Watching Her Chapter 9 - Angel

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Chapter 9 - Angel - Lilo and Stitch
Angel is very sweet, beautiful, and loving. She also has a sneaky and feisty side.

"There you are, just in time, too." Maggie cackles in her way as I walk in to the kitchen, juggling the bags from the store. I heave them onto the counter and hand her the can of green chiles we need for dinner.

Frowning, she glowers at the offensive can. "It's Forks, Mags, not Phoenix. It's the only choice we've got." I smile slightly at her muttering under her breath about how canned is just not the same as fresh and wonder how green chile enchiladas are supposed to taste good with ones that come from a can.

She looks up when she hears the quiet laugh I try to keep inside slip between the fingers that cover my mouth. I give her one more small smile and then put the rest of the groceries away, feeling bad that a smile's all I have to offer her after such a long time. Then again, she should know better after all these months … it's the vicious, unending circle we live in.

The buzz of the electric can opener startles me. She moves efficiently, pouring the contents into the pot on the stove. Onion, cilantro, a hint of cayenne pepper mix with the pungent aroma of the chiles and my mouth begins to water. I close my eyes and fight back the flood of homesickness that wells up in my throat, so thick it's hard to swallow. Tamping down memories that serve no purpose other than to remind me of what might have been, I carefully fold the cloth bags I took to the store with me. It's totally unnecessary, but it helps to lock down those thoughts nice and tight and bury them deep in the recesses of my mind where they need to stay.

"Bella, can you finish up, I need to …" Maggie trails off, not wanting or needing to finish her statement. Of course I know where she's going, what she's doing. It's the same as it is day after day after day. It never changes.

I finish putting the enchiladas together, purposely trying to keep my mind off of last night, but as has been the case all damn day, I fail miserably. I sprinkle cheese over the top, cover the dish with tin foil, and set it in the oven. I slam the door harder than I should, frustration and confusion war inside of me and it makes me feel on edge. I hate it … hate him, whoever the hell he is … for making me feel this way.

The food smells delicious, but it seems like such a waste because Maggie should know by now that I'll only pick at the food … eating a big, heavy meal, even if it's one of my favorites, doesn't appeal to me at all. Then again there's not a whole lot that appeals to me lately, well, for years really.

I wander around the house, knowing that at some point I'll need to make a decision about tonight. To go back outside or not - that's truly the question. Finding myself in the one room of the house where I'm guaranteed to be left completely alone, I sit and think about what it all means. I should be freaked out and for the most part am … I mean who does that, watches someone? But the more I thought about it last night and all day today, I realize that I like it.

Throwing my head back, I slouch down in the well-worn and much-used chair and close my eyes. The steady sounds that I always hear, even when I sleep, even when I play, fill the room. The sounds, I'm sure, for most people are somewhat calming, but for me it's just the opposite, always the opposite. The alternative though, of not hearing the sounds, terrifies me beyond belief.

Guilt, all-consuming and unceasing, swamps me and I quickly stand up, needing to flee somewhere … anywhere. I know where I want to go, but can I? Glancing down at the clock whose numbers are always moving toward … something, I know it's way, way earlier than I ever go outside, but maybe that means I'll be alone. The thought isn't as comforting as it should be.

I go in search of Maggie, and find her in her room, packing. Everyone always leaves … everyone but me. "I need some air. I'll be outside," I tell her, my voice flat and purposely colder than it should be, than she deserves.

"Bella, I'll be back in a few days, just like always. Kate knows what to do," she tells me as she lays some folded clothes in her suitcase.

I shrug. It's not like Kate's a bad person, because she's not, but she's not Maggie and Maggie … well as much as I love her, she won't ever be who I need her to be.

When I don't say anything else, Maggie looks up. "It's pretty early for you to be going outside."

I shrug again, not exactly sure how to answer her so I choose to say nothing. I am early, hours as a matter-of-fact, but my fingers are itching to play. She looks at me, the same look that's a mixture of worry and pity shows in her eyes and there's a slight frown on her face. I don't acknowledge it though, I just … can't. Not right now. Not when my mind's scattered as much as it is.

"Tell me when I need to come back inside." The guilt for needing to escape at all makes it hard to breathe. It's hard enough leaving for the little bit of respite I find in the wee hours of the morning, knowing that at any moment, things could be all better or my world could come crashing down around me. Right now, to take that chance for a little peace, is like picking at a scab, just to see what will happen. "Have a safe trip," I tell her before turning quickly and flying down the hallway and out the side door.

Stepping inside my space, I take a deep breath. The fuckery from last night notwithstanding, it's still my favorite place to be. It's different being out here this early though, when the dark isn't so pervasive and the silence not so deafening in its completeness. I take another breath and concentrate on releasing the tension from my body, starting with my neck and shoulders and then down. By the time I flex and curl my toes, I feel better … at least until I open my eyes and see the notebook splayed open.

I walk toward it carefully, still not convinced that maybe I didn't just dream the whole thing up. Another step and the handwriting that's much too neat to come from anyone my age taunts me from the upturned page. Well, so much for wishful thinking.

I bend down and pick up the worn notebook and read the letter again. It really doesn't sound as bad as it did last night. In fact … it's kind of sweet. I admit to myself, even though it's uncomfortable to do so, that the fact someone, anyone, cares enough about me to not only listen to me play, but enjoy it to the point that they drove out of town and back to buy me drumsticks just so I can finish a song, is more than a little flattering.
Sighing, I find myself thinking more about the gesture itself and less about the ick factor of being watched.

How long has it been since someone has been interested in me? Since someone has reached out to try to get to know me? Since I've had a friend?

The quick answer is too damned long … but it's most definitely not a simple answer.

Seemingly of their own accord, my fingers grab a pen and I curl up in the corner of the loveseat and begin to write. I know what I want, the only question is, will it hurt me in the end?
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