"From the past until completion
They will turn away no more."
Blue Monday by New Order

Soft, languid melodies stir my head from an untroubled sleep, and for a moment, it feels like I'm dreaming. The velvet-like material under me doesn't feel familiar at all, and the pillow my head is engulfed in is unbosom, yet too snug to abandon. It feels like I'm being clobbered by a severe headache, but that doesn't ruin the amenity the plush luxury is gratifying me with. I move my hands up and down the softness of the heavenly surface I'm laying on, the way I did as I child as I laid on the sand, and for a moment, I go back, and let a huge dreamy beam take over my face. I move my head to the side to smell the rapturous smell of the snow, but instead, I'm hit by a familiar, yet offbeat smell. A smell that is even more heavenly and sensational than anything I've smelled in my whole life. A mixture of masculinity and ambrosial cleanliness, fused with a spicy fragrance.

I slowly open my eyes, and the first thing my eyes behold is a rectangular mirror, and it displays Yours Truly, laying on a four-poster that has white sheets swathing it. Panic slowly starts to materialize as my eyes slowly meander to survey my surroundings. A white cupboard, followed by a couch that is enshrouded by clothes and other things. Blisteringly, I swerve my head to observe the rest, and immediately regret it when the headache pummels me anew; however, I discover that the door of the room is unlocked and wide open, exhibiting white walls behind.

Why do I know those walls?

And then it hits, and I close my eyes, trying not to be convinced of what my memories are conveying, before I unhurriedly open my eyes to face the ineludible, looking down to see my clothes, fearful of what I may find, and suddenly, I find myself ready to go to the church I've never stepped a foot in, solely to thank God when I find that my clothes are still intact.

How I ended up here after yesterday's little party with Dylan, is beyond my delirious mind. I must have drank too much to remember. Only idiots don't learn lessons, and I should just consider renaming myself to induct a reminder for the following times. Like when someone asks me about my name, I'd just say “Idiot”, and when someone hollers to me, they'd call me IDIOT, and that would totally work to keep my logic static. I force myself to forsake the very hospitable bed, and leisurely, I walk out and follow the source of the music, which–of course–happens to be the painting room. I find the door open, so I don't even bother to knock.

I detect Dylan sitting in the middle, facing the door. He's too engrossed in the painting he's working on to even notice that I've entered the room. I grant myself the opportunity to stare at that unutterable magnificence of a guy, watching his confident posture and scrutinising his every aberrant move. He surprises me when he speaks, jolting me. “I hope you like what you see, because you won't like what I'm about to say.” He mutters, never shifting his eyes from the painting, before reaching out to substitute the brush with another.

I scratch the back of my neck in an uh-oh manner. “Was I that awful?”

He looks up, an eyebrow raised in skepticism. “Don't remember, huh?” He asked. “Well, you should rest assured. Aside from making a scene, calling Melissa a slut and announcing that I slept with her, you did nothing.” He sardonically soothes me, before he goes back to focusing on the painting.

I grimace, slapping a hand against my forehead. “That's why I don't drink.”

He makes a tsking sound, squinting as he cautiously and leisurely traces the brush across the canvas. “And that's exactly why you shouldn't smoke weed again.” He lamely drops the bomb, as if it's the negligible thing in the world.

“WEED?” I shriek, slapping my hand over my mouth in sheer shock.

My outburst doesn't warp his expression a bit, as if it was foreseen. “Ding ding ding.”

“You're shitting me, right?” I ask, advancing toward him.

“Smell your clothes.”

I do just that, and that does nothing but substantiate his words. The shirt reeks of skunk, and abruptly, I want nothing but to rip the piece of clothing off my body and shred it into innumerous pieces. I raise my eyes to look at the asshole who's contently drawing to the groovy music of his as if nothing happened. “I can't believe you did that to me. Now what am I going to do when I get tested? Oh my God. What if I get tested?” I start to pace, repeatedly slapping my palm against my throbbing forehead.

He lets out a piqued huff. Finally a reaction! “Chill and stop pacing. I need to focus. Besides, you're the one who took it from Cheryl in the first place.”

“Wha-” I start to question, before bits and pieces of me snatching the cigarette from Cheryl and laughing like a lunatic begin to actualize. “I'm such an idiot.” I fulminate, angry at myself.

“You are.” He confirms. “And yesterday was the last time I take you somewhere with me. I told you to stick to me, and you defied me. I left for minutes, only to come back and find you smoking something you took from someone you don't know.” He spouts, his voice hardening.

I huff in aggravation. Why is he treating me like a child now? “I wasn't thinking, okay?”

He slaps the palette and the brush on the table, looking incensed, before he fixates me with a fuming look. “You. Weren't. Thinking?” He emphasizes every word, his voice bitter. “Do you know what could've happened to you if I weren't there?”

I snap, striding toward him with fury sizzling in my blood. “Don't use that tone with me. I'm not a child. Besides, I thought they were your friends and you trusted them.”

He snappily stands, and the chair makes a screeching sound as it’s abruptly propelled back. He glares at me with vicious eyes, practically growling, “I don't trust. Only idiots like you trust people easily.”

My hand shoots out, and my finger threateningly prods him in his cast-iron chest. “I'm not an idiot, and I won't warn you again. Watch. Your. Damn. Tone.”

“You are, and I'm also an idiot for taking a reckless, unthinking prude like you with me.” He dispassionately lashes back.

“You-you-” I actually stomp my foot, balling my small hands into fists, and looking around in tribulation, in quest for whatever mysterious spirit to bestow some patience upon me, or maybe inflict vengeance on that intolerable asshole, before something catches my eyes, disencumbering me of any brainstorm or annoyance.

It's the painting he was working on.

A painting of me.

I look closer, meticulously inspecting the details. In the painting, I'm grinning so big that I can almost feel my cheeks aching. Smoke overshadows the background and a part of my face, begetting the blueness of my eyes to dominate, displaying a mixture of fake ecstasy, or maybe it is genuine, but still combined with melancholy. They look right through me, and for a moment, it feels like we're not the selfsame person. It's like the girl in the painting is an enemy, challenging me to toss any restrictions and principles away and break free. “Me?” I ask, all of the anger dissolving into an unrecognizable emotion. The weight that plops itself on my chest is not new, but the effect it produces is unprecedented

“Something is not right with the eyes.” He muses, his voice similarly soft. “Maybe it's because the version of you I saw yesterday doesn't really resemble you.”

“The version of me?”

He cocks his head to the side, the side of his mouth tilting up in a dreamy smile, as if reminiscing about a delightful memory. “The wild, carefree one. Not the prude who overthinks everything.”

I huff again. “I'm not a prude.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh please, I bet you're a virgin.”

My eyes widen at his audacity. “That's none of your business.”

He chuckles. “See? A prude, and also a virgin.” His face becomes serious all of a sudden. “Ever considered becoming a nun?”

“I'm not a virgin.” I announce, gritting my teeth.

He scoffs. “I don't believe you. Maybe I should feel for myself.” He raises a risqué eyebrow.

“In your dreams.” I aver, screwing up my face in disgust, but secretly beaming on the inside.

“I don't have gay dreams.” He proclaims, his face totally humorless, and the amusement I felt morphs into vexation.

“Where's my bag?” I growl, casting him a dirty look.

“On the couch outside.” He informs. “I'll drive you.”

“No. I don't want anything from you.”

He raises an amused eyebrow up, before giving me an insouciant shrug. “Whatever you want.” He says, and his phone chimes in. I perceive him pressing his mouth into a straight line when he notices the caller, before he swipes the screen to answer.

“Logan.” He answers, anchoring me in my place with a dark look. He hums after a few seconds in response to something that was said to him, and I begin to swerve to leave, but then skid to a stop when he mentions my name.

“Yeah, I know. Candice is with me.” He promulgates in an assertive voice, occupying the chair once more, and flashing me a brassy smirk.

He responds with monosyllables, before he ends the call. “I see that you're still here.” He observes, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Why did you say that to him? And why are you feeling so cocky about it?” I catechize, crossing my arms.

“He asked because the both of us weren't on campus today.” He clarifies.

My eyes widen at that, before I hasten to check the time, only to ascertain that it's past two PM. “Shit. I missed today's classes.”

“Chill. They're just classes.”

I drag a hand down my face, and then stare at my hand in perplexity, wondering how I got that habit. “You won't understand.” I sigh. “I'll just go home.”

“Okay.” He shrugs again, leaning back in his chair, before he angles his head to the side when I don't move. “What?”

“Aren't you going to drive me?” I ask, chin high.

“Aren't you the same person who said that they don't want anything from me minutes ago?” He queries, a frown knitting the space between his eyebrows.

I move my hand to meekly rub the back of my neck, giving him a thin smile. “You're supposed to ask one more time.”

He gapes at me for a few moments, his lips slowly stretching into a playful smile, before he shakes his head and stands, beckoning with his hand to the door. “After you, m’lady.”

… … … … … …

“That mysterious attitude is starting to bore me.” I confess to Dylan, who's sitting next to me in the driver's seat. Instead of delivering me and letting me be, he insisted on taking me somewhere else, saying that it's important.

“And your whining is softening places that aren't supposed to be soft.” He avouches, taking a sudden turn.

I emit a wheezing sound, sending him a malicious look, which he completely disregards, concentrating merely on the road. Minutes later, he parks in front of a flamboyant store with tattoo models stuck to its glassy exterior, flaunted for the public, which makes me lower. Maybe it's not where we're headed to after all. But when he gets out of the car with me following him, I descry that our destination is nowhere but it.

“A tattoo parlor? Are you getting a tat?” I drill for information, baffled.

“No.”

I titter. “I didn't mean what I said yesterday. I don't want to get inked.”

He halts just before the parlor, facing me with an impatient countenance. “No one is getting a tattoo. I'm here to fulfill my word.”

“What word?” I ask, bemused.

“I said that I'd get you a new job, and the place needs a receptionist.” He explains.

“And how exactly did you get me that job?” I cross my arms, gearing up to interrogate him.

He shrugs. “The parlor is mine.” He announces, before he spins, and leaves me with a mouth that is wide enough to accommodate an army of flies. Pushing the glass door open, he steps in and holds the it open for me.

How gentlemanly of him.

After regaining my composure, I waltz in, immediately looking around to thoroughly view the huge place. It has three rooms attached to it, each with a label. Black and white preside over the décor of the place, and tattoo miniatures overspread the white-painted walls, coordinating with the black seats and receptionist desk.

“Steven, this is Candice. She's the new receptionist.” Dylan announces, invoking my face to whip to face the third party I failed to discern, and I'm hailed by a tall guy, with a pale, yet ruddy square face, and wispy, black hair. His brown eyes stare at me with confusion; however, he's giving me an amicable smile, his hand extended out for me to shake.

I take it, giving his hand a few shakes, before withdrawing mine. “Nice to meet you.” I smile back.

“Likewise! It's really nice to finally have a new receptionist. Patty was going crazy with scheduling and working at the same time.” He says with a genuine grin, alternating his gaze between me and Dylan, before explaining, “Patty is my coworker, and there's Mark also. Cool people. You'll like them.”

I nod, still not comprehending the whole situation, and I notice Dylan shifting on his feet. He beckons with his head to a couch, before leading us to sit there, leaving Steven to deal with a new customer​. “A tattoo parlor?” I exclaim in a hushed voice. “Don't tell me this is how you got your Porsche.”

He soughs. “I don't work here, and I don't want anyone to know that I own this place.”

That makes a devilish smile take over my lips. “Not even your friends?”

“No. One.” He enunciates the words with transparent emphasis, and his eyes convey the untold threat. For some reason, that makes me feel flattered.

“Don't worry. I'm a secret keeper.” I zip my mouth closed.

He rolls his eyes. “So? Are you gonna take it?”

“It seemed to me that I have no say. I mean, you've already introduced me as the new receptionist and all.” I press my lips together, sending him a castigating look, before I shrug. “I don't have time for job hunting anyway.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Then you should be fine working here. Patty must be working now. We'll wait until she comes out and then I'll let her explain your responsibilities to you.”

I part my mouth to respond, but I'm interrupted when my phone chimes in, declaring a new message. I retrieve my phone from my satchel, before I unlock it and check the new message. It's from a strange number.

*I hope you're doing fine :)*

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