𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐄𝐃

02. metamorphosis.

a/n; comment all the way for motivation

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"YOU BROKE UP WITH RON?" came the whiny voice of your self proclaimed friend, Alyssa. There was the obvious bitchy insinuation lingering in the air—that he had been too good for you, that you should have grasped onto him tighter. That you should have forgiven him.

"I did." You barely cast her a glance. "Why?"

"I mean, wasn't he your boyfriend of five years?  Why would you throw it all away for—for..."

"It was two," you replied, irritated, "and why would I forgive the person who cheated on me? Why the hell would I forgive the person who was the one who threw the relationship all away?"

Besides, if he had proposed to you, you doubted you would have accepted. Russia was not home for people like you. If you had wanted to get married to a man, you would have to go to Germany. You had searched for the faintest surrectation—for some bits and glimpse of love or affection or even bliss of a married life, but none was present. Living with Roy—being married to him would have been nothing short of a boring, contemptuous life.

You had a trust fund to your name. People called you handsome. For those two traits alone, Alyssa had scrambled to become your friend. You were also under the impression that somehow having a male best friend who liked men was somehow exotic to her, even. That it made her more interesting, that it was something that could be dropped loosely in conversation and might or might not gain the scathing glares of the ones who disapproved of such things.

Alyssa had been uninteresting in high school. A loner. You were despised, mainly by jealous women and men alike and also for the fact people viewed you as spoilt. Or you had a wave of admirers who saw your silence as mysterious and your presence as some sort of tragic story. You kept to yourself, by choice. You rarely spoke to anyone and when you did, it was in clipped tones. You lapsed in Russian occasionally to which women found cute. You mispronounced words. Russia, after all, was not where you were born.

"I don't know," Alyssa whined, "he was such a good catch..."

You suspected your supposed friend had a crush on Ron. That she delighted in your breakup and she was only saying this out of obligation. It was obvious; the way her cheeks tinged—out of jealousy or affection, you didn't know—when Ron even spared her a glance. She was not chastising Ron for cheating, you realized. She was chastising you; for not turning a blind eye. You knew vehemently that if given the chance to have an affair, she would. She was lonely, not by choice, and she filled in the gaps and crevices of her soul by visiting bars, visiting places that just as well could have been brothels.

"My mother is dying of disease." Alyssa said abruptly, "stage four."

She mentioned it in passing before, but now you realised you didn't know. You didn't care.

All you could muster was a nod of sympathy. You were tired. You slept a lot, more than ten hours a day—sometimes you managed to sleep through lectures, alarms, Alyssa's frantic knocking on the door. Someone joked once you would be able to sleep through the end of the world, an earthquake, and you would wake up in heaven. Heaven sounded nice. A paradise. You couldn't bear to listen to Alyssa's whines. You could have recommended a therapist. Someone who was paid to listen to her moans and gurgles.

"I've always been very close to her," Alyssa murmured, "you know? We had a special bond. A mother-daughter relationship people couldn't replicate. She knew me. She knew everything about me...you know it, right? If your parents die, wouldn't you feel sad?"