▸ One Month Ago: Chapter 17

The musty odour of stale cigarettes hung heavily in the air as Diane advanced deeper into the room, slamming the door shut with a decisive thud that reverberated through the cramped space. The flickering lights in the dim hallway cast erratic shadows that danced across her weary features, accentuating the deep lines etched into her skin. She didn't appear intoxicated—not yet—but the intensity in her eyes, a turbulent blend of resolve and annoyance, signalled to Ivy that she was not in the mood for any nonsense. 

Ivy willed herself to remain composed, despite the tension tightening in her shoulders and her hands fidgeting anxiously at her sides, betraying the anxiety that churned within her. She inhaled deeply, attempting to calm her racing heart, but the heavy atmosphere of the room made it hard to regain her balance. 

Diane's gaze swept over her with that familiar, scrutinizing intensity that Ivy despised, always searching for flaws to dissect, to challenge, to mock. It was as if Diane had a sixth sense for detecting vulnerability, and Ivy felt exposed under her piercing scrutiny. Her gaze fixated on Ivy's uncomfortable stance, obstructing the way to her bedroom, as if silently blaming Ivy for being present, for simply existing in that moment. Ivy could almost see the gears turning in Diane's mind, calculating, assessing, ready to pounce on any sign of weakness. 

"What are you doing?" Diane's voice was flat, but Ivy caught the subtle shift in her tone—probing, prying. 

"Nothing." 

Diane let out a derisive laugh as she tossed her keys onto the small table by the entrance. The metallic clink echoed in the otherwise quiet room, a sharp contrast to the tension that hung in the air. "That's definitely not your 'nothing' look," she remarked, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm. She shrugged off her coat, the fabric sliding off her shoulders with a casual grace, and carelessly flung it onto the couch, where it landed in a heap, a testament to her nonchalance.

"You look like you just got caught trying to sneak out—or perhaps... were you attempting to sneak someone in?"

Ivy remained unfazed on the outside, yet inside, her heart thudded wildly, like a frantic creature ensnared in a trap. She maintained a fierce glare, her eyes narrowed into slits, determined not to show any signs of weakness. The last thing she wanted was for Diane to see her flinch or falter under the weight of her scrutiny. 

Diane's lips twisted into a smirk, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. "No way. Did you actually sneak someone in?" The question hung in the air, teasing and taunting, as if she were fishing for a confession.

"No." The response was too quick, too rigid, a reflex born from panic. 

Diane narrowed her eyes, advancing with an air of intensity that felt almost palpable. "So, what's with that guilty look on your face?" she asked, her voice transitioning from teasing to serious, as if she could pierce through the façade Ivy had constructed.

Ivy felt her irritation rise, a hot flush creeping up her neck. Her nails pressed into her palms, a subtle rebellion against the growing wave of frustration. "Have you ever considered that it's because I can't stand you?" she snapped, her voice dripping with a blend of fury and desperation. 

Diane let out a short, amused snort, shaking her head as if Ivy's words were nothing more than a child's tantrum. "Well, welcome to the club, kid. I don't exactly leap out of bed every morning thrilled to see your face either." Her laughter was light, almost musical, but it only served to deepen Ivy's irritation. 

They stood in silence for a moment, the air thick with tension, as if it were a taut wire ready to snap. Ivy could feel the thrum of her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Behind her closed bedroom door, she sensed Violet's presence, likely holding her breath, anxiously waiting for Diane to leave. 

But Diane had no intention of going anywhere. 

Her gaze flickered up and down Ivy again, taking in the fresh dye in her hair. "Purple now, huh?" She smirked. "I suppose it was only a matter of time before you started looking like a delinquent on the outside, too."

Ivy didn't rise to the bait. She just folded her arms, glowering. 

Diane let out a weary sigh, her fingers pressing against the bridge of her nose. The faint fatigue etched on her face—the same expression Ivy had witnessed a few times before—sent a complicated twist through her stomach. 

Diane had witnessed Ivy at her lowest points, those moments when despair wrapped around her like a suffocating blanket. Unlike Clive, whose reactions were always filled with violence, cruelty, and mockery, Diane had intervened, stepping in with a surprising tenderness that Ivy had never expected. That was the crux of the issue: how could someone who had been a source of so much disdain also be the only one who seemed to care? Or at the very least, made an attempt to help.

For a fleeting moment, there was a flicker in Diane's eyes that contradicted her usual cold and detached front. It was a brief glimpse of vulnerability, a crack in the armour she wore so well. It vanished just as quickly, concealed beneath the heavy shroud of indifference that Ivy had come to recognize all too well. It was as if Diane had caught herself in a moment of weakness and swiftly shut it down, retreating back into the safety of her emotional fortress. 

With a roll of her shoulders, Diane sighed once more, the sound heavy with resignation. "Whatever. Just don't do anything stupid while I'm around, okay?" The words were laced with an edge of exasperation, but there was an underlying current of concern that Ivy couldn't ignore. It was a strange mix of annoyance and care, a reminder that even in the midst of their complicated relationship, Diane was still there, still watching, still somehow invested. 

Ivy stayed silent. 

Diane gave her one last long look before brushing past her, heading toward the kitchen. "And stop hovering by your damn door like a creep." 

Ivy remained frozen in place, ears tuned to the clatter of Diane searching the fridge, muttering about the absence of anything decent to drink in this dreary place. 

Once the tension subsided, she carefully turned back toward her bedroom, her hand hesitating over the doorknob.

Ivy entered her bedroom, the door letting out a soft creak as she gently closed it behind her. The room was just as chaotic as she had left it—strewn clothes, scattered notebooks, and the faint scent of old incense masking the ever-present cigarette smoke that clung to her skin.

She stood rigid, her shoulders tense and her jaw set tight, still feeling the quiet irritation from her earlier confrontation with Diane. For a brief moment, all was silent. 

Then, a soft rustle. 

Ivy's eyes flickered across the dimly lit room, scanning for Violet. At first, there was nothing. No sign of her. But then—after a few beats of silence—Violet hesitantly peeked her head out from behind a pile of Ivy's laundry near the corner of the room. Once she realized Ivy was alone, she straightened up fully and walked toward her, her steps light but cautious. The tension in the air was thick, heavy with an unspoken presence that hung between them. 

Violet hesitated before whispering, "Are you okay?" 

Silence...

Ivy stood motionless, not answering the question. Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides, but that was the extent of her reaction. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, as if the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for Ivy to break the stillness.

Violet's brow furrowed as she took a step closer. "Ivy?" This time, her voice was softer, laced with concern, as if she were trying to coax a frightened animal from its hiding place. She reached out, her hand hovering just inches from Ivy's arm, unsure if she should touch her or give her space. 

In a surprising move, Ivy leaned back against the bedroom door, the wood pressing against her spine as if it were a barrier between her and the world outside. Violet instinctively recoiled at the unexpected movement, her muscles tightening briefly until she realised that Ivy wasn't trying to push her away.

Ivy's gaze was averted, her head bowed just enough for the wild strands of purple hair to cascade over her face. A long, deep sigh escaped Ivy's lips as she finally unclenched her fists.

Violet moved closer, her expression gentle as she tucked a strand of Ivy's hair behind her ear. Their eyes locked—one pair tired and wary, the other filled with profound empathy.

"Damn...That took a lot out of me..." Ivy grumbled under her breath.

Violet struggled to decipher the exact words, but the gruffness in Ivy's voice, tinged with that unmistakable dry sarcasm, brought a smile to her face. She couldn't help but chuckle softly and, without a second thought, wrapped her arms around Ivy in a warm embrace. Wrapping her arms around Ivy's shoulders, Violet stood on her tiptoes, pressing the side of her face gently against Ivy's. 

For a moment, Ivy didn't react. Then, slowly, she let her head rest against Violet's, her hands lifting just slightly before settling limply around Violet's waist. There was no tight grasp, no desperate clutch as if she were clinging for dear life—but she also didn't pull away either. 

The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It wasn't suffocating.

For once, it was… okay. 

⋯ 

The flickering light of the television danced across Diane's face, creating muted shadows that accentuated her defined features as she sank deeper into the couch. The pack of cigarettes lay open in her hand, the stale aroma of smoke intertwining with the persistent mustiness that filled the room.

She skilfully retrieved one, nestled it between her lips, and flicked a lighter, mesmerized by the flickering flame for a brief moment before bringing it to the tip. A soft ember flickered in the shadowy living room as she took a deep drag, allowing the sharp flavour to linger in her lungs before releasing it through her nose. 

The silence in the house stretched.

She wasn't drunk—not yet, at least. But there was something else weighing her down, pressing against her ribs like a dull ache. Her gaze drifted to the hallway, where Ivy's closed bedroom door sat like a barrier. 

There was something...off.

Diane wasn't stupid. She knew Ivy well enough to sense when the kid was hiding something. The way she had stood so awkwardly in the entryway, the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she had practically barricaded herself in her room the second Diane showed up… It was obvious.

She scoffed, exhaling another long drag of smoke.

"What the hell is she hiding this time…?" 

The question lingered in the air, mixing with the haze of cigarette smoke. Diane's body remained present, yet her thoughts wandered far away. She found herself transported back to that fateful night. Back to her.

The moment she witnessed Ivy's life slip away for the first time… and the astonishing instant she saw her return. 

⋯ 

Diane recalled the instant when the bedroom door let out a soft creak. At first, she brushed it off as a mere figment of her imagination, possibly a playful illusion brought on by the whiskey or the exhaustion that caused the shadows to sway in unnatural ways. The room was shrouded in dim light, with a flickering lamp creating unpredictable shapes on the walls, and she found herself on the brink of slumber, her thoughts drifting between consciousness and dreams.

But then she caught sight of her. 

There, in the hallway.

Alive.

Diane's heart froze. Her body went rigid, as if encased in ice. The familiar figure that stood before her was both haunting and unsettling. She appeared to be... different... Her skin had a waxy sheen, unnaturally pale as if she had been drenched in sweat for hours. Strands of her dishevelled blonde hair clung to her forehead, matted and wild, framing a face that was both familiar and foreign. Her lips were parched and cracked, the colour drained from them, leaving behind a ghostly hue that sent a shiver down Diane's spine.

The air in the room thickened, heavy with an unspoken tension. Diane's mind raced, grappling with the reality of the moment. Was this a dream? A cruel trick of her imagination? She blinked hard, trying to dispel the vision before her, but the figure remained, rooted in the dim light of the hallway, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. 

Yet it was her eyes that made Diane retreat to the farthest corner of the room. They were vacant, reminiscent of a doll's gaze. Unblinking, dark, and devoid of life—like a dark spectre had slithered into her mind and snatched away the timid girl Diane had once known. 

Ivy fixed her gaze on Diane, a look of bewilderment crossing her face, as if Diane were the one behaving weirdly.

Then Ivy let out a scoff.

"I know I look like shit, but there's no need to overreact..." Her voice was hoarse, frayed—like she had swallowed a scream whole. She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and stretched her neck. Just like any other morning. As if nothing had shifted at all. 

Like she hadn't been dead for two months.

She trudged into the bathroom, grumbling softly to herself. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing off the world outside. Water gushed from the faucet, the sound echoing off the tiled walls.

Diane felt paralyzed. She should have spoken up. She should have taken action. Instead, she remained rooted in place, her cigarette dwindling to ash, her breath trapped in her chest. 

Then, a sound pierced the air. 

A gasp. A sharp, desperate intake, as if Ivy had momentarily forgotten how to draw breath. The noise sliced through the haze of Diane's thoughts, jolting her back to the present. She turned her head slightly, straining to listen, her heart racing in sync with the frantic rhythm of her thoughts.

The bathroom door burst open.

And then—footsteps. Quick, unsteady, frantic. The sound echoed down the hallway, a harbinger of something urgent, something wrong. Diane's pulse quickened, her instincts screaming at her to move, to act, to do something—anything.

Ivy's eyes met Diane's with an intensity that cut through the air, leaving behind any trace of confusion. What lingered now was a fierce, instinctual terror, unrefined and palpable. Her gaze was wide, pupils dilated, as though she had just broken free from the clutches of a haunting dream. 

Ivy dashed past Diane, almost toppling a chair in her frantic rush back to her room. Diane instinctively followed, her feet moving faster than her mind could catch up. 

Then she spotted what had caught Ivy's attention. 

The fabric. That cursed bed sheet. Still draped loosely from the railing, knotted into a rough loop. 

As soon as her gaze fell upon it, Ivy sank to her knees. She didn't scream. Didn't curse. She collapsed in a heap, her forehead pressed against the ground as quiet, trembling sobs consumed her. 

Diane remained frozen in place, a silent witness to the despair, feeling utterly powerless. 

It spiralled from there. 

Ivy ripped her room apart. Posters, boxes, her desk—nothing was safe. Her wardrobe doors snapped off their hinges, clothes scattered in a storm of desperation.

Then, suddenly, she was in the kitchen.

Diane had scarcely a moment to respond as Ivy launched into a frenzy, ripping open the cabinets and yanking out pill bottles, her hands trembling yet determined.

Diane grasped Ivy's wrist firmly, her voice filled with urgency as she pleaded, "Ivy, hang on!"

Ivy ripped herself free with surprising ease. It was almost unsettling. Diane had never witnessed this level of strength in her before. 

Ivy yanked the bottles open and let the capsules tumble into her hand. Diane lunged at her again, eager to dislodge them, but Ivy pushed her away with fierce strength, slamming Diane's back against the counter.

And before Diane could stop her—she swallowed them. One after another, tossing them back with glasses of water. 

Diane's throat constricted, and her body went rigid. No way this was happening. This couldn't be real.

But Ivy—she just kept going. Kept swallowing, kept shoving more down, like she was racing against something. 

But then she came to a halt, her pace grinding to a screeching stop. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed against the cabinets, her body a ragged mess. She let out a breathless, sheepish chuckle—like she had won. Like this was funny. 

Then she started vomiting. 

Ivy gagged, her body heaving, her hands gripping her stomach as she choked down bile. She clamped a hand over her mouth, forcing herself to swallow it back— 

But it was too much. 

She scrambled to her feet, stumbling towards the sink. Then, she let it all out. The sound of retching filled the house, drowning out everything else.

Diane remained still for what felt like an eternity. But then, a shift occurred. She took a tentative step forward, just enough to close the distance to Ivy. Her hands trembled as she tenderly swept Ivy's hair back from her face, while Ivy clutched the sink's edge, struggling to breathe through the surges of nausea. 

Diane trembled uncontrollably. What the hell was she supposed to do? What the hell was she supposed to say?

Ivy coughed violently, her body barely able to hold itself up. Diane could feel it—the quaking of Ivy's form beneath her touch.

Then, slowly… Ivy turned to face Diane.

Her face was a mess. Tear-streaked, sweaty, sick. Her lips parted slightly, her breaths ragged and uneven. Then, she moved.

Diane had no chance to brace herself before Ivy latched onto her. Ivy's fingers dug into Diane's shirt, her whole body crashing against her.

Her voice—

Her voice was hoarse. Raw. Desperate.

"Please… please, just kill me." 

Diane froze while Ivy sobbed into her shoulder.

"Please… help me. Help me get out of this. I don't—I don't want to be here anymore. I can't—I don't—"

Diane could feel her nails tearing into her back, gripping tighter and tighter, refusing to let go. She'd opened her mouth but no words came out. Because what the hell was she supposed to say?

Diane just held her.

And for the first time in her life…she had no idea what to do.