The Art Of Dying

IV. Porsche

It's a generation of toxic people.
You love to inject yourself with the poisonous words of someone you love. It's a therapy,
a compromise,
a thirst to satiate reciprocation.
If they don't love you, you get the bliss of staying under the cloud of thunder. Knowing it won't rain but every so often, it drizzles
after the lightning strikes your whole existence.

~ Porsche ~ ...

Everett jogged behind Zoe in an haste, determined not to lose sight of her. No matter how big of a bomb blew on him just a few minutes ago, he still had a job to do. Rules to abide. He had to keep track on Zoe's activities or else he'd be stuck in this hell hole forever.

He watced her as she ran for her life along the parking lot, halted infront of a car that was parked neatly. It was a Porsche, he knew as much as that. If there was anything Everett liked in his whole life, were cars. He craved on sitting inside it, examining it. But his target was ushering herself away from all the glam life, it seemed. On second thoughts, Zoe hastened barefoot on the sidewalk, ignoring the awaiting porsche.

Everett was confused but putting his feelings aside, he made sure to follow her so that she wouldn't be able to see him. He noticed he was barely getting tired,or hungry for that matter. He could have run for days and it wouldn't have mattered much. Which came in handy because apparently Zoe's house was on the other side of the beach.

The sun had set behind the low hills of Everett's hometown. A lilac and blue curtain spread across the sky, the brightly illuminated city lights adding to its beauty. Everett might never have been in this part of the town. He seldom recalls looking at his home town like this. Alive, inhabited... blessed.

Zoe was panting, breathless when she stopped at her front door. Even being concealed behind the bushes, the majestic mansion was not overlooked by a stunned Everett. It was unlike anything he might have ever imagined. Even if the odds of Zoe living in average looking house were more in his mind.

It was a french normandy fashioned house, with crystal white brick walls and a grey overhead. Vivid green trees and bushes (artificial or natural) bordered the mansion with a stoned pathway that led up to the front door.

Everett was probably drooling, or so he thought. But it still took him forever to finally tear his eyes away from the white-washed walls and plushed gold linings; only to heed the fact that Zoe was gone.

Inside her house that she oh-so always feels weird about staining because of how neat the floors were, Zoe's muddy shoes zoomed straight past her astounded mother. Martha kept calling out for her daughter, since she was informed that Zoe wouldn't be home before midnight. But it was only 9pm.

But no one could stop a swifty Zoe, except a doorbell when it drew her attention. That would definitely be Sean. If it was possible, her heart dropped deeper in her gut. The wrecked scraps of the evening were still clinging on to her like the air. This was it. It was the last of her family's business as she knew it. But before anything could have been said, the house maid opened the door to reveal an innocent postman.

Zoe was about to take a sigh of relief. But it seemed relief was far gone away from her life ever since she met Everett. For now, the devil in sheep's clothing had appeared from behind the postman.

"What?" Everett bellowed out in amusement, not caring about who else was between him and Zoe. "You thought a door would prevent me from coming in?"

Everett invited himself inside, completely ignorant of the fact of how many social rules he was breaking. His eyes roamed across the edge of every wall, the curve of every chattel. And so his hands automatically travelled to the laces of his shoes as he untied them, and took them off. He didn't feel a thing: the cold floor, the white tiles or the empty walls.