Black Coffee, Red Lipstick, and Cigarette Smoke

Chapter Eleven

A/N Trigger warning. There's some form of self harming in this chapter. Sorry, for hurting you guys. I'll just apologize in advance.

He scratched on his arms, rubbing his jagged nails back and forth on his tanned flesh. The red scratch marks had started to bleed, but he couldn't stop. He was cold, always cold. He had wrapped a quilt around himself in an attempt to stay warm, but it had proven to be futile.

The cold didn't seem to be external. It was in his heart, turning his thoughts to ice and his desires to nothing. He couldn't explain it, but his chest ached. Each throb set off a new pang, until he was left gasping for breath, cold breaths of air.

There was a mound of tattered papers before him, ink staining his hands from the pens. The pages were blank except for a few that had phrases and bad poems written in distorted hand writing.

"I want to go home." He whispered this at first, but the words grew in his throat till he screamed them out. "I want to go home!" His voice betrayed him, hinting at his Caribbean childhood. His West Indie's accent was usually charming. Now it sounded more like a cry for help.

He pushed the sheets onto the ground, watching them all fall like snowflakes. He ran his bloodied fingers through his hair, mumbling once again. "I want to go home."

In reality, Alexander knew that home was the last place he wished to be. His time at St Croix had been plagued with disasters.

In his nightmares, he always saw blood. Blood being drained from his veins as they tried to cure his ailment. Blood being coughed up by his mother as he watched her practically choke on her own blood and bile. He remembered her red blood rubbed against his flesh, too sick to care or wipe it away. Her pale hands wrapped around his small frame, her breath growing slower against his neck. He would always remember her glazed over eyes that seemed to look everywhere except at him. What once was filled with life and happiness now hollow and meaningless.

His cousin's body was another recurring nightmare. He could still see his body moving slightly as he hung from the ceiling. He couldn't quite remember what the rope had been suspended on, but he remembered his cousin's limp figure. The rope had been placed so tightly that it sliced into his neck, leaving rough abrasions.

Sometimes Alex wondered how badly it would hurt, how he would acquire such a rope. He had written at least a dozen suicide notes and letters, all lengthy, all unused.

He could still hear the hurricane ravaging his town. He remembered the cries coming from every direction, the thunder booming so loud that it almost blocked out the unreached screams.

Home was a disturbing and distorted memory, and not one he actually longed for.

Perhaps home was a simpler time. It was a state of mind which represented peace and happiness. Home wasn't quiet, it was loud. It was his friends all sitting and chatting about everything and nothing at all. It was a legacy laid out before him that would secure his place in history. It was John and his freckles always smiling back at Alexander.

John. He was the source of all his problems and yet Alex knew he couldn't live without him. He was disgusted by how John filled his thoughts, how John seemed to trick him into loving.

He was predisposed from a young age to never fully entertain any pleasant ideas of the human race. John made him forget all of that.

There was a knock on the door. Alexander ignored it completely until it began to grow louder like an ever present headache.

"What?" He yelled harshly at the closed door. A few seconds later the door opened and Eliza stood in the entranceway.

She immediately noticed his bloodied arms and rushed over to attend to them. Alex refused to look in her eyes, feeling that he didn't deserve to.

She wiped them down and applied Neosporin before bandaging Alexander's tattered flesh. She sat at the table across from him, waiting for him to speak.

But Alexander didn't speak or weep. He sat there, dull and numb and unrelenting. There was nothing he had to say to her.

"John Laurens came to my house today." Eliza said, staring at Alexander's forehead since he refused her his eyes.

He began to pick at his nails, trying to look preoccupied and unconcerned.

"Hey, Angelica said you were in here." John spoke, standing idly in the doorway. His shoulders were hunched and he seemed embarrassed.

Eliza offered him a seat and smiled at him which was her regular custom. John didn't reciprocate.

She stared at him with warm and forgiving eyes and he felt tears begin to form in his own eyes. "I'm so sorry." He said before dissolving in tears. He buried his face in his hands. He was too ashamed to show his face to her.

He had thought this over a hundred times, and he knew he had to do this. He came here with one purpose and he wouldn't let that be futile.

"I've been cheating with your boyfriend. It's my fault. I knew all along and I still dated him. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."

In that moment, she felt more pity for John than she did for herself, probably because she was in shock. She noticed how he placed all the blame on himself, even though he was hardly the person to blame.

"I appreciate you telling me." She calculated her words. "How long has this been going on?" She still tried to keep a cool head.

"A month." John mumbled and her heart sank even more. "I'm so sorry. You must hate me. I'm despicable." He began to shake and Eliza worried he was having a panic attack.

She wanted to comfort him, but seemed to forget how. She didn't know how to speak, or act, how to behave or think.

"You should go." She finally mustered out, watching as the shattered boy left.

She followed soon after, knowing she had to confront Alex.

"Alexander when were you planning on telling me?" She asked, her voice growing angry.

He shrugged his shoulders, not sure what to say. He moved his eyes and looked into her's hoping her large brown eyes would show forgiveness.

Instead she stared like a wounded animal, her doe like eyes filling with absolute heartbreak. "How could you?"

He shook his head vigorously, feeling his pulse race. "Eliza, I didn't know any better."

She stood up, rage plastered on her like a bad mask, so unbecoming and unfitting. "Don't speak to me of that. You aren't a child!"

He stood as well, reaching for her hand. She pulled away immediately. "Don't touch me! I hate you." She began to cry and Alexander pitied her and himself and everyone in that moment. Everyone was a fool and no one deserved Eliza.

"Here." She whispered pulling out a folder. "It's your letters. I don't want them."

She walked towards the door, stopping only once. "Alexander," she began, addressing him without facing him. "I hope that you burn."