FLT Ch. 01

(Eyes Wide Open)

I always have a song that goes with the story or chapter I'm writing. In this case, The Quiet Kind - In Front of You happens to be that song (for now anyways). Only listen to it if you are capable of listening and reading at the same time. ANYWAY! Ergo:

Love comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes it may leave one distressed, needy, always chasing a love unrequited, or never returned. Or like with me, it could be their own damnation. He told me many times. I didn't listen. I was too desperate. I was blinded. He told me not to believe in love stories. He told me not to base encounters off of the movies. He made it perfectly clear not to believe in fate. He and Lael always held the brains in this relationship. I was something that got in the way. Well, not anymore.

***********************************************

02/06/12

"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." C'mon, you can finish this. "Lord Jesus Christ, eternal and merciful God, Creator and Redeemer of all, listen to my prayer. . ."

All around silence now laced us. I hadn't noticed until now how routine it had been of me. The words had exited like counting back from ten whenever my temper reached its no-no level. It was natural. It rolled off smoothly. It gave off rhythm. I disliked it.

The fact that the entire chapel had recited these words like the brainwashed Catholics (I'm not even one hundred percent sure what they are though they ''claimed'' Catholic) they were, reduced the disturbing feeling. I belonged to no religion. I respected religion and the people who succumbed to it. Bowing my head and spitting out words I didn't know the half of was entirely different. There was no respect in that, only a feeling of...wrongness, as though I was unworthy of saying such cult-like words when I knew I was miles away from the cult's grounds.

As others began their prayer, I began mine. As usual, I figured since they said we should have a close relationship with God, we could skip the formal method of prayer. -Dear Lord, I wish you wouldn't require church to be so early in the morning. I pray you give us a short sermon today. And I pray that the lab roaches I slipped into Lael's dresser do not lay their eggs. Uhm, forgive me for skipping services five weeks in a row. Please and thank you. Amen.- They also said we should be truthful, yeah? I was almost positive the roaches butts weren't that big and not all of them were pregnant.

I opened my eyes and leaned back. The priest was staring at me. I returned the gaze. His glasses wobbled on the brink of his nose. The robe he wore engulfed his thin frame. His wrinkling, loose skin around his mouth set for a sterner look with his lips pursed. His hand rested on a Bible, and the other slowly rose. If I was correct, a finger ascended, and pointed in my direction. I held my breath, inclined my head elsewhere and pretended to not have seen anything. This guy always did creepy things like this and I avoided evaluating it thoroughly. The crazy people always had a way of knowing things that I would rather not know.

Instead, I took in the curves of the chandelier above us, the gold, steel material rose upward and held seven, thick (really thick) white candles that were currently lit. The flames danced around, the lights bouncing off of the fine, glass ball that was held in the middle of it, creating a crystalline, bronze glow above us all. And now I knew why the chapel had that burning scent to it; I always sat beneath a burning chandelier.

Afterward, for at least five minutes I tried to pay attention to what the priest was saying and not the clock behind his head, but gradually, glaring at Lael—the woman responsible for attending this church and therefore bringing about me attending— became so much more interesting, and once I discovered she was easily ignoring me, I found my head nodding, my eye lids drooping, and my mind spacing. I tried. I really did, but seven minutes into the second sermon, I was asleep.

When the service ended, I was awake and ready to take on anything―except Lael's chastising.

"I -told- you not to come if you were simply going to snore in front of, Father." Her pale, creamy skin began to heat a rosy red, the delicacy of them bringing out the fascinating gloss in her irises. Her pink, smooth surfaced lips pressed into a thin line, fingers curled into a fist. Yep, three signs she wanted to body slam me.

The image of his frail finger pointing at me materialized. I shivered, told myself there was no higher reason for the man pointing at me and said in response, "I did not snore in front of 'Father.' More like some old white guy in need of some telomerase testing." I personally had nothing against the old guy, but anyone who was the cause of me having to wake up before two PM on my off day did not deserve a kind word from me. And so, that was what the guy got. My top priority when it came to needs was my ability to be lazy and do what the hell I felt. In a way, though, maybe I couldn't hold too much dislike towards him; he did cradle me to sleep often with his sermons on how the Lord was the satin or fabric of our essence. And when you got to sit atop the bleachers, furthest away from him and the candle-lit chandelier, tucked at the end of the pews with no chaperons walking by to monitor the churches activities―hello dream land. I hid a smirk, sliding into her car.

All the way to her apartment she sported the grim expression. Normally people knew to let Lael be. Either you could play it her way or you could simply forget about playing. For those who chose the in-between, well, they could expect a lot of misfortune (missing family members, bankrupt, a gun at their throat the next day, a funeral waiting for them, etc). As for those she relatively gave a shit about, like me, who chose to screw with her, she would beat the fuck out of them and they would soon learn from that.

So maybe I had a few nerves that didn't function properly, because annoying her was an essential that couldn't be ignored and I never learned from a few hits to the jaw. Even if not for the humor, beneath lied a compulsion to do so. I mean, something about agitating her got my day going. Point being, no amount of beatings or torture would stop me from my job as a nuisance―even if I was twenty. Ten years from now, when I was thirty and she was thirty-nine I would still be carrying out my stupidity.

Upstairs, I fired up the coffee pot for her. She lived on the outskirt of town. I lived extremely close to the skyline. Outside, where the fury winds tossed around the snowflakes, the sun failed to peek from behind the clouds. Snow marred the windows, the grounds, clogged the atmosphere, gave kids something to do and parents something to stress over, and delayed airports for who knows how long. I figured she needed something warm.

Usually what -I- figured resulted in the opposite no matter how I tried to cheat the game. For example, Lael stormed passed me, clothes in hand, and slammed the bathroom door, the thought of coffee probably the last thing on her mind.

I lifted my brows and clicked the coffee pot off. So no ''soothing'' coffee for her today. Taking the newspaper off the counter, I plopped down on her bed. In the background, the heater rumbled softly, the waves of it noticeable against my arm given it was located directly on the side of the bed. The stacks upon stacks of files just so happen to be located on the other side of the bed, leaving the heater open to sizzle off my arm hairs.

I automatically searched for any new disasters, satisfied when the only news was related to some guy breaking out of prison. It was sad I found that level 1 news. It was only because right now, level 10 news was the stuff sky-rocketing today. As in level 10, I mean, a terrorist loose in the USA.

Lael and I were the CIA agents of Chicago―or part of the facility anyway. One man ran this specific facility. Commander Dimwit (aka Commander Gibs if you wanted to use his real last name). What came with a kiss-my-ass boss were fuck-my-life cases. And currently, the case of a terrorist happen to be one of those fuck-my-life cases.

Three mayors were killed in well-known states. One senator was slaughtered literally into neat squares, the heart pieces deflated due to the lack of blood, the veins nicely wrapped around certain chucks of skin and organ cubes in the shape of a bow (no one could possible know how much that piece of information had me shaken when I found out). Two landmarks in L.A. went up in flames. The latest act hit home, my home in specific. The Chicago loop was consumed by fire. Basically, the terrorist did nothing but leave carnage in his wake (They assumed the person was male, but Earth had batshit insane people everywhere). No camera or person witnessed the planting of the bombs. Somehow the terrorist got pass the senator's guards. Somehow he killed three mayors the night of their speeches. That alone made everyone question higher appeals' security, soon leading to questioning the National Guard's security. That had Home Security basically ass-fucking Federal Executive Boards with how on their tails they were.

Because of all of the snow and airlines being shut down for this, they claimed he was trapped here. The theory was that he would get desperate, make a mistake somewhere along the line and have all of his plans faltered due to his captivation (though he could easily drive a car out of the city, but -supposedly- they had the boarders secured). While this had medias excited and citizens of Chicago scared bone deep, it was our chance to scoop out this man and have him prosecuted.

I personally didn't give two shits, but apparently this was some major event that called for attention. If I were to die from some terrorist attack, at least I wouldn't have to deal with economic issues, the possible outcome of having cancer, Afghanistan coming to us, or getting shot up in an alley. Death was everywhere, so why get worked up when it came in another form? I understood protecting the citizens. No amount of logic, however, will ever get me to understand us protecting some citizens who barely acknowledge mayhem that doesn't concern their home life, citizens who forget the Pledge of Allegiance, who have already given up.

Now, I may have lied somewhat about being a CIA agent. I was in training. Lael was a fully certified agent who proved it everyday. While she kicked kick-ass' ass, I barely knew my butt from a hole in the ground. Where she was abrupt about -everything,- I went about life tentatively (something she told me would be the death of me). Where she was a bit on the tall side, I ruled the short side. Where she rocked the dark, sinister expression in such beautiful light brown eyes, I was merely average and rocked dull gray eyes occasionally hidden behind black glasses or contacts. And where she wielded her body like a weapon, I wielded mine like a couch potato when I had the chance. And we all know what couch potatoes do.

Nothing.

So why were we partners again? Well, one, she was kinda sorta stuck with me. I had been 12 and living at an orphanage while she had been 21. You would think at such a young age you couldn't adopt, but you'd be surprised with how willing one became when handling a child who had been hooked on committing suicide, stealing every chance they got, ran away once every hour or so. Basically the trouble makers. It wasn't like I had the best of both worlds there. My only friend had been some scrap named Michael (who I still kept in touch with). I was bound to do bad stuff when made fun of about being friends with the boy who still wet the bed. And yet, she had still adopted me. She hadn't spoke to me until we arrived at her old apartment. She'd told me where my room was and the rest was history.

We didn't have a mother/daughter relationship. If anything, we had exactly the opposite. She had been an agent for three years then and was able to provide for the both of us. Aside from my annoying tendencies and her abusive tendencies that were provoked by my personality, we'd gotten along well. She had tried to push me into the training program at fifteen, but I was liking the do-nothing life too much. At eighteen, she'd asked again. I think it was something about the way she'd asked me, the silent plead in her eyes. Lael had shown me a new life, opened my eyes from whatever darkness I'd surrendered to. For that, I'd given her what she wanted and signed up. I knew the amount of studying to come, the amount of physical labor ahead of me, but denying her almost felt impossible.

I regret/am thankful for that action. Two things had happened the day I went to the base. One, I had official met Commander Gibs. Two, I was thankful that he wasn't the dad who abandoned me, because I would have double crossed that guy so fast that I would have been the one doing the abandoning. Now him, unlike the priest, I had an entire book directed his way.

The only thing that made me breathe in the same air as that guy was Lael. Lael. Lael. Lael. She was my everything.

Except lover.

I absently began flipping through the files she held on her headboard, thinking of how much longer I could play this off. The day I'd turned seventeen had to be the worst day of my life. Not because Lael and I had gotten touchy, not because I had lost my virginity to the woman who raised me as teenager, and not because I had liked it, but because in the aftermath realization had smacked me three-fold. Lael had been serious that night, while I had been careless and thinking ''party on!'' And what I realized was how she had saw me as. . .just that, a lover. A lover I didn't want to be, but regardless of that, I knew I would -never- break her heart, I knew I would let her have me if that was what she wanted.

And I could never stop the bile from rising in my throat at the thought of what made her this way. She was hardcore, but when it came to relationships, she was vulnerable. Eleven years ago, on her voyage to Russia, her mission was to seek out Вячеслав and cease his existence. She had been eighteen, and this was her first mission. A big mission, but she was trusted, a newbie badass. Instead, she had met someone, a few years younger than she was, and she had fell in love with him, a mere boy almost. She had journals upon journals about him. She told me about all the things he could do, how ''incredible'' he was, how he would always laugh when things were terribly wrong, how he was mature for his age. She said they laughed and cried together. He'd said she was his forever. It was pure love. It ended the night he raped her. That was when she went bad, I believe. She ended up aborting the mission and putting it in someone else's hands to recover from heart-break and more.

I was a nosy person, so when she first saw me ram-shacking her room in search of the journals, she killed the books, lit them afire and glared at me. I was stuck only asking things about him. Her response was always, "He's not something you want to know about." The words never changed. I asked further questions and she'd say that was all I needed to know. It wasn't. Anything involving males brought about a haunted shadow over her and she would degrade everything in her path. She didn't like getting intimate with males. Period.

So, to this day and forever, I guess it was a loathsome ''party on'' theme playing constantly in my mind. And I might very well never have another boyfriend in my life. Now, there was loyalty for you.

"-What- are you doing?" came a voice from the doorway.

"Having multiple flashbacks."

"Why do you have my papers?" I only glanced up when they were snatched out of my hands. "I told you not to mess with my stuff. I told you a thousand times not to―is this National Piss Off Lael Day? Hm, is that it?" That―that right there― was her favorite line on Sundays. It summed up our essence. "Get out my bed."

I laid back, my mood going gloomy at the sight of the still coming snow. Despising her as a lover was one thing. Hitching up her blood pressure almost canceled out the former. "When is the next meeting?"

"The one you're not attending?" She stood over me, hands on hips. Her eyes, however, seemed to focus on everything but me. That alone drew my eyes to the way she bit her lip, the way her finger tapped at her waist.

I lifted myself up. "What's wrong?" She didn't answer. "Tell me."

We both knew it was pointless to act as though everything was alright at this point. We knew each other too well. Our faces were open books to each other. After years and years of telling serious lies to one another, we sort of developed a read on the other. Lael always had this nervous way of detaching herself from her body. Either that or, she didn't notice how her eyes were like ping pong balls, looking everywhere but at the person. I was the exception. After knowing and living with her for a while, I picked up her body language when others didn't.

I, on the other hand, was good at keeping secrets. How Lael read me was a mystery. Same would be said for how I read her, though.

When I said Lael was abrupt, I didn't only mean her actions, but also her words. Maybe the day I actually was prepared, would be the day I saw her dying or something.

"Leave. Go home. This is none of your business. If I have to brake your leg and drag you out, I will. Leave." Her voice was a monotone, her face loose with sadness. The scent of her shampoo was intoxicating in the small distance we held. The shampoos were never a constant. This time it was rosemary. As I inhaled it, I measured her up.

She was serious.

I opened my mouth. I closed it. I tried again and she pointed her finger towards the door.

"Wait a second," I said, holding my hand up to allow me speech. "You want me to let you be worried about something I have no doubt is big? You want me to let you take on this -problem- by yourself? Can't you at least -tell- me what's up?"

"Scarlet, I'll give you three seconds to leave."

Anyone who actually knew how to react to this situation was organized as hell.

I was speechless. Lael was really leaving me out on this one. That alone had me wondering what on Earth could get her -this- worked up to where she would kick -me- out. Me, her partner. I had my own apartment, yes, but we usually roomed together, slept together, and you could seldom find us separated. I studied her more thoroughly. She was holding her breath. They always did that, held their breath. Why, I didn't understand. It was almost sickening.

I knew for a fact I was overreacting, but while Lael's job had always been to protect me, my job had always been to protect her. When one person is pushing the other away to protect them (she -was- pushing me away for that matter, I was sure) it left that person ready to chuck something upside their head and drag them off, forcing them to cooperate. Basically, two protective people didn't go well when one tried to push the other away.

Thing was, she had the upper hand. She could either knock me out cold, or she could let me walk out on my own will. I chose the latter, but still, I found myself staring in near hatred that she was doing this to me, not telling me what was going on. She never left me out on information. Never. "No need to count," I spat and smiled when she flinched. Yes, my voice had dropped to a deadly tone. Yes, my temper was reaching it's no-no levels. And yes, I wanted to hit her with all my might. I restrained.

"You're not invincible," I told her on my way out, grabbing my coat off the hook. I threw the rack back when it almost clashed to the floor. For all I knew, this could be a bout a bill she was struggling to pay or something hugely minor. But I needed to know. I hated -not- knowing. I slammed the door nice and hard to deliver the I'm-pissed message. "She'll tell me sooner or later," I muttered.