Behind These Refuge Walls

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, Newton claimed.

Well, my reaction was not even close to 'equal' and as far as opposition went, it was completely beyond the negative pole of excitement.

I was dead. I was in the painful fires of Hell.

No, that would have been all too easy, too pleasant of a thought. If this was death, though, it was a far cry from what I imagined it to be. The warm rays of light stabbed my eyes. I opened them, but the action inflicted so much pain to my head, that I immediately closed them back and stiffled a cry.

I stood still. Maybe it would disappear. Or maybe this was just the normal state of my body. No, I thought, I most certainly remembered feeling better a while ago. Then I questioned myself: what did 'a while ago' mean?

I whined, the sound breaking the literally painful silence around me. It seemed as though by just making that noise, I could finally forget about the nausea. Pity it only lasted for a few seconds. A light screech interrupted my whining. The door.

"Sis?" Nate stepped in, dressed up for basketball practice. To the pained me he seemed so utterly normal, so carefree. "Charlie, what's wrong?!" he finally gasped as he rushed to my side of the bed.

The movement caused the sickness to increase, turning it from bothersome to excruciating. I curled up in a ball under my sheets, hoping it would magically disappear. Pity I didn't believe in magic.

"What happened?" I eventually squeaked, forcing my eyes to stay open.

"You went to that party and I thought you would come home late and you did but I was still awake and you were passed out and there was a guy--"

"A guy?!"

"No, listen! He just popped at the door with you in his arms and he said something about you having too much to drink. Did you get wasted?"

I panicked. I wanted to look self righteous in front of Nate, claim that it, of course, was a lie. A man. I was so scared I could have just passed out again. A low hiss came from my side, followed by several curses and the repetitive question 'what happened?', because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember. Half of the night passed by in a blur, a part of it happened with me sober and the rest of it consisted of short flashbacks. I hated Paige. I hated Danielle. I hated myself more than them, because I had been stupid enough to go there.

You're practically giving all your haters a clear way to sabotage you!

I was angry at Janice. Angry because she was right. Angry because she was logical, she saw a sense to it. I was angry because I knew that at some point, she'd prove me wrong somehow. I couldn't comprehend how I had gotten so drunk. It was impossible. I never drank so much. Yet with my responsible persona I managed to get myself curled up in a ball, complaining of stomach aches and having no memories of last night. Moreover, I had been brought home by a complete stranger. The air thinned around me, several 'what if'-s passing through my mind. What if he'd done something to me? What if I'd done something stupid - more stupid than getting so utterly wasted? What if I was pregnant?

Please, God, no. No, no, no, became my prayer that I mentally chanted continuously. Then What do I do? What do I do?.

I closed my eyes for the smallest of moments and jumped the second a familiar dark eyed face appeared. My eyes shot open and I wondered briefly what Janice's jerk of a friend, Cain, had to do with my state.

"Did you get his name?"

"No, he just put you in your bed urgently and then took off. He barely said anything to me, just that I had to watch over you. Shit, Charlie, what did you do?"

I couldn't summon myself to answer, too busy trying to make it to the bathroom faster.

I downed several pills that were meant to make any hangover vanish, but they only managed to loosen the nausea and head ache - for I soon realized my pain was hurting beyond imagination - in the slightest ways possible. I ushered Nate to practice. And then I was alone. Alone to cry my heart out.

But I wouldn't do that. Something clawed at my brain, screaming at me that I was not weak, that I had to do something. So I picked the phone and dialled. Who had I dialled?

"Charlie?" Janice's confused voice rang through my ears.

Wait, why did I even want to talk to her? I didn't want to socialize. It was the last thing I needed.

"Hey, Jan..."

"God, I knew it! You are so hungover! How was the party? Don't tell me. You hooked up with Ryan, right?"

Abdominal spasm. Headache. Nausea.

"No. But I did dance with him."

"So what do you think about him?"

Oddly enough, talking about Ryan took my mind off things. "I don't know."

"You don't know? Ryan McCarthy is the no. 1 hottie of our school. Sure, whenever he gets close to a girl it's only to get in her pants, but that's part of the package. So what do you think?"

"I don't get him," I suddenly said, though I had had no desire whatsoever to tell her that. I had no idea what I thought of Ryan. "I don't really know what he wants. He doesn't flirt with me on a regular basis. And he doesn't usher me away, either."

The more thought I put in, the more curious I got. And the more my stomach churned.

"Well that doesn't sound like him. So, Charlie, what are your plans for today?"

"I'm going to a café," I blurted, then instantly imagined a clone of mine slapping me. What business did I have in a café when I could barely keep myself on my own two feet?

"Sweet! Mind if I join you?"

"I guess not."

That was how I ended up moving my action of wallowing in self pity on different grounds. A café I had passed by several times since I had moved in was where I told Janice I'd meet her.

The bartender was a man in his late twenties - with disheveled blonde hair and seemingly unshaved beard - who wore a t-shirt revealing his belonging to the staff. My eyes fell on the tattoo on his wrist that resembled to an old looking bracelet. He caught me staring and as soon as we locked eyes, a shiver crossed my spine.

Not even his unfriendly figure couldn't make me go away, though. I slowly sat on one of the tall bar chairs and leaned my head against my hand.

The bartender absent mindedly cleaned the already spotless glasses. My gaze followed his tattooed hand as it placed them from one place to another, then to the initial place again. This man clearly had no occupation. My ears were keen on listening to the various noises from the cafe. A chef moved plates around, some making clashing noises. The steam managed to rush out through the kitchen's doors. There wasn't much conversation given the early hour, leaving the low tuned Beatles songs to drown the silence around me. At the bar, a few seats down from me, sat an old man, reading the latest newspaper and sipping from his coffee with slow moves, rearranging his eyeglasses every once in a while. Somewhere near him stood two business people - a man and a woman - waiting for their order. There were very few other people, scattered around the café. A writer - or a journalist, as I gathered - typed furiously on his shiny Vaio, whereas a group of three college students gossiped over a plate of pancakes.

A little girl grinned up at her mother. She held a carefully wrapped package with a 'Happy Birthday!' card attached. They both fit in perfectly with the relaxed Sunday morning atmosphere. Much unlike my miserable, self loathing self.

"Miss?"

I spun my head in the direction of the bartender, who watched me with a strange, weary look. As I looked up at him, I felt my thoughts drift away and wondered whether I knew those dark, distant eyes.

"Miss?" he repeated, this time more accustomed to his own voice.

"Huh? I mean, yes?"

"Would you like to order something?"

I opened my mouth to decline, or better yet, just tell him to go away, but there wasn't much of a point in doing that. I was too tired to be bitchy, or maybe I was too bitchy to be tired. Whichever was, I found no strength to flip the guy off.

"Yeah...a coffee would be great. I'm just...waiting for someone." I classified the need to explain my distant aura as odd and carried on to staring at the spotless glasses. That feeling of agony and despair took over as soon as the bartender was gone to prepare the coffee. Up until that point, he was my only - though awkward - company.

I didn't need caffeine. God only knew how much harm that would cause to my already sick self.

"CJ!"

I winced at the sharp voice. Janice dropped herself by my side with a large grin. Too cheery to notice my deadly aura, she threw in several subjects worth discussing and quickly ordered something to eat. I felt my nausea intensify at the thought of more food. The answers I would give her were minimal; her main curiosity being about the party. My jaw clenched at everything she'd say. And then she finally noticed my habit.

"You clench your jaw a lot, d'you know that?" I quirked my eyebrow. "I have a friend who does that when he's angry. Cain."

My heart sank, that strange flashback of him passing trough my head again. Then I found myself speaking of a subject that I figured had nothing to do with my current situation.

"What's the deal with Cain and James?" I asked, then lamely added, "They seem different."

I had no interest in the two. I didn't want to. But I couldn't not ask, as Cain's face seemed to just pop in my head with such clarity that it made me wince.

The long pause on the other end made me look up from the remotely cold cheese sandwich. She stared at me and three feelings crossed her eyes: confusion, shock and lastly disdain. She was all too easy to read and that fact alone made me worry about Janice. She pursed her thin lips. Had it not been so obvious that I had struck a chord, I would have given up on my pitiful curiosity.

She looked around anxiously. When her eyes landed on the bartender, she froze in place, but I didn't have time to process her reaction.

"They wouldn't want me to tell you."

Her remote, secretive tone got me to turn and fully face her. She waited for something that resembled a lot to permission from the bartender.

"You wouldn't believe me anyway," she said. "You're a cynic. A proud one, at that."

Vaguely insulted, I remained silent. I tried not to force my brain, because the more I did, the sicker I felt. I had no response for the blue haired girl and that alone, I figured, shocked her.

"Massey's a really different school, Charlie."

"Yeah, that I figured."

She sighed and furiously turned to look at me. "What if I told you that the Massey students are creatures we've only dreamed of? Would you believe me if I told you that humans aren't alone in this world?"

I stared. I gulped. I forced myself to look back into those piercing eyes and try to look serious about it. The word 'aliens', associated with NASA, rolled off my tongue.

"Not aliens! Although God knows if those aren't as true...No, I'm talking about vampires, werewolves, witches...Demons. Would you believe me?"

Watching her, I tried to comprehend the not so subtle allusion. She sighed in frustration and returned to her latte with a resigned look. As if, indeed, I was a blind and idiotic low class human and her, the Picasso of the moment, couldn't get the message in her painting across to me. While mimicking her action, I figured my day could not have gotten any worse.

She was too much into fantasy books. She was deranged. They were deranged. Then I figured that I was deranged if I honestly prefered my friend to be a sociopath rather than an elf.

She scowled at the fowl taste of her latte - true enough, I had noticed the awful taste of things as well that morning - and stood up.

"I'll be right back," she announced before heading to the ladies' room.

I kept my gaze down. The pit in my stomach grew wider; the knot tightened. Although I forcefully tried to focus on anything else - the conversation with Janice having been my main distraction thus far - the sickness did not disappear. The bad news was that my list of 'to do' had grown: wallow in self pity, throw up several times, make sure I'm not pregnant - I shuddered, almost ready to cry as the idea hit me -, hate myself for losing every kind of memory of the night before and finally, sympathize with the blue haired lunatic.

The scent of pancakes reached my nose and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. My stomach churned, my head began to thump and I choked out an angry sob.

A pair of strong arms caught me and slammed me in the nearest wall. His breath burned the skin on my neck. People were laughing at us, or maybe just at me. He whispered things - things that I couldn't understand. Then he disappeared. Someone else replaced him, only this person intimidated me too much.

"Charlie? Did you hear me?"

Janice looked at me with a horror stricken face. She glanced between my clenched fists and my clenched jaw.

"Charlie, you don't look so good."

I felt like kicking, screaming and slapping her. I was just that angry at everyone in general.

"I'm fine," I breathed heavily, sensing my stomach fight back. "Just a hangover."

She frowned. "Doesn't look like a hangover."

Of all things I could think of, the only thought that crossed my mind was that it didn't feel like a hangover, either. I said nothing to her, though, as I realized that if I tried to speak again, I might as well throw up. When another abdominal spasm caused me to grit my teeth, I finally stood up and decided to stop jeopardizing whatever health I had left.

"Jan, I have to get home."

And home I ran to, rushing past a confused blue haired girl and a shocked waiter - the tip I left was, without a question, too much for him. The bed wasn't my destination. Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom, ready to faint from the nausea.

When Nate did get home, he answered the phone to a concerned Janice and then to a worried Jake and carefree Max (bless his soul) - apparently the trio communicated a lot more than I thought. I warned my brother to give them good news about me. I didn't want them to know of my stupidity. I was too proud for that.

And then they laid eyes on me on Monday morning - me being a complete wreck, no matter how high I tried to keep my head. I was beyond pissed, so when Jake approached me, I barked out an 'I'm fine' and forced them to move faster. They're obvious concern wasn't even the worst part.

No, by far, the worst thing of the day was the fleeting glances I got, the low chuckles and the congratulating smirks.