The Fear Of

Chapter Two


I find myself in the same silver BMW the morning after, although it's sad to say that I'm seated in the back. It's even sadder to say that I just might develop claustrophobia, being squished in between my two siblings and all. The saddest thing though is that I should be used to this particular arrangement by now. I mean, Carter and I carpool everyday to and from school, dropping Sam off to his before driving to our school which is where Lucy studies middle school as well. We're practically saving the world together from excessive fossil burning and greenhouse gases emission.

Suddenly, the passenger seat is opened by Blake Darling.

"Morning, baby, sorry for the wait," she purrs in an almost bashful manner—though how that could be remotely plausible, I'm not so sure—before landing a kiss on Carter's lips. Then, as if no exchanging of saliva has taken place, she smiles brightly at the three of us; in turn, my brother scowls (adorably).

He's never really liked her. I recall him asking her, "Your name is Blake, right? Why aren't you a boy?" the moment she pinched his cheeks for the first time, to Sam's chagrin. I don't blame him though. Just the thought of those French-tipped manicured nails digging into my skin makes me want to cringe in pain as well.

However, in Carter's case, I can totally see her appeal. Aside from radiating 'Hey, I'm sexy!' with her long legs that resemble those of a chicken's (in my opinion and let's just say that the male population does not exactly agree), obvious curves and full lips, she's definitely working the whole blue-eyed girl-next-door look.

From my left, I hear Lucy whisper in an agitated tone, "She dyed her hair… again." To which I whisper back, "Hey, play nice."

Lucy's feelings towards Blake are quite strange considering how, at first, my fourteen year old sister completely looked up to her in awe and adoration until she found out that Blake is actually Carter's steady girlfriend. For some odd reason, she's disliked her ever since. Perhaps my lovely sibling has a middle school crush on my somewhat best friend or perhaps not. Who really knows?

Glancing around the car, I notice Lucy rolling her bluish gray eyes as Blake excitedly recounts her experiences from her very recent trip to Paris. The one she just got back from, actually.

"You so should've been there with me! We could've gone to the Eiffel Tower together. It was really romantic, you know," she drones on with a melodious voice as her blue eyes practically sparkle at the thought.

I hear a tired sigh and a muttered "Bottomless pit, where art thou?"

I'm guessing that being a drama queen is a dominant trait in my family's gene pool.

"What was that?" It seems that Blake has noticed my sister's sardonic musings as she looks at us questioningly.

Politely, I smile at her. "Lucy was just complimenting your hair. I completely agree with her. Red really is your color."

Dear lord, I can practically feel an ominous stare from my left.

"Really?" the blonde-then-brunette-then-blonde-again-now-redhead says, eyes widening into two large saucers. "I got it dyed while I was in Paris. I just couldn't get Lucy's beautiful red hair from my mind. I was always jealous of her hair, you know, so I thought, 'Why don't I get my hair dyed?' and now look at us, Lucy! We're like sisters!"

"… Gee, I must be the luckiest girl ever."

"Aw, anyone would be lucky to have you as a sister, you know," Blake coos, oblivious to Lucy's biting sarcasm. Smiling, she turns her attention to the driver. "What do you think, baby? Do you like it now or do you like my hair from before?"

Barely sparing her a glance, Carter replies, "It doesn't matter what color your hair is. Everything suits you, babe."

"Oh stop it, you," she giggles while absentmindedly twirling a lock of said hair.

After a round of lovers' banter between the two, she returns her gaze on me and comments, "I think you should dye your hair black, Kaye. I mean, it'll contrast nicely with those light hazel-ish eyes of yours." Before I could respond, she adds, "Carter agrees with me. Don't you?"

Making eye contact with me through the rearview mirror, the faintest of boyish smirks tugs his lips as he comments, "She's herself. I think she shouldn't change a thing."

Oh stop it, you.


To the ever beautifully stubborn Katelyn May Fisher,

You left your The Hunger Games book in my room… again… for the ninth time. And yeah, I did count. I think your odd fondness for numbers is rubbing off on me, just like your adorable habit of writing letters. Not that I'm complaining or anything.

Anyway, I never did understand why you like that book nor did I understand why you have a compulsion to read it over and over again. What's the name of that guy you're obsessed with? Peter? Oh, well, we're both blonde.

… Does that mean you're obsessed with me too? I'm highly, highly flattered.

Just kidding, Kaye! I can imagine your face right now. The look of incredulity and surprise, it's priceless.

Don't hit me, all right? I know you, and I know that instead of appreciating the fact that I'm taking the time to write you a heartfelt letter, you'd roll your eyes because of my apparent ego. That was a load of sarcasm, by the way. I don't have an ego, just good humor… the kind that you lack, apparently.

Again, I'm just kidding!

I think I should wrap this thing up because in less than fifteen minutes, the teacher would come in and we'd have to take that Chemistry quiz which I didn't really prepare for – okay, I kind of did. But still, it's Chemistry. Oh yeah, about that, may the odds be ever in your favor!

… Yeah, I decided to read the book too, just to know why you like it so much. It's pretty good. Though my knowledge of literature isn't as extensive as yours, I'm sure.

I should really stop writing. Bye, Kaye! :)

Forever yours,


P.S. Do you mind lending me that Catching Fire book soon? Thanks.



Damn. Damn. Damn.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

That one-syllable swear word bounces to and fro in my head as my eyes scan the offensive scrap of paper over and over again. Well, damn.

Carter, you unbelievably dense jerk.

Mentally shaking the horde of thoughts away, I grab the leather-bound notebook from my bag.

I really hate you right now, Carter. I swear on your goldfish's gravestone –

Trying to control my vexation, I acquaint myself with the notebook's familiar appearance. Its black leather cover looks worn and quite frankly, abused. Little wrinkles forming a somewhat vertical line wink at me in the harsh, fluorescent lighting, evidences of the countless number of times I have opened this journal.

I find myself absentmindedly fingering the gold and gray curlicues that adorn its front before I open the fairly dilapidated book and turn it to the next clean sheet.


Letter No. 106

Letter to Carter No. 54


You unbelievably dense jerk. You immensely clueless loser. You absolute idiot!

Why are you doing this to me? How dare you do this to me? How dare you write a letter meant for me!

For crap's sake, can't you be a normal guy for once and tell me about the book in person and wish me luck on the test in person? Really, I'm just angry right now. I can't even find the right words to express my resentment towards you at the moment.

… I say 'right now' and 'at the moment' because I know that God forbid I stay mad at you for the rest of my life. I think you're aware of that too.

But still. Come on, a letter? Are you kidding me? You know how I am. You know how writing letters is the only thing that keeps my feelings in check. It's my only release from all of my pent-up emotions.

Let's be honest here, Carter, you stupid, stupid boy. I can't dance my frustration out nor do I have the pleasure – or the confidence, for that matter – to express my deepest sadness in musical notes. I certainly lack any instrument-playing talent. And I don't have the patience to meditate on mountains… or hills, whichever you prefer. Needless to say, I'm stuck with writing letters. And it just so happens that out of the blue, you decided to write one addressed to me. Not only that but you also called my habit 'adorable' which means you called me 'adorable'.

I do not like this. I do not like this at all.

I mean… how likable and irresistible are you trying to be, huh? It's bad enough that I can't seem to get you out of my head, and I keep finding myself looking forward to seeing you and talking to you, but now you write letters. That's just great. That's just completely perfect.

Can I ask you something, Carter Logan Tanner? Why are you making it so damn easy for me to fall harder for you?

Much resentment,

Kaye Fisher

P.S. This is just another letter of mine that you'll probably never read because I don't have the guts to show this – or any of my letters addressed to you, actually – to, well, you. Call me a coward but I can't lose you as a friend, okay? I just can't.


Keep calm and write a letter, Kaye. Keep calm and write a letter.

Keep calm and write a letter. This is the mantra that keeps me together. This is how I let go, and this is how I hold on.

Author's Note:

Like I mentioned last time, I've been working on this particular piece since March 2012 which would explain how this entire story was written and why it was written this way.

Take a look at the reference to The Hunger Games (which is one of the first dystopian novels I've read, by the way). At that time, I was very hyped up about the book's movie adaptation. (Not to mention how much of a fan girl I was for the gorgeousness that is Peeta Mellark who unfortunately wasn't as gorgeous in the movie. But I digress.) Also, the repeated use of the word 'damn' is due to Avril Lavigne's song, I Wish You Were Here, which at that time, was stuck in my head. These are only a couple of tidbits that affected how this story came to be. So in a way, you're actually reading about my life and what I was obsessed with from 2012 to 2013. How is that for a fun fact?

Anyway, thank you to all those beautiful people who decided to follow me and/or this story! I hope you would take some time to leave a review and to tell me what you think about this chapter (and maybe even beg me to update faster - hint, hint).

Copyright Eiya Weathes (Author ID: 697805). All Rights Reserved.