5
CLARITY
I walk up the stairs of a small brownstone house, which resembles every other one glued beside it, and then stop at the door.
I can do this; I can lie to him.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I can do this.
My freezing fingers shake uncontrollably as I press down on Jonah's first-floor bell.
It buzzes. No one lives in the second-floor apartment, but it's too expensive for me to try and live there regardless.
" Who ?" Jonah's voice comes through the intercom aggressively, sending a chill down my back.
"It's Clarity," I announce, wrapping my arms around my body. I wear only jeans and a shirt since I had to leave Olias’ clothes behind. The door unlocks with a buzz, and I quickly let myself in to escape the autumn breeze. I take a few steps in the narrow lobby and see that the apartment door is cracked open. Entering, I am greeted by Jonah's shouting.But not at me, which I let out a soft breath to. I still scratch at the skin on the side of my thumb. Due to stupid anxiety, my hands will never be as pretty as celebrity hands.
I walk past the living room and down the hall to Jonah's room—the room we share.
Jonah sits in his chair with nothing but boxers on, holding his PlayStation controller. His gaze is concentrated on the monitor a foot or two away from his face, playing the shooting game he’s always getting angry over.
"Are you fucking kidding me!" he shouts at the screen, making me jump slightly as I place my phone on the bed.
"Hey, Jonah," I greet cheerily, trying to reduce the shakiness in my voice. I don't want another punishment.
He's silent, the clicks and drags of the controller buttons filling the room.
I walk behind his chair, placing my hands on his shoulders. "Are you hungry? I can make—"I'm pushed away by his quick hand.
" Clarity! Get the fuck off me!" he huffs, "God damn it! You made me fucking lose," he mutters the last part, standing up and roughly placing his controller on the table.
"Sorry," I apologize, hugging myself again. How did I make him lose? I was here for only two minutes.
He sighs, his black-colored eyes meeting mine. They aren't actually black, but they're such a dark brown they might as well be. His defined body walks closer to me, tattoos covering his chest and one of his arms. He's tall as well, just like Olias. Not as tall, though . If someone were to meet Jonah for the first time, they'd think he was in his mid-twenties. Olias looks that way, too, but I'm not sure how old he is. But Jonah's only eighteen, just like I am.
"Where've you been?" he asks, pulling a cigarette from his ear. I notice that his blond buzz cut is growing back.
"I told you on the phone I was at Olinda's house." My fingertips go between my teeth.
He picks up a lighter from the rug and flicks it a few times before the spark bursts into a small flame. Then, he sticks his cigarette in it until it lights.
Taking a drag, he pulls the cigarette out. I hate the smell; my mother loves it.
"Yeah. Now I'm waiting for you to tell me the truth."
I look around the room to avoid eye contact. "That is the truth, Jonah. We got into an argument, I left, and I met a friend. She let me stay at her house for the night."
He comes up close to me, his large hand wrapping around my throat tightly. Instantly, my breath is cut off. "If I ever find out you're cheating on me, Clarity, or with another guy at all, you're fuckin' dead. You hear me?"
I nod frantically, the burning setting in as air struggles to slip down my throat as I attempt to gasp for air. My heart races, but I don’t try to claw at his hand this time. Instead, I keep my hands at my side as I stare up at him, hoping he lets go soon. My eyes water when his grip loosens, and air fills my lungs like it's the first time I've ever breathed, but his hand stays latched on my throat. He kisses me on my jawline and then on my lips. I still feel the warmth that travels through me when his lips touch my skin, ridding my body of its chill. I kiss him back.
"I love you. Just making sure you're being good," he murmurs.
"I love you too," I reply softly, barely audible. And it's true.I do love him. Some might think it’s crazy because of his punishments or because he's “too aggressive” with me, but it's a part of his love, as he said. I'm not crazy for wanting him to love me. He’s not crazy for making sure I’m being good. Sometimes, I wish he found other ways to show it—a way that didn’t involve pain.
Jonah lets go of me, and my hand immediately wraps around my sore throat.
"I'm hungry. Can you make that lasagna I like, babe?" he orders more than he asks. I look at the alarm clock on the bedside table, which reads “Sunday 2:32 pm.”. Lasagna in the afternoon?
I nod. "Yeah, of course. I need to pee and shower first."
I turn around and leave the room, my head down as the tears in my eyes drip drearily down my cheek. Entering the bathroom I shut the door, locking it. With the shower on, my eyes are directed towards the girl in the mirror. Black and blue marks wrap around her neck, and I gasp in fear. I tilt my chin up to see it more, the outline of his strong hand, the light purple that surrounds it and will soon darken.
I press my hands on the sink, looking down.
A teardrop falls.
And another.
And another.
Until they start to combine and roll down into the drain.
I sob, wishing Jonah didn't have to be so hurtful to love me.
The water in the shower drowns my cries, but I still try to stay as silent as possible while I sit on the floor. My hand sits on my knees, with my knuckles pressed against my lips.
My mind wanders to Olias and if I’ll ever see him again. We didn't exchange numbers, and he doesn't know my address. So, I realize whether I see him is solely up to me.I know where he lives, but I wouldn't take the chance with Jonah being suspicious. Not that I would ever cheat on him; Olias is my friend—A great friend who buys me Frosted Flakes and lets me have two rounds of food instead of suggesting I only have one so I don’t gain weight.
Jonah would never see it that way.
***
"Clarity Red, you're ten minutes late again ," my boss stresses. "The third time this week!"
I wouldn't be late if Jonah didn't want me to iron his clothes before I went.
"I know, I know, I'm really, really , sorry," I apologize, pulling my McDonald's work apron over my head and tying it behind my back.
It's been four days since my encounter with Olias, and he hasn't left my mind each of those four days.
Sometimes, I wish he'd walk through the glass doors of this McDonald's so that I'd be forced to see him. Another part of me wishes he's okay and doesn't decide to go back to that rooftop again.
The line here is long as hell—but then again, it’s always long. It's noisy, nonstop, and hectic. Sometimes, when it gets too much, I close my eyes and take breathing breaks to avoid panic attacks.
Making my way to the second register, I quickly start on the long line of customers.
Next in line, a short blond girl looks like she was pulled out of Instagram. Her style is fashionable but not quite suitable for the fall weather: a cropped shirt and flared jeans at the bottom. Her hair's pulled up in a ponytail. She's really pretty.
"Welcome to McDonald's; how can I help you?" I say cheerfully.
Her face is straight as she looks from the menu behind me to my face. Then gives me a disgusted scowl. "Why are you so happy? You work at McDonalds," she snorts.
My face drops. "What's wrong with McDonalds?" I ask her. It's not the best job ever, but it's okay. If she thinks it's so bad, why is she ordering here?
She huffs. "Aren't you supposed to be taking my order?"
"Well, you aren't telling me what you want…" I chuckle so it doesn't come off as rude, but she rolls her eyes, saying her order.
"And your name?"
"Jasmine," she responds. "But just put Jazz."
A smile stays on my face, so she has no idea I’m going over all the mean things I’d love to say to her if I weren’t in my work uniform. She’s pretty, though her insides are hideous. Someday, I hope someone gives her a detox.
After I'm finished taking orders from all the customers in line, my phone in my apron begins ringing. The caller tag reads “Mom”.
I sigh, walk out the side door onto the busy sidewalk of 42nd Street, and answer the call.
Before talking, I close my eyes and inhale, then shoot my eyes open, shaking off the leftover feeling of such a sucky day. It doesn’t help that my mom is about to make it worse.
“Hey, Mom, is everything okay?" I hug myself with my arm, which doesn't hold my phone. A cold breeze brushes past me.
"I'm in deep shit, sweetheart," my mother's rough voice comes through—an effect of being a chain smoker.
"What's wrong, Mom?" Even though she kicked me out for wanting her to quit her addictions, I still care for her. She's still my mother. Maybe she's calling to say she wants me back, wants to get help this time, or is sorry for treating me that way.
"Mommy needs money," she says, shutting down my hopes.
Beats of disappointment lace the silence that follows. "Sorry, I don't have money to give you. I need to save up." I won't feed her addiction. It's the last thing I want to do.
"Clarity, you don't understand. I owe money for medications I borrowed."
Translation: I stole drugs and need money to pay for them back.
I raise my hand to my head, thread my fingers through my hair, and huff. " Mom!"
"I know, I know," she cries.
She's done this before, twice, actually, a few years back. Each time, my dad had paid for it, but with my dad gone now, off living with a better family than us, he's no longer looking after my mom's carelessness.
"How much this time?" I ask.
"It's only five thousand dollars."
My eyes widen. " Only five thousand?! Mom, are you insane? That's months of work for me. I don't have that kind of money!"
"Please, they're bad people and do bad things to people who take from them. If you love me, you'll find a way, sweetheart. You could try and get in touch with your dad, maybe?"
My dad does have money, lots of it, since he's a real estate agent. I remember the amount of money he used to provide for us. It all stopped coming in once he left, though. He's now living in one of those super tall, really nice apartments in downtown Manhattan.
"I don't think Dad wants to see me," I whisper. After he left, no calls, letters, or visits followed. Nothing. My eyes begin to sting just thinking about it.
"He does. He feels guilty, is all. Please try, for me?"
I groan. "How much time do you have?"
"Two weeks."
Two weeks.
In two weeks, I have to get five thousand dollars out of thin air for my mother. The same mother who kicked me out of the house—the same one who argues with me to no end, but I’m the one she dares to come to first for help.
Yet, I help her because that's just who I am.
"Okay, Mom, I'll see what I can do," I whisper to avoid my quivering voice.
She goes on a thank-you spree before I hang up and allow a few tears to spill from my eyes. The past few days made me realize just why I was on the rooftop to begin with. The only reason I forgot was because of one dimpled, coconut-scented, Cheerios-loving person—Olias Grey.
He made me forget my problems, for a little while at least. And I want to see him, more than anything, so that he can do it again. And Dog, too. Yes, I nicknamed his kitten Dog because although I like cats, I prefer dogs, and naming his cat Dog is the closest it'll get to being one.
I look at the date on my phone, one day before Friday. The same day of that house party, I remember Olias' friend saying they were going to—the first party I've ever been invited to.
I twist my lips as I think. I'll need an excuse and cover so Jonah doesn't suspect anything. I can't just tell him I'm attending a party with a guy friend; he'd go nuts .
I could say I'm visiting my mom… No, he could call her and check.
I could say I'm going with Olinda … That's risky. He might want to come along.
I could always leave when he's sleeping—since he sleeps like a grizzly bear—and be back before he wakes up...
Perfect!