A/N: I was MIA because of school, but thanks to everyone for reviewing.

Cataclysm

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

Chapter Eleven

When Imogen first noticed that the writer she was dating didn't ever actually seem to be writing - an observation which hadn't taken long to form - she tried to chalk it up to writer's block, distraction, or privacy; something that was understandable, reasonable or simple. Whenever she would ask him what he was doing, it was something mundane and ordinary; watching horror movies, about to call his parents, going to dinner with Adam, working on his car. Not writing. Never writing. When she had first become acquainted with his messy basement apartment, she had noticed a pile of notebooks in the corner of his bedroom that - though not entirely untouched - whenever a change in position occurred, Imogen was compelled to attribute it to an accidental jostling.

Months passed since they began seeing each other, and Eli never brought up his writing as so much as a hobby, let alone his career. Imogen had thought that perhaps once he started his workshop circuit, he'd fall back into it but, if anything, he grew more reserved about the subject. To have him divulge even in the progress of his students was a mission and Imogen eventually stopped trying.

When they moved into their new apartment, Imogen noticed that his pile of notebooks was now hidden in a box in their closet. She had offered to unpack it on his desk, but he dismissed the idea. Clutter, he called it. Imogen wasn't sure why this was so frustrating to her, but the lack of answers was slowly driving her insane. So one night, when Eli had passed out in front of the TV, a book forgotten on his chest and his body sprawled across the couch, she eased open their closet door and pulled open the cardboard flaps of the box.

There must have been fifty spiral notebooks settled in dust, but Imogen never touched even one. On top, a red notebook sat, settled open to one of the center pages.

I have nothing worth saying. Happy now?

The words were messy and cryptic, and although Imogen wanted to be offended that he had expected her to go looking, she was overcome with a curious guilt. Carefully, she returned the box to where she had found it.

Imogen never addressed what she had found or what it meant, and the mystery of those words faded to the back of her mind.

"Imo, can you pass me a new pen?"

She looked up to Eli's smiling face, startled as he broke her from her reverie. She hadn't been paying attention to him that morning after waking to find him hunched over a notebook, scribbling furiously. Instead, she had been lost in her thoughts, staring blankly at the empty couch where, hours earlier, esoteric Clare Edwards had been passed out, drunk.

She forced a smile as she gently handed him a pen, thinking bitterly to herself; clearly, he had found something worth saying.

Eli felt like he'd been lying in bed for days, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. Imogen sighed and shifted beside him, but he couldn't focus on her for more than a few seconds. He nearly giggled as he brought a gentle finger to his grinning mouth. His lips were numb. He felt fifteen years old, giddy and sleepless while his mind reeled with adrenaline. His heart was pounding, and his stomach was tingling. God, was he meant to be a writer because this was exactly the thing great novels were made of.

Imogen's hand suddenly landed on his shoulder, and he rolled over to face the wall, no intention of relinquishing this trance.

He wondered if she was awake, if she was feeling like this, if her blood was hot with passion but her fingers were cold with disbelief. He wondered if she'd read his note yet. Not that she needed to anymore. He smiled again, another laugh bubbling in his stomach as he retraced the simple words in his mind.

I hope to God you mean it, because I never stopped loving you.

He had been so sure that everything about Clare was embedded in his mind like a seared brand; he had enshrined the smell of her hair, the feel of her skin, the freckles on her nose in thousands of notebooks of poems, and love scenes, and two-sentence scribbles. The taste of her lips had haunted him in dreams he once called nightmares. If there was one thing he had believed, it was that he knew Clare better than anything else and he always would. And now, lying in his bed smiling and dragging fingers across his mouth, he realized how abundantly wrong that was as he acknowledged a more agonizingly addictive taste than had ever graced his tongue before.

He needed her.

"Headache, sweetie?"

Clare sat at her kitchen table, face downward as she rubbed small circles into her temples.

"Yes, and this is the last thing I need." What I need is to crawl under a rock and stay there forever.

"Want me to call in to work for you?" Clare sighed.

"No, I'll manage." She got up, turning her back quickly to avoid facing Jake and busying herself with the toaster.

"Just as well," he said coming up behind her, "I'll be at the office late so I won't be around to take care of you." Clare stiffened just as his hand found her waist softly.

"On second thought, I could use a date with the couch and the TV. This will just make me the grouchiest waitress in the city, anyhow." She turned again, trying to duck past Jake's arms before he could catch her attention.

"Hey, slow down," he laughed, trapping her against the counter and peering under her bangs. "Can't a guy give his suffering girlfriend a feel-better kiss?" Clare shifted uncomfortably, refusing eye contact.

"I just don't want you to catch something in case it's... more than a headache, you know?" Jake straightened up, his face falling slightly at her half-heartedly excused rejection.

"Okay," he said softly. Clare, overwhelmed with guilt, finally looked up to meet his saddened eyes and was about to open her mouth and apologize when the sudden pop of the toaster startled them both. Jake let out a huffy breath and made his way to the living room while Clare buttered her bread.

"I'll call you at lunch," he called over to her from the doorway, briefcase in hand. Clare nodded, her eyes still shifting around the room instead of settling on him. When she heard the door shut behind him, she dropped her breakfast on the counter and threw her hands into her hair, tugging as hard as she could to diffuse the scream bubbling in her throat.

Clare didn't know how many more days she could waste away on feelings of guilt and emptiness. Jake had left for work an hour ago, and she had been sitting on the couch the entire time, stiff posture causing a pinch in her spine, all the while staring at her cold, soggy toast.

Her instinct was to berate her decision to let her guard down - to berate herself for being so weak at the suggestion of a familiar smirk and a familiar kiss. But she'd been through that so many times already. How often was she going to do this before she accepted that Eli would always be able to get to her, and there was nothing she could do about it?

No, she was going to suppress that instinct and examine how she really felt... no guilt, no anger, just what was left without all of those pre-programmed emotions of morality.

She imagined that hallway, his hands on her hips and the feeling of his hot breath against her nose. How her knees had felt weak, but she'd been far too paralyzed to tremble. She imagined the white-hot shivers that had run through her while they kissed, how she'd all but begged him not to stop and how happy she had been when he didn't.

Eli was the only person who kissed her like that. No one else had ever paralyzed her, made her shiver, made her beg. And that scared the hell out of her.

So, she felt scared. Not guilty, not angry, but scared.

"Damn it!" she screamed suddenly, unable to stop herself. She had thrown herself against the back of the couch, tears springing to her eyes almost instantly.

What good was it to finally consider her true feelings if all she could come up with was scared?

What the hell am I supposed to do with scared?

She suddenly felt the overwhelming desire to talk to someone, to tell someone everything and let them help her with this chaos. But the truth was, and Clare knew this, that she had no one to go to. She'd cut ties with everyone.

She'd vanished from her old job, she'd stopped speaking with her ex-fiance and all of her friends. She hadn't even logged into Facerange since Julia was alive.

Ashamed, Clare realized that even her parents didn't know she'd moved back into the city. She'd become the second Edwards daughter to disappear, only calling from an undisclosed location on Christmas and birthdays.

Did she even have a relationship with God anymore?

She'd created this world where all she had was a shell of herself, and her boyfriend. She blew-off anybody's attempts to get close to her. Why was she doing this to herself? Because...

"Because I'm a terrible person. A terrible friend who can't be trusted," she mumbled to herself. She thought back to the day Eli had fought back with her, calling her a bad friend. He was right and she knew it - even then she'd known it. Especially then.

Julia was the only friend Clare had ever truly loved, but she'd betrayed her. And the entire time, their entire life, she had let Julia remain oblivious. She had let her remain trusting Clare, loving Clare, turning to Clare and supporting Clare.

And then she'd died before Clare could ever tell her and now Clare had to deal with the ultimate karmic justice; living with it forever.

Clare set her head back gently, looking at the ceiling. She reached out blindly for a pillow and pulled it against her chest, desperate for a physical presence to comfort her but knowing no one in her life could provide that for real.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Julia... Julia, I'm so, so sorry." She chanted the words quietly while thick tears fell quietly from her eyes, all the while knowing that there was no one to forgive her.