging his arms around my shoulders and shoving another beer in my hand. "Hey, cheers, pretty lady, it's a party!" I roll my eyes as I clink my bottle against his, looking in the direction where he had previously gestured.
In that terrifying moment, I see him.
There's a flash of tunnel vision, where it is just he and I again, in a room, in a party. Then my vision comes back and the emotions that I had repressed for years flood back to me: guilt, fear, nausea, and pain.
It was him.
He was back.
And he was with Jade.
His hand was stroking her elbow, and she was giggling. A red plastic cup was clutched in the hand of the arm he wasn't stroking. His free arm rested just above her head on the wall he had her pinned against. She put her cup down and began to fiddle with the collar of his jacket. She playfully pushed him in the chest. He slid his hand down the wall and behind her head, bringing her face to meet his. They kissed. She clawed at his jacket, desperately clinging to him for support.
Oh my God.
Jade. She was so tough. She was so strong willed. And he would snap her like a twig.
Just like he did to me.
I want to hurl. Blonde Douche is still all over me, so I puke on his shoes. He leaves me alone after that. The memories make me want to scream.
I run to an upstairs bedroom. Actually, I can't find an empty bedroom. It ends up being a closet—but that's too small—and then the bathroom. I sit down beside the bathtub, pull my knees up to my chest, and scream into them.
The memories all come flooding back, overwhelming me into silencing my screams, back to the day, five years ago, when I first met him.
Contrary to popular belief, I'm talented – I mean exceptionally talented. I can sing, dance, act – you name it, I could do it. (Except for Scottish accents, I can't do those.) Getting into Hollywood Arts has been my dream since I was a little girl. In the eighth grade, I got the opportunity to audition.
Principal Eikner, Lane, and Sikowitz were judging my auditions. I don't even remember what it is I was auditioning with. As my mom and I were walking out, Sikowitz caught up with us. He said that I would be perfect for a part in a movie that his college roommate's younger cousin was directing. He gave me all the information and I prepared myself for my first and last, serious, professional audition.
Blake Hitchcock. He was Alfred Hitchcock's grandson, or perhaps great-grandson, or some relation thereof. I cared back then, but not enough to remember the exact detail now. He was tall, dark, and handsome, the teenage dream. He liked my acting. He loved my acting, actually. His eyes sparkled as he watched me. Those eyes watch me in my dreams – black as night, yet still sparkling, watching me dance. By dance, I mean figuratively, of course; there was no dancing in the movie.
My mom left us alone. She said that she'd be back to pick me up when I texted her that we were done. I went to text her and the phone was snatched from my hands. I was sitting down. Maybe that made the difference. If I hadn't sat down, it wouldn't have been so easy for him to get on top of me.
He started to whisper terrible, awful things in my ear – things I never thought I would hear and would probably have liked in a different context. The next thing I knew, he pulled my clothes off with his greasy fingernails. I could smell the tobacco on his breath as his lips trailed down my lips to my neck. His arms pinned me down. I didn't think I had a choice. I should have struggled more. I was too scared – I should have fought. I let it happen.
I focused on anything else in the room. The ceiling was white and boring. God, I remember that ceiling so well. I remember the centipede that was crawling on it. I remember the fire alarm on the right corner of the ceiling. I remember the cobweb. It was broken, dangling between the fire alarm and the ceiling, drooping with the sadness of being forgotten. The fire alarm had a gray scuff mark on it, as if someone had tried to turn it off by throwing their shoe at it. To what avail, I don't know, but the scuff mark wasn't on the button. I remember every detail of that ceiling.
Masked behind the memories of the ceiling is the pain. Pain and hurt and discomfort masked in a white ceiling that haunts my dreams every night. That white ceiling that I will never ever forget.
I shouldn't have focused on the ceiling. I should have fought harder. I should have struggled. I shouldn't have just let the pain happen.
I have to stop him, before he gets to Jade. Before he hurts her, too.
I find myself running down the stairs to the corner where they had been making out.
They aren't there.
It's my fault.
He's going to hurt her.
I begin to wallow in my own misery, but I could have stopped it. The moment I saw them together, I could have taken Jade away from him. Now she's going to get hurt. She won't have any control. I could have – should have – warned her. I should have done something.
Now they're gone.
And it's all my fault.