//------------------------------// // Resistance // Story: Cortisol // by TamiyaGuy //------------------------------// That was too deep. That was way too deep. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My heartbeat is pounding in my ears. I can barely see straight with how much I’m shaking. This is a mess. My emotions are all over the place, shame and fear and guilt all mangled into this gut-wrenching mess. But my mind is clear. Clear enough to tell me to walk to the bathroom and hang my arm over the sink. For all the ways it’s broken, my brain has the frankly worrying ability to see a problem, cast aside every unimportant detail, and focus on the most effective way of dealing with it. There’s a lot of blood, but it’s certainly nowhere near dangerous. It won’t even make that much of a mess if I keep the wound over the sink. So that gives me the opportunity to get to work. Apply the basic principles of first aid. Get a clean pad of gauze and apply pressure, wait for the blood to coagulate. Tidy up around the cut, wash it out with clean water, pat dry with a clean towel. The wound’s gaping, but again, it’s not dangerous. A couple of butterfly stitches should close it up neatly, probably reduce the scarring as well. Ignore the sickening feeling of regret that after all this, you might not even have anything to show for it. Another very important step: Tell that stupid internal voice to shut up. Instead, I let my mind wander in a different direction as I run through the steps, practised and refined to at least a semi-competent degree thanks to both experience and a rather unhealthy reliance on the technological marvel that is the Internet. I remember back to when I first tried this, first put tape to bandage to dressing to skin, with nothing but a then-bizarre, skinny, hairless limb beneath it. Back when I first came to this world, seeking power and vengeance, a younger person with nothing but anger running through her veins and with an entire world as a target. When I first came through the portal, one of the points on my long list of ‘Things to Do Before I Take Over a High School and Use Its Enslaved Masses to Overthrow the Ruler of a Magical Pony Dimension’ was to learn some degree of first aid, learn how to patch up this new body in case of any conflict or resistance, in case things came to scratches or blows and I had to get my hands dirty. I was many things – arrogant, monstrous even – but I wasn’t stupid. Or maybe I was stupid, but just not in that particular way. This world, I figured, had the potential to be a dangerous place, and though I was sure that it had at least some degree of medical care available, I couldn’t be seen to be accepting help. One of the first rules of facing down a dangerous, and particularly a dangerous and clever animal is to never, ever show weakness. If you do, it’ll see it and exploit it. I wonder if that particular item would’ve remained on my to-do list if I’d known back then that the dangerous animal would turn out to be me. It takes a surprising amount of restraint to not scoff at the memory, lest I jerk the bandage I’m currently wrapping and risk messing it up. Even by my standards back then, how little I intended to learn was pathetically naïve. Simple cuts and grazes were about the limit of what I covered; anything remotely serious and I would’ve been screwed. But then plans fuelled by anger seldom tend to be particularly well thought-out. A final piece of medical tape covers the padded bandage, and with a sigh that’s equal parts relieved and ashamed I regard the dressing with a critical eye. The faintest stains of blood remain, tracing down my forearm, but they’ll wash out with time. Thinking back on twenty minutes ago, this much tape was probably overkill. It’ll hurt like hell when I rip it off to replace the dressing tomorrow, but better that than bump it on a table corner and split the wound open again. Job done. It's only now that I realise how calm I am, how that tired, pleasant, sickeningly relaxing haze so addictively swept across the fear and the anxiety and the tension, and replaced hitched gasps with calm breaths, replaced the coiled spring in my throat with a relaxed peacefulness slowly spreading through my chest. It’s horrible. Then I close my eyes and take a deep breath in and let it out and let all the tension bleed away into the drain, the lingering guilt of stained gauze and crumpled bits of sterile packaging kept faint in a distant corner of the mind, like so much being crammed into the bottom of a wastepaper basket. I close my eyes and just… let time pass. It’s almost like things are okay. Almost. My eyes open again, and from how my vision is slightly tinted as it re-adjusts to the fluorescent lighting it’s been quite a while. It’s no bother; I didn’t have anything planned. And so with a sense of normalcy that would no doubt horrify anyone else, I grab my toothbrush and prepare for bed. I drift off to sleep more easily than I have in weeks, and I hate that fact with all my heart. Someone’s eyes open blearily, heavy eyelids longing for just another five minutes. Why am I even awake, though? It’d be so nice to just- Another three knocks on the door rouse me once again to something not quite resembling consciousness. Wait, another? Makes sense. I think. Guess that’s what woke me up the first time, then. But who in the world would be knocking on my door at… um. A hand stretches out from warm covers, blindly flailing at the bedside table like a cat batting at a length of string. Fingers wrap around a small rectangle and someone brings it to my unfocused, sleep-crusted eyes. Just who the hell is that outside my front door, and what are they doing there at- 11:36am. Crap. Nine unread messages. Double crap. I kick the covers off and the relative chill wakes me properly with a start and a gasp. My brain hasn’t quite caught up with the rest of my nervous system, though, and so I make the unfortunate decision to open my mouth. “Gimme a sec, I’m coming!” I regret it before I’ve even finished throwing yesterday’s clothes back on, fresh off the floor. A part of me wishes it’s just some delivery guy who’s already dumped a package on my doorstep and left, but deep down I know that’s just an empty hope to try and keep my stomach from forming into a knot for a little while longer. I can’t even remember if Twilight wanted to go out for coffee again – did she say anything yesterday that I’ve already forgotten? What did we even do yesterday? Still, with muttered apologies I stumble over to the door and open it, greeting her with- I freeze solid. Can’t blink. Need to say something. “What the hell are you doing here?” Not that. She freezes with me, for just a moment, before her face contorts in pain and her breaths quicken. Wallflower takes a step backwards and she’s just about to leave. Whether in fear or shame, it doesn’t matter. I’ve tried to destroy what could have been our friendship twice. It’s about time I got to fixing. “Wait, wait, no, no, I’m… I’m sorry, that…” I desperately rub at my eyes, as though squeezing them straight through my skull will kick my brain into gear. “That came out really wrong.” She doesn’t move an inch, still halfway to running with her head in her hands and tears in her eyes. Should be a familiar sight to you. Some things never change, huh? “I’m so sorry, I just… I literally just woke up. I’m not, uh… probably not making much sense.” Surprisingly, it’s on this note that Wallflower’s posture changes subtly, her arms crossing over themselves as the girl reluctantly turns towards me. She’s guarded, and probably with good reason, but it’s still an improvement over abject fear. Thankfully, the power of basic sentence construction is starting to come back to me. “Really, I just… I dunno, didn’t expect to see you here at all, you took me by-“ I stop and backtrack – this isn’t anything even approaching her fault – “I just got surprised. Sorry.” I barely even pick up on her murmur of “It’s okay”, but hearing her response is calming all the same. Maybe this can be salvaged after all. At the very least, I can say what I should’ve said right from the start. “Although, I’ve got to ask: How did you even find my address anyway?” It’s genuine curiosity that drives me now, instead of fear masquerading as threat. “We exchanged numbers so I get the messages you sent, but I’m honestly impressed you managed to find me. Uh, whoopsie for not responding to those, by the way.” Wallflower seems to accept the inroads, a bashful little smile weaving its way onto her face. The arm crossed over her chest moves to rub the back of her neck, but she still shrugs as if to comically say “how else?”. “Um… Pinkie Pie.” …How am I entirely not surprised. But there’s one thing I am surprised by, though. “So, you know Pinkie Pie?” Her shrug escalates to the point where I’m pretty sure the neck of her sweater starts trying to eat her head. Could that be… could that be sass I see there, hidden among the timidity? “More like Pinkie Pie knows me. Seems that word travels quickly in your little gang. Uh, and MyStable profile details, I suppose.” A part of me wonders how that first conversation must’ve gone – how Pinkie could have gone from introducing herself to a long-lost acquaintance to giving said acquaintance my home address. But then I remember. Pinkie Pie. It’s honestly a miracle that Wallflower even made it here at all, and isn’t still stuck at home, frantically tapping out replies to an onslaught of all-caps gossip and heart emojis. “Wow. If any of us committed a murder, we’d be completely screwed, huh?” “Hmm… Nah.” Wallflower says after a short pause, a wayward smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. “She’d probably chew you out for half an hour, then help you hide the body.” I let loose an ungraceful little snort before politeness can reel it back in – she’s got a point, and the razor-sharp wit to back it up. But something pulls at the back of my mind as I look at the sweater-clad girl in front of me, as though I’m missing something obvious. As though I’m keeping Wallflower out somehow, that there’s some invisible barrier between us beneath the light humour and the small-talk. Something uneasy crosses my face as Wallflower shuffles on my doorstep… Oh Goddess I’m such an idiot. I’m literally keeping her out. “Oh, um, I’m… I’m really sorry, I’ve kept you out here all this time, I didn’t even…” I find it genuinely impressive how little sense I make in my rush of half-finished stuttering apologies, the flourish of clumsy legs stumbling to one side while holding the front door open just topping off the apologetic mess I offer to Wallflower. “Please, feel free to come in!” Something wrenches my mind to an ugly place as I think back to yesterday. “Uh, I mean, only if… if you want to. If you’re okay with it.” And with it, Wallflower seems to take a metaphorical step backwards too, regressing back to civilised pleasantry. “Thanks, Sunset, I appreciate it.” She offers, taking a step inside. The moment passes, but the shot of anxiety still lingers. I can’t even tell if it was a disaster averted or some figment of my own patronising hyperawareness. Whether I should be careful of what I say, what I ask, what I demand, or whether just thinking about that only serves to insult her. Closing the door and running Wallflower through the layout of the place as though I were an air hostess pointing out the emergency exits, ‘regression’ really does feel like the best way to describe what’s happened to this once-hopeful chat. It’s amazing how quickly that natural conversational flow screeches to a halt, leaving naught but an anxious spiral in its place. So do what you always do. Take the same way out you always take. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?” “I’m fine without, thanks, don’t worry about me.” Wallflower responds, halting me in my tracks. This wasn’t part of the plan. “I mean, I’ll be putting the kettle on anyway. It’s no problem.” “I’m… I’m fine. Or maybe just water or something, if you’re insisting.” Wallflower, a slight thing at the best of times, seems to shrink in on herself as she sits on the sofa, as if trying to inflict as little of herself as possible on the fabric’s surface. Her voice shrinks along with it, tailing off as she droops to look at the empty table. “I’ve already interrupted your morning, I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have…” One of those stupid ideas of mine sparks to life. The kind that can only go one of two ways with no middle ground, the kind that’s best delivered via the medium of finger-guns and sarcasm. If it works, maybe it’ll put Wallflower at least slightly more at ease. If it doesn’t? Well, at least I’ll be consistent in failing. “You know what you need?” “Hm?” “A hot chocolate.” Wallflower just winces in response. It’s like her body is hard-wired to reject displays of friendliness, and it takes all her willpower to accept anything beyond the most basic of polite formalities. “But not just any hot chocolate. A proper hot chocolate. I’ve got a recipe here somewhere, I know I do, it’s like… I mean I’ve never made it before but I’m pretty sure I got diabetes just from reading the ingredients list. You melt three kinds of chocolate along with the cocoa powder, mix in milk and a bit of cream- oh! Could throw in some vanilla extract as well, I’m sure I’ve got some around here…” It’s so wildly over-the-top that she can’t help but see the funny side, and Wallflower actually laughs as I run through an increasingly ludicrous list of potential flavourings. “Alright, alright!” She finally relents, shutting me up. “I’ll have a cup of tea, please. Milk but no sugar, thank you.” She’s still reserved as ever, but at the very least it’s said with a smile. A nod of acknowledgement, a brief affirmative, a stroll through the kitchen doorway. Something cracks. Something fractures. Something breaks, only slightly, as I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. The monotonous busy-work of flicking the kettle on and preparing the mugs at least kills the time, but without being wrapped up in that conversational back-and-forth it’s amazing just how quickly everything falls apart. How quickly I’m pulled back to what happened yesterday, or dragged forward to what I fear is going to happen today. It’s like the simple act of chatting away serves as the glue that holds one together in the moment, or maybe it’s instead a potent suppressant, just about able to hold back so much ugliness before it breaches the dam. Before long, there’s nothing left to do except wait for the kettle to boil. Its odd, crackly rumbling drowns out any potential for conversation, so instead I lean back against the counter idly. In amongst the cacophony, though, thoughts and memories bubble to the surface, the kettle’s white noise acting as the perfect conduit for my mind to conjure up a million different things that I’m about to get wrong. Hell, how about what I’m potentially doing wrong right now? Is black tea okay? Should I have offered something else as well? Should I have retreated back into the kitchen at all, leaving Wallflower alone in a stranger’s living room? Why am I even standing like this? Forearm up, fingers loosely curled upwards – even to someone who doesn’t share this particular habit of mine, it doesn’t take a genius to come up with some less than pleasant implications. I really hope Wallflower doesn’t look through the doorway into the kitchen. So then why am I standing like this? Some kind of bizarre, pathetic attempt at attention-seeking, a cry for help that I hope no-one hears? What the hell is the use in that? So put your arm down and stand like a normal person, you idiot. Inexplicably, I don’t. The click of the kettle switching off fails to snap me out of the trance I’m in, but at least refocuses me onto a half-productive task. Pour the water, then wait in awkward silence for the tea to brew. Wisps of steam curl upwards from the drinks as colour bleeds into the boiling-hot water. It’s mesmerising, in a nothing-else-more-interesting-to-look-at sort of way. You know, if you wanted to you could just take your hand and plunge your fingers right into the- I look up. Immediately. At anything else. The cabinets, the wall, anything, and my breath catches in my throat. It’s a stupid idea, and I know I’d never, ever do it. But it’s still unnerving just how easily the thought popped into my head. There’s a voice from the other room, and hearing it almost reminds me that I’m supposed to be a functional, social person again. “You know, uh… you really don’t have to do anything, Sunset. Much less anything as fancy as… whatever the heck kind of hot chocolate you were describing earlier.” I’ve thrown the mask back on before she’s even finished the sentence, hastily and awkwardly and showing all its cracks and marks and horrible raw blisters. At least only I can see them. I hope. “Like, that’s effort. You don’t have to burn yourself out just to cater to me.” I jab a teaspoon in her rough direction playfully, now fully committed to the act. “Hey, I will burn myself to the ground if it means lifting someone else up.” Maybe it’s prudent to leave out that I have, in fact, done exactly that, and on more than one occasion too. “Hey, if you manage to burn the kitchen to the ground making hot chocolate, I’ll be impressed. Dinner and a show, huh?” The smile almost makes it all the way to my eyes as I absorb myself in the well-practised movements. Teabags out, milk in, the shrill, bell-like tinkling of teaspoon on ceramic as I swirl the liquid around briefly. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the act of making it as much as the drink itself that can work miracles to calm the nerves, just like it’s doing now. Maybe if I say that enough times, it’ll become true. “So anyway,” I announce my arrival as I wonder back to the living room, mugs in hand, “what brings you around? To what do I owe the pleasure?” I pass one of them – only now do I notice that it’s forest green – to the girl, who accepts it with a muttered “thanks” before taking a dainty, polite sip. “What, aside from the free cups of delicious tea? Yeah, I… hm.” Wallflower jokes at first before she averts her eyes, her face overcome with a calm kind of solemnity. She’s taken the mask off of her own will, rather than letting it reach the point where the chips and cracks start to show through. “I got a bit… well, concerned, I guess. It’s kinda stupid to say it out loud.” I overly-slowly, overly-gently take a seat next to her – far on the other side of the sofa, I wasn’t about to take any risks there. “I don’t think it sounds stupid, Wallflower. What’s on your mind?” “So…” Her thumb traces across the edge of the mug as she condenses the swirling thoughts into coherence. The pause lasts a bit too long, though it isn’t to figure out what to omit, what to convert into a half-truth. Quite the opposite, in fact. “So last night, I was thinking about the conversation we had in the café. And it… Look, I think it’s fair to say that we didn’t part on the absolute best of terms, right? Like, that’s a given, and we can go with that?” She doesn’t say the words hurtfully, or angrily. Just states it, neutral, as though fact. To get it out of the way and move on from there. A bashful little smile of my own forms as I reach up to rub my shoulder. “I’d say that’s being pretty diplomatic about it, honestly…” She continues, as though reciting a well-rehearsed and well-refined speech. Maybe it is one. “And I did some weird things, and you-“ Until something yanks back on her, and she’s overcome with a brief panic. “I mean, you didn’t do anything weird, it’s more like-“ “No, yeah, I… I did. I did some weird things.” I interrupt. “We both… yeah. We both did some weird things.” Fortunately, she relaxes slightly at the disarming shrug I offer her. Mutual self-deprecation seems to be familiar territory to the both of us. “Yeah, I guess we both did, huh? So I was thinking about yesterday afternoon and I just… I was concerned that you wouldn’t react… particularly well to it. In… hmm.” Wallflower pauses, as though she can’t figure out the words. Or she grinds to a halt, as though she can, and realises she can’t really say them. “In a few different ways, I guess.” It doesn’t take a mind-reading manipulator to make the connection. She’s got me dead to rights, and a deep shame settles in my gut. On top of that, it’s equal parts saddening and consoling to know that there’s a reason she can see right through the façade. My forearm grows warmer as I clench my hand into a fist subconsciously, and for a single moment I worry whether the movement has exposed a tiny section of bandage from beneath my jacket. “I mean… it’s what I would’ve done.” Wallflower continues, timid, hesitant. “Which- I know, that’s really presumptuous to say and I’m probably just projecting. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“ “No, you’re, uh…” I interrupt her at that spark of self-doubt. The kind that needs to be caught and smothered before it has the chance to grow into a blaze. “You’re pretty much spot-on.” She stares at nothing for a moment, her expression torn between fear and resigned acceptance. “I kinda hate that I am. Sorry.” I can only sigh and shrug to diffuse… whatever’s happening. I can’t tell if either of us is making things better or worse, or if we’re just filling the space. “Don’t be.” The negative sentiment leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, even though it’s well-intentioned. “Or… I mean, at the very least, I’m sorry too.” That’s not much better, to be honest. It feels like we’re in some kind of stalemate. We both know, or at least think we know, but neither of us has the courage to say anything in case it goes as badly as we’re fearing it will, and so the talk staggers to an awkward, lingering silence instead. For all the hesitations and attempts at careful wording, we’re both still stumbling through this conversation with all the grace of someone who’s been kicked in the head. Or maybe it’s just my turn to shamelessly project now. I take a sip from the lukewarm cup in my hands, pretending to be doing something useful with the time. Wallflower’s got it right – having something to hide your face behind is pretty nice. “So… legs, as well as forearms?” I just about spit-take my tea straight across the living room, my entire body convulsing as it struggles to keep the liquid down. It does, sort of, and as it shoots down my airway instead I erupt into a coughing fit. “Wh-What?!” Wallflower is beside herself, hands clamped across her mouth as though she’d spat hot acid at me. Her eyes say it all: That was it, she’d ruined any chance she had, she’d be thrown out and told never to return and she’d leave knowing how much damage she’d done to the one person she’d tried to help. I want to console her so much, tell her that she’s wrong, but these stupid bodily reflexes won’t let me. It takes a solid ten seconds before she realises that my coughing fit has turned into a laughing fit, and both of our breaths steady. I’m still speechless, though. “I… wh- how did… how?” Heart still hammering in her chest no doubt, Wallflower looks more than a little bashful. I can’t tell if there’s regret laced in there as well, but I hope not. “Your, uh, just now. Your fingers twitched a little, brushed across your legs. Maybe it was a bit of guesswork, but…” Wallflower says, a whisper-quiet confidence in her words. What else can I do but give her a crooked smirk and an accepting shrug? We’ve come this far, it’d be rude not to be honest at this stage. “Sometimes legs, sometimes forearms. Half the time… I mean what does it even matter, I guess. Just pick a spot and go to town.” My own words surprise me, and I ugly-snort in laughter before I can reign myself in. “Goddess, that’s sick…” And yet, as sick as it is, it feels like the ice has been broken. At least I hope that it has, as I continue: “How about you, anyway? I mean, come on, I told you mine…” That shrug of Wallflower’s returns in full force, sarcasm dripping from her before she’s even said anything. “What, you think I wear this stupid sweater as a fashion statement?” A thumb rubs a spot on her left arm back and forth, as though feeling for something beneath the fabric. “Forearms and shoulders for me. Goodbye, feeling comfortable in summer.” She says it with a smile, though there’s a depressing undertone to the sentiment. Maybe it’s a bit of a stretch but… “I mean… you don’t have to be resigned to long sleeves, if you don’t want to.” I scour my memory banks for one of those late-night Internet binges. “There’s makeup and, uh… stuff.” From the look Wallflower gives me you’d think I’d stepped in something and dragged it across the carpet. “Makeup.” I think her right eyebrow is about to enter low Earth orbit. “Sunset, have you ever heard the phrase ‘polishing a-‘” “Oh, no! I mean, like, scar concealer. To reduce their appearance, if it’s something you feel self-conscious about. Rarity’s a magician at matching skin tones, I’m sure I can sneak some advice from her.” I wonder if that’s going too far, being judgemental instead of helpful. Making her even more self-conscious. “Only if you want to, of course.” I hastily add. “Hmm…” Wallflower casts a wary eye to her sweater sleeve, at the muted earth tones of the drab-looking thing. “I’ll think about it, actually. Thanks.” She says, and I actually think she means it. Then she grips her sweater sleeve, just the tiniest bit, and the air in the room changes somehow. It’s a subtle change, and I’m not sure what it means, but it’s clear that the topic is shifting well away from dark humour and fashion advice. “So… there’s another thing I wanted to mention as well. If it’s okay.” My smile falters. “Of course, Wallflower, what’s up?” “Look, maybe I shouldn’t bring this up, but… what happened yesterday? With me flinching? Heh – well, flying away really. But…” Something ugly starts to roil in my gut. Bile, raw and caustic, rises up and threatens to spill over. It takes an audible gulp to swallow it back down again. “I know what I was looking at afterwards, what I kept staring at, and… and I think you knew too.” A smirk crosses her face but it’s a long, long way from the friendly thing of five minutes ago. “Wasn’t exactly subtle, was I?” An invisible weight grows to hang heavy on my neck as I’m reminded of what happened; what I caused. Against my best wishes I think back to that stupid little pendant, a crutch to be used as either a shortcut for any real attempt at emotional connection or a powerful tool for suggestion and manipulation. There was a reason I threw it in the bottom of a drawer last night. There was a reason I slammed that drawer closed, hoping it would be lost among the clutter and eventually forgotten. “It’s not your fault, Sunset.” She’s right. That bile rises again. The acid burns my throat. She’s right and you can’t accept it. I keep swallowing it, suppressing it, but even I can tell. Eventually, something has to give. Because everything needs to be about you, doesn’t it? It’s only when I look down that I notice my hands have balled into fists, shaking with… with something. It’s only by staring into the middle distance and listening to nothing but my breathing that I’m able to unclench them, my fingernails leaving faint divots in the skin. “I mean honestly?” Wallflower continues, prompting me to refocus on her. “It’s kind of my fault.” What. “With how I reacted, I should’ve been more considerate, and I apologise for-“ “No.” I don’t say it. I spit it, mouth moving before my brain can reel it back in. “No, don’t you dare blame yourself for this.” I’m on the verge of both hyperventilating and not breathing at all as I try my hardest to ignore the girl next to me, even as I’m speaking to her. “You weren’t the one who caused it, who- who forced themselves on someone without even thinking!” Something ugly sparks inside me. Something that burns any sense of logic or rationality to ashes. Something that’s been smouldering away for the past twelve hours just waiting for a light – and a dark part of me wonders if it’s been waiting for a long, long time before then. “I mean, they say hindsight’s twenty-twenty, but it doesn’t exactly take a genius to think ‘Hey, that person who’s really introverted and hates confrontation? Maybe trapping her in a room, grabbing her by the wrist and forcing yourself into her innermost thoughts is a bad idea!’” My head snaps in her direction, white-hot anger in my veins, and- And she’s terrified. Brown eyes are locked onto me, pupils shrank to pinpricks. Green hands are clenched, subconsciously gripping the sofa cushions like a vice. Wallflower’s entire body is leaning away from me, ready to spring out of my range at a moment’s notice. The only noise in the world is the sound of my own panting breaths, and the blood rushing through my ears. People have told me for a long time that I’ve changed. Reformed. That I’ve earned redemption, that I’m not who I was, that my past is not today. But sometimes, it seems like nothing changes. Not in a way that matters. Sure, the threats, the violence, the manipulation of others is no longer. I’ve learned, or relearned, how to care about someone beyond what I can get out of them, cultivating mutually-beneficial relationships rather than parasitic ones. But the anger’s still there, the hate is ever-burning. It’s just directed inwards now instead of out. Wallflower’s seen through that now – maybe she always saw through it – and she got burned for it. A spontaneous outburst, scorching those who got too close. Those who wanted to help. Sometimes splashing water on a fire just makes it worse – the violent action causes it to flare up and spread uncontrolled. Sometimes a fire needs to be smothered instead. “I don’t want you to blame yourself for what happened.” Her words are a salve, a blanket to the flames I spat at her twenty seconds ago. “I also understand that saying that doesn’t necessarily make it happen. I’ve heard it enough times myself.” It’s either courage or a desire for penance that makes me look Wallflower’s way again. Fortunately, the anger’s gone, burned up, and only defeat remains in its place. As for Wallflower, though? She looks… contemplative. Like she’s thinking of taking a little risk of her own. “I mean… how many other people did you do the same thing to back in the day?” I don’t want to think about it. “I know, I know, it was such a stupid thing to do and I completely-“ But she beats me to the punch, interrupting that train of thought before the wave of self-loathing drowns out her point. “No, wait. Honestly, think about how many other people’s minds you’ve read. Did anything bad happen to them?” And I pause, giving it some real thought for the first time in a long while. Wallflower can see it as well, and her knowledge of the conclusion I’m coming to – albeit slowly and reluctantly – buoys her as she continues. “So it’s unreasonable to take one single anomaly and use that to tarnish something that was completely fine for everyone else.” She shrugs, perhaps seeing a bit of herself in the inner conflict I’m working through. I sure as hell notice how much those words sound like something I’d offer a panicking Twilight, or Fluttershy in the midst of an anxious breakdown. “Of course, you might still feel that way, and that’s fair, that’s valid. Feelings are stupid things sometimes, I guess.” I almost want to defy her, to keep on that road of self-hatred because… I don’t know. Because it’s the easiest option? The most familiar? But there’s no energy left for that, so with a sigh I just let the last of the bile out. It’s almost cleansing. “I just… I didn’t even think about it, about what it could’ve meant or could’ve done to you, I just did it.” She leans closer to me, just a little, and I secretly thank myself for accepting defeat. That spark of self-loathing defiance would’ve wanted to push her away. “You weren’t to know. Trust me, my reaction yesterday goes way beyond anything that happened between us back then.” I shudder. Sometimes a vivid imagination is a curse. “And honestly? Yeah, when you read my mind, you probably didn’t think about it, you probably did just do it. But at least you did something. Better that than constantly dwelling on every potential outcome to the point that you end up doing nothing at all.” It’s an odd way of lifting my spirits – subconsciously offering that I’m not the only one capable of shameless projection. Wallflower carries on with a weird smirk, the kind that betrays the little wickedness hiding behind her usual modesty. “So hey, I guess on average, we nearly form a single functional human being, huh?” Before I can keep myself in check, I let out an unexpected chuckle, slightly more than half-hearted. Self-deprecation to the point of self-aggrandisement – that’s a new one. Wallflower can only continue: “Nah, you’re right. We’re pretty far from that.” That chuckle grows into a proper laugh. A quiet one, but it neatly reflects the relaxed smile that Wallflower offers me. I can’t tell when the walls between us broke down, but I don’t think I care. I take a sip of my tea, still just about warm, and for the first time this evening it goes down easily. It’s soothing, a natural accompaniment to a conversation both serious and silly. Wallflower does the same, tipping the mug so that it almost disappears in amongst her wild green hair, before leaning back. I don’t believe it. She actually looks contented. For the next few minutes, that’s it. With nothing but the distant sounds of midday life coming from outside and the occasional swig of tea, we sit here and just… be. Neither of us feel the need to fill the air. It hits me like a brick that my self-destructive internal monologue, normally an ever-present drone at a time like this, is quiet. “It’s kinda messed up, don’t you think?” My heart almost jumps at Wallflower, of all people, being the one to break the silence. That far-away, introspective gaze is back on her face, rolling an idea around in her head. “What is? Aside from just, well…” A smirk and a shrug, another little way of bridging the gap, “everything.” She reciprocates, a bashful smile meeting my own self-deprecating one. At least, I hope it comes across as self-deprecating. “I mean… what led us here. How casual this is. How nice this is. I… I don’t know why the thought entered my head: If I had friends,” I open my mouth to interject but she’s on a roll – better not to ruin a good thing over a tiny comment like that – “I’d say that we met up for drinks and a chat and they’d be like “oh neat, that’s cool, so how did you two get in touch again?” And… I’d have to lie.” She hums, pondering the idea a little. She doesn’t seem disturbed by it, just… contemplative. I think back to yesterday, to the hanging out and the spacing out and the long-sleeved jacket and the tongue, bitten hard enough for me to taste copper. To doing everything I possibly could to hide the ugly truth from Twilight and Rainbow. Despite the fact that Twilight already knows. Despite the fact that I honestly believe Rainbow would care, would try to understand. “Hm.” I say as the thought rolls its way into my own head. “I guess there’s nothing quite like mutual participation in unhealthy coping mechanisms to break the ice.” I blink. Wow, that really does sound messed up now that I’ve said it out loud. Wallflower giggles instead, before lifting her half-empty mug into the air. It’s an odd sight, this grandiose display rounding off the end of nothing but silence and the occasional reluctant concession. At any other time, I’d think she was raising a toast, but what the hell even is there to raise a toast to? “To being just as messed up as each other. And to all our efforts in striving to be better.” It takes five whole seconds of my mouth gaping open like an idiot before I’m able to close it. She actually is raising a toast. What can I possibly do except respond in kind? “To being better.” I reply as our mugs clink together. It’s such a stupid thing, and done over such a disturbing, disgraceful topic, and yet somehow the absurdity of it all just makes me smile. It feels like we’ve come full-circle, back to the casual pleasantries and light humour we shared at the start. But there’s a different air to it now, an ease and contentment that seems to uncoil that ever-present spring in my chest without the need for a distraction or a knife. It’s only a little, and there’s a part of my mind saying that given what we’ve been talking about, I kind of shouldn’t be taking comfort in it. But as I look over to Wallflower, who in a way has been far braver than I’ve ever been by knocking on my door in the first place after what I did to her, those little pangs of guilt don’t hit quite as hard any more. Then she downs the rest of her drink in what I can only describe as a ‘chug’. “Well now I’m glad I didn’t make you that hot chocolate. If you’d tried downing it like that, I’m pretty sure the sugar rush would’ve killed you.” “You’ve got to admit, though,” Wallflower replies, resting her drink back on the table, “what a way to go.” She reaches into a pocket and pulls out her phone, before blanching at what’s displayed on the screen. I do the same, and give pretty much the same response – time’s gotten away from us once again. “I’d probably better go, I’ve spewed quite enough angst at you for one day.” Wallflower rises from the sofa, and with it, the tiniest hint of that shyness from earlier seems to return. “I mean, you’re happy to stay for lunch if you want.” I propose. Although it’s way later than we both thought, something tells me to at least remind Wallflower that she isn’t nearly the inconvenience that she assumes she is. “I’m sure I could whip something together, or go… I dunno, somewhere.” Yet that fog’s starting to creep back, and the suggestion falls apart right at the end. “Thanks for the offer, but nah – there’s day-old soup calling my name at home.” It’s only a couple of seconds until we’re both at the front door, but it’s still enough time for the uncertainty to return, the fear that I’m leaving something unsaid. Something tells me I shouldn’t bother, that I should be happy with the light humour and polite smiles. But I open my mouth anyway – it needs to be said. “Hey, Wallflower?” She pauses, half-turns. “I just wanted to say… given everything that’s happened, given what I did yesterday, and through all the awkwardness, it…” I scratch the back of my neck again – damn it I’ve got to stop doing that – pausing before I have the chance to pile any more regrets onto what I told myself would be a gesture of gratitude. “Thanks for coming over, is what I’m trying to say. Really.” Wallflower’s expression softens a bit, as though reminded of her own regrets and what-ifs of the past couple of days. “Hey, no problem Sunset. Thanks for getting back in touch.” In quite possibly the worst way you could have. Wallflower turns back to face me as the door opens, a blast of midsummer heat pouring into the room and intensifying the encroaching mental fog. “I’ll catch you round, Sunset, yeah?” Despite the fact that I’m rapidly reverting back to my normal depressive state, I can’t help but put on a smile of my own. “Catch you round, Wallflower. And enjoy the, uh… soup?” Wallflower giggles while I briefly wonder how she can eat soup, on a day like today, in a sweater. “And enjoy… I’m guessing that’d be breakfast for you, wouldn’t it?” Oh yeah, I’d completely forgotten about that. Something sparks, or tries to spark – a memory, or a reminder, or… I don’t know. Something I should have said, something I should be saying now, something I should apologise for or a reassurance I should be offering. “Will do.” But nothing materialises, and before I know it the moment’s gone. Then the door closes, and all is quiet but for the continuous recollection of every mistake and misstep from the past hour, swirling around my head endlessly. The spring inside my chest begins to coil again.