Deep End

00 | Intervals

PROLOGUE-00: Intervals

。• . Prologue: Intervals 。• .

Rae: It would be the furthest thing from an exaggeration to say that it took me until I was fourteen to grasp the concept of intervals— courtesy of my coach's profound, immeasurable hatred for my ignorance on the matter.

——<<>>——

 RAE'S POV:         
At some undisclosed point in time I acknowledged the hot, inexplicable liquid that streamed down my cheeks into diluted-streams of chlorine and salty tears I'd inadvertently shed. The asinine, emotional appeal of my mind kicks in:

I want them to hurt as much as they hurt me; If not a hell of a lot more.

It doesn't matter now that it's not entirely me who's in control at this point—it's the suppressed, silenced, angry part of me that I choke down every single day for the sake of other people so they themselves can be happy.

Sacrificing myself, and my time, and my joy—for their good and glory while I descend to the lowest points of my stupid, inconsequential life.

So for once, I don't overthink this–my actions; I just.. I do it.
I press myself onto the tips of my toes, grab his face, and press a reckless, blazing kiss to his full lips.

A kiss that somehow felt way overdue and–strange. Like new, unexplored territory for my lips to parade through freely–unrestrained.

But I'm not thinking about that. At first the kiss is stale—ridged on his end and I'm more-than-a-hundred-percent sure that I'm done for. I was sure that in a matter of seconds I'd be shoved back by an angry, burly-ass man without any reasonable explanation–sure that he'd.. Do something.

Anything.

but he.. Doesn't.

He simply does not.

But oh—After the initial shock subsides, his hands work; his throat too. His left hand slides downward to cup the lower cheek of my ass and his right to cups the side of my cheek, holding me in place.

 His hands are large, much larger than mine.

He leans down just enough for me to ease up my odd, elevated position and presses more firmly against me.

I fully expect the kiss to end but he.. presses on, unabashed—maybe he was still in the process of recovering from the initial shock? Or maybe it was that—oh.. 

Whatever world I'd constructed for myself in order to ward out all unwelcome emotions came crashing down with the tingling, heated sensation of his lips against mine and I slip into a placid mental vacancy—deliciously, wholly—nothing.

——<<>>——

Christmas-Eve || 2023

"RAEEEEE!" Sam screeches. I grimace, and thank the gods I had both airpods in at full noise-canceling capacity beforehand.

I shoot her a half-baked, irritated smile before yanking my left airpod out of my ear.
"What." I whine. "Lemme wrap this up.. I–"

"Ya' said that thirty minutes ago, sugar." Damien says pointedly.

"'It's like whatever time limit ya' give us comes with an unwritten caution sticker that reads: 'I'm bullshitting, I just don't wanna go with you guys cause' I know you're gonna embarrass me'"

I clack away at the keys on my MacBook–tuning out Damien's annoying ass voice with the placid sounds of some girl scream-singing about her crappy ex.

"I'm just–gettin' rent in before Sam beats me to it." I reply, reluctant. "And my social batteries' been dead for days... weeks.." Is what I fail to communicate.

But of course they peel me from the warm surface of my sweet, sweet mattress and into the cold, unforgiving streets of Orlando Florida on a cool winter afternoon.

I can't help it–staying glued to my stuff, that is.
Workaholism is one of my more admirable traits–depending on you look at it.

Always busying myself with something keeps my mind occupied, and the insecurities hidden away for safe keeping.

Add people-pleasing to the mix and you've got Rae Collins in a nutshell.

For the icing on the cake: There's this crippling selective-Insomnia thing I got going on, the part of the story where I inexplicably lose my job- twice, and sacrifice my Netflix subscription in hopes of making the cut for rent this month.

I've openly campaigned in the desolate silence of my apartment that if Sam has to pay my share one more time I'll wrap my head in a blanket and watch video compilations of parents tormenting their young children chronically on YouTube and laugh until I suffocate.

(And leave a note to assuage some of the pain of loss...)
"Dear Sammy, I love you unconditionally, the exception being when you devour my leftover McDonalds out of sheer malice and leaving a mere, puny fry to piss me off. I'm leaving Damien my twelve-dollars-and-forty-nine-cents, my dignity, and my collection of Shrek erotic fan-fiction.

Love you lots, Rae."

I huff out a laugh at the thought, which in turn, breaks my 'I hate both of you with a passion, and therefore forfeit our friendship, your shit peace offerings and have come to the shittier conclusion that I am never speaking to you again' facade, and before they can turn to each other and exchange those stupid, telling glances that your parents swap out when you tell them about a boy you met but refuse to like,

I speak up.

"You guys are shit," I mumble.

The corners of Sam's lips twitch and she tilts her head with teasing zeal. Damien only stares, his nonchalant, older-brotherly facade is remarkably unperturbed , though not unexpected, even in the face of the 'seriousness' of the matter.

"And you're worse than a chronically online discord moderator on the daily— no seas un poco de mierda.." He replies evenly, he doesn't smile but there's evident, teasing amusement behind his words.

I scoff, indignant— "I was tryna' pull through on rent–you heathens." I hiss and Sam laughs, of course she's enjoying herself; She lives, breathes and apparently, eats for my displeasure. As much as I love her...

Sam shakes her head, crossing her arm over her chest while her eyes roam my expression.

"And rewatching those stupid start videos.. Your starts are actually perfect–they can't get any better so stop stressing over area's y'know you already dominate in. Actually do us a damn favor and quit stressing–period."

I shoot her a sullen glance, "There's no harm in studying."

Damien glances at me like I'm a powder keg before letting out yet another sigh, like I'm the five year old the nice older lady next door in her thirty's decided to make his responsibility for the sake of 'date night.'

I'd be offended—and a little more pissed if I could find a crap to give...

"And–It's Start-Offs."

I say as if the word alone is self explanatory to everyone that isn't an aquatic athlete. "Everyone's always going over the top for Start-Offs so they can get their team on the Triad's roster." I add with a grim, dissimulative half-smile.

Damien shoots me one of his knowing, languid, cavalier glances.
"Sam's right and' you know it—you're just acting all pissy cause' you haven't gotten your hands on the conventional blue-raspberry slushie that you so crave."