White Walls [DIVERGENT]

8. Four

"Cold bones, yeah that's my love. She hides away, like a ghost. Does she know that we bleed the same? Don't wanna cry but I break that way. Cold sheets, but where's my love?" 

^^song from teen wolf, just saying ;)

Tobias:

Four months.

It's been four months since I've set eyes upon the being named Beatrice Prior. A girl who's attached to a simple polaroid camera and doesn't know if she can handle stress without it.

I have to admit, there are so many times where I continually question why she needs to be so desperate for her camera. Honestly, a vast majority of the people I know, whenever they need something to numb their pain, they turn to drugs or alcohol or sex.

And then there's this outcast who turns to a contraction of metal and plastic, with buttons and folds at every crease. And if I really am truthful, I do kind of admire that.

"For Gods' sake, Tobias," The annoyed voice of Mila snaps me out of my thoughts, enduring me back to a crowded restaurant with a large group of people lazily waiting at my table. "How long will it take for you to stop daydreaming and get your shit together!"

Rubbing my eyes with the back of my palms, I grab my crumpled notebook from my back pocket and turn slowly towards Mila, cringing as she inhales sharply while leaning in as if she's going to punch me.

"S-Sorry," I mumble while slipping past her, swallowing a lump of air as I approach the group of boys and girls who are clearly drunk as they stumble to their leather chairs.

Voices ricochet throughout the entire building, the loud voice making me even more exhausted than I am. All that I can think about is Tris, ever since I was this close to kissing her last week, I can't manage to go more than a few hours without wanting to actually kiss her.

I don't know how long it'll take me to realize that I can't be dozing off like that during work hours, especially the days when Mila is working.

But, as I examine the restlessness that is surrounding this table I feel like it wouldn't be such a bad thing if I could just defy reality for a while. Neon pink lipstick, eccentric blue heels, and tight black dresses. Dark gray jeans, bright green polo shirts with greasy collars, and clown shoes that are blatantly too big on their feet.

"Please, God, help me," A man chants while scratching the top of his head, narrowing his eyes at me, "hey, dude. Can you-can you get me an artist pizza?"

Oh, Lord.

Artist pizza?

Artisan pizza?

I nod, biting my lips. "Okay, an artisan pizza."

Honestly, I doubt we even sell pizza here but I scribble it anyways. Surrounded by people not being sober is the worst situation for me to be in because of the ways Marcus was determined to be consumed by liquor almost all the time when he wasn't at work.

Today was too stressful, he would say whenever my eight-year-old- self would ask why he slurred his words whenever he talked to me. I can vividly recall all the times that my mother would shut the bedroom door as she scolded Marcus for getting drunk with me around, although her words never stayed with him being he was in such drunk state he couldn't comprehend anything.