My Bully's Crush

Chapter 3: ELENA

And so began a whirlwind of chaos. I had what you might call a manic episode spurred on by her words of encouragement and locked myself away in my room, rereading all that I had poured out of my heart during these past three years of hell.

Some of the words seemed so foreign to my eyes that had it not been my writing; I would've suspected someone else of planting them. By the time I came up for breath, it was growing dark outside, and Sydney was long gone.

The ice cream, at least one of them, was a melted puddle of cream and sauce and soggy fruit, and I was reminded once again that I hadn't had anything to eat all day, but there was no hint of hunger in me.

I had another hunger brewing, one that left me ravenous. It had been so long since I'd had the urge to do anything artistic that that too felt foreign, but when I looked back over all that I had done in the last few hours, I found that I had created three new songs from my pitiful ramblings.

I was more surprised by the fact that no one had come to bother me in all this time than by my progress. Usually, Rachel or my aunt or uncle would've popped their head in by now, but when I listened for any sound coming from downstairs, there was none.

I wiped the fatigue from my eyes, and that's when I saw the note that Sydney had left on the pillow for me to find. I hadn't seen it yet because, at some point, I'd moved myself to the carpeted floor of my bedroom, surrounded by sheets of discarded paper that I had no recollection of using.

Now I know why no one had bothered me. To give me some time, my friend had lied to the home's other occupants that I'd taken one of my pills and gone to bed. Since everyone was very well aware that I usually did that after an interview, that that was my preferred method of escape, no one doubted her.

I gave some thought to heading downstairs to prepare a meal, but just the thought of moving away from what I was doing made me feel tired, so I dove right back into writing and rearranging.

It was another few hours before fatigue kicked in, and the words began to blur on the page. As much as I wanted to push myself, I knew from experience that I'd pay the price the next day, well, today, since it was already three o'clock in the morning.

So, I forced myself to get up and head into the en suite bathroom for a much-needed shower and to work the kinks out from sitting in one place for too long. The shower revived me, and I was back at it before the water dried on my skin.

Wrapped in a comfy old robe, I climbed up onto the bed this time and settled down to do some serious work. Leave it to Sydney; she always knows what to do. It was just a stroke of luck that I'd run back up here to my room after the maid had cleaned it and made the bed to jot my thoughts down as a kind of exercise before heading out to the interview.

Had I not done that, she'd have never found my journal, and none of this would be happening. I wrote furiously until the sun came up. Turning the words I'd written in my darkest moments into art. My mind felt the clearest it had been in some time, and there was a little spark of hope for the first time in way too long.

I smiled down at the finished work, feeling a sense of pride, but as much as I was tempted to rush to my home studio, I knew that I would be no good to do that now on no sleep. Still, the tunes ran through my head after I put everything away in my little hiding spot and settled down to sleep, pulling the covers up beneath my chin and letting the first strains of sleep take me.

The next afternoon I went downstairs feeling fresh and renewed. Only Rachel was there in the kitchen on her phone, which she hung up with a smile as soon as I walked in. “Hi, sleepyhead. How many of those pills did you take anyway? You've been asleep for hours."

It took me a minute to figure out what she was talking about, and when it came to me, I put a smile on my face and carried on with the façade, not willing to throw Sydney under the bus for lying to them. “I must've overdosed myself. I was just that tired. You know how I am after one of those things."

“That's true. So, what did you and Sydney talk about yesterday?" There goes that jealousy thing again.

“Nothing much; we just did a little bit of catching up." Her eyes followed me as I emptied the destroyed sundae down the sink and washed the dish before placing it in the dishwasher.

No matter how much help I have, old habits are hard to break, and mom was not the type to let her teenage daughter slack on household chores no matter how famous she was. “Oh, cool. Are you doing anything special today? Or are you just staying in?"

“I have no plans on stepping out those doors for at least a week. Why? Did you want to do something?"

“No, I just figured I'd run some errands if you didn't need me for anything." I waved my hand dismissively and urged her to go ahead and enjoy her day.

I was halfway through the sandwich I'd made myself when she headed out the door. I listened for the sound of the engine before bolting back up the stairs, my heart beating with excitement. A part of my mind was asking if this was really happening.

If, after all these years, my creative juices were finally making a comeback. After the hell that was my life, I seriously thought that it was over, that I'd never put pen to paper again, at least not to write music. But who knew that my dark despair would become something like this?

I guess what they say is true. Heartbreak makes artists more prolific than days of sunshine; what a depressing thought. I took my stuff from its hidey hole and headed upstairs on the top floor, which housed the studio that I hadn't used in years.

I was almost afraid to open the door, not knowing what state the place was in. But on first inspection, it was obvious that the place had been kept up by the staff. There wasn't a speck of dust in sight, and everything was pretty much just as I remembered it from the last time I was here.

Had it really been three long years since I'd been up here? After acting for a good ten years, starting at six, I found my love for singing. Not that I was ready to give up acting, never that, but I found another escape in writing and producing music that told a story.

These were my words and not a script that someone else had written for me to read off of. And so there was a different kind of pride attached. I'd even won an award my breakout year to go along with the many I'd received for my acting.

I'd been receiving a lot of accolades just before my world imploded, but it's been some time since my name had been mentioned in the tabloids for anything other than the scandal that had derailed my existence. Why am I thinking about that now?

Too much time spent on those thoughts, and I was sure to climb back into my shell. Somehow today, the thought of climbing into bed with the covers over my head wasn't as appealing as it had been the day before and all the others before then.

The process of setting up the mic brought back beautiful memories, and by the time I locked myself in the booth, I was feeling more like my old self. With my eyes closed, I could almost believe I was back there once again. The young free-flying me that didn't have a care in the world. The me who was so in love that beautiful music had been my expression.

It took some time for my voice to warm up, but once it did, the sound of my sultry tones, that rasp that had earned me so much praise, brought me halfway back to life. I cried and laughed through the first song as the music came naturally, the lyrics and the beat that had been playing in my head all night just flowing with perfection.

I wanted to call Sydney to commiserate once the first song was done, but I didn't want to stop just yet, lest I throw myself off my stride. Besides, I already had the second song lined up in my head and wanted to get it out before I forgot it.

I was there for hours, stopping and restarting until I had the first three songs of what I was beginning to think just might be enough for an album down. Of course, there was a lot of work to be done, but I figured by the time I got the rest of my team involved, I'd have done half the work.

This was the first time I'd gone solo, with no collaboration, something I'd always been afraid to do, and it felt great. I felt a huge sense of achievement by the end of it and was amazed that the whole day had gone by, and not once had I felt sorry for myself.

I hadn't given my life much thought and instead had gotten lost in the music and the new feeling of rebirth I felt as I got back to doing something that I loved. I crept from the studio in the late evening to a house that had already gone to sleep, it seemed like, and made myself a cup of tea with lemon and honey to help soothe my overworked throat.

There was sound coming from Rachel's room down the hall, and my aunt and uncle had already retired for the night. I felt a slight pang of guilt that I hadn't seen them two nights in a row and promised to make up for it the next day.

They'd moved in with me when things had gone bad for me, and mom was too busy taking care of my little brother and her new husband to drop everything and rush to her adult daughter's side. Not that she wasn't of any help, she has been, of course, and I'm forever grateful for all that she's done after everything I put her through. And I know that she'd asked my aunt, her older sister, and her husband to move in with me for a while to keep an eye on things.

I'm sure she had no idea that it would drag on for three years or that most of those years would be just as hard on them and everyone else who had a hand in trying to get me back on my feet. A look at my watch told me that it was too late to call Sydney, who usually went to the recording studio rather early in the morning, and since she was in the middle of recording her own upcoming masterpiece, I decided that I would also call her the next day.

I was almost halfway to my room when I changed tack and headed up the stairs that had once led to servant's quarters but had been turned into my own personal studio when I bought the place. For a split second, I was reminded of all the dreams I'd had for the space back then.

The many hours I'd spent here with him. I waited for the usual feeling of loss and despair to attack, but surprisingly this time, all I felt was anger with a little touch of hate. “F*ck him!"