I wanted to throw up. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run to Taylor and beg her to tell me it was all a misunderstanding. I wanted to believe it was all a misunderstanding.
…Couldn't it all be a misunderstanding?
I sat up, running my arm across my bloodshot eyes to wipe away the tears, and forcing myself to take deep slow breaths to stop more from coming. I was lying to myself — I knew even as I did it — but I could check, at least.
I pushed myself up to trembling feet, turned away from the computer and phone, and stumbled to my bed. I'd been keeping a diary for years now, and I was suddenly grateful for the habit as I grabbed the most recent one from the drawer in my nightstand, and knelt to slide the box with the old ones out from beneath the bed. I pulled them out one by one and arranged them by year on top of the comforter before letting myself fall forward onto the bed to lie amongst them, the most recent one still in my shaking hands.
I was going to study myself, study my past, as if it were a stranger's. If Taylor really was a cape, and I really had been turned into someone I wasn't, then I should see that, right? First, I was going to skim through the diaries, looking for the entries about the other crushes and relationships I had had. I would compare them to what I had written about my relationship with Taylor. If the way I wrote about her fit in, that would be a sign. I shivered at an icy dread crawling up my spine. If there was a big change in what I felt and admired, that would be a sign too.
After that, I was going to read everything I had ever written about Taylor, even from before our relationship, looking for some hint before that first day that she was special to me. Some longing I had somehow, impossibly, forgotten that might explain why I had been so quick to bare myself to her. It would take hours, probably until well after midnight. I would have to read nearly every entry since high school had started to be sure I didn't miss anything, but it didn't matter in the end. I needed to know. Missing a bit of sleep just didn't compare.
— — -
Hours later I was in the chair at my desk again, head in my hands, crying freely. I wasn't choking them back anymore, or trying to do anything else. Just letting them flow until my hands and face were soaked, until tears were dripping onto all the papers on my desk, until my head pounded and my eyes ached. I didn't care. What else was there left to do?
— —
My diary entries about dating Taylor had looked a lot like something the person who wrote all the other entries might write. They went a lot further than what was written about anyone else, but then I had gotten into a much more serious relationship with Taylor than with anyone else. There were stories of things we did together that I wanted to remember, notes about things she liked and how she liked me to act, fantasies about what our lives together might be like in 20 years, fantasies about things we could hopefully do sooner than that, little doodles of her or us, a few times where I had idly tried signing my name as Madison Hebert. The same mix of sweet, practical, and just a little bit embarrassingly childish that I saw in older crushes and relationships, only more so. It would have been an incredible relief if it hadn't been for one sole difference between Taylor and everyone else.
They were all boys. Everyone I had ever had a crush on, everyone I had ever considered dating, everyone I had ever gone on a date with. The girl who had written these diaries was apparently completely straight with a singular glaring exception.
It wasn't the first time I had noticed this issue either. That first week, in between when I had opened myself up for Taylor's eyes and when she had invited herself to my house for the first time, had been a confusing one. Why had a girl suddenly had that effect on me? Could I have been bi and just... not noticed? I had been in a desperate hurry to work out what those new feelings were, even going so far as to get a dirty magazine, just to see what it would do for me, before Taylor pulled me into her lap and the issue was settled.
Looking back now, that story didn't quite seem right. There should have been panic. Worry at least. I didn't have anything against bi people, but I had never suspected I was one. That should have been one heck of a shock. Anyone would be entitled to a little freak out about a change like that. I ought to have a little freak out about a change like that. I was self-aware enough to know I was a worrier. Instead? I neither remembered nor read anything but curiosity and confusion. The only worry present was a need to work things out fast because I had feared Taylor might lose interest and move on. It was all the confirmation I had feared.
That's when things got bad.
Reading about the start of high school was a little nostalgic at first. Winslow was bit of a dump, but the first days in a new school had still been exciting. Starting new subjects, meeting Emma and Sophia for the first time, enjoying the teachers treating us just a little bit more like adults. Reading my excited accounts from back then brought a strained little smile to my face despite how worried I was for the present. Right up until Taylor showed up in the entries for the first time.
It was like getting punched, again and again and again. I had known, when I started, that this was going to be in here, but I hadn't known. I hadn't thought about it, hadn't wanted to think about it, beyond the most cursory footnote. I bullied Taylor, I stopped, we got together, and I was really really sorry for it. Those words didn't cover it. Didn't even begin to, really. Hadn't been meant to. They were a way to bury what I was now being forced to see as I read every line.
The thought of the relentless petty meanness which unfolded itself page after page after page happening to anyone twisted me up inside. The thought of it happening to Taylor — sweet, kind, clever, considerate, shy, awkward, lovely, wonderful Taylor, the girl who had held me tight and called me hers and led me into her bed? The though of it happening to her at my hands? It didn't matter what I suspected her of now, I doubt there's anything that could matter enough to measure up to what I felt about that.
I abruptly stopped feeling vaguely like I wanted to throw up and started running for the bathroom with my hand clasped over my mouth. Out of my room, down the hall, left turn, then a right, and I was emptying my stomach into the sink as quietly as I could, praying that no one would wake up. I couldn't bear to be seen, couldn't possibly explain. It seemed to take forever to finally stop, to finally leave me clenching my jaw tight to hold back coughs that would surely give me away. I listened then, for the telltale sound of a door creaking open, or footsteps, but no one came.
I turned on the sink just long enough to wash what was left down the drain and groped about blindly until my hand closed on one of the wash cloths hanging over the counter. I didn't dare look up to find it and risk seeing myself in the mirror. Instead, I just tugged it down, wiped the snot and bile off my face, tossed it into the dirty bin, and trudged back to my room to collapse into my desk chair without ever looking up.
There was something really wrong with Emma. My diaries had made that clear. What I had been able to shrug off with 'Again, today? Well, alright' each day looked much more like a crazed obsession when taken all together and all at once.
What was equally clear was that I was far far worse. I don't know what Emma's issue was, but she clearly had it. Something drove her to do what she did and she got something out of it. Me? I hadn't ever cared. Bullying Taylor was something my friends did, so I did it to. My price for being in the clique, like it was some kind of fucked up chore I needed to do. A year and more of my life story written out day by day and nearly every entry had some footnote about being mean on purpose, and it was always just that. A footnote. Never scrawled with malicious good humor, never scratched into the paper with the shame it damn well deserved, never even the focus of entry at all. Just something dutifully written down because doing it had filled some of my time that day.
Emma led us on a bullying campaign more than a year long because she was nuts. I had done just as much damage as her because I had nothing better to do.
I laid my head down in my hands and wept.
— —
Sitting curled up in my chair, staring sightlessly at the phone sitting on the table with eyes that had been cried dry, shivering in the chill caused by being soaked, I knew I had a call to make. Taylor was a Master. There was evidence and there was, I shuddered, more than enough motive for anyone to come seeking revenge. Why did that phone call still feel like some impossibly awful thing?
I had bullied Taylor.
She had gotten powers.
She had come back to school and proceeded to use those powers on me.
She had used them... had used them to... to...
...to date me? And then she had... helped me get my grades up? Accepted every apology I offered, indulged my wants, let me indulge hers, worked to make sure our first time together was as good as possible despite the awkwardness, comforted my insecurities, won over Dad, went out of her way to avoid making waves with Mother, been nice to my brother, spent time with me nearly every day, and just generally been the best damn girlfriend anyone could ever ask for?
I laughed. Not a strangled giggle or miserable chuckle, but a full on wildly insane cackle. I couldn't even bring myself to care if I woke anyone up. What other response was appropriate? The terrible revenge from the dreaded Master I had been twisting myself in knots over all night amounted to something out of trashy cape romance novel. I had relentlessly bullied someone for more than a year, they had gotten powers, and then they had proceeded to use them to make my life better in basically every way.
Make my life better. Those words finally decided me. Just thinking them was like a light turning on inside me, and where it shone everything else was scoured away. The ugly knot in my stomach came undone bit by bit, I slumped down deeper into the chair as my every tensed muscle relaxed, and my headache eased off from an invisible weight crushing down upon my head and neck to the simple uncomfortable pressure of having cried for far too long.
I reached out for the phone and cradled it easily in my fingers as I opened up the texting app. There was a good night text from Taylor from hours ago, another couple asking if I was OK when I hadn't replied, and a missed call. I smiled and texted back an apology and a good night wish of my own, even if it was obviously far too late for her to see it before morning.
I stood up and stretched, groaning in pleasure as the bone deep ache from having spent so long tense with nervous energy eased off, and I made my way to the dresser to change for bed. As I did, I deliberately looked into the mirror above it to reflect upon my reflection. There was no wave of self loathing or shame as I had feared when I had averted my eyes in the bathroom. Just me standing there, pajamas in hand, eyes puffy and bloodshot, hair a tangled mess, cheeks red where my hands had pressed into them as I cried, and lips curled into an exhausted smile which really didn't fit alongside everything else. Put that all together with the one or two hours of sleep I was going to get and I was probably going to look like holy hell tomorrow. That's fine. Taylor wouldn't mind; she would just ask me what was wrong, and hold me till I was better.
I changed into the pajamas and switched off the lights before sliding under my covers. I was better off with Taylor. Having her in my life gave me a sense of direction, of purpose. She made me feel happy. She made me feel wanted.
That's why I had decided weeks and a lifetime ago that I would be hers, for as long as she was willing to have me. If it turned out that that was just a little bit more literal than I had thought? If it turned out that she had reached out and shaped my mind? Well then, OK. I had tried my best to break her out of simple boredom. She had gotten powers and, with every reason in the world to want a terrible revenge, she had, amazingly, brought love into my life instead. Clearly, one of these two people was more fit to be making decisions about who I ought to be, and it wasn't me. Whatever shape she built out of me, I'm sure I would like it.
Good girl, I thought with a smile, the words sending a gentle warmth through my chest.
I snuggled deeper into the covers and fell asleep.
Spoiler: Original version
[omake]— Comprehension
Good girl
I sucked in a sharp breath at the thought of those words and looked up from the dim glow of my computer screen to stare at the ceiling of the room, without really seeing it as I slid down in my chair. I was shivering just a little, my whole body tense with anxiety as my fingers worried at the hem of my gray blouse. The blouse Taylor picked out. The shiver edged towards a shake as my thoughts darkened.
It had started earlier today. I had decided to follow Taylor for a bit after school, to see which other girls she talked to. I wasn't jealous. Really not jealous, and not just I'm-in-denial-not-jealous(shouldn't that have been the first clue?), but someone had taught Taylor about using make up. That really seemed like something I should thank someone for. I had tried just asking, but the question died in my throat. No matter how secure I felt, some questions were just too awkward. Asking my girlfriend about her other girlfriends? Just no.
So, following. It was a vaguely uncomfortable experience from the start, too reminiscent of the bad old days when the only thing Taylor was to me was... was a tar...
I squeezed my eyes shut as they watered just a little. The bad old days before we started dating.
The real trouble had come later. Not the feeling of disquiet at sneaking around behind Taylor, but what I had seen while doing it.
— — -
Taylor, it turned out, was following another girl, a pretty looking but somewhat trashily dressed freshman. Not anyone I knew, but someone I'd seen around. Especially at lunch since we had started eating in the courtyard. Actually, was that why Taylor moved our lunch dates? To be close to this girl?
This didn't seem likely to have been the person I was looking for. More like, this was someone Taylor was just now picking up. Even thats a little bit surprising to be honest. Taylor had gone completely the opposite direction when picking out clothes for me to wear, so I didn't think Taylor liked the trashy look. Or... does Taylor like fixer-uppers? I looked down at myself, just a bit self-consciously. Not that I mind being fixed for Taylor's sake...
