yni's unrestricted

The middle of June always seemed particularly noisy. Maybe it was the tourists streaming in for the beach that waved at the edge of town, flip-flops dragging sand as far inland as the shops that lined the boardwalk, seashells stuck in the half-melted pavement and sunscreen as prevalent in the air as oxygen. Or maybe it was specific to the studios you were in and out of, going back and forth between the costume closets, your heels kicking up sequins and diamonds, hairspray coating the inside of your lungs along with the scent of nail polish and cigarette smoke. Everyone was doing something, Coca-Cola 4th of July shoots, swimsuit ads, beach scenes for the cop shows and messy teenage dramas that clung in their airwaves like your clothes stuck to your back in this humid heat under the heavy fluorescent lights.

You weren't bothered by it. Either because after years of running around in high heels and a full face of makeup under the summer heat you finally got used to it or because your paycheck finally grew large enough for the pain and annoyance to be buried deep in the designer bag you carried around, the world may never know. All the world saw were your pearly white teeth between the shiny gloss on your plump lips, the diamonds hanging from your ears to match the one that hung heavy on your finger. If anything kept a smile on your face, that certainly did.

Even now, staying late in some dusty dim studio, your fingers knuckle deep in some bottle blonde's head, the sound of your coworkers' lips popping on gum that must have long lost its flavor, with even the radio getting tired of the high energy and opting to play slow jams that were definitely present at the very end of your prom night, you managed. That was until a voice broke the near silence.

"You know, that ring's been sittin' pretty on that finger for a while. Did the bazillionaire run out of money for the wedding or somethin'?" The smile dropped real fast after that. Hilary, that observant, ill-mannered bitch.

"No." You cringed at the way it sounded; totally pathetic. "Prince just wants to take it slow, ya know, we want everything to be absolutely perfect." You back combed your frustrations out, punctuating your aggression with hair spray.

"How perfect are you shootin' for, honey, because it's looking to me like you got a ring instead of a husband." You didn't want to give her the satisfaction of looking over. That would be like admitting defeat, like admitting that you felt like as much of a loser as she was practically accusing you of being. So you smiled that same practiced smile you've gotten quite good at, twirling a section of hair around your fingers and biting down the urge to yank it in frustration. God, who put in these extensions.

"Perfection takes time and dedication, sweetie, you know, like all that time you spend trying to convince us and yourself you're a natural level 8. Speaking of guy troubles, though, how are you and Brad? Or was it Nathan?" She huffed out a quiet laugh, slightly impressed, even more annoyed. The models dug their noses into their magazines. You pretended to believe the one in front of you actually cared about the price of a home dryer as an excuse as to why she hadn't turned the page.

"It was Jordan, sweetheart." You feigned a giggle, bringing a manicured hand to 'courteously' cover your pretty red lips.

"Gosh, I'm like so totally sorry, Angie, I can be such an airhead sometimes. All these names just blur together; I can't keep up. I just don't know how your husband deals." A tiny sequel was heard from the model beside you as well as the sound of a Marcel iron aggressively slamming open and shut.

"I'm sure I could ask you the same question about that fiancé of yours." You stilled. Your model finally turned the page. You certainly became very interested in the article: TOP 10 SIGNS YOUR MAN IS LOSING INTEREST. Very suddenly, the filmy pages slam shut.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. But if you mean what I think you mean, which most certainly cannot be true whatsoever, he spends entirely too much time at the hospital saving lives to even think of doing...anything like that." Blue eyes try to catch your gaze in the glass, but your eyes are far too quick to be caught in their pity. You feel bad that you've instead chosen to focus on the terrible dye job in her head. The chunks are too chunky, some parts didn't lift evenly, she is definitely too brassy for her skin tone, and most importantly, Hilary is totally, absolutely, and definitely full of shit. She should seriously think of suing her previous stylist.

"Right, and is he saving kittens on his way to the motel that he cheats on you in, or is that just on his way back home?" You can hear the smile in her voice; you read between the lines of her self-impressed giggle. It screams "I'm far better at being a bitch than you" in a big bold font, possibly even in a bright red and yellow comic book text bubble. This game isn't much fun anymore.

"What's your damage, Hilary?" Your tone was clipped. "Cheaters never prosper." And then she has the audacity to cackle, full on, head thrown back, full-bellied, all-she's-missing-is-a-pointy-hat-and-cauldron cackles.

"Cheaters may never prosper, baby, but they sure do have a lot of fun." You bit your lip. Partially in defeat, partially to bite back the tears threatening to spill. Should Prince be there when you get home, you'd hate for him to see you with black streaks running down your face. He was never into the whole goth thing. You look down at your watch dejectedly, a tear fighting to roll down your cheek when you see it was almost 11:00.

So, you do all you can do. Busy hands are happy hands, and a happy model means you were one step closer to cruising home along what should be empty streets lined with neon lights and starshine. The radio plays something old and mellow, and you sway along to it in your aching feet. The bottle blonde with the kind eyes and horrendous highlights picks back up her magazine while clutching her pearls at the slaughter of your ego she just laid witness to and before the both of you knew it, she was cautiously climbing out of your chair, like she was anxiously stepping over the chalked outline of your dead and embarrassed body.

To make matters worse, you truly believe your assailant had no mal intent. It's absent in the way she approaches you when you are both alone, the pointy canines she used to rip out your jugular hidden behind a tight-lipped smile while she pats you on the back. And the words that slip out of her mouth, you think she genuinely means them.

"I hope you don't have a cow over what lil' ole me said. I mean, you are like a total babe, get out and live a little. Pull down that top and lift that skirt, sugar, and I promise you, you could do more than even then scoreboard."

But you had faith. You were hopeless romantic. Fairy Godmothers turning mice into horses, wishing on evening stars, happily ever after was all you ever wanted to happen. And it was going to happen. You were engaged to a man named Prince for fucks sake; it had to happen. It was going to happen. With some faith, trust, pixie dust, and all that jazz, because love can't be that hard.

"There is no scoreboard, Hilary." And because deep down she truly was a cruel hearted bitch, she laughed in your face.

It had been millennia.

Well, actually, it only felt like a millennium, but they lost track of time on the ship 3,462 days into their trip back to their home planet. Who knows how much time had passed since then. This solar system only had one plasma ball, and by the calculations in their directional system, they had been rather far from it, so far that its light only began to reach them a few cycles of boredom ago.

There was no new reading material, tossing the ball around got boring 5 galaxies ago, and you can really only jerk off to the exact same still image oh so many times before even that gets boring.

"Jackie!" His eye twitched. Maybe if he slowed his breath enough, his body would enter a catatonic state, and their voices would be nothing more than echoes in his empty head. But no, Jackie is the only one who knows how to run the ship. All giggleshits number one and two know how to do is complain and burn the rest of their food supply. Jackie needs to be conscious long enough to find some place to land this hunk of junk and keep those troglodytes alive. Last time he closed his eyes they lost an engine. It is very possible he hasn't so much as blinked since then.

"Jackie!"

"What?! What could you possibly want right now, Marlon?"

Marlon rolls his eyes, his fingers toying with buttons at the control hub, Michael tossing around some puzzle cube with his feet set up on the dash. Different holograms flash in front of him, showing different planets of varying distances away. A tiny one named Pluto, a frosty ones a few hundred miles away, gas giants even farther, none of any use to them, incompatible to their biology with no available resources. But there was one. One so beautiful it also brought tears to his eyes, a way out of this damn spaceship.

Jackie's heavy footsteps approach the console, the heavy beats slowing one he catches on to what his brother is showing him. He froze in place, as if touching anything would make it all disappear, like it was some mirage they were seeing in this empty space desert.

"It's called...Ee-arth?" His brother screwed his face up.

"That don't sound right." Marlon turned to face Jackie, annoyance all over his expression.

"Then what would you call it?" Jackie and Michael cocked their head sideways, like changing the angle would arrange the words in a way that felt more comfortable in their mouths.

"Ear-th?" Michael suggested, though his brothers were still unimpressed.

"Nah man, the E is probably silent. It's probably just Arth." They rolled that version around in their heads, still unconvinced.

"Then why bother with the E?"

"How am I supposed to know? It's a foreign planet galaxies away, why should I understand their linguistic conventions." The eldest brother's tone was slightly defensive as he slid into the pilot seat, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he typed out the coordinates into the auto pilot.

"Because you're the one who suggested it, Captain Genius." Michael huffed as he leaned into the 3-d picture of the spinning planet. Blue and green marbled, perfect distance from the sun. He clicked onto a random region to be met with the sight of organisms that looked just like them. Bipedal, full heads of hair, fleshy skin.

"Does it matter what it's called? It's got food, water, sunlight-”

"And women!" It was Marlon who said the quiet part out loud, though he was met with an unenthused reaction. Michael blushed in his seat, Jackie thought he was too mature to dignify him with a response greater than a judgmental side-eye. Marlon cleared his throat before mumbling out an embarrassed "tough crowd."

"It'll be tight, but we can make it with the fuel supply we have. Give it a day or two, and we should be out of this tin can." His hands practically jittered with excitement. His skin itched under that stupid suit he'd been wearing for who knows how long, every nerve in his body was lit on fire with anticipation. They hadn't been under the heat of anything in so long it's like the air they breathed was dead too, aching for something more. A smile graced his lips for the first time in a while, and the universe winked back at him with a shooting star gracing their view. They all unknowingly wished for the same thing.

This is stupid. That was the only thought that entered your head as you looked at yourself in the mirror. It wasn't just the aftermath of the roller set you went through the trouble of doing, your hair still slightly fluffy with texture because you never cared for the silky straight look. Nor was it the lacy lingerie covering your body, some black matching set that sat in the back of your drawers unused since you bought it. It wasn't even the way your skin glowed even in the candlelight, your skin perfumed and oiled all the way down to your feet that were adorned by your favorite red bottom heels. It was the fact that you were looking at a version of yourself who was really no different from the one before you did all of this.

"I can't believe I let her get into my head like this. Doin' all this work as if lookin' like this is gonna change anything." And yet, you had absolutely no plans of changing. You walked in your kitchen, grabbing the bottle of wine you set into a bucket of ice and pouring generously into the glass you had filled at least four times over in the last hour, and walking back to the mirror.

"I mean, look at me! If there's one thing that bitch was right about, it's the fact that I am a total babe." And you know what, maybe you were losing it by now, sipping wine while staring at yourself in the mirror, pretty red nails cupping your breast through the bustier, twirling around to watch in awe of how your body moved. "I am a total catch. A really fucking good fish, god dammit, and my fiancé cannot wait to marry me. Hilary doesn't know what the hell she's talking about, all that peroxide is messing with her head." Self-awareness hit your heart like a knife, but only for a brief moment before it was chased away with the best purchase you've ever made in your life.

You forced out a chuckle. "This is totally ridiculous. Prince would never cheat on me. That word isn't even in his vocabulary. In fact-" Your talk with the woman in the mirror was swiftly interrupted by the sound of keys in the lock and hushed whispers. But those were totally a figment of your imagination. That or Prince just humming to himself. Because he totally does that. All the time. In a super high key that could be confused with a woman's voice but isn't. Because he isn't a cheater.

But your feet still move on their own and by now you're starting to feel like you're in a trance or some bad dream, helpless to the monster that resides behind that door. The keys continue to jingle. The door knob moves restlessly. A large weight bumps against the frame. Your heart jumps. 

It’s an intruder.

Someone’s trying to break in. 

And yet your body doesn’t move towards a weapon, it just steps at a crawling pace. Closer. 

The voices are at it again, mixing in with the summer breeze and the jingle of keys. 

The lock clicks. The door swings.

Your heart drops.

The woman meets your gaze first, blush heavy on her cheeks, hands still around the belt loops of your fiance’s pants, lips just inches from his neck. Her eyes drop to your feet then rise to the top of your head. 

“Oh, baby, she’s gorg and all but I’m really not into threesomes.”

The heady taste of alcohol is suddenly very thick on your tongue. The woman who stares back at you couldn't look more different, lighter skin, lighter hair, looser texture looped around flowers in her hair and legs that just went on for forty days and forty nights. His scarf, the one you bought him for your first anniversary, was tied loosely around her neck, not that you wanted to even entertain the thought of what it could be covering up. They smelled like summer. Like warmth, and lush grass, and something musky yet sweet. The room began to spin.

In that moment, you truly understood the phrase “in the eye of the storm” more than you ever had in your entire life, yet not in the way you expected. You always thought the storm would rage physically, and though many things flashed across your mind in that moment, visions of smashing the wine glass in your hand and stabbing him with the boozy shards, dreams of you chasing him down the street in the red Rolls Royce parked out front, nightmares of him on his knees pleading that this was nothing like what you thought even though there was no way to misinterpret the perfume of another woman of his collar and her lipstick on his neck, but instead, it roared inside. Quietly. Violently. 

“Do you want to introduce me to your friend?” Your heels clicked on the floor as you walked over to greet her, sounding like the tics to some invisible clock counting down to your ex-fiance’s impending doom. 

“Oh, I don’t really think that’s necessary. You really have nothing in common-” His hands are already ushering her out of your home, looking frantically between her and you whilst practically pushing her across the doorstep. 

“I don’t know, Princey, we seem to have one big thing in common.” Your voice came out light and airy, and you're sure the smile on your face was as unsettling as it was an ill-omen. “Why don’t you invite her in? I can even pour her some of the wine I planned on sharing with you, unless you have some other friend waiting to join us. You know what they say, fours a crowd, but three's company.” It seems then the gravity of the mess she was caught in between finally hit the other woman. 

“Shannon isn’t much of a drinker.” He tried to laugh it out, swallow this into one big joke that they could laugh about somehow down the line. Even Shannon smiled sheepishly behind him, smiling through the searing pain of your gaze with his hands crossed behind his back, a bead of sweat rolling down from his curls from the amount of effort he was putting in to seem like he had control of the situation.

“I really think I should be going.” She squeaked out, already shuffling towards the door. 

“But I drove you here.” He protested through his teeth, but she was unwavering.

“I’ll find a way.” An agonized look crossed his face when he realized his only lifeline was about to walk out the door, but he found the restraint not to reach out for her, correctly coming to the conclusion that even the slightest movement of his hand might end in the two of you wrestling on the floor in a way he didn't have planned for the night. Instead, the door closed softly behind him and the house grew deafeningly silent. 

“You have 30 minutes to pack your shit.” Your back was already turned, wine glass halfway to being empty again, the whole bottle preparing to be drained as soon as you got your hands on it. 

“Wait, sweetheart, wait, don’t be so irrational.” By the sound of your stillness, he realized that was a dangerous road to try and go down. “That’s not what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that this is all one big mistake. It’s all my fault.” You chortled. 

“Obviously it’s your fault! Who else's fault could it be?” You were yelling. He could work with this. Or at least he thought there was something to work with. 

“Exactly, baby, and I am so sorry. Can’t you turn and look at me, just to see how sorry I am.” Had your right mind been thinking, you would’ve kept those high walls and not even given him the satisfaction, but something in you caved. Maybe it was the romantic in you. Maybe it was naivete. Either way, you turned to see him on his knees, supplicating at your feet, more than ready to spin straw into gold just to string you along even further. 

“Get up, Prince.” Your voice was softer than it should’ve been. Something moved within you, your heart, or maybe bile from the pits of your stomach moving in disgust. God this was all wrong. The ring on your finger seemed to tighten, but you couldn’t bear to look down to see if it was actually turning your finger blue. You’d get caught in your reflection, glimpses of the past and the promise that ring was supposed to mean. 

“Don’t you wanna yell at me, baby, don’t you just wanna get it all out. You don’t want me to walk away from this. From us.” When he reached out to grab your hand, you could barely turn your head away. Why were you so bad at this? Everyone else seemed to be so good at not giving a damn and here you were, digging your nails into your palms to remind you of what you were feeling. 

“I don’t have anything I want to argue about.” He darted his lips out to wet them, rubbing your skin with his thumb, leaning down to kiss your wrist. 

“We don’t have to argue, baby. I can just sit here and listen, alright. I’ll just take my licks so we can put this whole thing behind us. So, all of this doesn’t go to waste. So that all these years of work weren’t for nothing.” You squeezed your eyes shut. All he did was work. All this relationship was work. So much emotional labor and nights spent alone, planning a future for the two of you by yourself in the bed that was meant for a husband and wife. Wearing a ring that was supposed to be a symbol of a sacred oath and yet you were the only one keeping it. 

You looked down at it, then at him. It really was such a pretty ring. The bastard had good taste. 

“Get off your knees and go. I don’t wanna talk about this.” The storm was swelling. Expanding. It was leaping out of your chest and it felt like it was about to start pouring from your eyes. 

“You don’t wanna talk about this tonight, that’s what you mean. But we have tomorrow. And the day after that. And if you’re not ready then, we have until the sun ceases to rise, isn’t that right, pretty girl. My girl.” You felt sick. Absolutely sick. 

“I don’t wanna talk to you Prince. I don’t wanna look at you. I don’t even wanna think about you. Not tomorrow, not the day after that.”

“Just sleep on it, baby, just do that for me.” It was the exhaustion that made you speechless, or maybe your lips moved and simply nothing came out. But it was enough and later rather than sooner, nothing but the stupid cologne he wore lingered after he drove away. To where, you didn't want to know. You hoped he was on the highway to hell.  

Then, you moved your pretty legs to your bedroom and sat your pretty ass in the windowsill, and the fractured piece of you who maybe wasn’t romantic, but was still a dreamer nonetheless, found some joy in the shooting star that passed you by. You closed your eyes and cried the tears you had been holding for hours and you made a wish. 

More of a demand, really.