Manic [h.s]

#004

"'Cause I'm already high enough

You got me, you got me good"

High Enough | K.Flay

December 18, 1998

IRIS XANDER

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Shawn continues to unleash a string of curses while gripping his black hair tightly within his hands. My gaze remains fixed on the pristine white paper nestled in my sketchpad which rests upon my knees. With deliberate strokes, I guide the pen across the page, leaving behind a trail of vibrant blue ink.

"What the fuck am I gonna do?" he murmurs. I continue sketching the outline of a suit that's been lingering on my mind while taking a drag from the thick smoke of the joint nestled between my lips. The hazy fumes mingle with my bloodstream and I exhale the remnants.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Shawn exclaims. "How many goddamn times have I told you not to smoke inside the store?" he asks, his frustration unmistakable in his voice. It seems like someone's in a shitty mood today.

"Sorry," I say in amusement as I remove the stub from my lips and pinch off the cherry between my thumb and forefinger. "You should take a breather and calm down."

"Calm down?" he asks, dumbfounded. "How the fuck do you expect me to calm down when it hasn't been long since Victor broke up with me?"

I let out an exasperated groan, closing my eyes and tilting my head back, resting it against the back of the chair that I'm seated on.

"I thought we were over with this already," I sigh and glance at him.

"No!" he whines, pacing back and forth. "I'm not over him!"

I roll my eyes and flick the half-smoked cigarette into the bin beside me. Shawn is dramatic as fuck and honestly, that's what makes him who he is. I'm pretty sure everyone would agree with me on that. He's like a five-year-old stuck in the body of a twenty-six-year-old man. What a moody-ass boss I have to put up with everyday. I guess I need to often remind myself that my life is weird.

"Listen," I mutter, lowering my legs from the chair, and placing the sketchpad on my lap. I let a pause linger in the air as the rain continues to pour relentlessly over the tin roof.

"Let's face it, we both know what an ass he is. He gave you all the signs that he's going to treat you like his plaything. It's painfully obvious, isn't it? I know it hurts to hear but that's the truth. And the truth is always bitter. To make matters worse, why did he break up with you again? Oh right, he fucking cheated on you! Then had the audacity to reason it by saying that your personalities didn't align well enough and that he had to move on. I'd really like for him to say that when he was treating you like his personal ATM and wasting your money. That's ridiculous. Are you five years old or what? Grow a spine, Shawn. That bastard doesn't deserve someone like you," I say before refocusing on my sketchpad. As I begin drawing the sleeve of the suit, I steal occasional glances at Shawn.

His face is turning into a furious shade of red, his gaze locked onto the carpeted ground. His hands rest on his hips and I can practically feel the anger radiating from him. I brace myself, half-expecting an eruption of anger.

But just as he opens his mouth to say something, the sound of a bell chiming interrupts him. We simultaneously turn towards the door where a lady enters, holding a dripping wet umbrella in her hands. She carelessly flaps and waves it around, splattering water everywhere over the clean carpets. I sigh, knowing it's me who's supposed to clean that mess up.