Two Queens

Are we Friends?

A/N: So... there's an extra chapter now. I ended up writing so much that I had to split this one in half. So from this chapter onward, there are THREE chapters left! (and I have like half of the next one already typed up).

Anyway, that's all from me. Till next time,

D.L.D

~*O*~ ~*O*~ ~*O*~

~Courtney~

How can I help someone like Heather?

Like an impossible riddle, the question ticks away in my brain as I stand in the girls' bathroom, leaning against the sinks and listening to her soft sobs. Break had finished well over five minutes ago and everyone had cleared out since. With them left all the noise and chatter, smoke and perfume and vomit being flushed and taken away with the scramble to make it back to class. Originally, I had only come here to freshen up. I had no intention to stay.

Now I am here, much longer than I should have even been here for, leaning against the sinks and having an internal debate. Two sides of me are at war, firing every feasible argument at each other. One side screams to act, to do something; the other is nonchalant, uncaring, her voice cruel and cold as she whispers for me to ignore it.

Heather is crying. Almost silently, painfully, she is bawling her eyes out in a public bathroom, most likely curled up on the cold toilet seat. No-one has come to check on her. I don't think anyone cares enough to check on her, even though it is obvious that she is upset. High school can be like that; high school can be a placed filled with self-centered pricks who never care about anyone but themselves. Some people just don't care. Some people choose to walk away.

At the moment, I am questioning if I am that type of person.

Sighing, I lean my head back and close my eyes. Heather is a person who has gone through a lot. Sure, she does not share it, and yes, she definitely shouldn't use her past to justify her actions, but I think she doesn't know any better. Heather hasn't told me anything about her past. Not a single thing. Yet sometimes, when she lets her guard down a little, I catch small snapshots of who she used to be. Like an elusive ghost, like a lost little girl, they shyly tug at me, showing me that she is there. She exists.

Smoke passes behind my eyelids, a mixture of tobacco and weed. Together we had smoked in the rain, sharing an imperfection as we laughed bitterly about our crappy realities. That was the first time I had seen a real imperfection in Heather; smoking was something that linked us together through imperfection.

Everyone is riddled with imperfections. Everyone is imperfect. But Heather keeps them hidden. I also keep them hidden. However every now and again, when we are worn down to the bone, when we are tired of striving for perfection in an imperfect world, we allow someone to see our flaws and mistakes. For Heather it was in private, hidden within the mystery and illusions of smoke breaks and bathrooms; I still don't know where I admit my flaws. I don't know if I can truly accept that I am flawed.

Another sniffle. She doesn't seem as if she will stop any time soon. But here I am, still leaning against the sinks, wondering if I am a good enough person to ask Heather if she is ok. After all, how can I help someone like Heather?

'Talk to her,' A little voice says, whispering in my ear. 'Talk to her like a friend, someone who will give her the advice she never had.' But I can't do that. Advice is something I suck at. Advice is something I am too selfish and twisted to ever give correctly now. Ever since I decided to work with Heather, I went against my own advice. I didn't listen to anyone, not even myself, when they warned me about how I would end up different.