DEVIL

1.5 | Envy

Envy; noun: "a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else's traits, status, abilities, or rewards."

Two days had passed since Theodore Collins paid a visit in Poetry's dream; and two days had passed since Poetry had any encounters with Rafe Cameron. Poetry heard Theodore's message loud and clear, and she'd never gone against her father before; she especially refused to do so, now that he was gone. While she blatantly avoided Rafe, she constantly glanced over her shoulder.

"I'll always be two steps ahead of you," replayed in Poetry's mind. During Rafe's absence, she'd made an effort to befriend JJ and Pope, the boys from the dock. In doing so, she also started to befriend Kiara Carrera and John B. Routledge. Although, most of the time, all four of them felt like the friends you make in a school setting; you feel like best friends during school hours, but you seem to forget about their existence, as soon as you go back home.

Rafe had Poetry's number, which meant he'd never hesitated to text or call her; which led to Poetry turning off notifications specifically for his contact. Kiara had invited the Pogues, and Poetry, to attend a beach cleanup; actually, she practically dragged the boys.

Kiara actually cleaned, John B did a fair amount of work, but he complained the entire time; JJ only picked the trash up, when Kiara would glance at him as if she were a mother, scolding her child; Pope was just being Pope – he cleaned, but spoke about what sounded like complete nonsense, to people who didn't understand what he was saying.

"Poe," JJ called. As Poetry turned around, she saw that JJ was holding a piece of unrecognizable trash directly in her face, which led to her sprinting away. JJ chased after her, still threatening her with the trash. Eventually, John B joined in – even Pope, somewhat. They all quickly halted their shenanigans, once Kiara scolded them for "not caring about the environment, or the sea-life, or even the passerby's, or-" her list went on.

Poetry felt eyes searing into the back of her skull; it was so severe, she could almost sense a headache coming. She turned around, finding none other than Rafe Cameron. He stood down the beach, clearly not doing any work, unless a peer was watching him. As usual, Rafe's actions were purely performative.

Rafe's eyes traveled from Poetry, to John B, over to JJ, and lastly, to Pope, until he'd repeat the cycle again. Being thoroughly weirded out, and frankly just wanting to leave before Rafe approached any of them, Poetry decided to return to her house. "I need to go wait for Eridanus to get home," Poetry lied, excusing herself from the group. "It's only around 12:30, though," Pope argued.

Poetry turned around, no longer being able to see Rafe Cameron from where she stood. "I need to get some cleaning done, too," Poetry said, already grabbing the bag she'd brought with her. The four Pogues all furrowed their brows and shared confused glances; they were all able to sense that she was lying, they just couldn't figure out why.

Poetry grabbed her bag, leaving as hastily as humanly possible. Her hand was on her car door, about to pull it open, until she'd been interrupted. "You ditched me to hangout with those lowlifes, huh?" Rafe's honeyed voice sounded from behind her. She could hear his footsteps growing nearer as he spoke. "They're not lowlifes," Poetry defended, turning around to face him.

Rafe only sardonically chuckled, putting one hand in his pocket, as the other traced along his jaw. "Right, I forgot that you refuse to use logic and reason, even in obvious cases." Poetry only rolled her eyes, assuming a lack of response would end their conversation. "Maybe I wouldn't have forgotten, if you didn't just fall off the face of the earth for two days. Why'd you do that?" Rafe interrogated, cocking his head to the side.

Poetry only shrugged. How was she supposed to say "my dead dad visited me in a dream and gave me some sort of ominous warning?" Rafe's eyes narrowed. "Are you just not gonna explain why you didn't call or text?" She shrugged again, trying her best to formulate some sort of lie. "I lost your number," was the best she could come up with – Poetry mentally face-palmed, and internally cringed at herself.