revealed [s e c r e t s], tag ;; veen <3

[George Harris]

The day had already been one that George Harris couldn’t have even possibly dreamt up in his worst nightmares. Only a few hours ago, he had been perfectly happy; albeit, with a rather nasty secret, that he had thought to be hidden extraordinary well. He had had everything under control, not hurting anyone. His life had actually seemed to be doing just fine... or, at least, it had been whilst he had had the drugs swimming through his veins. Sure, the lows had brought him practically falling to his knees; but he knew exactly what was going to satisfy him, and where to get it from. He had fallen into a routine that seemed to be working just perfectly. But then he had become lazy; he had decided to break away from the timetable. And that was where it had all gone wrong.
Even thinking about the sight Veen must’ve been presented with, when she had entered his room, made a small wince cross against the thin man’s face; and as the further memory about his downright stupidity at the docks, with Snake, the frown couldn’t help but to further intensify on Chef’s face. The two people he had most tried to keep that tiny, and yet humongous secret from, had found out within hours of one another; and already, it was clear that they weren’t simply going to ‘forget about it’.

And now, he had to work out exactly where his life was leading. Veen’s last words to him had been ones that had refused to leave his mind, since his brain had fallen clear of the fuzz of the drugs; and Chef honestly had wanted to move towards her room straight away, to try and explain what little he could. But then, Snake had stopped him in the corridor, requesting a favour; and as usual, he had found himself unable to say no. It had only led to further mistakes, throwing his world into a larger spin than it had been before; and now, the weight of the day hung heavily on his shoulders, much more than even before. But still, he had to go back to her. He had to go back to his only rock, the one he had always depended on; and he had to figure out if he had shattered his pillar, in one fell swoop.

Chef had been standing outside Veen’s room for far too long than was necessary. He knew the lights were turned off; there was no prominent beams radiating from under the ill-fitting door, indicating that someone was up and around. But he had already given the other places where she might be within the warehouse a searching; and her bedroom was the only place left. She had promised him that she would be there; and he prayed that she was. He needed to talk to her, clearly; and so why was he just simply standing outside? Quickly, his hand tightening into a fist, Chef lifted his hand to beat against the door.
But instead of the knock that rang out in his mind, instead, there was nothing. His hand had loosened, his fingers simply splayed against the cold wooden door, as his forehead briefly came to touch against the same surface, the only real sound for the moment the gentle echo of his breath. He wished that he could just skip past this moment, and go to the time when everything was perfect once more. But even as he thought it, he knew he couldn’t; was Veen even going to be able to forgive him? Would things ever be perfect again? And he also knew that the only way these questions were going to be answered, was to enter the room, and face the woman whose opinion he most yearned for.

Finally, Chef’s eyelids pulled open, the blue orbs being revealed once more, his head lifting away from the door. He knew he had to go in – but upon going in, he could potentially be shown in plain facts, exactly how much he had messed everything up. What if she refused to talk to him? And worst of all... what if she wasn’t even there anymore? She had given up waiting on him, packed her things, and left. Even the thought of such an occurrence sent a shudder down Chef’s spine; and quickly, his hand lifted, his now-tightened fingers pulling into the fist, to give the sound that he had been waiting for. However, he didn’t wait for a reply, instead the sudden surge of courage pushing his hand downwards, towards the handle, and sliding the door open, his frame slipping through the tiny gap.

The silence was allowed to settle briefly after Chef entered, the click of the door behind him indicating the barrier was once more solid; and as his eyes searched to fight against the gloom of the room, finally his mouth opened, speaking the soft whisper of a broken man. “Gwenivere?”

[Gwenivere Veen]

She had spent all night pretending the world was whispering to her. For some reason the tears had stopped, and while there were still half-wiped dark streaks of eyeliner down her face, she was not crying. Instead, she just listened, with her eyes half to the sound of everything around her. She had no windows and the cement walls were thick, so she could not hear much, but if she let herself go and listened, the whole city would spill into her ears. Downstairs, she could hear the sound of showers going. Outside she heard the sound of screeching tires, as someone slammed to hard on their breaks. Her room was small, and covered in beads, cloth, sewing needles, ribbons, and so much lace. All that made it a bedroom was the hammock strung up in the corner. She had been eleven when she told her mothers she wanted a hammock instead of a bed. Sylvia had said no, she would get sick, she would hate it, and then they would have to go out and buy her a new bed. Toni had been willing to give it a chance. They just would not get rid of the bed, until Veen slept in the hammock every night for three months and still liked it. Veen had padded her hammock with a thick feather duvet, and fell asleep every night pretending she was in the smelly hull of a ship, with the sounds of waves and shanties stuck in her head.

In her parent’s house she could hear the sound of their old folk records, and the awkward cawing of her bird. A pang of guilt shot through her. She had just left him there. They had been taking care of him for her, but she had not been home in over two weeks. She would go tomorrow, and bring the bird back with her. She pressed her leg against the wall and gave her hammock a good kick, letting it rock as she moved away from her house and looked for things to listen to in the rest of the city. Somewhere on the north end a night club was just about to open. Everything was quiet. Across the street, ten movies blared from the cinema, and she pulled away from the cacophony. She was never on that end of the city. She had not been the movies in months. When had she stopped going to the movies? She and Neil used to see something every week. If nothing was good they would throw popcorn at the screen of the worst thing they could find. When had she stopped spending time with Neil?

She brought her ears back home to the east side and listened to the sound of her brother’s x-box. He was playing BioShock because he knew it was her favorite. She had not talked to him in a week, and it had only been a quick hi. Where had she let herself go? Her entire life seemed to be echoing in this city. It all cried. She had abandoned it. She had abandoned all of it. Everything her life had been she had left, and now all she had was a hammock. It wasn’t even her hammock. It was just another hammock that she had bought incase she wanted to take a nap after too much sewing. She looked down at her bare feet and kicked the wall a little harder, letting herself swing a little higher. The pat of her foot against the wall drowned out the city for a while and she was glad. She didn’t want to hear it. She was a prisoner now, and the outside was singing to her. She would leave tomorrow morning. Somewhere in the south end a father put his keys on the counter as a little girl shrieked his title, her voice was muffled by the shirt and tie into which she had pressed her head. Veen did not remember being young. She didn’t deny that it had happened, but she did not remember any of it. Had she ever been so excited to see her mom? Had she ever been that innocent?

She remembered when she was flawless. Long before she had had sex, and she listened to the sounds of the past as she listened to the gentle sound of the knock on her door. She heard the meetings that had taken place in this office, back when the building was used for what it was built for. She heard the sound of chairs scraping, and the sigh of a business man who knew he was done here as he turned off his lights and went home to his family. Families do not live in abandoned warehouses. They live in homes. They have bedrooms and kitchens and everything is well decorated and none of it is made of concrete. If she… If she stayed here, she would have to change. She could not be consumed by this anymore, or she would wind up in tears again, and Veen hated crying. And she hated that she had deluded herself into thinking she was happy here. And she hated that she had let her love turn into obsession and she had left those who really loved her, and those who believed in home, and those who knew how idiotic and juvenile gang life is. She curled up in her hammock and rocked herself slowly. Far away she heard the sound of someone whispering her name. She had not needed to cross the ocean. She had not needed to move away. She had escaped herself and the life she had wanted became the life she had. When she looked up at George who had just walked in, her heart sighed. Do not keep me here. her mind whispered to him. Do not make me stay. She did not want to anymore. She did not
belong here anymore. She just wanted to go home.

[George Harris]

For a moment, the solid wood of the door pressed against his palms, and back, was the only thing supporting his shaky legs. The world felt like it was spinning from underneath him, shadows looming out, forming images of monsters that he was only half sure weren’t actually there; but slowly, his eyes adjusted to the light, the monsters falling back to their hiding places, and becoming the chairs, and coats that they really were. Slowly, his gaze crept across the room, searching for the woman that he so desired – and as he finally spotted the hammock, swinging softly, like a crib lulling a child to sleep, he knew she would be in there. This was her solace, her private place – but he needed to enter.

They rarely stayed in here; in fact, Chef could hardly even remember the last time he had set foot in to this small room. His room had used to be the one where they found peace and quiet from the rest of the gang, a lock that was firmly shut against the rest of the world; a bed big enough for them to snuggle next to each other in comfort. But this room was one that had always contained an element of mystery, one that was only ever viewed for mere seconds, when it was opened when he knocked, and closed when she left with him. But today, he had to enter by himself – and god forbid, perhaps leave by himself. The thought made a shudder run through his spine, a wince flash across his face; but slowly, he moved forward. Even if it was going to be the worst ending, he had to find out. He had to find her. And as his steps drew him closer, gradually, the figure he had been searching for was revealed to him.

Already, even in the barely lit room, he could see the dark trails of make-up that had run down her cheek, marking the paths that the tears must’ve made too; and Chef bit gently on his lower lip, willing his own tears to be contained, and to stay hidden. Now was not the time for him to break down, nor to become a blubbering wreck – he had to find the strength he knew was not in him... Even as he moved, his gaze stayed resolutely firm on Gwenivere, searching for any signs as to what she wanted. Had she even heard him enter? Was she asleep? A soft blink of her long eyelashes confirmed the negative for that – but still, no indication was given as to what she wanted him to do – was he even allowed to stay?

And so he knelt, his head only centimetres above the hammocks edge, his hands low in his knees, almost as if he was praying. Saying a goodnight prayer, wishing towards a God that he no longer believed in; that he had barely believed in, even when he was little. But right now, he knew he needed some kind of heavenly intervention. Some help as to what to say, and how to act. He was the only one in the wrong in this situation, the only one who needed to find any apologies; and it was going to be much more than a apology that he had to give. But if she wanted it, he would give his entire being. He would lie down in front of her, and be everything and anything. If only it meant she would still be with him...

“I am sorry.” The soft three words, unidentical triplets to three others that he had spoken so many times before, and yet with such vastly different connotations, fell out into the silent room – and even as he spoke, Chef knew they were the wrong ones. They seemed wrong, too simple; the meaning wasn’t enough behind them. They didn’t express the way his heart was currently feeling like it was being ripped, piece by piece, out of his chest; or the way his head spun every which way, never falling on a thought that would help him, instead just making the wave of nausea grow larger in his stomach. But they were all he had. His mouth seemed determined to stay shut, his tongue refusing to move; and silently, his green gaze skipped up to take in the dark shadow of Gwenivere’s body once more. Silently, slowly, his hand moved up, hovering mere millimetres above hers, for a moment undecided as to whether he should make the connection – and then, finally it dropped.

“I am sorry.”

Repeats of a useless sentence from before – but apparently the only thing he could say for the time being...

[Gwenivere Veen]

George. Her George. No. No longer her George, for if she had any ownership of him, he would never have done this to her. And if she had any want to claim him, she had left it all now. And if she had had any special connection to him, that would suggest she knew him enough to call him hers, it was broken, now — if it wasn’t always a lie. George, Formerly her George, had never been able to catch her when she fell. She remembered the time she’d dropped from the rafters. All she had wanted was to float, delicately into his arms. For a moment she wanted to ignore gravity, and drop like a feather. But she had dropped like one-hundred-and-twenty-one pounds of lead, to the floor, crashing upon him with a complete absence of poetry. That’s what George had been in her life, the absence of poetry, which was no way to command a Romance. Why had she never chided him before? Why hadn’t she told him how disappointed she had been? Or did he already know? In the end was it being her George that had poisoned him, and twisted him, until all he could do was be not-Her-George, and instead be who he once was?

He had had so much more humor back in the shower, before his laugh lines drooped to worries and his arms opened up again, to pin-cushion two thousand sewing needles full of white, liquid powder. She pulled herself into herself, and flinched as her door opened. She knew who it was, but she didn’t know what he wanted, nor what she wanted from him. And how could he look at her like that, when somewhere in the pit of her stomach she knew that it was all her fault? She made a fist, clenching the edge of the hammock as she looked over his face. He was so gaunt and white, even in the darkness. Her eyes swam as she looked at him, but she refused to cry over him any longer. There would be no more tears shed over the man she had once thought she possessed. His actions were all his own, and she was not to be effected by them any longer.

And he was apologizing differently now. This morning he had apologized to her emptily. A reaction to tears, broken faces, and the guts of her soul spilling out through wounds in her ego. His words were nothing but the knowledge that the words were needed, and she could feel how hollow they were as he drifted away from her. (Because he had wanted her to be far away. Why else would he leave.) Now, though, his words were so heavy they slammed into the floor with the same force she had when she fell from the rafters. He had followed the blood to her room, to see the mess he had left of her, and upon seeing it he was sorry. One hundred and twenty one pounds of sorry. Sorry for every inch of her. And she wanted to hate him for letting her fall, and being so damned unpoetic. George, if ever there was a need for poetry. She pulled her hair over her face, trying to drown herself in fire-curls so she wouldn’t have to look at him. So she could pretend he wasn’t there, and deal with it all in the morning. Or suffocate and choke, burn up. Was he gone yet?

She hadn’t been good for him, and she had been, in the end, the one who made him this way. She had been the one that had pushed him to here. If she was what he lived for (she presumed this, because she knew that he was what she lived for, and if anything she had to feel that at least this still existed) then his whole life was as toxic as the poison that swam through his veins, twisting through his blood, and forcing its way inside of him. When things were poisonous you do not eat them. That’s what had been explained to her when she was six and ate a bottle of aspirin and had to have her stomach pumped. She was poisonous to Chef. He was poisonous to her. She could not eat of him. She should call poison control, and they would pump him out of her, and pump her out of him. She could not live for him. She could not love him.

He touched her and she flinched. She could feel his hand. It was so warm and so soft, as soft as it had ever been grazing over her stomach. As soft as the hand that had cleaned her off when she had sicked all over herself. As soft as the hand that had been the first to ever slip inside her and make her scream. How could the hands that loved her be poisonous? And yet she could feel his toxic-forgiveness slipping into her. She could feel him warm enough to melt her hardened heart, and still she had no idea what to say to him. If there was anything that could be said at all.

He slammed her chest with another one-hundred-and-twenty-one pounds of I am sorry, and she flinched again, but she would not cry. Not this time. She looked at the man she loved, and knew he needed to have himself pumped clean of her, but there was no one to call poison control. What did she say to do it? She needed it to be quick, she needed it to be clean, because she whatever she wound up saying, she would never be able to say it twice. “I know you are, sorry.” No. She needed to say the right thing. Her fingers moved, activated by the poison to hold onto his. “We’re full of poison, George.” She whispered, holding his hand tighter. “We cannot catch each other, we only fall. George. I don’t know how to speak anymore.” She searched for the words to say what she never wanted to. “George,” his name felt so right in her mouth, and oh, how she never wanted to stop saying it, “We’ll kill each other. We can’t.” She closed her eyes, and squeezed his hand, pulling the last little bit of strength she needed from it, “Don’t worry. You won’t see me after this. I promise to disappear. I promise we won’t have to look at each other.” She wanted to look at him forever, even now. Even hating him. She shut her eyes, and forced herself to let go of his hand, but she couldn’t. She clung to his hand. She could do everything else. She just needed him to let go.

[George Harris]

The flinch away from him, the moment his hand touched hers, was one that seemed to echo round in his head, his blue gaze staring down at the place where skin had just been touching skin. She had never flinched from him before; he had never given her reason to – but even as that thought traipsed through his mind, a memory arrived back to him, informing him that that was certainly not true. Only this morning, her hand had been ripped away from his, almost in exactly the way it was now being done. Acres of air had been left between them; and yet, he could still feel her. The electricity of her life rippled through the air, begging him to lean in closer, to envelop her in his arms, like he had always done before – but as his blue gaze slowly lifted to focus on her face once more, he wasn’t even sure if he was allowed. Were they... were they still together? Could she actually forgive him?

So many questions – and all with potential answers that he knew could destroy him.

But then... her fingers were around his. They were tightening; and automatically his gaze dropped down to it, almost in disbelief. Words were spoken to him; and yet, Chef couldn’t quite yet tear his orbs away from the fact that her hand was truly curling around his. She wasn’t pushing him away, telling him to leave – but there was a signal that she actually wanted him to stay. And as she spoke, Chef knew that this time, he had to listen to every word, and not let it just float over him, like he had done in the morning.

The words, however, were ones that he was once sure he would only ever hear in his nightmares. His face paled, the very last of the fluid that kept his body alive draining from his cheeks, as his almost sunken eyes lifted to focus onto Veen’s face. What was she saying?! Surely she didn’t mean... Surely not. But as his ears strained to listen, his mind working as fast as it could, it was slowly clicking. It truly was what he was dreading, what made him feel more sick than even the withdrawal from drugs would. She didn’t want to be with him – she wanted to leave.

Almost unable to stop it, a strangled “No” broke through his lips, his blue eyes flashing with pain, the first sign of actual emotion appearing where it had been absent for so long. Even through the headache that currently pounded against his temples, the way his stomach was flipping every which way, the pain of the words stabbed through, penetrating to the deepest part of his chest. She couldn’t leave him – he couldn’t live without her.

But... she had every right to. He had destroyed every right to anything that he once might’ve thought he deserved. And there was truly no one else he could blame, but himself, for the horrendous mistakes he had made.

However, her fingers were squeezing against his hand again – and his gaze flicked down, before returning to her face. But as his gaze returned, this time he wasn’t met with her beautiful stare – instead, her eyelids had closed, her long eyelashes stained with tears, almost sticking against her cheeks. He knew he should no doubt be tearful, that he should be protesting more rapidly; but his mouth could barely find the strength to open, his mind reeling from the final sentence of Veen’s. She.... she wanted to disappear. She wanted to leave him, speaking as if that was the best option for both of them. Did she not understand that he couldn’t survive without her? That if she did leave, he wouldn’t be able to live...

His hand tightened, almost unconscious of whether he was gripping too tight – but he couldn’t let her go. If he held on tightly enough, than she would never be able to leave him. And finally, the tears started to fall. His head shook, his tongue sticking against the top of his mouth, as a bubble of air stopped any words coming through his throat. But finally, after what felt like forever, it was swallowed, his brow creasing with the effort. “Ve-Veen.... I’ll stop... I’ll get better...”

Helpless pleas, words that he couldn’t quite fathom as to what they truly meant – days of more pain than he could even imagine, sickness that was so much bigger than what he was even feeling now – but if that was what Veen needed to hear, to stay with him, than he would say them. But... to do those things.... he needed her.

She couldn’t leave him.

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[ SO sorry for the delay ]