The Story of Us // H.S.

Pre-Credits

The story starts when it was hot and it was summer, and...

Inez

Schedules. Lists. Routines.

Everyone has one, or should, at least. The idea of having a set plan for the day makes some people feel secure, others stressed. Personally, I've always had to plan out my day. I'm too forgetful to keep on track, so it's better for me to have rules, so to say.

Every morning, my alarm goes off to take my meds and eat breakfast. It's just up to me if I listen or not. It's a battle for me, there's a part of me that wants to get better. Seriously, I do. But there's a voice in my head that makes me worried to defuse that part of me.

Of course, I don't want to be unstable. Not that I am. Because I'm not. Well, kind of. But that's not the point. The point is, the meds make me better. They don't make me me, but it makes me the person everyone else wants.

The person Cory wants. Not that he cares all that much. No matter how good I am, how much I take my pills and rest, I can't stop him from seeing her. It's part of our deal, and it's too late for me to change my mind now, and I knew what I was getting into four years ago.

I just have to take my pills and be the good little "girlfriend" he wants if I want him to keep my secrets. And I need him to keep them locked away tight.

So I'm not at all surprised to come home and hear their moans filling what's supposed to be our apartment. It's hardly even mine anymore. Her things are packed away in the drawers that are supposed to be mine. Her perfume on the pillows that should smell like me.

Three years and two months of this agreement and only a year and ten more months to go. He said all is forgiven, all is forgotten, in five years. Just barely two more to go.

I almost trip over one of her bright red heels lining the entrance mat of the apartment. Her purse is thrown across the counter, having knocked over the wicker fruit basket I always keep in the middle.

I walk over, setting my bag in the tall bar seat so my hands are free to bend down and collect the fallen apples scattering the tile floors. The heat must be turned off, not that it would be bothering my "boyfriend" and his unwelcome guest. They must be working up enough heat on their own without the help of a heater.

Even through their locked door, I can hear her whimpers and shrieks, along with the thumping bed against the wall. It makes me shudder. I'm okay with knowing they do this, but I could go without hearing it.

To my disappointment, one of the apples I pick up is squishy, barely good enough to eat. There isn't much in our fridge either, leaving me with the option between mushy apples or a jar of pickles. Neither sound at all appetizing, but I'm lacking the motivation to leave again.

I missed two days of my pills earlier this week and taking one this morning has made my mood dip severely. The couple thumping against the wall in the room over is worsening my massive headache, and the lack of food in my system makes me want to throw a chair at both of their heads.

My tank top is clinging to my sweaty torso from my attempt to calm my thoughts. I guess in the thirty minutes I was out jogging, Cory was able to call his other girl over. Typical. And now I can't even get into our room to change my clothes, which is greatly needed.

My only hope is that they finish soon because there is no way I can spend another night listening to this. I don't even care if she spends the night, I just want to change my clothes and leave them alone. If I could just leave...

I don't try to interrupt, learning that mistake the hard way, but I wish I could just let them know I'm here. Maybe it would give them an incentive to finish quicker. Probably not though. I know him too well and I know better.