War Zones and Paradise

Chapter Seven, Part Three - R.I.P Ali

Pain--an unbearable cacophony of sound, coming together in one giant cocktail of suicide-inducing agony, to rattle my brain like a jackhammer against my skull. I sat up, vengeful as the undead, huffing and puffing at the din–born from a sea of alarm clocks–the world's first apocalypse. They covered every inch of the living room–dozens of clocks of all shapes and sizes–screaming two o'clock hour in horrifying unison. 

I scrambled from the couch, putting my migraine to the side in order to kill as many of the little bastards as I could. I zig-zagged across the room, yanking their cords from the walls and smashing those whose batteries I didn't have the patience to pluck. By the time it was all over, I was breathless from rage and exertion.

I stood in the middle of the living room, a broken goddess in last night's clothes, bawling like a seven-year-old–but it wasn't because I was sad, or even that I was hurt. I was irate–so angry it had struck me helpless. Instead of feeling bad about the situation, or worrying about me, Tyler had decided to play an evil prank–kicking me when I was already down. My scoundrel of a boyfriend was nowhere in sight, but I wouldn't have been surprised at all if he had secretly filmed the entire thing...

The shriek of an alarm.

It's awful, ringing blare was the final segment of Tyler's joke–the encore to his cruel punchline. Gritting my teeth, I strode forward, seized the little imp from the back of the couch, and dashed its brains against the carpet. I kicked it a few more times, and it died with a final, weak scream.

Suddenly, the death and carnage in the room was all just a little too much. I bit down on the back of my hand, my mouth watering with the tell-tale sign that I was about to hurl. I ran to the bathroom, where I spilled each one of last night's dirty little secrets–and felt better for having done so. My stomach stopped rolling, and the dizziness passed, though the pounding in my head was a little harder.

Ugh. Excedrin.

I was so physically and emotionally drained, I lacked the strength to complete even my own pitiful thoughts. After thoroughly brushing my teeth I staggered into the kitchen. Cahoots–Tyler and A'keem were snickering at the island counter, clearly reveling in their evil prank.

Tyler was fully dressed and showered–I could smell the familiar, sweet wisps of his cologne from the door. He stood at the counter, blender at the ready, surrounded by smoothie-making materials. A'keem was opposite him, fresh as a daisy, arms folded as he smirked at whatever Tyler was proudly muttering. I knew it had to do with me for the simple fact that Tyler stopped talking as soon as I entered the room.

"Afternoon, sunshine." Tyler raised his eyebrows. "Did you sleep well? I was worried you might miss your alarm."

A'keem burst into a guffaw of ill-concealed laughter–and I just knew Tyler waiting for me to go full-on ballistic. I decided I wouldn't give either of them the satisfaction.

"I slept great." I smiled in Tyler's face. "There was lots of space."

I swerved away, swiping the Excedrin from its usual place on top of the fridge. We always kept the Excedrin handy. With Tyler's crazy-busy schedule, and intense exercise and dance routines, migraines were just another part of pop star territory.

"Heyyyy.... Liyah..." A'keem's wave was friendly, but the smile behind it was tight and forced. He wasn't sitting in my kitchen; he was attending my funeral.

"Brutus." I shot the greeting like an arrow, snagging a bottled water from the fridge before sidling onto the empty stool at his side.

"Awww, somebody had a rough night..." Tyler's eyes were as soft as his smile; I was caught in a rapture of white teeth, green eyes, and tattoos.