Nothing to Loose

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This story started out as something I decided I wanted to do to Dakota. However, I have since decided that I wanted to keep Dakota as his slightly immature, sexual, fun self, if only for the time being. I wanted to finish the story, however, so you'll see it all here.

These are being copy/pasted from my previous dump thread. I'll try to edit out the notes, but any within the actual text will likely be overlooked accidentally.

Enjoy. c: And remember, this is no longer canon.

Please read Jen's accompanying sister story that describes Noah's side of the story, from his perspective, concerning this particular incident. It was begun back when I was still going to keep this as happened, and Jen decided to also finish her side of the story even after I decided I really wanted to actually RP Dakota as he had been before.

---[index]->
1. I don't pay attention to numbers.
2. It's over between us.
3. Righting all I've wronged.

[αℓℓı]

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PART ONE - I don't pay attention to numbers.
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Sweat drips down my arms, my forehead, my back, my legs; I'm sweating everywhere, really. I'm exhausted. I feel like I'm going to die, but I don't. I'm still here, still alive. I wonder for how much longer.

Guzzling a bottle of water in less than thirty seconds, I toss it into my mesh bag. There are twenty five empty bottles exactly, I know, because I've drunk all of them in the past five hours. There aren't any more empty ones. I pull up the bag and walk the five feet over to a nearby water fountain and refill them all then return to the bench, guzzle down a bottle, toss it in the bag and zip it up. I stretch my arms over my head, then turn and start jogging once again.

I love running. I always have. I used to run every morning for a mile, no matter how long it took me. But I wouldn't run if it was snowing or raining or excessively windy--or any sort of unfavorable weather.

Now, I run every morning for five hours. No matter the weather.

It's a recent change and at first I would pass out when I got home. I don't anymore. Rather, it's different. Instead, I just wander around my home and work on various things. I'm always dizzy but it's become normal so I hardly notice anymore. I don't pass out, but my mind's so obscured and fogged over that I seldom know what I'm doing. I can't think anymore.

One more time around--one more mile. When I'm done, I stand beside the bench, rubbing my forehead with a small towel, trying to get the sweat off me. I guzzle three bottles of water within two minutes. Then another, then another.

It's been five hours now. I've run 35 miles. I'm a bit angry at myself. When I first started this, I could run a six-minute mile; that's ten miles to an hour, thus fifty miles in five hours. But after the first couple of days, I started slowing down. 35 miles is my new lowest. But I can't bring myself to care because I don't have the energy to.

I zip up my bag and pull it over my shoulder. It's a half-mile walk back to my house--but that's nothing. I get there in fifteen minutes and throw my bag of water bottles on tile flooring besides my door--which I don't lock behind me. I walk up to my kitchen counter where my cell phone is charging and notice I have two missed calls--both from Nema, both within the past fifteen minutes. So I call him back and move over to my refrigerator and grab a Focus VitaminWater--Kiwi-strawberry flavor; they call it focus, because it's supposed to help you concentrate, and it's actually helped me clear my mind just a bit after these runs.

Nema answers with a Korean greeting and for a moment I just listen to his voice echo in my mind, then I shake my head. For a moment, I forgot such a basic word. I forgot, even, that I knew it in the first place.

"Anneyeonghaseyo." Just a greeting.

"Ne, mwol dowadrilkkayo?" I hear Artimis' voice in the background and wonder what he wants with me right now.

"Urihago sinaee gasillaeyo?" I pause, trying to remember what the words mean, but then it comes to me and I rub my head. Do I want to go into town with them? Who?

"Nugu?"

I hear him shuffling around for a moment before he replies. "Artie and I."

I shake my head as if he can see me and decline, telling him I've got to send in some sketches for the new outfits to my manager. He just says alright and we hang up and I go down to my basement where I have all of my sewing supplies. One of my mannequins are pressed up against my desk with a piece of purple cloth dotted with gold looped around it's neck, pinned into place. For a moment I just stare at it, as if it's alive and staring back at me, then I move over to my drafting table and inspect the sketches I've done this week. There's only one completed but I've started three others. The one I've completed has a purple scarf around it's neck and I realize that the last time I was in here, earlier in the morning around 2am, I was trying to construct it. I remember waking up on my couch down here and figure that that was how I fell asleep.

I spend about an hour trying to sketch out some ideas. These are due today, by three, but in reality they're actually already two days late. Because I'd done a bunch ahead of time I gave him concept sketches a couple of days ago but he told me to finish up the final copies by today. But I can't seem to figure out what I need to change on the blue and tan outfit; something's not right with it. So I get up and collect some of the pieces I've sewn so far--a muffin hat with a strap around the base, the buckle just off to the right side of the center; a tan shirt with blue splatter designs spraying from a heart on the chest; black pants with blue stitching that holds together the front and back halves; and a dark blue jacket with white and tan grunge design. I toss the purple to-be scarf onto my scrap table--which is where it came from anyway--and pull the clothes onto the mannequin then take a few steps back, staring at it. Trying to figure out what's wrong with it.

Normally, I know, I'd have been able to see it just from my concept sketches. Normally I'd be able to just fix it up and put it on a final sketch. Only in my early days of design did I ever have to actually see it to figure something out, and I'd always been good at noticing such things and even if I did have to see it on the mannequin, I'd only take a moment to understand what I had to do.

I look at the clock and realize I've been staring at it for fifteen minutes.

"Maybe more accessories..." I mumble to myself, moving over to my multi-drawer box that I dump all my extra jewelry in. I pull out a couple of necklaces--one with a black cord and a pendant with a sapphire inlaid upon a silver flower; a black choker--and go back to the mannequin, gently setting the jewelry in place. But it still doesn't look quite right. So I go through my accessories bin and pull out a tan belt with dark brown spots and set it about the mannequin's waist; it looks alright, but now the brown is by itself, and that's a definite no. So I rummage through my accessories until I find a necklace with multi-hued brown beads and lay that around the mannequin's throat. But then I realize I hate the belt and toss both of them aside and I'm almost back to where I started.

After a few more moments of contemplation I put the belt back around my subject's waist and shove a brown purse over it's shoulder. I am, after all, designing clothes meant for females. At least, most of them are. Their sizes are.

I can fit into all of them, though.

I figure that it's good enough and quickly sketch a concept for it and a final copy before I move on to the second of the unfinished concepts. Gold and red, but it looks fine; I copy it down and throw in a few more pieces of gold jewelry and even color in some red eyeshadow and give the subject a gold ring with a large red stone on it before moving on. The last one's got about five colors on it and I realize that these are supposed to be upcoming spring designs. I decide that I need to change the black pants on the earlier design to a black shorts (though also pen in that there will be black skirt options). Then I go back to the last one.

This outfit employs a white shirt with pale pink, green, blue, orange, and purple; the buttons are all multi-colored, the scarf's a mix of green and blue. The skirt's pink with an orange belt and I've given the subject a couple pieces of silver jewelry, some with stones, some without. I realize that I absolutely hate the design but remember my manager complimenting me on it, so I decide to keep it and not change anything. She's a woman, after all, and really picky, so if she'd buy it--which she said she actually planned on doing--then I realize I should probably keep it.

I'm gathering up my papers and carefully putting them in the folder when I hear my dorbell ringing. I realize it's already two in the afternoon and I figure that it's probably my manager coming over to yell at me. I quickly set all my papers in the folder and secure it in a thin binder--which, inside, I've provided a few pieces of jewelry as examples of what I mean with accessories, mostly in bags zip-locked and stapled to the folder itself. I quickly try to make my way up my stairs--though I know I'm not being quick, I'm actually moving quite slowly--and to my door. Or at least, that's what I mean to do, but right as I slip out of my basement I realize that I'm on the floor and that my head hurts. A lot. And that I can hear footsteps, and that I can't even see anything despite knowing my eyes are open.

"Hey, Dakota, don't leave your front door unlocked." I hear a voice telling me, and I realize it's Nema's. "Dakot--Dakota!" Why's he screaming? But then I realize that I can't hear anything else he's saying.

I slowly rouse as I feel a cool wetness on my face. When I open my eyes I see Artemis above me, holding a cloth to my forehead and looking worried. I can see Nema past him talking to someone on the phone--he's saying something about some sketches in a black binder but that if she wants them, she'll have to come pick them up herself, and I assume he absolutely must be talking to my manager.

I slowly sit up, pushing Artemis away from me and grunting. Nema peers over to me and says something to her, but I don't know what he says. He hangs up and sets my phone down and walks over.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, frowning deeply. "You passed out."

"I'm fine," I hiss at him, rubbing my head. "What time is it?"

"Almost five. You really blacked out. Did you hit your head?" He presses a hand to my head as if to see but I bat him away and slowly stand. Somehow I manage to not fall right back down. "People don't black out for no reason."

"Maybe my blood sugar's really low today," I comment and he shrugs. "Thanks, but I have work to do. Is my manager coming over?"

"She said that you can just drop them off in the morning, that she has an important dinner meeting tonight."

I just shrug and move over towards the kitchen and pull out a bottle of water from the fridge. I can feel their eyes on me as I open it and sip from it.

"Dakota, you shouldn't drink so much water in a day," he says, pointing over towards the bag nearby my door with tons of water bottles in it. Because I've ripped the labels off all of them it can only be assumed that they've all been used quite a lot. "It could be why you passed out."

"I'm not drinking too much water," I tell him, then nod towards the door. "I'm going to work more, so please excuse yourselves."

It was rude to say, but I don't feel like being nice right now. I'm a bit angry and I'm not really sure why. Perhaps because I didn't meet my deadline. Perhaps because my head hurts really bad. Perhaps because I have to piss and it's killing me. But the two just exchange a glance and leave quietly. I lock the door behind them and grab the bag with the water bottles in it and drag it down with me back to my workroom.

For a couple hours I work on some concept sketches. I guzzle water as I do, and by eight I've finished off the entire bag that had previously been filled with almost twenty full bottles of water. I toss a few empty bottles into the bag, ones that had been littering the room before I did so. I drag myself upstairs to refill them all and bring one down with me so I can turn off all the lights.

I managed to get another sketch done. It's white with a good amount of pale blue, but there is some dark blue in it. I've even dressed my mannequin up with the new idea; it's a sleeveless blue shirt that folds along the front of the neck and pulls down just a bit, enough to expose a bit of cleavage on most women. There's a collarbone-length silver necklace with little blue plastic beads hanging around the mannequin's neck. I stuck these cute bubble earings to the mannequin's head, just under the newsboy cap--which, itself, was white with blue. I gave the outfit a pair of white shorts and these blue sandals with little white flowers decorating them. I clipped a couple hair pins to the head--some white, some blue, some both. A blue purse that I clipped little blue cut-out flowers to--which I'd sew on later--was hung over her shoulder. I know I overuse purses but the majority of women carry a purse, I think, so I don't really care.

I practically trip while I'm going back downstairs and carefully put all my sketches in a folder that I set aside into an organizer. By the time I've put everything away neatly and turned off the lights I've finished my water.

It's hard pulling myself up the stairs, but I manage somehow. It's nearing eight. I refill the waterbottle I'm holding, toss it in the bag, hang the bag over my shoulder and leave my house. In twenty minutes I'm back at the park. I set my bag down on the bench and rub my neck, trying to stare towards the swingset where a little girl is going back and forth. She's gotten pretty high. I stretch my hands over my head, turn in the direction the track leads, and begin jogging, which turns into a run about a quarter ways through, just like every other mile I've run in the past week.

One mile. Three miles. Five miles. Ten miles.

I come to a stop at the end of my sixteenth mile and lean over, panting, digging through the empty water bottles. There's only one more filled and I down that so fast that I feel like I'm going to throw up.

Not that I didn't already feel like that.

Not that there's anything in my stomach to throw up, anway.

I drag the bottles over to the water fountain and fill them. While I'm there I guzzle down two, refill those again, and set the bag back on the bench. I start jogging again.

Five more miles. Ten more miles.

As I come to a stop at the end of my twenty-eight mile I look over at the clock on the nearby tower. It's illumanted by a few lights and shows me that it's almost eleven and I decide that's enough for tonight and head home. By the time I get there it's just about midnight.

I set my alarm to seven in the morning, take a quick hot shower, down about five bottles of water as I lock up my house for the night and turn off every light, and slip into bed.

I wake up feeling my hand pressing down furiously on a button. Yet my alarm doesn't stop blaring. I pull myself from bed and stare over at the device and realize I'm hitting the wrong button. I pick it up, thump my forehead against it, and practically slam it back onto my lamp table. Somehow I pull myself out of bed and shuffle over to my bathroom. I glare at myself in the mirror; white, pink-streaked hair. Completely disheveled. Bi-colored eyes; I don't have either contact in, the two bi-colored ones I use to get my eyes to match sometimes. I'm in just my boxers, I'm sweating. I stare at a large bruise on my protruding rib cages. For a moment I wonder where I got it then remember my fall yesterday. I suppose I hit something.

I turn the hot water on in my shower and step inside. The sensation burns my skin, so I turn the cold water on, and I'm frozen solid. I turn the cold water all off, and then I'm burning again. I can't choose but I figure I'll be more thirsty if I'm hot, so I leave it on and spend about fifteen minutes washing my hair. Five minutes washing my body. Another ten minutes spent conditioning my hair. Another five spent washing my face. And yet another five just standing there feeling the burning liquid wash over me. I get out and spend a total of twenty minutes drying myself and apathetically picking out an outfit that I change into. White sleelveless shirt; black shorts. Black sneakers with pink streaks.

I look at my schedule for today and realize I didn't write anything down. I briefly remember that I need to stop by my manager's office around nine or ten to drop off my final sketches and write that down; then I go get the binder with them in it, set it on the counter along with my cellphone. Check that. One missed call, from Noah. A voicemail.

"It's me. Artimis told me that he and Nema found you passed out. What's up with that?" A beep. That's it. I delete the message, hook my phone back up to the charger, grab my bag and leave. It takes me half an hour to get to the park and I realize I can't run for five hours this morning because I need to see my manager, but I get in an hour's worth. Only four miles. Then I leave, and by the time I get home it's nine. Three missed calls. One from Nema, two from my manager, whom I call. She asks me when I'm stopping by and I tell her that I'm leaving now. Hurry up. Hang up. Shove my phone in my pocket, refill my waterbottles, carefully set them all in the fridge. I grab a large bottle of VitaminWater as I leave. Keys. Wallet. Phone. Drink. Binder. Lock the doors and walk away.

I get there within an hour's time. It's not that far from here, about half a mile. My vision is really fuzzy so I accidentally take a wrong turn but it still takes me there, though it would have taken me a few minutes less had I taken the correct route. As I walk in I notice my manager looks up and fumes; she's ready to kill me.

"It's not my fault," I say, trying to defend myself. She just barks at me to sit down and give her my sketches, muttering that it's my fault that I didn't get them in on time in the first place a few days ago. I just comply.

She looks carefully over the sketches and nods at each in turn, and by the end she's grinning widely.

"These look magnificent. I adore this last one." She smiles brightly over at me and I shrug, staring over towards her window. I hear her going through the jewelry and I'm sure she's trying them on for herself. "Yeah, this looks good. Oh, but I don't like this one." I turn and look over at her as she inspects a gold band with a large red stone in it. "It's a bit gaudy. How about a band with small ones inlaid all around?"

"I think I have something like that at home." I comment, and she just nods.

"Bring that to me later. Oh, I know! I'm having lunch with someone pretty high up in the office that's debuting your spring line-up. He's been dying to meet you. We're going to be eating at Gonza and Pierce's--you know the place, right? Right," she says as I nod. "You absolutely must come. Just bring the ring with you. We'll be there around one,"

"Alright," I say, standing. She smiles and stands, as well, walking around the desk and giving me a light hug. But then she pulls away, grabbing my shoulders lightly and holding me at arm's distance, eyes scanning me up and down.

"Dakota, darling. You look like you've been loosing weight. Have you been eating right?"

I hate when people ask me that.

"Yeah," I lie, and she doesn't know me well enough yet to be able to tell. "I'm fine. I'll see you later," I say and pry myself from her grip. I leave. It takes me an hour and a half to get home, and when I do I go downstairs to try and work. But I find myself waking up with my head in my fabrics. I stare over at my clock to see it's about a quarter past twelve. I remember I'm supposed to meet my manager and some guy for lunch at Gonza and Pierce's.

I shut off my desk light and pull myself up my stairs. Grab a VitaminWater. Leave.

It's pleasant outside today. A bit hot for the season but there's a pleasant breeze that makes it feel like an average spring day, even though it's not even spring yet. I spend an hour walking to the cafe and see my manager sitting and talking with some guy on one of the tables outside. I walk over and pull up a chair to the small circular table; as I do my manager is asking why I took so long and I tell her I fell asleep. She doesn't seem to mind so much because she's introducing me.

"This is Dakota--you know, the designer for the line I presented to you."

"Oh? A pleasure," he says with a warm smile and an easiness that makes me uncomfortable. I shake his hand and nod, faking a smile, before I return to finishing my bottle of VitaminWater. That smile reminds me of my cousin's--always friendly, always easy, always confident; but Nema's just like that. I know Nema. I don't know this man. "I'm Jeffery Farrah, CEO of Borgoa's."

I perk up and stare over at him curiously. It's only then that I notice he has soft blonde hair that reaches his shoulders. It's combed well and his bangs frame his face. He's handsome with gray eyes tinted with brown. Tanned. Looks athletic. Attractive. Not too tall, but still taller than me. Wearing casual clothes; he doesn't look like a CEO because he's not wearing a suit. He's wearing these kahki shorts and a sleeveless black shirt with a hood, but it's not up. A watch that, though I can't tell the brand name, I know is extremely expensive. A wedding ring. I look away and shrug.

"Still tired?" my manager asks, trying to cover for my apathy. I just nod, my eyes lazily following the blurs of slow-moving people. "You must have been up all night finishing these. It's always been your dream to showcase in Borgoa's, right?"

"Since I started taking fashion design seriously, yeah," I say, finally trying to show some energy. But I don't have any energy to show and I think it's obvious to him.

He nods, taking a sip of his drink. They haven't been served yet but they probably already ordered.

"Why don't you order something?" he offers, eyes following a waitress. I shake my head to keep him from calling her over.

"No thanks, I'm not hungry."

"Did you eat before you came here?" he asks, smiling; I'm a bit comforted that he doesn't seem insulted. Most people would be.

"No."

He arches a brow, looking a bit surprised; my manager's glaring at me, but she quickly smiles over at the CEO as he addresses her. I don't pay attention as they start discussing business, but as they start talking about money my manager draws my attention.

"What were you hoping to sell these pieces for?" she asks, moving my binder--which I never realized was in front of her--towards me, pointing at the blue and tan outfit that pissed me off so much last night.

"Don't know," I shrug.

"Well, what do you want to sell them for?"

"Don't care,"

She shoots me a glare but the CEO saves me.

"Well, let's set the shirt to forty, the skirt and shorts to thirty, the hat at twenty-eight, and the other accessories between five and eighteen each. We can offer the purse for fifty if I can get one of my acquaintances to produce it, since he runs a high name. Otherwise we'll probably mark it at twenty six or so. But we can offer the set as a whole at a ten percent total discount. Most people don't buy full sets, but the statistics I've collected recently show that sixty percent more people will buy a full set when it's total is lower than each piece individually together than when it's not."

"Sounds good to me. What do you think, Dakota?"

"I don't pay attention to numbers," I say, yawning, then shrug with an apologetic smile. "I just put the stuff together and make the originals."

"Sometime, we should auction off all your originals. You still have them, right?"

"Every last one,"

"I agree," the CEO says, smiling at the waitress as she puts a plate in front of him and my manager. She asks me if she can get me anything but I decline. "We're hosting a large gallery showcase and sale in the summer. I think we should sell your original pieces."

"Alright. Uhm, excuse me, I'm going to go home now." I stand up, rubbing my head and pushing the seat in. "My apologies for leaving so soon. I have something important to do, so please excuse me."

My manager glares but the CEO shakes my hand and expresses his extreme gratitude for meeting me. He says he hopes that we will be seeing more of each other and that we will become well acquainted. I smile back, though I don't feel like I'm smiling. I nod towards my manager as I leave. I turn a corner and stop at a convenience store. I buy two bottles of VitaminWater, six fashion magazines, a pack of Stride sweet peppermint gum, a thick sketchbook, two nice-looking drafting pencils with replaceable, turning erasers, and a handful of little bags of colorful, decorative gems in different shapes, each coming with a small little squeeze-tube of glue. I hang the bag over my shoulder while sipping on VitaminWater as I begin walking home.

I never get there.

I'm almost there when I feel my blood rushing to my head. Then I feel myself loose my footing. Fall. I feel a sudden rush of pain on my head, above my eye, but within a second I'm not even conscious enough to register it.

[αℓℓı]

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PART TWO - It's over between us.
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I find myself waking up a faint beeping sound. At first I don't realize what it is; it's just one of many hazy realizations. But then my senses return to me, all at once, and I'm suddenly overcome; I hear the beeping sound. I smell medicine and bleach--too sterile. I feel a sheet draping over my body. I open my eyes and wince, hand immediately slapping over my face; but then I wince, pain shooting through my forehead. I tap a finger against what feels like it's origins and feel little bumps. It's a bit damp, and I squint my eyes as I raise my hand and notice my fingertip has a spot of red on it.

Blood?

I press my finger tenderly against it once more and try to realize what the little bumps are.

Then I look around; at the same second I realize they must be stitches, I realize I'm in the hospital.

I try to sit up and my whole body hurts at the attempt--I hardly manage to raise my head, but after a second I just let myself relax and my skull to fall back onto the soft bedding beneath me. I realize there's something connected to my left wrist and when I look at it, I see an IV there. I look around me; there are various machines. A drip. A door to my left, a window to my left. I want to see what's outside of it. I try to sit up again, this time managing to raise my head and shoulders before falling back down.

Then I realize that I can hear voices nearby. Just outside the door, it seems. Then there's a gentle knock on the door; it opens, and Nema pokes his head in. He sees that I'm staring at him, that I'm awake, and smiles. His head disappears for a moment and he says something to someone--I hear someone's voice say 'one at a time, please', and figure it must be a nurse. Nema comes back, this time actually coming into my room. He closes the door behind him and walks up to my bed.

"Hey," he says, smiling. But it's not his usual easy smile. It looks forced. It doesn't look good on him.

"Why am I in a hospital?" I demand, glaring at him. He frowns deeply.

"Someone reported seeing someone passed out nearby a main road. They thought you got hit by a car. Luckily that's not what happened. Er, right?"

"I've never been hit by a car before," I remind him, trying to glare harder. "So I passed out?" He shrugs and mumbles something that sounds like 'Probably'. "So what? That doesn't credit a hospital visit."

"They just wanted to be sure you were alright. They called your manager. She called me. I told them you passed out yesterday, too. They said they wanted to check your blood sugar levels, but... Dakota..." He pulls up a swivel chair from behind a curtain nearby and sits on it backwards, legs under the back and arms crossed atop the backrest. "You haven't been eating, have you?" I just shrug. "When's the last time you ate?"

I know when the last time I ate was, and being reminded of it brings back the unpleasant memory. I was just sitting there, watching TV, spooning some ice cream into my mouth. I was at Noah's house but the ice cream was something I'd went out to buy because I was really craving it. I wasn't in a good mood, and I was trying to watch something funny to cheer myself up. Noah came in and told me to share and tried to steal the small tub of ice cream away from me, but when I said no and snatched it back he got really pissed off. Stormed off. Called me a fatass under his breath. I heard him.

I can't remember what day it was but I figure that that was about a week ago.

"I don't remember," I lie, but he's not my manager; he knows when I'm lying, and I know he knows by the look he gives me. I just shrug and look towards the window, still wondering what it overlooked. He sighs heavily. He's frustrated. Pissed. Extremely pissed. I can tell.

"You weigh seventy-nine pounds." he says, and I peer over at him. He's glaring at me. He looks like he's about to kill me. I swear he's going to strangle me. "Most people would fucking die at that weight, you know!" He's yelling. I see hear the door creak open and the nurse look in. I glare at her and she slips back outside.

"Well my body's probably eating fat stores. There must be a lot of them," I mutter, glaring down at my stomach. The shirt I'm wearing is loose on me, though. A week ago it was form-fitting and tight. I remember liking what I looked like in it.

"Ugh. Dakota, you... Ugh." He let out an extremely irritated, heavy sigh. Stands. Walks over to the door, about to leave. Comes back. Glares down at me. Opens his mouth to say something. Decides against it and walks back to the door. Stops. "They're not going to release you until you weigh at least ninety pounds. I'm guessing you stopped eating once you started running more than usual, right?" I say yeah, and he seems to relax. I know better. "Your body'll probably reject food, and it's going to take a long fucking time to gain weight on drip infusion, you know." He looks back to me. He doesn't look angry anymore, but the expression of annoyance and apathy he's giving me really hurts. "You need to stop being so self-conscious, Dakota. You're thin. You didn't look like a skeleton before. Skeletons aren't attractive at all." He leaves. Slams the door.

I sink into the bed and stare at my feet. I pull the sheet off to see that I'm still wearing my clothes. I'm glad for that, at least. I look around, noticing a table nearby with my socks and sneakers neatly set on it. My bag from the convenience store is beside it, with my half-empty bottle of VitaminWater beside it. I reach over and guzzle it down, but when I shove the bottle back onto the table I feel like I'm going to throw up. I taste it, but I manage to swallow it back down and lean back into my bed miserably. A moment later I hear the door opening again.

Noah walks in.

Slams the door behind him.

Walks over to me looking so cool that I know I'm going to be skinned alive.

"So this is why you've been avoiding me lately," he spits, glaring down at me. I wince. Look away. I wish I could move. I'd walk away from him. I'd go see what's outside the window. But he's right; ever since he said that to me I've been trying my hardest to keep away from him. In fact, I'd only seen him once since then, and that was when he stopped by my house a couple days ago, asking me if I wanted to with him to see some movie. Thinking back, I had really wanted to see it, and that was probably the last day it was out in theaters. But I declined, said I was busy with work. Closed the door in his face. Locked it. Refused to answer it again even when he yelled at me to and kicked it.

I... don't feel bad for it.

"You're so fucking stupid, Dakota. Starving yourself like this." He doesn't hesitate to insult me.

I realize something. He's never hesitated to insult me before. He drops them as if it were a greeting. He never apologizes, either.

Does he even love me?

He says something about how I should eat like a pig to gain weight fast and get out. I flinch and I know he must see it, but he continues anyway.

"Actually, no. If you ate like a pig then you'd get fat, wouldn't you? Tch. Fucking as if."

He turns to leave. Stops, as if he's thinking. Then keeps walking. I'm watching his back and tears are stinging my eyes. I want him to look back and see how upset I am. I want him to hold me. I want to be in his arms. I don't even want him to say sorry or feel bad for anything. I just want him to look at me. But he slams the door behind him without even looking back at me.

My chest feels so extraordinarily tight that I can't breath. So I don't. I swear a minute passes before I finally gasp in some air and choke on a sob. I pull the sheet up to my face and bury myself in it. I don't want to exist.

I suppose I fell asleep crying. A nurse comes in and wakes me up. She asks me if I'd like to try eating--she's very kind and gentle. Soft spoken. Suggests that if I do want to try that I start with something very light--a slice of fruit or a couple spoonfulls of soup. Perhaps something to drink, at least? But I say no to everything and she asks if there's anything she can get me, and I tell her she can get me a gun. She flinches and I think the seriousness of my face is what makes her leave without a word. I'm awake now, though, so I can't fall back asleep. It's about eight; it's morning, I can tell, by the pale purple-blues of the sky outside.

It's awhile before I hear another knocking at the door. Artemis peeks in. I stare at him for a second, quietly, then turn away. I'm sure he frowns, but even if I've made him uncomfortable he walks over at me. He's quiet, save for the soft tapping noise of his talons against the floor. I feel bad for him.

"Hey," he finally says softly, smiling. I look back over to him. I'm not smiling, though I wish I could return it because he's trying his hardest, it seems, to give me a smile. "Noah says--"

"Is he here?" I interrupt, biting down the corner of my lip.

"Uh, yeah... He wants to see you, but I wanted to see you first."

He looks a bit worried so I hold my tongue. "Oh? You're too nice." I smile. He gives this little happy grin but I'm not sure how he can smile like that so easily. He's a nervous kid but he seems to be glowing with confidence as of late. It's probably Nema's influence.

"So how are you feeling? Have you tried eating?"

I shrug. Shake my head. No, I haven't, but I don't want to tell him that. But I definitely don't want to lie, so I just say I felt like I'd be sick if I eat, and he frowns. Of course, he says. Of course. I don't get why he says that. Why does he say that? What kind of assumptions has he developed towards me?

I realize that I'm overanalyzing this. Since when have I analyzed things at all--much less over-analyzed?

He turns and heads over to the door quietly, hands a bit hesitant against the door.

"I'll see you soon, okay? You should come over when they let you out." He smiles. Leaves. The door never closes because Noah's pushing his way in.

I glare at him. He's glaring at me.

"Did you eat breakfast?" he immediately asks. I'm suddenly extremely pissed that that's the first thing he says to me. Asks. Whatever. I don't answer, I just look away, and he takes that as a no. "What the fuck, Dakota? Why didn't you eat?" I can tell that he's annoyed at me. Whatever. I don't answer. "Tch. Fuck, Dakota. I'm getting sick of this. I'm getting sick of you being like this."

"Fuck it, then," I hiss, glaring over at him suddenly. I can sense that I'm casting him an accusing look, as if this were all his fault.

It is.

"Fuck it all! Fuck this. Fuck you, and fuck us. If you're just going to be this much of a fucking asshole, I want you out of my room. I don't have to deal with you and your insults. I don't want to deal with you. I hate you! Get the fuck out of my room! Whatever we pretended to had... It's over between us! Get the fuck out!"

I'm screaming. I'm crying. I can feel my cheeks staining with hot tears and I figure I'm probably red. But it doesn't matter, I don't care, because I hate him so much and I never want to see him again. Ever. Ever in my entire life.

He glares at me. He's about to kill me. There's a doctor in my room with a nurse behind him. A security officer beside him, grabbing at Noah's shoulders because he's advancing on me. He doesn't fight back; he just lets himself be removed from the room.

[αℓℓı]

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PART THREE - Righting all I've wronged.
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When Noah is finally removed from the room, the doctor approaches me, though the nurse stays back some. He touches my head and I snap away from him. He smiles anyway, sits on the edge of my bed, and presses his hand against my shoulder. Calming. Comforting. He tenderly forces me to look at him, wipes away my tears, smiles brighter. Mutters something to me, but I can't understand it. Waits for me to calm down.

Eventually, I do. When I take a deep breath and finally look him in the eyes, I can see he's a bit relieved.

"Can you move at all?" he asks. I shrug, trying to reach my arm up to touch my face. It hurts, but I manage it there. I can't keep it up for long and it soon just falls back into my lap.

"A bit."

"That's better than not at all." He stands, takes a syringe, and presses the tip into the drip. "You may or may not have already been told this, but we cannot release you until you weigh at least ninety pounds. Your vitals and other things have to be at an acceptable level, at least, as well, such as your blood sugar and cholesterol. We also want you to have regained particular motor skills. Walking, obviously, and running, even if only slowly. Jogging, rather. Driving, reading, writing. Simple things."

For a moment my mind wanders. They want me to at least be able to jog before being released? I find it amusing, given that at least Nema knows running so much was what got me to loose so much weight so quickly. That and the over-intake of water.

"You didn't try to eat breakfast?"

"No." I stare up at him for a moment. Short blond hair, hazel eyes. White teeth, gorgeous smile. A bit of muscle.

A couple of rings, but none on his ring fingers.

I stare away, at my feet, towards the window--anywhere else.

"No? Why not?" He looks concerned, but I highly doubt he really is.

"Couldn't stomach even the thought of eating. Just thinking about it now, even, makes me feel nauseous."

"I see. Well we'll try again later, alright?"

I just give him a half-shrug, half-nod, and try to slowly lean back down.

When did I sit up?

I can't remember, but I'm astounded that I managed to. It takes all my energy just to ensure I don't just fall onto the pillows--most people wouldn't mind it, I'm sure, but I have the feeling it would actually hurt.

He leaves me alone. The nurse empties the waste basket, cleans the window, opens it upon my request for some fresh air. Asks if she can do anything else for me. I get her to at least brush my hair. She's really nice. Pretty. Brunette with wild brown eyes, nearly red. Smells like roses. Real ones, not rose lotion. An engagement band--she talks about her boyfriend to me. He sounds like an asshole.

The days pass slowly save for when the doctor is in checking on me, or the nurse that constantly smells like real fresh roses pops in. She brushes my hair, even braids it once. When I can at least sit up and move my arms again, a week later, she plays some card games with me for awhile after her shifts end. Exactly two weeks after my admittance to the hospital, she admits to me that she just found out she's nearly a month pregnant.

Nema visits me every day, usually in the evenings around sunset. Even though he knows what I did with water he brings me some juices and vitaminwaters every day. One of each, always varying the type. Magazines, too; he knows which I like. It's not much later when he drops by earlier than usual and gives me my notebook and my sketching set.

"Your manager called and complained to me about how she wished you hadn't done this to yourself. She told me that the CEO from Borgoa's is going to stop by later today to visit you, around the time that I usually do. I figured you may at least want to look like you're working."

"Thanks," I say, smiling faintly. I'd been restless, it was true; really, I've been having the urge to work. To run. To over-drink. But I resist. After he leaves, Ms. Rose-Nurse comes in. Her name's Isabell. Nema's half-sister's name is Isabella, very similar. She smiles when I tell her that, then asks if I want to try eating something. I decide I might as well and she brings me a peach cut into small wedges. My jaw instantly hurts when I chew down on the first one--after all, it's been almost a month since I last actually put something to eat in my mouth and actually had to chew it. But I manage down a couple of slices, somehow. She's proud of me, and watches me as I sketch for awhile, then we're interrupted by a knocking. The CEO of Borgoa's comes in, and she excuses herself.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, looking me up and down. Or, rather, side-to-side, given I'm on a bed. I swear he can see through the sheets and my clothes and right to where skin stretches taut over bone. "How you farin'?"

"Well enough for one confined to a bed," I say, smiling. "Oh, I've actually been trying to work a little today." In all honestly, I really like some of the ideas I'd worked on.

"Yeah? Lemmie see."

As I hand them over I lean back, watching him look through them.

He looks a bit surprised, but pleasantly so.

"Maternity wear, huh?" He's smiling. I'm glad.

"My nurse, Isabell. She's pregnant, and was telling me how I should make her a bathing suit she can wear when she gets bigger. So I started with that and just sketched a bunch of others."

"Yeah. Yeah, I like these. Borgoa's doesn't have a maternity line because most maternity clothes are very similar. If you can do a few more pieces, I think I'll pass yours as our first maternity apparel. As in, ever."

I feel my stomach fluttering and I'm nearly choking on my breath.

The fact that I'm showing in Borgoa's is heaven enough. But to be showed off as the only one ever good enough to satisfy this man for maternity clothes? To be the only one? It's absolutely astounding.

"Only one thing. A lot of your more grunge-styled stuff, well, most of your stuff, is under the brand name 'SEXPOT', while some of the more tame clothes you've branded 'Darcia'. I think the more womanly stuff should have it's own name. Think on that, alright?"

I nod furiously, smiling, ideas rolling through my mind. Darcia I've always envisioned as a male name, and I have the mental image of a female D-name to accompany it, perhaps as an advertisement pair. I can even see the models in my mind already--black hair; long and flowing on him, cropped to chin-length on her; silky, ebony. Piercing pale eyes, porcelain complexions. High-contrast colors and clothes; electric blues, cherry-reds, wired greens. Black on white.

"Well I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

I nod, smiling at him. "Yeah, and you've really just made this a million times more bearable." He hands me back my sketchbook and pats my head tenderly.

"You keep working now, alright? But don't overdo yourself." We shake hands and he leaves. I'm instantly in my sketch book, doodling stick-figure design frames of the two I imagine in my mind. Jewelry, suddenly. A few outfits. I'm bursting with creative energy; Isabell returns to my room and I apologize to her, telling her that I have a million ideas exploding in my mind and that I can only get a fragment of one out at a time. She gives me a hug, a small cup of water, a couple pills--which she has me swallow--and leaves.

A few more days pass. It's been just over three weeks since they put me in the hospital, and I've gotten to the point where I can manage a whole peach over the course of mid-morning to early-afternoon; yesterday I even asked for some grapes. I've been able to walk a bit, too. I've gained four pounds, so now I weigh eighty-three.

That's still seven short of my goal, which is just short of twice what I'd gained in three weeks' time. And even then, they actually had to forcefully lower my metabolism with medication and increase fat stores by a very small percent with some strange pill.

But I have to stop taking that starting today, because it can only be taken in a certain quantity before it starts having a bad effect on your heart.

Isabell visits me. Says I should get out and walk some today. Asks me if I'd like to go anywhere in particular.

"Can we take a walk through the mall?"

She's not surprised by my request, and takes me there. Of course, she keeps a wheelchair folded up in the back of her car. But I manage fairly well on my own, though I have to take frequent brakes to sit. I bought a few things, mostly small jewelry pieces for my outfits. We talk some. She gets out of me that I decided to name m new line Delia, to go with my line Darcia, and show her some of my maternity wear sketches. She absolutely loves them.

Eventually we return to the hospital and I go to sleep.

I wake up to a light chattering. There are two voices, both of which I recognize but cannot place names to.

"Hello?" I sit up slowly, squinting over to see Nema and some girl.

Oh. Oh my god. Is that...

"Isabella?" I practically scream. I nearly jump out of bed and pounce on her. She's my cousin, 'cause she's uncle Aaron's daughter, though she comes from a different mother than Nema did.

"Hey, babydoll." She walks over and hugs me. "I'm busy, but I wanted to stop by and at least say hi."

"Y-yeah. I understand." I feel good today. For some reason, it annoys me. I bite back my anger with family in the room.

Nema walks over, pressing a hand to my forehead and ruffling my bangs. "You can go home today, but you're under strict house surveillance. A nurse is going to be over a couple hours every day."

I briefly wonder if that particular male nurse of mine would be the one to stop by. Even though the thought of having someone over my house every day to check up on me annoys the hell out of me, I can't help but feel some sort of hope that it would be that one, because I could probably seduce him. I'm horny. I'm fucking horny today, and when I realize this, I feel angry at myself.

"I can leave?"

"Yeah. We've gotta go, but your nurse is going to take you home."

We say our farewells. I get my stuff together, and that boy is the one who ends up taking me home. He says he and my other nurse--the female one, she's a good friend, she really is--will be switching off every other day. I wonder if I'll be able to seduce him. I'm thinking this as he leaves me at my front door.

I stare at it, biting my lip. My hair is up in a ponytail. I'm wearing a shirt that, before this entire incident, fit comfortably and snugly on my body. Now it feels like it's two sizes too small, and I can't help but feel sick at this realization. I take a deep breath and hold it in as I unlock my small house.

The familiar scent fills my lungs and I wonder for a moment if this is how my home always smells. It feels comfortable, but lonely and empty. I feel alienated from it, and for a moment I just stare into the darkness. I turn on a light, set my couple of belongings down on my couch, and head downstairs. Everything is where I left it, how I left it. There are still empty water bottles littering my floor. I slowly pick them up and bring them upstairs. I drop them beside my sink and start filling them.

---

It's been two days. The nurses haven't forgotten to check up on me. They scolded me for keeping so much water in my fridge, but I told them it was part of my self-therapy, even though I wasn't really doing anything about my so-called problem. They said, "Oh, you're challenging yourself not to drink them. That's very good." It's a load of bullshit because I am drinking them. I just keep it in mind to fill it back up as soon as I'm done. My first day home, I filled my fridge and emptied it again. Refilled it. Threw up. Spent the rest of my miserable day in my bathroom, curled up naked in my tub under the cold water. Eventually I turned the water off and just laid there. I woke up sometime around noon the next day, feeling sick. I make some hot soup and feel disgusted at myself for being able to consume the entire tiny bowl. I grab my messenger bag, sketch book, pencils and pens, and a couple bottles of water. Keys, phone, wallet, and I leave.

I walk the half an hour it takes me to get to the downtown strip mall and stop by the salon there. I'd only been a couple of times for light trims. Today, I got Gemini to chop off everything at the ponytail.

She brushes stray hairs off my shoulders as I glare down my reflection, as if to challenge him to disapprove. I do, I fucking do. I hate what I look like. I tell myself I can't, I'm not allowed to, but I do anyway.

I pretend like I love it, pay her, and buy some random product before leaving. I stop by a few clothing stores and pick up a few things, then head back home.

I spend an hour staring at my reflection in my bathroom wall mirror. I shower myself down, swearing that what comes off my body is not clear water but dirty sewer vomit. Eventually I step out of the icy wetness, dry off, and pull on a pair of black jeans. They used to be tight on me, now they barely cling to my hips; I have to ring a belt around my waist to keep them up. I choose a new shirt I bought, a black one with rusty-colored grunge designs on it. It's at least four sizes too big for me, but it makes it a bit easier to look at myself in the mirror. Sure, I feel like I should be filling any shirt that I wear, but I know that that won't happen again, if only for awhile. I find a black beanie and tug it on over my hair. Barely any pink is left from my previous dye job, especially since I had so much chopped off. It's mostly bleached. A few streaks of blond have grown back out. The entire crown of my head is tinted gold, in fact, and that's why I opt to hide it.

Fucking stupid blond. The thought bites my insides and gags my stomach, but nothing comes up.

I sigh and take half an hour to find some socks and converse to wear and to urge myself out of my door with my few belongings. I bring my Pok?mon, but leave them in the bag that hangs just below my hip. It takes me a few minutes to walk down the street and sit at a bus stop.

The bus eventually takes me downtown, deeper into the city. Being here makes me feel on edge because everyone is fucking staring at me, even though they aren't. Sixty-two drops me off a few blocks down from my destination.

"Why am I doing this?" I ask myself, staring up at the sky as if there were a God. If there were, he wouldn't answer to some filthy being like me. To be honest, I know why I'm doing this. Regret, guilt, hate for myself. I fucking love him. I fucked up. Part of me screams my ears out, trying to convince me that this is his fault when it isn't, because it was me who exercised my body into starvation, who drank so much that nearly their entire weight mass was water-based. I nearly killed myself through anorexia, and when I realize that I'm finally recognizing that as a problem, I feel a bit more confident. But then I realize that I'm walking up to the dragon's den. I can feel the heat radiating, the darkness of the cave enveloping me. I'm at his doorstep now, Death's, and I can tell he's hungry to devour me. This dragon is not one that can be easily sated by human sacrifice, but it will do.

I raise my hand to knock. I hesitate, standing there for at least five fucking minutes with my hand in the air like I was frozen in time. My wrist falls, and lands on the door, but it makes no noise. The fact that I managed to rap on it once brings a bit more confidence to my arm and, without me realizing it, I knock twice.

My arm retreats and hides in my pocket. My other one slips in the opposite pocket, as if just as scared. Like my limbs could ever understand true fear. Minutes pass. I don't hear any sounds. I turn slightly, feeling defeated, about to retreat, to save my skin. Noah is lava, and I've been playing with fire for so long. I finally got burned, and now that I'm beginning to start applying burn salve, I realize I have none. But then the door opens and I'm stopped mid-turn.

I can feel his eyes on me. I can hear his shocked silence.

I turn my head slowly, my eyes raising from the ground to his eyes. I didn't expect to be caught in his gaze so suddenly. It steals away my breath. For a moment a silence passed between us. I finally will myself to turn fully and take a cautious step towards him. He seems rigid. He hates me. He's surprised to see me, he's sick with revulsion, he can't believe I dared to show my face. I know it.

"Noah," I breath, but the voice catches in my throat and I stop. The beanie on my head is pulled down past my ears, and I recall seeing how it stuck outward like little spikes. Maybe he doesn't recognize me? I almost hope he doesn't. I inwardly beg him to ask who I am, to not recognize me, so I can lye and say I got the wrong house. But when I look back up at him I can tell, I can just fucking tell that he knows exactly who I am. And it's disgust I see in his eyes.

It really isn't. But that's what I want it to be.

"I'm sorry." I finally say, shuffling uncomfortably. I can't believe my guts, to fucking say anything to his face. "I... I shouldn't have, I..." I don't know what I'm trying to say anymore. I take a step up to him. I'm inches from him, now, my head merely two or three from his chest. My head's turned down and one of my hands touches his bicep tentatively, testing. I can feel him tense and I nearly withdraw, but when he relaxes, I realize I'm done for. I'm doomed. He's eating me whole. Raw. Not even bothering to cook me in hateful words. I finally take a deep breath, though my lungs can barely keep it in my chest. "I still love you." I say in one breath, and look up to him cautiously.

He's silent. Calculating. Deciding what to spice me with after all.

"Can I come in?" I'm inviting myself into his goddamn oven.

He nods slowly, steps aside, and closes the door behind me.

This is it. I'm done for. When I feel his arms around me, I know it for a fact.

I never could resist being destroyed by those around me. I've always allowed them to assault me, kill me, mutilate me. Especially those I love. He is no exception.

I can not resist his fire.

[αℓℓı]

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AFTERWORD - A note from the author.
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Okayokay. I spat out the last half of part three, so sorry that it is rushed and utterly crappy, but I've been promising it to Jen for some time now, and I'm sick of it. I just want to read Noah's parts, because they're vastly more interesting. Noah self-introspection is amazing.

Be sure to read Jen's part about Noah! It's called "i don't believe in miracles, i never did" and you can find it right here, so you better read it. Part two is coming! I convinced Jen to tease me with a preview. And it's long and sexy and my god, emo!Noah makes you cry for his sorrow, and then he reminds you why you can laugh at him, and then makes you cry all over again.

Unlike Dakota's drama, which is always fun to laugh at, because he's not nearly pathetic enough and doesn't yell at his little brother.

I really liked the idea of a more mature Dakota at first, but recently realized that, while I might do something to him in the future, I actually haven't gotten the chance to roleplay Dakota as you all know him anywhere near enough. I just haven't had the chance, and that annoys me. I definitely want to. So, until then, he'll be like he always is, and this won't be cannon.

Now go read Jen's sexy counterpart to this shit!