Incognito, by Greenie

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Chapter Five- Exposure

It's eleven o'clock in the morning and I am a little discombobulated.

No. That is a horrible understatement. I am very discombobulated.

Chalk it up to my inability to think straight when panicked.

Right now, I am trying to remember how the hell I got here.

I remember planes and falling asleep in a field. I remember being tucked into bed gently by Elijah and dreaming of Bermuda. I remember being awoken by an energetic Orli. I remember being apologized to profusely and then getting dragged off to brunch. I remember a familiar laugh and then panic.

So much panic.

Panic which drove me to dive under the table, where I am currently hiding.

But it's hard to focus on the cause of such panic when I am staring at what I am.

All I can do is blink and feel my mouth drop to the ground.

All I can think are very dirty thoughts.

I'm crouching here, plastered to a filthy floor with my gaze frozen straight ahead.

I'm crouching here, at eleven o'clock in the morning and in my mind I am having this very absurd conversation.

I'm saying: Why, hello, crotch of Orlando, how very nice to meet you.

I'm imagining it waving in response.

I'm desperately trying to break myself from this shocked trance, but coming within two inches of Orlando's manhood, framed by tight jeans, was the last thing I had expected.

On the edge of my consciousness I'm aware of the familiar laughter dying away.

The laughter is unmistakably that of Anna, once my best friend and roommate.

The past tense of that relationship, I admit, is fully my doing. Somewhere along the line I couldn't handle the strain of friends anymore. The more people you have that care about you, and vice versa, the harder life is. Friends just equal expectations. The pressure to please them never leaves, the constant awareness of how your actions affect them always weighs you down.

I couldn't breathe under it all so I detached myself. I ran away and now, here I am, hiding from someone I haven't known in six months and having imaginary conversations with a penis.

Life is funny like that.

The absence of Anna's footsteps and laughter finally lures me out of my fixation.

"Here we go!" I announce, popping triumphantly out from under the table with a blueberry.

Orli frowns at me, amused.

"You went down there to retrieve a blueberry?"

No, dimwit, I went down there to have a little visit with your bulging manhood.

"There are starving children in Africa, Orli."

He raises his eyebrows and I'm realizing I'm actually going to have to eat the filthy thing.

And then, just my luck...

"Excuse me..." I watch Orlando turn in his chair to face the sultry voice addressing him. Above him a tall blonde stands, smiling seductively.

I discretely chuck the blueberry behind me.

"I was hoping you'd come join me and my friends."

A delicate hand slips onto his shoulder.

I watch it and wait for the inevitable.

I'm picturing Orli turn into a drooling dog, bounding over to the table of girls, tongue hanging shamelessly.

Goodbye Jules, nice knowing you.

"Thanks, but I'm with this beauty, right here."

...

WHAT?!

Has he gone mad?

The blonde hovering over him is obviously wondering the same thing.

She shoots me a glare and saunters off.

I go,

...

Orli just smiles beautifully and begins to ramble about the new movie he is starting in a few weeks.

I'm not listening. I'm looking at him and I am going,

...

I'm looking at him and I have never been so frustrated. Frustrated because, hell, I can't figure the man out.

He is hot and then he is cold. One second I'm his best friend, the next I don't exist. He'll be thoughtful and sensitive and then turn into a mindless lunatic.

There isn't even any noticeable pattern to this behavior.

So I'm stuck here trying to figure out whether he is Superman or Lex Luthor, or whether he maybe falls somewhere in between.

I'm stuck here trying to figure this out and it is all very terrifying because I have absolutely no idea what I am dealing with. How can you guard yourselves against an ambiguous character? How can you build a wall when the cement is but a mist of instable particles?

Simply, you can't.

So this is me, here, realizing how vulnerable I am. This is me chewing my nails and twiddling my fork nervously. This is me naked, exposed. This is me going,

Frown, frown, pessimism.

And Orlando over there, he's just yapping on and on and he doesn't even realize what he can see, he doesn't even realize that the person sitting across from him is me, not Juliana Wheeler.

"So, what time are you going to start moving in?" He's asking.

He must be pretty blind because he's staring right at me, naked me, and he's not even blinking.

Or maybe he is just staring right through me. Maybe he doesn't think there is anything there worth seeing.

"One," I tell him.

"You want me to come help you?"

I shake my head. "No. That is okay. Elijah is coming with me."

Now he blinks. Now he bites his lip and frowns.

He goes, "Oh," And pins me with those deep, warm eyes, those eyes that make me feel so unsafe.

"I got something for you," He says, and pulls out a small black book. He smiles sheepishly, "I didn't have time to wrap it."

I'm blinking and staring and griping the table.

He got me a present.

He got me a present.

I take it from him with a small smile. I say, "My birthday isn't until March."

The book is simple. It's plain and elegant and perfect.

I run my hands over the smooth black cover.

"So?" Orli says. "Open it."

I do.

White crisp pages shine up at me, sparkle in their emptiness.

To me, there is nothing more beautiful, more enthralling, than a blank page.

Orlando knows this. I've told him time after time. He knows my passion for words, for language and writing. He knows it and I'm thinking he might even understand it.

I turn my attention to the inside cover. In it Orli has drawn a tree, its branches stretching, wrapping beautifully around the page. Among these twisted branches he's scrawled:

Tell me the truth, tell me no lies. *

"There's more," Orli is telling me, before I can even react to the phrase. There's a boyish excitement in his voice that allows me to forget.

I push the words away, far, far away.

"More?" I ask, and as I do I notice a small piece of ripped magazine stuck in the binding of the book.

Uhh...

"It's a picture of a frying pan, Orli."

His grin spreads across his entire face.

"Well, I couldn't very well lug the thing along, now could I?"

I repeat, has he gone mad?

"You bought me a frying pan."

I'm having some trouble grasping this.

"Not just any frying pan Jules! It's modeled especially for making crepes!"

Oh dear god.

"Um...wow."

"I figured if you ever get lonesome for my expertise cooking skills you could take a crack at it yourself," Orli says, smiling like an idiot.

I can't believe he is so excited over a frying pan.

He's practically bouncing in his chair, glowing from head to toe.

It's actually...kind of...sort of ...

Well...cute.

And I don't have the heart to ruin it.

"This is wonderful, Orli." I put on my best excited expression. "Thank you so much!"

"My pleasure, love."

I look at the picture again.

It's the thought that counts.

I'm telling myself this over and over again, flashing smiles at Orlando, when a soft voice sounds above me.

"Juliana?" It whispers.

I freeze.

Oh cruel, cruel world, why do you hate me so?

"Anna...wow. Hi."

I shift uncomfortably and roll up my sleeves.

Is it getting hot in here or is it just me?

Anna doesn't respond. She just looks at me intensely. I don't dare meet her gaze in fear of what I'll find. Instead I focus on her mouth

I force a nervous smile and say, "Long time no see."

Her lips press together tightly before opening curtly.

"Aren't you supposed to be in England?"

I'm thinking this has the potential to turn into a very, very bad situation.

I'm thinking if only Orli had brought the frying pan, then I could just give myself a good whack and this would all be over with.

"Uh..."

I chance a quick look at Orlando.

He's frowning, watching this exchange with rapt attention.

"...Yeah. Well, you know. I decided to come home a little early."

"Six months early?"

"Uh...yep."

"Why?"

The question is spit out hastily, bitterly.

I'm shrinking under her glare, I'm wondering how the hell this is happening.

I mean, I haven't talked to Anna in six months and I'm being interrogated by her, for Christ's sake.

I'm being interrogated and I'm so caught off guard that I can't even conjure a good lie. Instead I just go,

"Uhhh..."

Apparently Anna isn't really looking for an answer. Apparently she's quite content with throwing out rapid accusations.

She declares, "You never wrote."

"Oh...yeah. Sorry about that."

She accuses, "You never called."

"I-"

Apparently Anna doesn't give a shit what my excuse is.

"It's funny you know," She leans her elbows on the table, levels her eyes with mine. She levels her eyes with mine and I'm forced to stare into them.

Anger, pain, frustration, worry, fury.

They all greet me with a swift, firm boot in the stomach.

"It's funny," Anna repeats, "I saw your mother the other day."

"O-oh?"

"Yeah. And you know what? She said you two never went to England."

I'm gripping my small black book as if my life depends on it. I'm gripping it and it's screaming at me,

Tell me the truth, tell me no lies.

"Is that true?"

I shake my head. "No. We went." My voice shakes as I say it.

I know she doesn't believe me.

Hell, I wouldn't believe me.

But what am I supposed to say?

Oh, well, remember how I crashed the car and killed my sister? Remember how afterwards my mother went insane with sorrow and hate? Remember how she didn't leave the house for months? Well, the truth is, she wasn't really insane, in the medical sense. The truth is I didn't take her to a psychiatric ward in England. The truth is I lied to you and all the rest of my friends and just moved back in with my mother to help with the rent; moved back as an excuse to hide. The truth is I just couldn't allow you to see how really I was the one falling apart.

Yeah, right.

I lean forward. "The truth is, Anna, my mother is a pathological liar." I'm meeting her gaze dead on, I'm setting my jaw in confirmation. "You can’t believe a word she says."

If I weren't so scared I'd be laughing at the irony of all this.

"Fuck that," Anna says. "You're the liar, Juliana. You need help. You need some fucking serious help."

The raging fire growing in her gray eyes is igniting a similar one in me.

I'm cracking my knuckles.

I'm chewing my lip.

I'm preparing for battle.

"Well..."

Only I have nothing to fight with. No weapons, no arguments.

"Fuck you, Anna. Mind your own fucking business."

I'm trying not to think how pathetic I am.

I'm desperately blinking away tears.

Anna's face is blazing, is screaming fury.

Underneath it all is pure sorrow.

I know this because I feel it too.

In the end, after all the anger and guilt and frustration melt away, it's always sorrow that's left, that stays behind to welcome you with cold arms.

But right now none of this has disappeared for Anna. Right now the rage and pain serve as suitable masks.

"You're just a coward Juliana. All you do is run. Well, sooner or later there isn't going to be anywhere left to run to and I can guarantee you one thing," She pauses, pulls away from me, off the table. But her eyes never break from mine.

"In the end, no one is going to be there to care. In the end, when you are completely shattered, no one is going to want to pick up your pieces."

She holds my dead stare for a silent moment, then takes a deep breath and turns on her heal abruptly.

I watch her back as she stalks off.

I watch her and I know that I deserved those words. I know that, but I also know something else, something Anna doesn't.

I already am shattered.

In front of me Orlando is sitting frozen, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

I know what he's thinking. He's thinking,

Holy shit, what the hell did I get myself into?

I hate him for it, but I don't blame him.

I'd be thinking the same thing.

But right now the last thing I want is to hear him voice such thoughts. Right now, I can't handle anymore dejection.

So before he can utter a word I stand and say, "We should get going. Elijah's picking me up soon."

And Orlando just frowns, just stands and nods and averts his eyes from mine.

We leave and I'm still clutching at my book. I'm still clutching and it's still screaming,

Tell me the truth, tell me no lies.

Only I'm realizing I don't even have anyone to tell the truth to.

------------

"Are you okay Jules?"

Am I okay?

Do I look okay Elijah?

I bring a finger to his lips, "Shhhh."

Elijah is frowning at me. Frowning, most likely, because the finger I have pressed to his lips is shaking.

Hell, my whole body is shaking.

No, Elijah, I am not okay.

I just ran into my once best friend and she ripped me to shreds, she exposed me more than I thought I could ever be exposed, and she did it right in front of Orlando who now really knows what a psycho I am and must never want to see or hear of me again because he's realized, as the rest of the world should, that all I am is an empty shell crafted of horrible lies.

This just happened and now I'm here, in my mother's living room and one tiny squeak could rise her out of bed which I really, really do not want because the last time I saw my mother I left, I said some horrible things and I left, so vulnerable and open, and if she sees me now there is no escaping, no other chance out and I'll surely die in the growing pool of her pain, I'll surely go insane because she knows, just like Orlando does, she knows how fucked up I really am and she'll both pity and hate me for it and I don't want pity and hate, I just want peace.

Am I okay?

I am scared fucking shitless.

I'm sweating bullets.

I'm quivering so badly I can barely move my legs.

I'm going to pass out from nausea any second.

Maybe Elijah senses this because he grabs my hand comfortingly. So sweaty palm to sweaty palm I lead him into what used to be my room and begin to quietly gather all I need.

I'm not really sure how this is going to work. I've been to numb to plan ahead. I mean, I've got a lot of stuff here, a lot that needs to be moved to the car in multiple trips.

The question is how to do it without getting the attention of my mother.

I'm pondering all this, trying to think of a plan, while organizing my belongings when suddenly I hear it.

The floor boards outside the room creak, unmistakably.

Fuck. Me.

I stand frozen, my heart going,

Thumpthumpthumpthump.

"Jules?"

Thumpthumpthumpthump.

I yank Elijah into my closet, breathing heavily.

I stare wide-eyed at the door, senses as sharp as possible in search of another noise. I stare so hard that my eyes water, clench my fists so tight that my nails draw blood.

Jesus, I just want this to be over.

A few silent seconds go by and I slowly let my body relax, exhaling the breath I didn't even know I was holding.

I'm relaxing my body but I'm finding it almost impossible to do so because I am suddenly realizing how tiny this closet is, how clearly it was not made for the purpose of hiding two full grown adults and how Elijah's body is pressed forcefully against mine.

I can't see him, not one bit, but amidst the heavy darkness I'm more aware of him than I ever have been.

And there is something about him, something driving me wild. Something in his hard body, tense next to mine, in his sweet and warm breath, something that sits heavily in the thick air as if on the brink of composure, making my blood boil.

I shift in odd discomfort, the movement serving only to conjure a fiery friction where his hand is pressed to my stomach.

The walls around me dissipate, stealing away the entire would with them.

And I'm just standing here in this dark void, pressed firmly against Elijah by some unknown force. I'm standing here and it's just me and him and the sounding of our abnormal breaths.

I'm thinking of spinach and trying not to move.

I'm thinking of vinegar and trying to ignore how wonderful Elijah smells.

I'm failing horribly because underneath it all I'm vaguely aware of a hand moving, slowly trailing up my side, leaving my skin to tingle in its wake.

In a dark fog this is happening and it's so distant that I just want to scream in frustration.

Because in the end there's no denying it.

I want him. I need him.

My body is burning, is aching in such visceral need that I'm close to fainting.

So I'm pouring all of my concentration into just breathing, on stilling my trembling arms and in the haze of my mind the hand has reached the small of my back and is resting softly on my bare skin while full lips hover centimeters from mine.

All vagueness disappears completely when those lips, so soft and pliable, descend on mine.

I immediately groan in awareness.

His lips massage mine feverishly, sucking and molding so that our mouths are locked together in perfection.

I grab his neck and pull him against me more, if at all possible, meeting the kiss in uncontrollable need. I'm ravishing his mouth desperately, marveling at his taste. I'm grinding my body against his so as to explore every inch of him. I'm wrapping my legs around his waist and pressing into his growing erection.

I'm doing all this in a passionate frenzy and for once in my life I'm not thinking.

For once in my life I'm just feeling.

And, fuck, it's bliss.

Only as I urge the fire within me to grow something in me breaks, explodes.

I'm too far gone to understand what it is.

I just keep concentrating on how Elijah is devouring my lips, and hardly realize the salty addition to his sweet taste. I just keep grinding my hips ecstatically so that his hardness rubs over my tightness. I just moan as he holds me even firmer, not recognizing he is doing so to still my violent shaking.

And then abruptly Elijah stops, pulls away harshly.

"Jesus," He stares at me wildly. "Jesus Christ, breathe, Juliana."

Breathe?

I try to swallow but I can't.

Suddenly I'm understanding the salty taste and excessive shaking.

Suddenly I'm realizing that I can't breathe because I am sobbing so uncontrollably.

Elijah pushes my hair away and keeps his hands on the side of my face, pressing his forehead to mine.

"Breathe Jules. Slow down and breathe."

But I just keep crying, so hard that it hurts my body.

I'm pouring out all those emotions that mask my sorrow in these tears, I'm pouring them out and they leave me with one horrid realization.

I am completely alone.

Even with Elijah here, so close, I am alone.

It only makes me cry more.

So for hours, it seems, we stay like this. Hips on hips, forehead to forehead; me crying, slowly regaining my breath, Elijah whispering comfortingly.

When it's all over I just close my eyes, ashamed.

Ashamed of such emotion, but even more, ashamed by my wild lust.

Yet even in this shame some part of me is still aware of the bulge pressed between my legs. Some part of me is shifting my hips greedily, because the last thing I want to do right now is think.

I drop my head onto Elijah's shoulder and he presses his lips against the exposed skin of my neck.

But he stops before he even begins, whispers, "Shit," And looks at me wide eyed.

Whatever it is, I don't give a fuck.

"Shit?" I ask detached.

"Boyfriend," He says.

The way he says, with such concern, really amuses me.

I laugh, smile, "I lied," And pull his lips to mine.

Just as I taste his soft lips I hear it again.

A creak, this time much louder.

Elijah and I both freeze.

Our hearts beat in rapid union.

The clock mocks us, goes,

Tick, tick, tick.

I'm trying not to think of what will happen if my mother finds us in here, lips swollen and bodies entwined.

There's another creak and then...

"Meeeooooow."

...

Holy fucking shit.

"I am going to kill that cat." I confirm through clenched teeth.

Elijah starts to shake with laughter.

I fling open the door and the cat jumps with a loud squeal and scampers out of the room.

I'm plotting ways to torture the damn thing. I'm wondering if it'd be best to skin it alive or just strangle it.

I'm doing anything to keep from reflecting on the overwhelming swell of emotions that just hit me.

"Let's get my stuff and get the hell out of here," I say, and Elijah joins me in gathering my belongings again.

Elijah and I, we're thinking we are pretty crafty. We're sauntering around my room, throwing each other seductive smiles and not making a noise.

Elijah and I, we're congratulating ourselves on ignoring what just happened, on forgetting the pitiful mess that I just was.

But somewhere, somewhere deep with in me, I'm beginning to wonder if forgetting is really something that should be congratulated. Or even happen at all.