Blues

31. Blues, You're A Buzz Kill

"Hey Blues, nothing comparesTo the way that you hurtThe way that you stingThe way that you bring meDown to my knees.."

Blues, you're a buzz kill by Pistol Annies 

I freeze in my place, unable to decipher what I'm seeing. My wide-open eyes move around frantically, perusing the powdery, white substance that's dissipated on my hand and the floor.

It could be anything.

Except that you don't find white powder in a toothpaste tube. A white substance that has an aspect that would only make you premise the worst.

Suddenly, my brain awakens from the shock, and I look down at my naked body, suddenly becoming distrait, and step out of the bathroom, discerning a closet. I open it, snatching the first shirt I see, pulling it on. It falls mid-thigh, enough to hide the inapt parts.

Storming out of the room with the tube in my hand, I follow the source of the music, which–of course–happens to be the painting room. I find the door open, and I impede my steps, not entering.

"Missed me?" Dylan asks, his eyes trained on the canvas, his face bearing a jaunty grin that I'll make sure to wipe away soon. He looks up, and his eyes scintillating upon seeing his shirt on me. "I see that you've helped-"

And then his smile evanesces the moment he beholds the tube in my hand, his whole stance immediately tensing up. His eyes widen, showing shock and horror at the same time, before he manages to maneuver his expression into a vapid one, his eyes observing me as I traipse into the room. I hold the tube up. "Care to tell me what this is?" I query, seconds from losing it.

He squints at my hand, as if trying to Intuit what it is. "Where did you find that, Candice?"

I inhale a long breath, willing myself to calm down. "Seriously? You either think I'm stupid or you're just dumb."

He shakes his head, standing. "Give me that."

I walk toward him, my eyes pestilent. "Is this coke?" I chide him, my heart racing so fast as I weigh the possibilities.

He doesn't confirm my hypothesis, but he doesn't refute it either, his face taking a fugitive slope. "What is it to you? Just give it to me."

"What is it to me? Are you being serious?" I blat, my face red with pique and disbelief. Is he going to act the way he always does after every gracious moment we spend together?

"Yeah? Don't think you got the right to appraise what I do, just because we had a heart-to-heart conversation last night." He spouts, his eyes gelid.

So he's going to pull the shit he always does. Hale me closer, propel me away, and make me feel like absolute shit. Scourge me with his words and bum-rush the poignant rollercoaster he keeps squashing me into. Why am I even surprised? I should be accustomed to his ways by now.

"Right." I nod, unable to find any comeback, before I squeeze the tube, watching its contents as they fall and squander onto the ground. "I'm leaving, so you can go ahead and feed your addiction." I slur, nodding to the floor.

I look at him, spying how his expression hardens, watching the way he closes his eyes to tranquilize his flaring temper. "I'm not an addict, Candice." He snaps through gritted teeth, before he approaches me, fixing me with an intimidating look that's supposed to make me pee myself. "And this is the last time you think of humiliating me, understood?"

I stare back, conjuring as much confidence as I can manage, and injecting it into my aggrieved demeanor. "I'm done with your shit, Evans." I fuliminate, spinning, before I start to tread toward the door.