Resisting Rosaleen (18+)

11

It's not uncommon to feel unable to cope with life's stresses at one time or another. Too many breakdowns are unhealthy, but keeping it all inside until your breaking point is also unhealthy. To avoid wasting precious makeup, I do things according to the latter. I pent it all up inside me until there are those nights—like this one—where I feel comfortable to let it all out, preferably after making a scene because if you know me, I like making things dramatic.

I'm not emo. Yes, maybe I had that grungy Avril Lavigne and Green Day phase at one point but other than that, I'm not negatively emotional. You can't really blame someone if they just decide to cry out of nowhere. Everyone needs a good cry sometimes.

I cried for my messed-up family. I cried for the sins I've committed. I cried for what I've become. I cried for whatever else it is I found worthy of crying about.

I cried until I fell asleep.

I woke up to a knock on the door. I glanced at the digital clock on my silver nightstand—11 pm.

It took me a groggy ten seconds to recall what happened and how I got into my room, on my bed, no shoes, and a towel stained with mascara and lipstick.

Sean, finger, Camillo, restroom, Wyatt, Rhea, Maroon 5, walk-out. Apologies to Maroon 5 for somehow ending up in the mix.

I gingerly padded cross my room and stopped in front of the locked door, turning it open.

"Nikolas?" my voice was raspy and my throat hurt, "I thought you'd be home by now."

He cleared his throat. His large hands were deep in his pockets and as he stood in the dim hallway illuminated by a lone window at the end of the hall, he looked magnificent, "Since your brother said you were comfortable enough to tell your problems to me, he thought I should check up on you."

"No," I closed the door in his face.

"Rose, please," his voice was muffled by the door.

"I said no," I crossed my arms in front of my chest and paced back and forth in my room.

"Rosaleen—" "Will you let me suck your dick?"

"No"

"Then go away"

"I know you acted the way you did because of me," he sighed defeatedly, "And should I apologize? I don't know, but I'm gonna do it anyway."

He was as shitty at apologies as I was. I fell back on my bed and there was silence.

"Rosaleen?"

"Keep talking," I half-yelled.

"You really should stop whatever it is you're doing and..." he sighed again, "Sorry for adding fire to the flame. Your brother loves you, Rose."

I sat and he continued talking, "I don't know much about your situation at home but it doesn't look pretty," I heard a slide followed by a thump. I assume he sat on the floor, "So if you wanna talk about it with me, then here I am—given that you don't try to rip my clothes off. My wife wouldn't appreciate that, thank you very much."

"Where's Sean?" I muttered.

"He went upstairs twice but said that your door's locked," I walked to the door, "He assumed that you were sleeping and said that maybe it's for the best. He promised to check up on you tomorrow."

I sat on the floor, my back against the wooden door. I felt like pouring it all out to Camillo. If there's anyone who I want to tell my past about—excluding my friends, it would be him. He might see it as an explanation for why I am the way I am. In need of a listener, I started.