Status: we all have secrets, some darker than others.
Drowning.
chapter one.
FLORENCE BAKER WAS NEVER THE SILENT TYPE, she was quite the opposite; always chatting up a storm with whom ever would listen. She wasn’t the annoying type who’d only talk about herself and her own problems, she would actually talk about others and theirs. She would put everyone in front of her -- she would help you no matter what you’ve done or what everyone thought you’d done. She was kind, sweet and modest, and that’s what attracted Isaac in the first place.
When everyone thought he’d killed his own father, even after the charges were dropped, she would be the only one offering help, whether it was as small as listening or actually helping him with his work, she did it. She listened to him even before his father died, and as much as she wanted to tell his secret, especially on the days he’d walk in with a noticeable limp, he told her to keep it a secret and she did.
She was the type of person everyone befriended, the person you could talk to even if you had just met, the person who would listen with unprejudiced ears, a person who’d keep your darkest secrets and not tell a soul. Florence was the universal friend.
She was never one to be seen with anything other than a smile on her face; her smile had the ability to melt the coldest of hearts. Florence was just one of those girls who was naturally happy, no gloomy thoughts plagued her, misfortunate never touched her; it was like she was made of sugar, spice and everything nice.
So you could imagine Isaac’s surprise when, on their first day back as juniors, he finds Florence shut up like a clam, no words escaping her lips. Her eyes were darting across the hall as if something – or maybe someone? – was about to pop out and attack. They no longer held the light that once shined in them; instead they were ten shades dimmer.
She looked half dead – a corpse walking. Her skin, looking close to a pale blue, was tight against her bones; Isaac bet that if he could see her hidden skin, he could almost count them, even if he didn’t have his increased eyesight. Her attire was no longer cute, summer dresses, filled with light pastels and flowers – she was wearing a grey oversized sweater with matching sweats. Her dirty, worn sneakers were squeaking against the linoleum, echoing through the filled hallway.
Florence Baker was not the same.
And Isaac Lahey was determined to find out why.
SHE COULD FEEL THEIR EYES ON HER, following her every movement. She clutched tighter to her binder, as if it were the lifesaver keeping her afloat on the torrential storm at sea. She wasn’t ready for this; she was still recovering over what had happened to her over the summer. She could still feel the claws on her, filling her with dread to her very bone. She could still hear his whispers in her ear; feel his vodka breath against her skin.
As much she tried to forget what happened, she could never forget him. Even if he wasn’t there physically, he lingered in the deepest parts of her mind -- waiting for her to forget just so he could remind her again and again.
His words were constantly echoing in her head.
You’re a dirty whore, such a filthy slut. You deserve what’s coming to you.
As much as she told herself that she didn’t deserve what he had done to her, she still let his words affect her. As much as she wanted to deny his words, deep down inside, she agreed with him.
Why else would he have done it if she hadn’t provoked him with her attire?
She was exactly what he said she was.
She was a dirty, filthy whore.
She didn’t deserve to be loved.
She continued to her homeroom, lingering in her thoughts, oblivious to the eyes that were still watching her.
When everyone thought he’d killed his own father, even after the charges were dropped, she would be the only one offering help, whether it was as small as listening or actually helping him with his work, she did it. She listened to him even before his father died, and as much as she wanted to tell his secret, especially on the days he’d walk in with a noticeable limp, he told her to keep it a secret and she did.
She was the type of person everyone befriended, the person you could talk to even if you had just met, the person who would listen with unprejudiced ears, a person who’d keep your darkest secrets and not tell a soul. Florence was the universal friend.
She was never one to be seen with anything other than a smile on her face; her smile had the ability to melt the coldest of hearts. Florence was just one of those girls who was naturally happy, no gloomy thoughts plagued her, misfortunate never touched her; it was like she was made of sugar, spice and everything nice.
So you could imagine Isaac’s surprise when, on their first day back as juniors, he finds Florence shut up like a clam, no words escaping her lips. Her eyes were darting across the hall as if something – or maybe someone? – was about to pop out and attack. They no longer held the light that once shined in them; instead they were ten shades dimmer.
She looked half dead – a corpse walking. Her skin, looking close to a pale blue, was tight against her bones; Isaac bet that if he could see her hidden skin, he could almost count them, even if he didn’t have his increased eyesight. Her attire was no longer cute, summer dresses, filled with light pastels and flowers – she was wearing a grey oversized sweater with matching sweats. Her dirty, worn sneakers were squeaking against the linoleum, echoing through the filled hallway.
Florence Baker was not the same.
And Isaac Lahey was determined to find out why.
SHE COULD FEEL THEIR EYES ON HER, following her every movement. She clutched tighter to her binder, as if it were the lifesaver keeping her afloat on the torrential storm at sea. She wasn’t ready for this; she was still recovering over what had happened to her over the summer. She could still feel the claws on her, filling her with dread to her very bone. She could still hear his whispers in her ear; feel his vodka breath against her skin.
As much she tried to forget what happened, she could never forget him. Even if he wasn’t there physically, he lingered in the deepest parts of her mind -- waiting for her to forget just so he could remind her again and again.
His words were constantly echoing in her head.
You’re a dirty whore, such a filthy slut. You deserve what’s coming to you.
As much as she told herself that she didn’t deserve what he had done to her, she still let his words affect her. As much as she wanted to deny his words, deep down inside, she agreed with him.
Why else would he have done it if she hadn’t provoked him with her attire?
She was exactly what he said she was.
She was a dirty, filthy whore.
She didn’t deserve to be loved.
She continued to her homeroom, lingering in her thoughts, oblivious to the eyes that were still watching her.
She was just a shell of who she used to be.
♠ ♠ ♠
so I was feeling generous and decided I would post today instead of waiting till thursday since I might not be as active as I want to be these upcoming weeks. my friend from tennessee is coming in tuesday and well i'm probably going to be spending most of these three weeks with her. I already have chapter two written up but I want to finish chapter three and start on chapter four before i post it.Do you like the divider? I'm not a huge fan of it and I was wondering if anyone could find one that fits the story? It'd be a huge help. thanks.
f e e d b a c k i s l o v e l y.