Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2)

by L. B. Simmons

  Inhaling deeply, I relax my face and begin to apply the stain to my full lips, the hue of red so deep it’s just a smidge shy of appearing black as it settles in and creates a sharp contrast against my pallid skin. As the color sets, I place the tube back in my lap, then rub the side of my pinky finger along the outside of my bottom lip where the coloring has bled beyond its edges. Once my lips are taken care of, I unscrew the pot of cream and dip my forefinger directly inside before removing it, the tip now coated in what looks like black paste. After smearing it over both eyelids, I follow it up with another application underneath my eyes.

  The familiarity of the ritual—the cloaking of my face, if you will—settles my nervous heartbeat. I don’t do so well around . . . people, so needless to say, my first day of college is going to be interesting.

  After throwing the contents of my lap back into my backpack, I recline into my seat. As the wheels of the car continue their soothing roll, I chance a glimpse at the driver whose eyes are thankfully concentrating on the road in front of her.

  Linda Walker.

  She is the epitome of beauty.

  I watch the short sleeves on her cream colored wrap dress dance along the skin of her upper arm as the cool air circulates inside the car, and privately take note at how the leather of her black belt is expertly coordinated with her heels.

  But it’s not only her tailored outfit, or her thick, long, blonde hair, or her magnificent green eyes, or even her almost contagious smile. Her beauty is internal, derived from the enviable amount of ferocity in which she chooses to live her life. I would never say it to her, of course, but sometimes I find myself envious of her valor. It’s something I know without a doubt that I will never be able to possess. Hell, simply processing it doesn’t even seem possible for me.

  She took me in at the tender age of eight as a lost and frightened, blue-eyed, blonde-haired little girl and will be leaving me at Titan University a terrified, cat-eyed, black-and-emo-punk-blue-haired woman. I know she wonders where she went wrong, but I’ve tried several times to explain to her that you can’t break something that’s so clearly already broken.

  With the loss of my parents—first my mother and then my father shortly after—I was handed over to her since, as my mother’s best friend, she had been dutifully ordained as my godmother when I was born. She has since retained full custody, due to the fact that I have no other living relatives. Those deaths I thankfully did not play a part in. Although, both of my mother’s parents passed away while I was in utero, so maybe I did.

  Yeah, I probably did.

  Anyway, after the death of my parents, I was shuttled her way via C.P.S., four hours away from the tiny town of Wilmer and the home I grew up in to her residence in Canton. I don’t remember much around that time. I was pretty much a zombie for the next year or so, trying unsuccessfully to integrate myself into a new, much larger school and make new life-long friends.

  Right.

  Saying I had a hard time adjusting would be a massive understatement. I had just lost my family and left the only real friend I ever had back in Wilmer, so the transition was not an easy one to say the least.

  Yet, the more difficult it became, the harder Linda tried.

  One day, she decided to bring home a parakeet, thinking the idea of having a pet and possibly one friend would help me move on and find some sort of joy again. It died the next day when it face-planted into the sliding glass door in the living room.

  Undeterred, she brought home a kitten the next week. It was run over by our neighbors the next Thursday.

  I don’t even want to go into the puppy she attempted to bring home for my twelfth birthday. That one still breaks my heart. Who knew six-week old puppies weren’t allowed copious amounts of chocolate cake?

  “Why are you staring at me?” Linda’s voice disrupts my thoughts. It’s then that I realize I’ve been gawking at her for the past couple of minutes while lost in my memories. Directing my gaze forward, I fold my hands together and lay them on top of my olive green Dickies while stretching my legs until my Doc Martens hit the bottom of the glove compartment.

  After releasing a weighted breath, I respond, “Walter.”

  “Walter? Was that the bird or the kitten?”

  “Neither, it was the puppy.”

  Linda’s intake of air doesn’t go unnoticed, just unmentioned.

  “It wasn’t your fault, honey. How were you supposed to know that too much chocolate can poison a dog?”

  Puppy, Linda.

  And why the hell she refuses to just give in and call me by the name I prefer I have no idea. Trying to dissolve the conversation about poor Walter before it starts, I correct her.

  “Raven. My name is Raven. Please use it.”

  She expels her breath forcefully before speaking, the same response I get every time we broach this subject. And I couldn’t agree more with her gesture. I’m tired of having this same conversation with her. We’ve been having it since I was twelve, when my new naming convention was prompted by the loss of Walter.

  Sigh.

  Like I said, I took his death pretty hard.

  “No, I will most certainly not. I refuse to reinforce your ridiculous theory that you are some winged bringer of death to all who come across your path.” She inhales deeply, then once again exhales her breath. “I’m so tired of having this conversation with you.”

  Likewise, Linda.

  Rolling my eyes, I shift in my seat and lean my forehead against the window, watching the terrain slowly evolve from trees and open ranges to tall, grey buildings offset with stop lights at every corner. Shortly after entering the city, we turn onto campus and are immediately greeted by a huge academic building with a square-shaped, limestone sign placed just at the edge of the grass-laced clearing.

  Welcome to Titan University

  Gooooooo Titans.

  Mental fist-pump in the air ensues before I inhale a much needed calming breath. My heart begins to pound within my rapidly rising ribcage, the knowledge of required social gatherings just on the horizon sending it into overdrive.

  Barely able to squeeze our way through the congested roadways, we follow the green signs with arrows pointing us in the direction of my dorm, practically running over three unsuspecting pedestrians paying absolutely no attention to the cars around them as they walk with their noses melded with the campus maps in their hands.

  Three.

  Jesus.

  After sideswiping the curb and nearly taking out two more possible victims, Linda finally lands the car right in front of Harris Hall. My arms are tingling, the result of being forced ramrod straight for the past five minutes; muscles I didn’t even know existed are flexed to full capacity as my nails dig into both the leather-covered handle of the door and the center console separating us. Slowly, my head turns in her direction. Mouth wide-open and with eyes the size of saucers, I watch as she carefully runs the palms of her hands over her blonde hair before returning my aghast stare.

  Hair important.

  Pedestrians not so much, I guess.

  Peeling my eyes away from her, I watch in fear while several people nonchalantly carry luggage, boxes, microwaves, and mini-fridges as they file into the main hall. Seemingly mindless activities for them as they chat and laugh upon their entrance. My mind is, however, continuously pounded with the same recurring thought.

  So many accidents waiting to happen.

  I sigh to myself in resignation before opening the car door.

  Well, I guess it’s official.

  Ready or not, Titan University . . . here I come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEW ROOMMATES . . .

  “HOLE. LEE. SHIT.”

  Three separate words make up the only response I’m capable of speaking when observing my dorm room for the very first time.

  Linda huffs behind me, and the sound of her fishing through her purse directly behind me is all I can hear as I take in the sight before me. There are no words.

  Well,
actually, there are three very choice words.

  Just before I take another step, Linda’s heels click against the floor and a pint-sized glass jar mysteriously appears right above the curve of my shoulder. I don’t even have to turn my head to know what it is.

  “Quarter in the swear jar, please.”

  Sigh.

  Reaching into my pocket—which happens to always be overflowing with “swear quarters”—I dutifully deposit one into the already half-full jar, pushing it past the make-shift “swear slot” in the top. Not bad, considering she just emptied it yesterday.

  I have no idea what she does with the money, but I’m pretty sure she has a Swiss bank account receiving the earnings from the priceless gems that tend to fall from my mouth.

  Just as the quarter lands on top of the mountain of silver, my eyes rake over the left side of the room. It looks like someone threw up cotton candy, drained an entire bottle of Pepto Bismol into their stomach, then threw up again.

  Pink.

  It’s everywhere.

  Pink poster of a ballerina, pink knick-knacks lining the shelving built into the walls, pink scepter with matching tiara lined in clear crystals along its edges, and—wait.

  Hold up.

  Is that a pink boa?

  Fuck. Me.

  Without even registering that the expletive was internal, I reach into my baggy Dickies to grab another quarter. Before I can retrieve it, Linda’s palm lands on my shoulder blade and she presses forward gently, trying to force my entry into the room. My feet, however, are in total sync with my brain and refuse to step any further into this atrocity. As I remain rooted to the floor, my hand makes its way out of my pocket and crosses my body until my fingers find the skin of my forearm, which suddenly has become unbearably itchy. Is it possible to be allergic to a color?

  Pink teddy bear.

  Pink comforter with darker pink crowns donning its surface.

  Pink. Pink. Pink.

  Every single time my eyes fall on something new, my brain is assaulted.

  After shaking my head, I finally manage to force myself into the room just as the bathroom door to the left of me swings open and my eyes land on the person responsible for this mess. Long, straight blonde hair gathered into a high ponytail, exuberant light green eyes, and the widest, brightest smile you’ve ever seen make up the person suddenly standing right in front of my blank face. In fact, if I had an “exact opposite mirror” and placed myself in front of it, I’m pretty sure . . . no, I’m 100% sure that this person would be my reflection.

  I glance down at her attire, relieved when I see her donning a blue, button-up poplin layered over the top of a pair of white flare jeans that almost entirely cover her bare feet. My reprieve is short-lived though, because each one of her toes is painted . . . yep, you guessed it.

  Her mega-watt grin doesn’t dim in the slightest as she extends her arm in my direction, hand held out for a friendly handshake. “Hi,” she states bouncing on the tips of her toes, “I’m Quinn. Quinn Matthews.”

  Watching her ponytail swing from side-to-side as she excitedly springs up and down, I find myself wanting to offer her a valium.

  Quinn.

  Surprisingly, a pretty cool name.

  As I take in her striking appearance . . . well, as much as I can because it’s really hard to focus on her as she bounds off the floor with an obvious case of “inability to stand still”, I’m taken a bit aback. I would have thought her to be named something more regal, due to her beauty and most likely the whole scepter/tiara combo I spied earlier.

  Like Alexandria.

  Or Diana.

  Perhaps even Princess Fi-Fi, ruler of Unicorn Land, where rainbows reign and all things are pink and sparkly.

  That one makes me smile inwardly in spite of my usual morose demeanor.

  Before I have a chance to respond, Linda forcefully nudges my shoulder with hers and I break my gaze from Quinn’s blurry face to the hand in front of me, waiting patiently for me to reciprocate. Just the thought of touching someone makes me break out in a cold sweat.

  Closing my fist, I tighten my grip and sweep my fingers over my palm in an effort to lessen the clammy condensation forming before finally managing to shake her hand. “Raven. Raven Miller,” I respond curtly.

  Simultaneously, Linda expels a harsh sigh and I release my grasp on Quinn’s hand. Turning my head, my mouth pinches tightly and I widen my eyes at Linda, wordlessly requesting her to keep her mouth shut about my name. She mirrors my expression, and then ups the ante by crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her hip. The repeated taps of her shoe against the white linoleum floor fill the air, breaching the charged silence between us.

  But thankfully, she says nothing.

  My eyes find the back of my head, ending our silent argument. This form of communication is pretty much the norm for us.

  When I redirect my gaze back at Quinn, who has been watching our entire exchange, she offers yet another beaming smile. After a brief moment of taking in my appearance, she merely states, “Raven. It suits you. I like it!”

  You have absolutely no idea, Fi-Fi.

  She happily pivots away from me on the balls of her feet and I watch as she skips off into a pink oblivion.

  Throwing Linda an I-told-you-so look over my shoulder, I head to the bare bed on my side of the room and drop my backpack on the floor beside it. I’m extremely surprised by the lack of horrified expression that I expected to receive from my new roomie. It’s as though she doesn’t even notice the freak factor standing in front of her. I’m going to have to step up my creepiness or I might just end up liking this girl, and that could be very dangerous.

  For both of us.

  After a quick introduction between Linda and Fi-Fi, we make our way out of the room and back down to the car to gather my belongings, leaving Fi-Fi alone to pink-puke some more while I’m gone. While I grab my luggage out of the trunk, Linda collects all my priceless music posters: Garbage, Hole, Paramore, Poe—some of my all-time favorite female lead bands—and shuts the passenger door with a knock of her hip.

  “Don’t bend those,” I remark, luggage in hand. I turn away from her to survey the normal first-day-of-college chaos and observe it as it unfolds, and as I watch the usual feelings of gloom and apprehension begin to coat the inside of my chest.

  Although I’d never speak of it out loud, sometimes there’s an overwhelming sadness that manages to seep into my heart whenever I’m reminded that I will never be like any of the people in front of me. I’ll never giggle with my peers, walk arm-in-arm with my best friend or hand-in-hand with the love of my life, or even just allow a contented smile to cross my face. Yet, I watch in awe as all of these moments play out right in front of my eyes.

  The simplicity of living astounds me.

  But it’s the terror of death that devours me.

  Breathing in deeply, I blink away the fire in my eyes and swallow the torturous knot threatening to form in my throat. I can’t afford those luxuries. I won’t allow it. Too many lives have fallen victim, lost due to my mere existence. No. Normality or simplicity will never be allowed to penetrate my walls.

  Following Linda’s lead, I head up the cement path in front of me, the forlorn grief setting in that my time with her is drawing to an end. After the death of my parents, she took me in, no questions asked. Her love for me is unfathomable, considering I somehow managed to keep her at arm’s length while she raised me.

  She loves me. I know this.

  There’s no other explanation for her putting up with my shit for the last ten years.

  Purposely withdrawing from the world hoping to never be found, successfully evading every single therapy session and grief counselor she attempted to force upon me, masking my true appearance in an effort to not only keep others safely away from me but also to mark my own death . . . she has taken my oddities all in stride. Not without mind-numbing lectures mind you, but I think she still holds on to the hope that this lost little girl will one
day be found.

  I do know, however, that while I will forever remain captive to my darkness, she will still be there loving me as much as I will permit her to. I allow myself a few seconds of comfort in that knowledge, but as I watch her smiling at several passersby, I quickly extinguish the tiny bit of warmth that sparks inside my chest, forcing it deeply into one of the many compartments in my heart before slamming the steel door shut behind it.

  Upon reentry to Harris Hall, I continue to fortify my walls with a healthy reapplication of mourning and anger, hoping to God that this sudden release of emotion is purely the tragic side-effect of the uncertainty that comes with being in a new place, surrounded by loads of new people to fend off, and not the ultimate weakening of my defenses. Yet as I head up to my room, I also have to consider the waning could be due to the recent battering of my brain by a certain color covering the entire left side of my room which shall remain unnamed. A color that may or may not prove to be my kryptonite, or in the very least, the source of a newfound allergy.

  Or maybe it’s just the person behind it.

  Because as I watch my new roommate bounding barefoot over every square inch of the room, I’m repeatedly struck by her nearly contagious level of excitement and laughter.

  And as each bounce pummels my fortitude, I find myself squashing the very unlikely desire to smile for the first time in a very, very long time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MEMORIES . . .

  “Can’t. Breathe.”

  I struggle for the much needed influx of air to enter my lungs, but with Linda’s arms wrapped around me with the strength of Hercules, I’m unable to catch my breath. When the hell did she get so strong?