Ebony goes out with friends for the night. This leaves me alone at home, to ignore our mother's calls and have no inhibitions in regards to the endless supply of alcohol stocked in the cooler.
I don't like my little brother to witness me as anything but stone-cold sober, but in his absence―a night where his friends will have access to every liquor and spirit under the sun, and Ebony himself will be the furthest thing from―the sharpness of my senses and my hot-and-cold awareness are desperate for something to numb the conflict stirring my insides.
So, an armful of wine bottles follow me up to my room, ice-cold and beading with moisture. Dark patches form on my pyjamas, dark-grey bleeding into a marble-like dark white―ill-fitting and unsavoury, but the epitome of comfort when everything else seems to grate against my skin, reducing me to slivers of flesh and blood.
The bottles clutter my bedside table as I throw myself onto the bed, pressing play on the first of the films I have lined up for the evening. A chaotic mix of classics and actions and horrors and rom-coms; anything to drown out Angel Williams' snake-like voice and acid-swamped words from my mind.
Even in a whir of over-exposed colours and lines stated with an excess of inflection, my mind still drives its way back to the events of the day, and how my brother and Archer's encouragements had become null and void within hours. They'd spent so long convincing me no one cared anymore―ardent and unrelenting―that they'd blinded themselves to the truth too.
Or they'd known all along, but didn't want me to know.
The thought brings me up short, jarring my whole body like I'm a fish on a hook, being dragged out of the water that engulfs me, hiding all the things I prefer not to see. I uncork the first bottle of chardonnay and take the first few sips, remedying the dissent voicing itself in my chest.
The tart taste curls around my tongue, but I focus on it, continuing to nurse the rest of the bottle.
Though the room is silent and brooding, I stab at my phone a few times, and the walls vibrate with a blast of music that gyrates against my ears. More of JJ's, with my fingers clutching the device with an ardent resolve, as if it's tangible; as if I can hold onto the music and imprint it into my skin.
―without Rebel.
―should've just stayed a Witch.
The words morph themselves to fit with the music, and for each repetition, I clasp another bottle to my chest, submerging the words branded into my brain that are knife-sharp.
Maybe I would be better off if I'd just stayed with Rebel.
Maybe she didn't mean to replace me. Maybe things just got misunderstood.
An unidentifiable feeling jams itself in my chest.
Maybe, if I ask, she'll let me come back. Maybe, if I ask, she'll let me belong.
My hands shake without mercy, and the disappointed looks of Ebony and Archer etch themselves into my brain, but my mind is made up. They have to understand: I'm no one without Rebel, and no amount of sugar-coating could protect me from myself.
There's only one way to fix things, and I never really was happier than when my soul was sold to the Devil. They might think she's the one to drown me, but what if she's the one who could help me resurface?
Now, more than ever, I need her, if only so I can get myself back. As a part of her.
The rest of my dreams wouldn't have made it anyway, I remind myself, scrolling through my contacts until I find her name, dubbed with affection. Sisters, down to our souls.
Me: im sorryt i wann be a withc agai n
Rebel: I always knew you'd come crawling back to me
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