A suicide. Two dreaded words written on the autopsy report. Isabelle stares at the sheet of paper, unable to comprehend what is happening at first. Then guilt begins to take over and teardrops fall like rain. This is all her fault; she shouldn't have argued with her mother that morning. Will things be different if she hadn't? Isabelle is a bad daughter, the worse in the universe. All this time she is yelling at her mother, but the person who needs the scolding most is Isabelle herself. How can she be so stupid to not notice her mother's low mental health? How can she? How can she?
Isabelle's heart feels like a thousand kilograms. None of her father's soft words make any difference to her. She knows that deep inside her father's heart he thinks it's her fault, too. Everyone thinks so, Isabelle can see it in their eyes. The neighbors and her mother's friends are eyeing her like a hawk does at it's prey. The feeling is uncomfortable and suffocating. Isabelle needs some air, and she needs it now. But how?
The funeral is happening, a final goodbye. Friends and family gather around the soon-to-be grave; some crying, others with solemn faces. Isabelle holds a bouquet of white flowers, wearing her best black attire. She tries hard to cry, but the tears just won't come. It's like the tear ducts are now dry from a week's worth of crying. In front of her, she sees the local butcher, the restaurant owner two doors down, and the widow next door. Most importantly, she sees Neymar, her best friend who's always there for her.
Neymar. She hasn't visited him in a week, and she's wondering how he's been. Isabelle didn't tell him, but he always knows somehow. Someone's bound to tell him sooner or later, even if Isabelle doesn't. Neymar will be fine, he'll always be. Bruna is there for him, and strangely, the thought provides some comfort.
Without knowing it, Isabelle's father is finishing up his beautiful eulogy. Isabelle stands in place, mind blank, unable to think what to do next until she sees her father's hand signal. It's her turn to speak now. Of course; she's the daughter, others expect her to speak up. Isabelle walks up to the wooden podium, shaking like crazy. She looks up at the serious faces but her mouth is like glue. No words come out from her lips. Pairs of patronizing eyes are glaring up at her. This is all Isabelle's fault. She is the one to blame. Murderer, murderer.
Instead of words, a piercing screaming cries out. Isabelle bursts down the podium, clawing her way through the crowd, trying to escape the cemetary's grasp. Everything is a blur beside her; nothing but colors fly by Isabelle's eyes. She trips, but manages to pick herself up again. She can feel the warm blood on her knees and the aching in her legs, but she doesn't stop. Isabelle doesn't rest until she reaches something she craves for, the ultimate source to forget the morning: alcohol. And there will be a lot of alcohol today.
Opening the door to the bar, Isabelle slams her ID onto the table, panting like it is the end of the world. “Give me a bottle of whiskey, the stranger the better.”
The bartender looks at her skeptically but he asks no questions. He slides over a bottle and a shot glass, eying her knee compassionately. “Bad day?”
“Tell me about it.” One shot goes down the throat. The second goes down just as fast.
“You know, you're good for a first timer.”
“I don't know if that is a compliment or an insult.” Three. Four.
“Suit yourself, but this is the first time I've seen anyone drink whiskey during the day.”
“There is always a first for everything.” Five. Six.
“You have a pretty big bottle over there.”
“I can manage.” How annoying.
“Nobody here to join you?”
“Just shut up, okay?” Isabelle yells. “Leave me alone.”
And the thought comes to her: nobody is following me. Nobody is coming to see if she is alright, if she is safe. It is just her and the bottle of whiskey. With this she jugs down another three shots. Who cares, right? Anyways she is the murderer, the person who drove her mother to insanity. Nobody will care for her, not even Neymar. It's okay, she's used to being lonely anyway. How else did she cope with Neymar's absence? Maybe she'll just live alone, find an apartment of her own. She'll find her own job to pay for college tuition and rent. Besides, starting fresh in another neighborhood appeals to her. This neighborhood never liked her. Besides Neymar and Alex, she has no neighborhood friends.
The whiskey is making Isabelle drowsy, so drowsy her eyesight is becoming blurry. But her thirst is not quenched, and it is stronger than ever. Continuing to jug down the alcohol in front of her, she doesn't notice Neymar standing right next to her. “What do you want?”
“I've come to take you back.”
“Neymar, I'm fine.”
“Isabelle, you're slurring your words and drunk, you're far from fine.”
“Why are you here?”
“Your father asked for you.”
That answer ticks Isabelle off. “So you didn't come for me on your own? And here I thought we were best friends.”
“Isabelle-”
“Just forget about me. Go home. Go back to Barcelona, see if I care.”
But Neymar just stands there staring at her. She huffs, her patience wearing off. “I told you to leave!” Isabelle takes another swing, glaring at him.
“Fine,” Neymar answers and turns his back away. Tears begin to well up in Isabelle's eyes. She tugs at his shirt and begins to sob loudly. “I'm sorry. Stay here, I didn't mean to...”
Neymar sits, stroking Isabelle's head while she sobs loudly. The gesture is so soothing she stops a minute later. She stares at him, giving him the look over. He's so damn hot. In the heat of the moment, she pulls him in, lips crashing together, swallowing in his scent. He is reluctant at first, but kisses her back almost immediately. It is like they are meant to be in their arms like this. Lips touching and tongues intertwining, they kiss for what seems like forever. She is in heaven, in Cloud Nine, and nothing can bring her down.
Or so she thinks. When they pull away, all Isabelle can see is the surprise and anger in his eyes. His face is so scary she begins to cry again. He has never looked at her like that before, and she doesn't like it. If she can take it all back, she will.
“Neymar, I-”
“Let's go home.”
She obeys him, walking into his private taxi. Both of them say nothing the entire ride. Isabelle falls asleep, hoping this is all a dream. Everything will be alright when she wakes up: back to normal, just how she likes it.
