▸ Apathy: Chapter 18

[Reader Discretion: Semi-Immortal explores mature and challenging themes, including trauma, mental health struggles, violence, and discrimination. It contains scenes that may be distressing to some readers. Please proceed with caution and prioritize your well-being.] 

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Diane's fingers hovered over the cigarette pack on the coffee table, but her gaze drifted past it—to the orange pill bottle lying beside it. The label, crinkled and peeling at the edges, bore her name in smudged black ink. Take one daily. 

A quick, frustrated breath escaped her nostrils as her jaw tightened. For a fleeting moment, the thought of bypassing the pill crossed her mind. Yet, she knew that skipping it would unleash a torrent of headaches—those relentless, suffocating waves of discomfort that would leave her irritable and on edge. The weight of her worries would bear down so heavily that she'd find herself needing to double the dose the next day just to feel normal again.

She could almost feel the familiar throb beginning to pulse at her temples, a warning sign that echoed in her mind. The last time she had skipped her medication, it had taken days to recover, each moment stretching into an eternity of discomfort. The world had felt like a foggy haze, colours muted and sounds distorted, as if she were trapped behind a glass wall, watching life unfold without her.

She grimaced as she twisted off the cap, letting a single pill tumble into her palm. No water in sight—just the harsh, bitter taste that clung to her tongue, her throat constricting as she forced it down dry.

Then, on a whim, she snatched the nearly empty whiskey bottle from the floor and took a hearty gulp to wash it down. The burn of the alcohol seared her throat, yet there was a strange comfort in its bitterness. It was familiar. 

In the background, the TV droned on, a news anchor monotonously reporting on a crime wave, but Diane barely registered the words. With a flick of her wrist, she slammed the remote, changing the channel with a muttered, "What a load of crap." 

She clutched the remote with a fierce intensity, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on its surface. The air in the room felt thick and stifling, perhaps weighed down by the flood of memories filling her mind.

It wasn't Ivy's voice that echoed in her thoughts anymore. 

It was his...

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Diane met Clive the same way she met most of her mistakes—drunk, reckless, and at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

She had spent the night pulling a double shift at one of the less desirable pubs in town, where the floors were always sticky and the air reeked of sweat and low-quality booze. The dim lighting cast a murky glow over the worn-out furniture, and the walls were adorned with faded posters of long-forgotten bands. It was late, and her patience had evaporated long before, yet the tips had been good enough to keep her from walking out.

As she wiped down the bar for what felt like the hundredth time, her muscles ached from the relentless hours on her feet. The clinking of glasses and the raucous laughter of patrons blended into a cacophony that grated on her nerves. She glanced at the clock, its hands moving far too slowly for her liking, and sighed deeply, wishing for the night to end. 

The regulars were already well into their cups, their faces flushed and their voices rising in volume as they shared stories that had been told a thousand times before. She recognized the familiar faces, each one a testament to the pub's reputation as a haven for those seeking cheap drinks and a place to forget their troubles. Despite the chaos, she had developed a strange fondness for the place; it was a world of its own, a microcosm of life's highs and lows, where laughter and tears often intertwined.

Then, he walked in. Clive didn't stand out much at first sight—he was broad-shouldered and rugged, the sort of guy who carried the lingering scent of cigarettes and a touch of aggression. Yet, there was something about him that commanded attention, making those around him either cautious or compliant. Diane wasn't one to shy away from men like him, but she understood the importance of not provoking them unnecessarily. 

He settled onto a barstool, ordered a straight whiskey, and lapsed into a lengthy silence. He simply drank, smoked, and observed.

As her shift approached its end, he finally broke the silence. "You work here often?" 

Diane, busy tidying up, let out a scoff. "No, I just enjoy donning this ridiculous apron for kicks."

Clive raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You've got quite the attitude."

"Yeah, and I've got ears too, so if you've got something smart to say, now's your chance."

He chuckled, a low, dry sound that hinted he hadn't genuinely laughed in ages. It wasn't the most pleasant laugh, but hey, it could've been worse.

One thing led to another. Flirtation was easy when you had enough alcohol in your system, and Diane had always been good at pushing boundaries without toppling over them. She couldn't care less about his desires; she had her own agenda that night—to escape reality.

They found themselves entwined in the back of his old car in an empty parking lot, cigarette smoke curling around them as he pulled her onto his lap. It was nothing extraordinary—just another night, another fling, another way to pass the time.

Oh, but he just couldn't stay away, could he? Back he came, time after time. Initially, she figured he was just another one of those regulars, a fleeting romance destined to fizzle out once the excitement wore off.

But Clive didn't get bored. And surprisingly neither did Diane. She just couldn't help herself, popping up more and more often, lingering a bit longer each time. And before she realized it, she wasn't just another tick on his checklist—she had wormed her way into his life for real...

The first time she met Ivy, she had just turned eleven.

Diane waltzed into Clive's apartment, tipsy and trailing the scent of cigarettes and bargain-bin perfume, ready for the same old song and dance. But the moment she stepped inside, she felt something shift. It was a presence. Quiet. Watching.

Then she saw her.

She was gaunt, almost alarmingly so. Her hair, a wild tangle, obscured her face, yet Diane could still make out the bruises blossoming on her arms and the old scars tracing her wrists. Each mark told a story of pain, of battles fought in silence, and of a resilience that seemed both admirable and heart-breaking. The dim light of the room cast shadows that danced across Ivy's skin, accentuating the hollowness of her cheeks and the sunken depths of her verdant eyes. 

Ivy remained unflinching, her gaze fixed and unwavering. There was no fear, no hint of curiosity—just an icy detachment. It was as if she had built an impenetrable wall around herself, a fortress of solitude that kept the world at bay. Diane felt a knot tighten in her stomach. 

Clive barely acknowledged her. Just grunted from the couch, a beer in hand. "Ignore her. She knows better than to talk to strangers."

Ivy remained silent, and so did Diane. 

Diane knew she should have spoken up, should have inquired or taken some action. Yet, she chose to look away, feigning ignorance to the sight of Ivy's fingers gripping the fabric of her oversized sleeves, as if she were attempting to vanish into them. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, a tension that felt almost palpable. Diane could sense the weight of Ivy's silence, a heavy shroud that wrapped around them both, stifling any attempt at connection. 

From that moment on, Ivy ignored her. Diane didn't blame her. 

What the hell was she supposed to say? 

She was nothing like the other women who drifted in and out of Clive's life. They all walked away. But she stayed. And maybe that made her worse. 

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Diane snapped back to reality, her eyes fixating on the whiskey bottle still gripped tightly in her hand. She let out a scoff, shaking her head in disbelief at her own actions. "What a goddamn joke," she muttered, setting it down with more force than necessary. 

She could still feel Ivy's stare, even after all these years. That look of quiet, burning hatred. 

Diane had been given the chance to do something. And like every other woman before her—she turned her back. 

No wonder Ivy despised her. 

Hell, some days, Diane despised herself too.

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A couple of hours had passed since the confrontation with Diane.

The house had fallen into an uneasy silence, the tension still lingering in the air but settling into something almost bearable. In Ivy's room, the mood was noticeably lighter. Both she and Violet had slipped into cosy pyjamas, leaving behind the unease of earlier. Ivy leaned back against the headboard, a notebook resting on her lap as she wrote intently. Beside her, Violet lay curled up on her side, watching. 

In the stillness of the room, the soft scratch of Ivy's pen occasionally broke the silence, accompanied by the gentle murmur of Violet's voice as she softly hummed little melodies to herself. She wasn't entirely sure what Ivy was working on—probably homework or something related to school—but that wasn't what held her attention. 

Violet's eyes were drawn to Ivy's face, captivated by the way her striking features tensed in focus, her brows knitting together ever so slightly as she immersed herself in her work. Even in such a mundane moment, she had this effortless coolness about her, something naturally authoritarian in her demeanour. Yet, as Violet gazed deeper, she uncovered the warmth hidden beneath that seemingly aloof façade. The quiet fire in Ivy's eyes, the subtle way she nibbled on her cheek when faced with a challenge—it all held an enchanting charm that pulled Violet in closer. Violet was memorised by the intricate details: the gentle cascade of Ivy's hair that framed her face like a delicate halo, and the way she would occasionally sweep it back with a tender gesture, exposing the elegant curve of her neck.

A flush of warmth unexpectedly spread across Violet's cheeks, catching her off guard. Her heart raced, a reaction she chastised herself for, yet it was impossible to brush aside. Perhaps it was the soft glow of the lights, the closeness they shared, or simply the realization that Ivy had grown to mean so much to her. In this moment, as Ivy seemed absorbed in her own thoughts, Violet sensed a deeper feeling awakening within her. 

Then, guilt set in. The secret she had been holding onto weighed heavier now, pressing down on her chest. She needed to tell Ivy about her enrolment. The longer she kept it a secret, the more it gnawed at her. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself, looking for the courage to finally reveal the truth. 

"Hey, Ivy..." Her voice came out softer than she intended, laced with hesitation.

Ivy suddenly stopped writing and turned to face Violet, their eyes meeting in a piercing, unreadable stare. That alone left Violet feeling utterly frozen. The directness of Ivy's gaze, so close and unyielding, sent Violet's heart racing wildly. Seriously, why did she have to look so effortlessly cool even while doing nothing? 

Violet felt her breath catch in her throat, and her mind went completely blank. She forgot what she was even going to say. Her lips parted, but no words came out. 

Ivy blinked, tilting her head slightly. "You okay?"

The concern in Ivy's voice only made things worse. Violet wanted to bury herself in the blankets and disappear. She quickly shook her head, forcing a nervous laugh. "Yeah! Uh—yeah, I'm fine! Just... spaced out for a second." 

Ivy didn't seem convinced. She leaned in a little closer, narrowing her eyes as if inspecting her. "You sure? You look kinda—" 

Violet recoiled slightly at the unexpected closeness. Ivy was too close. Way too close. Every delicate detail became magnified—the gentle arch of her lips, the piercing depth of her eyes, the soft whisper of her breath brushing against Violet's skin. Her heart raced so fiercely that Violet felt certain Ivy could hear it pounding. 

"I-I'm fine!" she blurted, sitting up abruptly and waving her hands in front of her face. "Seriously! Just tired, that's all!" 

Ivy raised an eyebrow but eventually shrugged, seemingly satisfied enough to drop it. "Alright, if you say so." 

She turned back to her homework, and Violet let out a quiet exhale, pressing a hand to her chest as if that would calm the erratic beating of her heart. 

Damn...