1: Trouble In Paradise

The back of a burly hand collides with a delicate cheek, sending a petite, twenty-year-old sideways into the kitchen wall. Shaken, wincing at the numbness vibrating through the side of her face, she slides down lemon yellow wallpaper into a huddle on brown linoleum.

Blades of a dusty ceiling fan whirs through humid air, having no effect on Texas' sunbelt in the beginning of August with each 'tink' of plastic bead on white glass trapping her in the present.

Annoyed that the cooling unit in her bedroom is not strong enough to fill the apartment, she catches a glimpse of the open window above an empty, white sink and wonders how many ears know Clyde and Harper are having trouble in paradise -again-.

Defending herself with quick forearms when he drops to his knees, she guards her face from another attack when large hands volley. Missing completely after a few thwarted blows, he savagely punches the wall beside her head and her heart skips a beat.

Frozen with fists up, glancing from his reddened, sweat covered face to the gaping hole in drywall beside her, she blinks as he slowly removes freshly open knuckles and inspects them.

Harper is speechless by how quickly this escalated from asking one question to nearly having her face bashed in.

Rising to his feet, he grabs fistfuls of her navy scrubs to bring her up with him. Naked toes struggle to grab the recently swept floor as she clasps his wrists for support to keep from damaging one of her last, surviving uniforms.

Staring into sea-green eyes she once fawned over, saliva sprays her cheeks when he roars at her like a stranger, "Don't fuckin' worry about where I've been."

Shaking her like a tornado tube, Harper can't bring herself to look at him; this was the first time he made her feel so alone while standing in front of her.

Swallowing the worry that something bad happened to him, she wishes he never came back at all from this four-day disappearing act.

"Fine!" she shouts, messy brown hair from a loose ponytail shielding her face. The two stand still in silence, an oblivious, dark-brown cockroach moseying past before Clyde decides to let her go.

Balling fists at her sides, contemplating if a lifetime in jail is worth murdering him so he can't put her through this again, she watches him sway to the 're-homed from upstairs' kitchen table in the two-bedroom apartment.

Taking a hearty swig of canned, ice cold beer that dribbles down a stubbled jaw, he wipes his mouth dry with the inside of his unbuttoned, short-sleeve, gray shirt.

Tugging a white undershirt from inside black, belted jeans, Clyde lifts the fabric to smear away sticky sweat pouring from his forehead.

Angry at herself for staring too long, wishing she knew sooner that his washboard abs weren't worth the heartache, hazel eyes pinpoint truck keys hanging out of the crystal dish next to her television.

Inching towards the living room, she glances at the puddle darkening the fabric covering his muscular spine in time to catch dirty fingers comb back short, brown hair.

Droplets of sweat trickle down his neck onto the collar of his over-shirt before grabbing a bag of frozen peas from the freezer for his fist.

Focused on getting as far from here as possible, she frowns when she remembers there's nowhere else to go...

Isolated from her family by the twisted persuasion that everyone in her life was against them, she swallows the guilt of driving eight hours away to ask for help knowing they tried to warn her.

Knowing they have no reason to help her. Knowing she couldn't blame them if they turned their backs on her.

Eyes burning red with the sting of freshly brewed tears, she looks at the framed photo on her foldable end table.

Reminiscing an eternity ago in the time it takes for him to finish guzzling liquid amber, the lonely girl cowers when he crushes empty metal in his fist before cracking open another to drink in the open door of the refrigerator.

Oh, she would give anything to go back to her best friend's birthday party a year ago– back to when she had friends. Back to when she made straight A's and saved every penny of precious grant money. Back before a silver-tongued charmer with experience etched in his eyes rode into town on a two-wheeled, air of mystery that tricked her into thinking she was in love.

Love.

She was here because he convinced her to transfer to the school near his hometown, since he knew she was the one for him.

Clyde couldn't handle any more stretches of days where he had to face the world without his true love; after meeting the Sophomore at a college party following his freshman brother's orientation week, they fought valiantly to keep their long distance relationship intact.

The dashing, four-years-older suitor would go out of his way to visit two weekends a month, foot the bill on all their dates, and still gift her little souvenirs from random gas stations and airports that he collected along his travels.

It was easy to talk about how they could raise kids in the small-town of his youth, instead of the increasingly dangerous city she was from.

He would work to help her finish school and get started in her pre-Pharmacy career, then she would do the same for him before they had kids.

They were still so young and wanted to give their future kids the best life.

But nothing was going according to plan.

He told her less about himself, day by day, and she didn't know if he was -really- gone more, or if it was all in her head because she, herself, always seemed to be at school or work.

Too much time was passing with promises unkept, and mysteries remaining unsolved; Harper was rapidly approaching her wits' end as the stress of summer classes at a new school while working part-time as a receptionist to keep a roof over their eloped heads was catching up to her.

Frowning in disgust, the putrid scent of death in his barley burp dizzies her off the side of "Memory Lane" when he cuts through her path. Tracking chunks of dry mud across the aged cream carpet of her sublet unit, he plops down on the brown couch.

Watching the way he gets comfortable in 'their' home that she cleans and pays for, the mere sound of his breathing annoys her.

How could someone like her end up in such a predicament?

Harper never thought that she'd have to use savings, and the remainder of her student loan money, to cover expenses that he -assured- her he would handle.

Glaring at filthy boots being propped on the coffee table, he kicks them off his feet. Falling to the floor with a heavy thud, crusty pieces fall free.

Grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the surface of fading varnish that sat here when they moved in, he traps a sin-stick between his lips before pulling the black, plastic ashtray closer and throwing the pack beside it.

Lighting the chemically treated herb in a supposedly smoke-free rental, "Don't look at me like that," he sits up, planting white-socked feet on the floor and blowing smoke to the side through tight lips.

Innocently, he musters a "What?"

Catching hazel eyes bounce from him to the door, he jumps to his feet and nearly flies around the coffee table. Crossing his arms while blocking her from the dish holding her keys, he gets in her face before she can successfully lay hands on the tools that could bring her salvation.

Pointing past her face, the swift movement elicits a gasping cower, "You think I like treating you like that?" She follows his hand to look at the hole in the kitchen wall.

Taking another drag from his cigarette, "It's for your own good."

Turning to face him again, she flinches when rough hands try for a gentle caress on her chin, "Knowing things puts you in danger."