Ode to Remedy

Act IV

Markus sat, hunched over on the cushion of the couch, and stared off at the door after him. His mind stuttered for a moment, and he felt numb, like waking up from being struck in the chest the night before. That's what he felt like. Defective. He sat, and pondered, how only mere sounds of the English language could affect a human being so strongly. Or the lack mere sounds, he should say. How could he affect the one he professed to love so strongly? It was his job to make Valentine happy. He stood and stared at the door, abhor building up inside of him. Defect.

He brought his hands to his face, but didn't place them there, just as he did after his encounter with Primrose. Valentine had every right in the world to be mad. Markus entered their bedroom, his deadpan eyes scanning the clothing items strewn across the floor. God, how badly did he have to keep fucking up? He pulled his t-shirt off over his head and threw it on the bed. Valentine's sharp words rang in his ears. He seized a hoodie from the disheveled drawer cabinet and slipped inside of it. Why couldn't he stop thinking of Valentine? He looked over his shoulder at the leather letterman hung upon the doorknob that caught his eye and reached for it. Why couldn't he stop thinking? He took up the jacket and pushed his arms through its sleeves, spun around and faced his reflection in the crooked mirror. He took a shaky breath.

The darkness of the room surrounding him removed the illusion of his debilitated eyes. Markus's chestnut hair was tousled and unkempt with the sense of just waking up, but he didn't bother to find a comb to fix it. The hoodie he clad hung from his slender frame, hidden by the heavy letterman he wore overtop. His eyes trailed down to the stitched embellishment on the side of his sleeve.

Valentine Low.

A sense of déjà vu swept over him, as the ghosts of his past paraded around him, a lurking reminder of all the nights he and his lover would spend under the bleachers when they both remained in high school, giggling about the most random subjects that had risen during conversation, and when Valentine stole Markus's first kiss under the shield of the jacket as the rain around them began to pour. But that was before Markus trapped in a state of constant stress. Before Valentine was diagnosed.

Markus dipped his head, struggling to breathe when his entire body seemed to sag with numbed agony. He felt disgraceful by wearing Valentine's old jacket, but he dismissed the nagging thought. He possibly couldn't screw up worse. He tore his gaze away from his melancholic reflection and returned to the kitchen, where the glass bottle of vodka sat atop the counter, glinting with the reflection of the bedroom light, catching his attention once again. He lingered for a moment before heading over and taking it up in his hands, turning it to scan its label.

This is an 80 dollar glass of vodka! Where did Valentine get this? He stared at it. Loathe began to flicker inside of him. Was Valentine a drinker now?
Was he angered because Valentine didn't tell him? That only made him despise himself more. He had no right to be mad! He now knew exactly how his lover felt, but why did he continue to refuse to speak with him? Was he only angry at himself? God, he was dramatic.
He took up the bottle and read its label five more times, though, not really processing what he had just read. He shot a glance over he shoulder at the window, illuminating their bedroom with moonlight. The night was still young, he decided at last. There's no use in wasting good vodka.
With that, he slipped his phone into the pocket of Valentine's jacket and pulled his lanyard with his keys over his head and slipped out the door, holding the glass bottle firmly over his shoulder. He would no longer overthink himself to tears. Instead, he'd enjoy himself a little. He tightened his grip on the vodka and hurried down the stairs two steps at a time. That's what Valentine would have wanted, right? He bounded through the twisted hallways of the complex, and found himself standing in the car lot. He faltered towards his car, trailing his free hand across the door, as if his own body was hesitant. After a moment passed, he shook his head violently and jerked the driver seat door open. What was one more mistake to do?

An audience of bodies crowded the enclosed space, their hips swinging in emphasis with the pulsating music which was reverberating around the open air. Vibrant lights flashed across the wooden dance floor, being trampled upon by tipsy adolescents. Couples pressed their bodies against each other and drinks spilt along with the barking of laughter. Over the roar of music, a distant, hazy chatter could be heard. Primrose couldn't make out any words, but laughter rang in her ears and wouldn't seem to stop. Each drink offered seems like a better and better idea. The jokes got funnier and Primrose became a comedian of epic proportions. She felt extremely popular. She pulled her dress a little lower and pushed her chest out a little further. She frequently rumpled her hand through her hair to draw attention to it; she knew the boys like brunettes. A glass cup made its way into her grasp. She wasn't sure who gave it to her or what it contained, but regardless, she threw her head back and downed it in a singular swallow. The people surrounding her all cheered in unison. She couldn't make out faces, for her vision didn't seem to want to work, but she laughed along.

Her eyes suddenly began to swivel towards the back of her head in a distressed sense of pain. She stumbled forward and began to shove her way through the crowd of people, throwing her hand over her mouth. She staggered onto open floor in her too-tall heels, when she crashed into someone.

"Oh, babe, what a mess you are!" A voice exclaimed. Primrose blinked a bit, her blurry eyes finally adjusted to see Ocean's seemingly flawless face moue at her playfully, as if Primrose were a small child. Her exotic blue hair spilled over her slim shoulders and her outfit, that was a little too inappropriate, even for a college party, highlighted her rumored-to-be-unnatural hourglass figure perfectly. Ocean brought a hand to her lips and chuckled behind it. Primrose immediately felt herself redden.

"Though I suppose you can't be having a good time without looking a mess." She continued, her icy gaze briefly trailing Primrose's frame. She rose a glass of what seemed to be whiskey to her lips, but she didn't drink from it. "I surely hope you are."

"Oh, I am." Primrose laughed. "Though, I think I've had one too many drinks."

"Oh please," Ocean chuckled, "there's no such thing as too many. Not in this household, at least," She assured with a wink, dropping her glass into Primrose's hands. Shit, a faint, drunken voice in Primrose's head said. This bitch makes me question my sexuality.

"Are you enjoying your party?" Primrose asked, sipping from the whiskey, recoiling at how strong it was. "You seem quite bored."

"Ah, yes," She said through pursed lips. "Unfortunately nothing interesting has taken place." Primrose opened her mouth to respond, but before she got the chance to, Ocean raised a finger. "Yet. The night still remains young. There's no purpose in wasting it."

At that moment, a lost face entered the room, chocolate eyes glancing in every direction, as if he were prey being stalked in the depths of the forest. And Primrose immediately recognized him, even despite her distorted sight. She shot a look over her shoulder at Ocean, who seemed to notice him the same time Primrose did. Her blue eyes flickered with amusement and interest, causing Primrose's heart to falter. She immediately regretted inviting him earlier that day, for Ocean was the predator he was to fear, and she already had her intentions locked on him; the perfect victim for the night.