breathe through the pain . charade

[cass]

c a s s i u s .

"you are young
and broken
covered in scars"

It’s not been the best of days. Your classes weren’t entirely too fun, you failed your math test. On the plus side, you got an A in English. The teacher is pretty impressed with your ability to write, but then, you’ve always been very good at writing creative stories. The journal you keep in buried under your underwear would agree with the statement, pages filled with gruesome and detailed stories. It’s one of the few ways you cope with your nightmares, the nights you wake up with fingers wrapped around your throat as if you’re drowning all over again.

The cafeteria is as noisy as ever, but you’re used to it. Everyone leaves you alone these days, tired of trying to tease out some kind of response. The bullies have grown bored of you, unable to get you to beg, cry or plead anymore. Placing the tray down at a table in the back corner, you pull out your book, flipping to the page you’re up to. It’s a good book, not the best, but you enjoy the story and the time you can spend lost within its pages.

No one sits with you, but you prefer it this way, able to focus on what’s in front of you instead of disappointing them with a lack of conversation. It’s better for everyone, no one can try and peel the mask away to expose the ugliness beneath. There’s no trying to get to know you, trying to push themselves beneath the scars that warp your heart.

You can pretend, protected by solitude. No one else gets hurt, there’s no one to grow attached to, no one to let you down.

The peace around you is ruined as Cleo Burns sits down at the seat opposite you. You don’t look up, eyes focused on the book, trying your best to ignore the loudness of her tray clattering against the table. The sounds of several other people as they fall into place around you. It’s hard to ignore the tightness in your chest, or the way your stomach curls with sickening apprehension.

You release a long breath between gritted teeth, trying as hard as you can do focus on each of the words, but they’re slipping. The words folding and collapsing together as the pressure around you increases.

The mask doesn’t break and you hope it’s stronger than what they throw at you.

elegant

[charade]

cleo.

"Ooh, look what you made me do
Look what you made me do
I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me
I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams"

The best things in life came to those who took them. And Cleo had spent her entire high school career doing just that. If you wanted to stay on top, you had to cut everyone else’s legs out from under them. You could fall in line with or her, or you could get the hell out of her path, but you could not and would not stand in her way.

She strode through the cafeteria with purpose, five or six of her friends following in her wake. But they weren’t friends, not really. Some of them were sycophants trying to climb the social ladder. Teammates. One of the boys she only kept around in her circle because he was nice to look at.

The things you could get the weak-minded to do with a few choice words and smoky look or two.

It paid to keep an ear to the ground, and because of the company she kept, anytime the rumor mill started churning, she was among the first to know. It was amazing, the things people would tell her just because she was popular. They really thought she was their friend. But that was okay. As long as she held the power they could think whatever thoughts they could get to bounce around inside those empty little heads of theirs.

There was only one problem.

The best way to keep that power was by flaunting it, and ever since Scarlet’s uh, departure—

Without Scarlet around, she needed someone fresh to mess with. Or someone past their sell by date who should have been dealt with a long time ago. Like the absolute waste of space that was sitting at her table.

Was this a joke?

“What are you doing, sitting at my table?” she asked in annoyance, setting down her tray harshly. The others took the seats around the two of them. Charlie standing behind the boy's chair. She didn’t bother to look at him, examining her nails instead. Everyone knew the girls’ volleyball team sat in the back corner on Fridays. Well, the starters anyway. She didn’t hang with the bench-warmers. She looked up to see that he still had his nose in his book.

Holy shit, was he ignoring her?

She snatched the book out of his hands, examining the cover with distaste before handing it off to one of her teammates boyfriends. Moby Dick? That ancient novel about an angry mariner who couldn’t kill one stupid fish. Gag. Almost as sad as what the cafeteria workers were trying to pass off as lunch. The burger had too much mustard, the apple was bruised, and as for the side—

She tasted one of the fries on her plate and curled her lip in disgust. Over salted again. Was the faculty trying to make her gain weight? Time to bother daddy to make a donation and hire an actual chef to prepare the meals at the academy. Someone with actual taste buds. She shoved the tray in his direction, the milk carton tipping over as she did so, spilling across the table and splashing on the front of his shirt.

Cass. That his name. 

If he was important, she might have remembered sooner.

“Oops.” She shrugged, crossing her legs and idly drumming on the table with one hand. “Anyway, I asked you a question.” One of her cronies chuckled. They knew what it meant when all of her focus was on someone. The claws would come out soon, and once she got ahold of him, she wasn’t about to stop until she drew blood.

elegant

[cass]

c a s s i u s .

"you are young
and broken
covered in scars"

Her table?

It was an honest mistake, and your fingers instinctively tighten over the edge of the book. Your whole body tenses up as you try your best to focus more on the book then on the presence of someone standing behind you. The position you’re in is one of weakness. You’re aware of the danger of the situation, but there’s really nothing you can do to prevent it. How were you supposed to know? You sat here most days of the week, buried in the back of the cafeteria trying to remain unseen, lost within the crowd.

Shit. Your heart is racing in your chest, and you try your best to maintain a steady breath through clenched teeth. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You’d spent the past few months blending in and slowly becoming more and more comfortable with the new image of yourself. The mask was supposed to protect you and stop people like Cleo Burns from being able to hurt you.

This new fight had only just begun, you had to calm down and ease the storm of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm you. Cleo couldn’t break you, you’d decided all those weeks ago that you would not let another person dig their claws into your heart. Each tap of her finger against the table feels like another blade drawn, another step closer to carving open your flesh. Your armour is shaking, and you resist the urge to flinch, the sound pounding against your skull.

The book disappears from your hands, and your gaze snaps up, watching as it‘s tossed into the hands of one of her colleagues. You’re not sure how you’re going to explain that one to the librarian. Just paying the fee seems like the easiest option.

You’ve got nowhere else to look, there’s nothing left between you and Cleo’s burning gaze filled with disgust. It makes your skin crawl and you fight your desires, wanting to curl up, arms wrapped around your chest to protect yourself. Today, the mask you wear feels paper-thin, one tear away from exposing the ugliness beneath. You can’t let her see it, she’s a panther waiting to pounce, thriving on the kill and the feeling of destroying a person’s will.

You hope yours is stronger than her patience.

The milk on her tray goes flying as she thrusts it in your direction. Moments later the contents of the carton are splashing all over your shirt. It’s cold, it reminds you of the chill that had crept through your body as those boys had held your head under the water. A hand reaches for the shirt, fingers digging into the material. The drum of your rapidly beating hurt bubbles against your skin and you swallow stiffly. Your fear feels so obvious to you-

Just breathe. She can’t see it.

The question is dangerous and you know that regardless of what you say you’re walking into a trap. This situation is not designed like a maze with an exit but rather filled with dead ends. There’s no escape.

You don’t know what to do. Disinterest was your protection, but without your book, you’re not sure if staring into space is going to be the best idea.

“I’ll get out of your way, then,” you say, voice even. You move to stand up, planting a hand on the table, praying that the boy behind you doesn’t try to stop you from leaving.

You’re hopeful that’ll be enough, the problem solved and you can go on with your day. But there’s no way it’s going to be that easy.

elegant

[charade]

cleo.

"Ooh, look what you made me do
Look what you made me do
I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me
I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams"

Cass stood up like he was actually going to go somewhere, and Cleo shook her head left to right, almost imperceptibly. Oh no, he wasn’t getting away that easily. He’d committed a cardinal sin. He’d gotten her attention and gone the wrong way about it. But it didn’t have to be him.

It could have been any of the kids who sat alone or made the mistake of standing out for the wrong reasons; like that girl with the lisp or the charity case that couldn’t afford to buy the current school uniform. There were so many undesirables in the school of late, small wonder why the school was rumored to be on the fiscal chopping block of the district.

“Charlie?” she said sweetly, batting her eyelashes at the jock standing behind the waste of tuition. Charlie put a less than friendly hand on Cass’s shoulder and forced him back into his seat.

“Rude of you to leave when we were just getting to know each other, “she said with a pout. “Do you not like me or something?” Her friends laughed and she smirked knowingly. She fed on this. Reveled in it. There was nothing quite like the power of knowing there were people hanging on your every word. That you could guide the way the people around you socialized. That you could elevate or destroy someone’s social standing.

Cleo uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on the table, her eyes flicking to the stain on Cass’s shirt and then back up to his face. This wasn't just about the table. This was about reminding everyone in the area about who she was.

"You didn't answer my question either, but that's okay I guess." It wasn't. Wow, he was just making every possible mistake, wasn't he? "You see, there’s people like us, and then there’s people like you. Like Scarlet.” Someone gasped. Cleo rolled her eyes, God, sometimes it felt like half the school was afraid to mention that dead twerp as if saying her name would summon a vengeful ghost or something.

Idiots.

A ghost didn’t kill Frankie Stellio. And anyway Cleo wasn’t scared of anything or anyone. However, she was concerned that these morons were going to get Salvatore shut down, and that simply would not do. This was her kingdom, and she was not going to lose it.

“You— have you ever seen a nice neighborhood with one house with an uncut lawn and a rusty bike in the yard? Really brings down the property value of the whole street.” She shook her head mournfully, adopting a faux pitying frown that quickly melted away to be replaced with a lip curl of disgust.

“That’s you. Students like you bring down the whole property value of the school. You’re the trash cluttering up something that could really be nice.” She leaned back in her chair. “You’re one of the quiet ones, but I don’t think you’re dumb. Can you tell me where trash belongs?” she said with a razor sharp smile. God, she was enjoying this. It had been too long since she’d toyed with someone. If only Clara was with her right now. Together they could tear him to shreds.

There was blood in the water now.

elegant

[cass]

c a s s i u s .

"you are young
and broken
covered in scars"

The hand on your shoulder makes you flinch.

The force behind the movement is enough to throw the air from your lungs as you’re slammed back onto the chair. This wasn’t going to be easy, there was no escape. The next best thing was to simply walk into the trap, suffer the consequences, and move on. Your stomach curls, aching with barely controlled fear, uncertain of what kind of punishment Cleo wanted to deal out today.

From memory, she doesn’t seem like the type of girl to be too violent. The rumours of her conquests and bullying seemed to collide more with mental torture. A technique that favoured draining her victims of their strength and will until they broke just by seeing her in the halls. You’d seen it happen, shielding yourself from her dangerous gaze and scurrying away like a frightened mouse. Too many times you’d avoided her attack, silently shying away from her victims as they called for help.

Had Scarlet been like you? Broken pieces wrapped in tape, one blow away from falling apart. Had there been times when she’d cried herself to sleep at night? How many times had you wiped away your own tears as they’d bled into the homework at your desk?

What did it matter?

In the end, they were all the same. Each of them struggling to stand strong every day, trying their best to pretend that it didn’t hurt. You weren’t the only one to ignore someone else’s screams, everyone had ignored your own. And even now, staring down the barrel of the gun, you held onto no hope or belief that there was someone out there that could help you.

You’re on your own and you don’t know what to do.

It’s funny to hear her paint this story, though, an assumption built out of nowhere. At school, you might be no one with no friends or company, but at home it was different. Your parents are both doctors, your house might be a little untidy and unkept but that was why your father hired a maid. You’re not the rusted cog stopping the world from spinning, not the fool or fake that Cleo sees. But you don’t correct her, unwilling to antagonise a carnivore just itching to sink its fangs into her prey.

The material of your shirt grows colder, it sticks to your skin and it’s unpleasant, seeping further and further into your clothing. Pulling a hand off the table you bury it on your lap, fingers digging into your palm as you tried desperately to control your breathing. It’s hard to ignore the pounding of your heart as the roar in your ears only increases.

It’s a threat, her question. Knives sinking into your skin as she drills holes into your skull. You don’t know what to say or do and the fear is only increasing as the feeling of your shirt reaches your heart. It reminds you too much of the feeling of drowning. The hand on your shoulder as violent as the ones that had held you down as you’d tried to breathe-

There’s blood on your hand, the spike of pain jolting you out of the nightmare.

The panic that had filled your veins lessens as you rapidly blink, trying to clear the terror from your mind. You’re not by the pond, it’s milk on your shirt not water.

“In a bin,” you say, the word whispered between dry lips. Your gaze flickers down to your hand, crescent-shaped cuts littering the palm as you flex your aching fingers. You press your hand against your pants, trying your best to hide the knew wounds as you look back at Cleo.

A bin was better than drowning in the pond.

elegant

[charade]

cleo.

"Ooh, look what you made me do
Look what you made me do
I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me
I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams"

God, he was so pathetic, cringing in his seat and trying hard not to look anyone in the eyes.

He was just letting her do this. Wasn’t even attempting to fight back, say anything, defend himself. Nothing. He was just quietly taking it. Cleo would never let someone talk to her the way she was talking to him. She had him wrapped in her web, but he wasn’t struggling, he was just waiting for her to descend and sink her fangs into his miserable flesh.

What was wrong with him? Every time she gave a feeble-minded loser the chance to show they had the potential to be a predator or at least a scavenger lurking around a true alpha, they chose to remain prey and bleed.

She guessed some people just wanted to be stepped on.

The least she could do was oblige. Her pumps were new after all.

It was a question she’d asked at least three other kids over the last two school years, and her adoring flock, simple-minded as they were sometimes, had started to cop to what she wanted them to do. Wonderful. Some people took so long to train. Charlie had already grabbed a can and dragged it to the side of the table. A few faces sported grins. Amazing, how with the right guidance, a small crowd could easily devolve into a pack of wild dogs baying for a rabbit’s blood.

“In a bin.” he said quietly. Defeated. Like he knew what was coming.

Trash goes in the garbage bin. Correct. She shoved his shoulder lightly with the palm of her hand, laughing playfully. “I knew you had a brain in there under all the moping, you grumpy-guss!” As if on cue, Charlie and another of her teammates boyfriends pulled him out of his chair and dropped him in the bin.

Feet first of course, dropping him on his head could have been dangerous and she wasn’t trying to kill anyone.

No resistance. How irritating.

She dumped the tragedy masquerading as edible food off her tray and into the bin after him. Probably staining his pants and shoes with mustard and grease. Whatever.

It was his own fault.

It was a real shame; if he put any energy towards trying to be somebody instead of trying to ignore the world around him, he’d be almost tolerable. Not on her level of course, but he could easily be one of those forgettable faces in the background of any good party. But he was weak-willed. Destined to defeat himself and be crushed by his own shortcomings.

Cleo reapplied some lip gloss to keep an even sheen and tapped him on his shoulder, adopting a pitying look as she folded her arms across her chest.

“A word of advice? If you’re going to stand out, do it with pride in something? Not— “she gestured up and down the length of his body. “–whatever this is. Self-pity is not a good look.”

The bell rang and she shrugged.

Hey did you hear Ally St.Cloud was making eyes at Maverick? Someone half-whispered conspiratorially.

“Maverick Poole?” she gasped, feigning shock. She'd already heard about that during second period. “She's aiming high, I'll give her that. Think he’ll leave her crying behind the dumpster like the last one?”. She laughed giddily as they left what’s his face behind, already forgotten as she moved on to whatever trouble she could stir up next.

It was good, being the queen.

elegant

[cass]

c a s s i u s .

"you are young
and broken
covered in scars"

The shove to your shoulder is just another nail in your coffin.

The world can see you for who you are, the mask you’ve so carefully designed visible to Cleo and all her cronies. Whatever anger you feel gets washed away, left to burn within the depths of your mind. It would simmer back there, ready to be spilled on the pages of your journal tonight as you write the story of Cleo’s demise. Perhaps in this one, her death would be at your hands, or you’d have one of the million boys she’s fucked end her cruel existence.

It didn’t matter, because by the time the clock struck midnight her end would be written in ink. You’d tuck it away in pages of your book before hiding it where no one can see. It was the only way you knew how to release the anger that twisted your heart. Holding a pillow over your head as you screamed into the night made your throat feel raw and broken.

In a matter of seconds, one of the jocks and a friend drag you to your feet before tossing you into the bin. Your bodyweight presses against the range of garbage. It’s disgusting and the smell hits you almost instantly, and you screw up your nose, coughing as it infiltrates your lungs. There’s something wet underneath your butt and you can feel it seeping into your clothing.

You think that this moment couldn’t possibly get worse, but then Cleo empties her tray of food on top of you. Some fries hit your face, the grease leaving a trail down your cheeks as they fall into your lap. You stare numbly at the laughing faces around you, expression one of indifference as they giggle and point. On the inside, each one is a slice across your flesh, a gaping wound that you cannot tend to for fear that the humiliation might destroy you.

It is humiliating.

You swallow stiffly as you watched Cleo reapply her lipstick, you want it to be other, for her to get bored and move on and leave you be. The pitying look she gives you is as fake as everything about her and it hollows you out, steeling the last few shreds of dignity you’ve vainly fought to cling onto. The smell of the garbage has firmly buried itself into your clothing and you know it’ll take two or three washes to remove the stench.

Life’s not fair, and all you can do is hope that one day Cleo will get what she deserves. You know it won’t be by your hand, because as she has so eloquently put there’s nothing inside you that has that kind of strength. There’s no pride, only fear and cowardice that hides beneath the face of apathy.

The bell rings, signalling the end of your torment. You look down at your hands, trying your best to ignore the looks of utter disgust thrown your way as Cleo and her cronies disappear in search of a new target. You don’t bother to wipe away the grease on your cheeks, there’s no point in any of it. You wish, with all your heart that you felt as little as the mask of disregard implies. But, instead, you’re stuck with feeling too much; every insult, every strike, a wound that you don’t know how to fix.

No one comes to help you, and you sit there, listening to the sounds of a hundred different voices fade into the distance. When the silence reigns only then do you crack. Annoyingly the prickle behind your eyes does not cease until the tears fall, fists clenched by your sides as you bite back a sob.

Just as there is no one to hear your pleas for help, there is no one to comfort you as you fall apart.

elegant

[ end of thread ]