Avenging Cupids

Chapter 1: Self-Inflicted Loneliness

“I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it - but take care not to smile at any part of it.” 

― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong…

Exasperated, Willow quickly washed away the velvety remnants of sweet pea conditioner from her hair. The repetitive ringing of the doorbell quickly became sharp knives—no, machetes—that pierced her brain. It was headache-inducing. 

She was all too familiar with that particular pattern of doorbell rings. Ignoring it would be mental suicide. For the sake of Elle’s index finger—not to mention Willow's sanity—she quickly swathed herself in her favorite pink bathrobe, slipped on her bunny slippers, severely towel-wrapped her hair, and trudged down the stairs, muttering "This had better be important."

Best friend or not, Willow couldn’t help but to feel annoyed. As she passed through her living room, she longingly gazed at the stack of movies on the coffee table. They were just begging to be paired with a bowl of caramel popcorn and dying to be watched. With her parents away on one of their frequent business trips, Willow had the immense house to herself. She had domain over all the amenities and she had an appointment with her plush sofa and ridiculously large television.

By the time Willow reached the door, an impatient Elle had resorted to a maddening amalgamation of rings and knocks. She gripped the doorknob and squeezed her eyes shut until her body shook, mentally bracing herself for Elle's rant.

She made to yank the front door open but before the hinges even creaked, Elle was already pushing her way through. Probably the only thing more headache-inducing was Elle's expression of her individuality in her clothes. She just had to wear garments that no other harajuku girl or punk-rocker would be caught dead in. Today she was wearing a hideous neon-pink fish-net dress with a shirt underneath that said 'Respect the mustache,’ polka-dotted leggings, striped suspenders, those "no-heeled" boots that even Lady Gaga hardly got away with, and various accessories pinned to her hair. Her attire was definitely as unrestrained and outspoken as her personality.

“Someone obviously wasn’t listening when Piers Plowman said patience was a virtue,” muttered Willow with acidic sarcasm.  

“I am not a virtuous girl, Willow dahling,” Elle replied in her breeziest English-wannabe accent. "You of all people should know that by now.”

Willow rolled her eyes at her best friend's witty remark. She watched Elle flit like a pixie before disappearing into the kitchen. 

Hearing the unmistakable sound of the opening and closing of cabinets and the rustling of chip bags, Willow grew more and more defeated. There was no denying it—Elle was there to stay. With a groan, she slid her back along the door until her rear end collided with the cold granite floor. Her hands sidled up to the sides of her head as if to prevent it from splitting in two. She wanted just one night to herself. 

Just one.

She was still crumpled in a heap of terrycloth when Elle strolled back into the living room, a two-liter coke and a bag of Doritos in hand. Alarmed, she rushed to Willow’s side. “Oh my God. What’s wrong Wills? Headache?”

Willow, head still in hands, shook her head.

“Cramps?”

Again, Willow shook her head.