When Bluebirds Fly | ✔

Part Two : Chapter Twelve

"Why are you showing up at midnight dressed like this?" Abel asked disapprovingly, feigning cluelessness.

Surprising myself, I retorted back bravely, "Why are you in my house?"

"I just came here to have a chat with your father." He moved aside, letting me in. "And to drop off your things which I found on the compound- your clothes and your phone. What made you leave them there?"

"I don't see why that's any of your concern." I managed a strong, unwavering voice in the presence of my father who was as good as dead on the couch, deaf to his daughter arguing with a strange man in his own house.

"Whose jacket is that? Too big on you. Looks like a man's." He sneered, discreetly looking at my father from the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction. To his utmost disappointment, he was still dead. "You know it's not safe for you to come at such hours. People will think ill of you . . . "

"Well, I don't know about people, but you seem to think that." I gripped the seat of the couch, too tired to support my own body.

"Not at all. You're like a daughter to me."

A daughter you bloody drugged.

I still couldn't articulate the events of the harrowing evening. "You can leave now, I appreciate you bringing things over."

"Not a problem. Also, there were some pictures on your phone, Mariana. I thought it best to bring it to your father's attention." He resisted a triumphant smile at the distinct crack in my composure. Then he whispered, so only I could hear, "Talk to me soon. We haven't finished the business we started."

"I'm not doing that photoshoot again," I hissed back. 

"Look at the pictures, you'll change your mind." He complacently went to the door. "Good night."

The door shut on me, the darkness of the apartment dawning on me. I nervously picked up my phone from the couch, glancing at my father who was as frigid as a mountain. The moment I opened it, the screen brightly lit up, hurting my vulnerable eyes. Through the confusion, I viewed the promiscuous pictures of me in the short, purple frock that I was still clad in. When did I let them click those pictures of me?

The most frustrating thing of this whole ordeal was that I couldn't recall, I believed that I had directly run away after putting on the skimpy dress, but I was somehow photographed with the green backdrop and all. A cold chill ran down my spine as I scrolled through, suppressing the dread of what more they might have done that I couldn't remember. No, no, no, I had miraculously escaped before they could have.

I looked straight, unflinchingly at my father and said, "I'm not a whore, papá."

He remained so awfully quiet that I could clearly hear my own shameful words resonate in my hot ears. I was waiting for a reaction, waiting for that drooping figure to reprimand or reassure me. But he had given up, on himself and the world, lost in the void that reflected in his coal-black eyes.

At last, there was a faint nod, but it came from someone afar, not from my papá on this couch.

*

I woke up groggily, feeling the stifling atmosphere of repressed words and thoughts that made the apartment hotter. I went through the usual showering with boiling water to ease the ache in my body. When I walked out fully clothed in a t-shirt and jeans, something lurched in my stomach, probably my dignity just looking at the purple frock crumpled on the floor.

It was not news that my father had already disappeared from the apartment and I was grateful for his absence, I could gather my thoughts in peace without having to see him pitifully dead on the couch. I checked my messages and regretfully noticed my replies to Isaac's enthusiastic ones. I had gone from responding to his memes with 'hahahahahahaha' to 'oh cool.' My temperamental behaviour wasn't a bit intentional, sometimes disturbing thoughts occupied so much of my mind that my actions were all done absently like I was living a dream.

I stepped out into the corridor, locking my apartment when I heard muffled voices. I curiously walked to the source of the sound and found Allison talking to Abel. As if seized by a motherly instinct, I intervened by wordlessly grabbing her arm and dragging her downstairs.

"It was nice talking to your beautiful friend, Mariana! I look forward to talking to you!" Abel shouted merrily and I didn't spare him even a glance.

"Never talk to him OK," I said gravely when we reached the bottom of the stairwell. Allison looked visibly shaken, her forest-green eyes holding a rare mystery. "What happened? Did he do anything to you?"

"No, no. I was asking him where you lived. That's it. I had to come here because . . . " She shook her head in apparent distress, squeezing her eyes shut. Her hair was lustreless today and she was dressed in sweatpants, but the lack of efforts made her look prettier than the days when she tried too hard. She finally opened her eyes and I was amazed at the intensity in them, again rare. "I'm pregnant."

"What?" I burst out laughing, but it slowly died down as she unfalteringly stared at me. "It's not possible, didn't you have sex with Tony only like two days back?"

"No we didn't have sex, he chickened out. B-But we have done things before close to sex," she lowered her voice. "I haven't gotten my period and I have read on the internet that what we have done might lead me to getting pregnant."

I momentarily thought of asking what that was, but I instead asked, "When did you last get your period?"

"I don't remember!" There were tears welling up rapidly in her eyes and I was trying to search for words to comfort her like a helpless, gasping fish out of water.

"You know what, let's get a pregnancy kit."

Her worried face filled with that same, not rare, crimson colour. "I can't buy one, everyone will know."

"No one will," I said flippantly, trying to contain my sudden irritation at her senseless fear, but failing. "I'll buy it for you. Happy? Let's go right now."