Although Sereia had been aware of her fragile mortality ever since she was seven, she genuinely felt like dying when she was fifteen. Death did not cross her mind like an intriguing thought on occasion, no, it dominated Sereia every waking moment like the ghost of Ren's presence imprinted on every article of her life.
Her bed, her room, her phone, her gallery, her taste in movies, the food she ate, the colour of her walls, the rug beneath her feet, the pens on her desk, her choice of college – Sereia was nothing without him; No one without him.
Her entire identity had been crafted around Ren.
The girl who hangs-out with Warren. The Vincents' family friend. Another Theodore moocher. The clingy nuisance. Warren's partner in crime. The girl he'll get rid of, soon enough, when he comes to his senses.
Where had her senses been ever since she was five? What did she even like? Who was she, anyway?
Ren left with the hinges of Sereia's life and now she was dragging on the floor wondering which ghost had possessed her to the point of never shaping an identity of her own. Never finding a friend of her own.
Friend.
Ren was supposed to be all of that.
Sereia dropped out of school for a year owing to an episode.
Ever since Ren ran off with some other girl, Sereia became the laughing stock of the entire student body. She had always felt eyes on her, whispers around her, but this time there were no pale eyes and firm hands to distract her. This time, she was all alone, fifteen and the butt of every joke uttered and insult passed.
Their gazes would gnaw at her flesh, every room she entered, they followed. It began making her skin crawl. She felt like a million bugs were marching over her skin, mocking her in synch, reiterating every word spoken behind her back.
One afternoon, a day before her sixteenth birthday and a month after Ren disappeared, Sereia jolted up in the middle of the class. She beelined to the doors and banged them shut. She hastily bolted the windows, hid her underneath her desk and began crying uncontrollably.
Her body trembled under the weight of her emotions and a fever shot up. Her fingers clawed at her skin to stop the bugs and the itching. She grabbed her ears and pulled at them, drawing blood, in an attempt to stop the whispers from invading her brain.
They were everywhere. His face, his memories, his words. The figments of him were surrounding her, suffocating her, cornering her.
The feelings had been repressed for way too long, trickling down over the past month and they chose the most horrible moment – an English literature class of Robert Frost's, The Road Not Taken – to flood the pipes of her system and burst into her heart.
It wasn't about just a guy. It was about a fucking open gash he had left in her back. It was about the horrible trust issues to come. It was about all the fucking things she loved and wouldn't be able to enjoy anymore. It was about the devastating realisation that he did not leave her a single happy memory without his face plastered in the middle. It was about wishing he was dead, rather than just gone, knowing it would probably hurt less.
For it was all about the past she shared with a backstabber and the future she'll have to live as a person with a tanker of insecurities wearing her down.
Always, unanswered, the ghost of him would follow.
So, six years later, healed and overcome, when Sereia found him sitting on the ledge of the very window he used to sneak in every Saturday from – Sereia did what any sane, betrayed and scorned woman would do.
She grabbed the nearest weapon by the door, a metal vase, and flung it at him with an intensity impressing the Devil.
It hit him, probably, she would like to think it did, square in the chest. He flung backwards to the stone floor underneath her window.
Her vase hit the ground with a loud, resounding, thud.
Sereia did not look out when she locked her windows.
Sereia did not feel cruel over the possibility of her first love bleeding out on the cold stone beneath her window.
Sereia was a kidnapper, after-all, she might as well have a fucking up-grade.
"If being my friend wasn't enough, then you'll have me as your fucking enemy and you'll regret teaching me exactly how to ruin you."
The older Sereia was no weak lass who would cry at the foot of the very window and cripple under the pressure of his absence. This Sereia was a communications major, born to rule hearts. This Sereia had sandpapered her old self and scampered around hobbies, skill courses and activities to repaint herself. This Sereia was no longer plain maroon but a multi-coloured dragon birthed to chew –
Knock knock!
Jolting out of her vengeful reverie Sereia noticed a fist on her window.
Knock knock!
A persistent fist.
She gulped, grabbed hold of her bag and sped out of her room. She already had too much on her plate and a skeleton crawling out of her closet was the thing she needed to spice up the already scorching semester.
She fished her phone out of her bag and dialled 2 on speed dial; San picked up on third ring.
"I am coming, don't lock the door, I'll sleep there," Sereia informed instead of greeting.
"Ah…" a deep voice drawled over the speaker, "bring me some clothes? Your little friend's do not fit me," Nicholas tsked.
Sereia scowled at her momentary forgetfulness, "Yes sir," she mocked a salute and turned towards her father's room. "Is there a colour or fabric you prefer to rampwalk inside that tiny house? because of course there's paparazzi brimming at the doors, thirsting over the sight of you in unfitted clothes," she couldn't help but scoff.
"Ouch," Nicolas frowned to himself, "first you kidnap me, unconsented, then you deny me of my basic rights to comfort? Do you not want to graduate?"
"Ha!" Sereia laughed, "Oh sir, you're so funny! Is it because you're older? I was merely being concerned and asking! If it seemed like I was being sarcastic, I apologise! I did not mean to!" she reached into her father's wardrobe and grabbed some shirts and suits.
"You're a walking-talking red flag, I do not know why you're friends with such a sweet and smart soul like that San," Nicholas' tone represented the disappointment on his face.
"Where is San anyway? Did you leave him bleeding in the basement? Am I your next target? Can you make it quick please?" she picked out some trousers and shoved them all in a duffle bag, "I really do not mind death."
"Seari, what the fuck?"
Unfortunately, he was alive.
Her phone dropped out of her hands and hit against the carpet underneath. Of course, Ren knew the entire layout of the house. Of course there were other, unbarred, open windows. For a paranoid man like Mr. Theodore, this was a real plot-hole.
For the first time in her entire life, Sereia wished the Theodores had been more paranoid about their safety.
She recognised his voice, almost instantly, it was hard not to. She hadn't thought of him in a while, a long, long while; she knew she would be displeased if she turned to face him.
Out of sight, out of mind, they say and now Sereia would put it to test.
Why was he back anyway?
The room was still dark. Sereia never bothered turning on the lights. She crouched to the carpet and tapped around in search for her phone. She saw it shine underneath the carpet and dragged it out.
"Um, San, babe, I'll call you back, okay? Stay safe, I love you!" Sereia hung up before Nicholas could utter a string of well-chosen curses directed at her life source.
"Are you done?" the person behind her asked, sounding bored.
"With you, yes, it's been a while. Why come knocking at my window now?" she tried to keep the bitterness off her tone in hopes of conveying nonchalance.
She was a chill girl. Rich. Clear skin. Cash in pocket (probably). Hair styled (once in a while). Lip gloss—
"I'm not thirsting, Theodore, I am working."
Ren disturbed her reverie as he grabbed her by the back of her shirt and pulled her up.
"Well then fucking be professional about it, you jackarse," Sereia snapped and swatted his hand away. "Not everyone will make time for your ghosting arse. Which dumbfuck gave your untrustworthy arse a job in the first place? What a loser, you whole lot," Sereia snorted, scratching at the edges of nonchalance. And failing…
"It was my father," Ren deadpanned.
Of course. Sereia gulped.
Just because she had been avoiding the Vincent family like plague did not mean that they had disappeared off the face of the Earth.
"Why, did he send you to kidnap me and blackmail my father? Destroying his fishes and garden would work better—" before Sereia could finish, she was twirled around and forced to look him in the eye, yet again. Thankfully, it was dark enough and she could not make out if time had changed him, like it did to her.
"So, it was you," he whispered, pale blue eyes scrutinizing her face, "Never thought I'd see you in the business."
A familiar smirk dragged across his lips, the familiar lips, but before the familiarity could propel her into a nostalgia spiral – a cold, hard nozzle was pressed over her forehead, sucking out any possibility of redemption between them.
"Tell me, where is Nicholas Quinton?"