golden [kaylor]

( one. )

This is your life there's no way to run from it

The doubt in your brain or the pain in your stomach

I only have but one complaint at the moment:

Don't paint me black when I used to be golden

Clairvoyant || The Story So Far

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Your lip is stinging, and it takes you far longer than it should to realize it's because your teeth are cutting into the chapped flesh, drawing little flower petals of blood to the surface. Your tongue slips out, licking away the blood that tastes vaguely like old pennies, and you focus a sliver of attention on not biting down on it again.

But chewing on your lip must have steadied you, because when you return to your work, your hand is trembling, just slightly. But what you're doing is precise business. It's amazing to you how you've gotten to the point where you can't even function without some sort of nervous tic. You sigh out long and slow, and your teeth return to their former spot. Better a bloody lip than a worthless, trembling hand.

Your precise work is a tray of cupcakes. Four fish, four frogs, four lions. The lions are what you are currently working on, drawing little black whiskers with a thin-tipped frosting tube. Three on each side of a pink fondant nose, curling just slightly on the end.

You haven't lost your desire for perfection. Lack of symmetry makes you anxious, and it's a struggle to make each whisker match as much as possible. You've thrown cupcakes away for something as trivial as that before. And sure, it seems like a dumb thing to be so particular about. But at this point, little things are all you have.

You needed a job when everything changed, and the people who'd helped create your new identity had asked about your skills. You listed off several, and somehow baking had stood out as the most workable. The bakery was waiting when you arrived in the town of Willow Springs, and it's been your home ever since.

You've been a workaholic for a long time, since you were sixteen and your first album released. Even with everything wrenched out of your hands, even with your fingernails torn out from holding on too tight, that hasn't changed. You're in the shop from eight in the morning to eight at night, decorating cookies and cakes, taking orders, interacting with children.

Witness Protection provides you a small sum every month, but aside from that and your bakery money, you're as broke as anyone else, and that's such a strange concept. There are no limos or skirts that cost more than some people's houses. You live in a small one bedroom apartment. It's well decorated with antiques like your old apartment, warm and homey, but it's small and even though it's only occupied by you and your kitten Monica Gellar (who can't begin to replace the hole in your heart left by Olivia and Meredith), it feels cramped. You've gotten too used to the high life.

With a low sigh, you set the cupcakes on the shelf and wipe your icing covered fingers on your apron. There's a radio behind the counter, and since it's the downtime between breakfast and lunch, you turn it on, flipping through stations. You pass over various commercials, only halfway paying attention to what you're hearing.

And then you freeze.

Because you recognize that voice, that accent, the guitar chords. You can just see the messy ginger hair, see him smiling against the microphone. Ed. You haven't talked to him since all of this started. You haven't been allowed. You can remember him on some CBS special a few days after it happened, crying as he talked about the good memories.

Your stomach churns, and your knees grow weak and wobbly. You feel sick. Your hand shoots out, bitten-down fingernails digging hard into the countertop, sending a spreading knife clattering across the surface. You inhale and exhale rapidly, trying to steady yourself.

Your finger slams against the station change button, and as some talk radio program comes on, you're left feeling like you just ran a marathon in the desert. A single tear drips down your cheek, over the freckles that still make your face feel a bit swollen. It burns you like a fire. It tastes like seawater when it drags over your lip. A tenerife sea in your mouth.

It takes a lot of trembling breaths before you can move again, and when you do your bones feel rusted. They creak as you slip into the back room, opening the fridge and pulling out a water bottle. You down it like you haven't had anything to drink in years, and it feels like you haven't. Your tongue feels sandy in your mouth.

As you slide down on the weary floor, halfway listening for the bell above the bakery door, you think about the people you've left behind. You wonder if Austin had any special awards at his college graduation. You wonder if your mother's cancer is still getting better. You wonder if your father is still dedicated to photobombing everyone he can.

You wonder if Ed still cracks jokes to lighten the mood. You wonder if Martha and Lily and Cara are still strutting like panthers. You wonder if Hayley is still a bright red shining star.

You wonder if Karlie is still baking. You wonder if she's still coding. You wonder if she still remembers how the kisses felt, because you do. You still kiss her in your dreams, still hold her and slow dance with her to the tune of 80's love songs.

Leaving your family and your fans and the life to which you'd become accustomed had been hard. But you'd lost Karlie. For about three months before, you two had been acting on the strange more-than-friends tension you'd had for all that time before. She'd stayed most nights, her body warm against yours, her breaths like the tune of every beautiful song you've ever heard.

And now she's still there, probably leaving flowers on a gravestone with your name, crying and missing you. And you're alone here in your empty bed, wanting to call her but knowing that if you do then you'll be kicked out of Witness Protection and then you really will die. Or you'll put her in danger and her blood will cover your hands.

You finish off the bottle of water, closing your eyes tightly, trying to steady yourself. It's easier not to think about the past. Easier, but impossible. You can't not hurt yourself. Your mind can't stop drifting to them.

The bell above the door chimes, signaling customers. You gather yourself, putting on what used to be your concert smile. And you walk out, beaming as you wait for the customer to tell you what they'd like.

You can't stop yourself from thinking about the past, but a distraction is always helpful.