Going Home.

Chapter 1

Brooke's point of view.

God damn door! God damn lock! Who invented the torture device known as a lock? Seriously, you try getting the key into the tiny hole after six martini's and a couple of margarita's! I tell you, it's the devil's creation this and he's sitting somewhere staring into his magic ball or whatever and watching me right now, laughing his tail off!

The bastard!

After I break a nail and drop my keys another three times, the door swings open and I seriously think about bursting into song. Something dramatic and striking, something that will capture my victory perfectly, but all that pops into my head is that 'Chariot's of Fire' song and I really don't know the words to that. Now that I think about it, are there even words in it?

I don't think so, but I'm distracted by the blinking red light on my answering machine.

Ah yes, fame comes with a price. I'm in demand, so much so that three a clock in the morning is about the only time I ever get to spend alone. Yup, it's hard work being Brooke Davis. The twenty seven new messages waiting for me is just proof of that. I sit down on my favorite couch, the one that faces my large windows and gives me a view that still steals my breath a little and press play. Hmm...the lights are so pretty, especially as I see basically double of them all thanks to the alcohol.

By message thirteen I'm bored. It's all the same thing.

'Brooke, dahling! There's a launch this Friday and Victoria's signed you on. We need you there for at least a few hours with one of those fabulous designs of yours! I'll have my assistant email you with the details.'

Message 14.

'Brooke, the shoot has been pushed forward to Thursday, so you'll need to fly out to Los Angeles a day earlier. I've already set everything up with Marco, the photographer, so all you have to do is make sure the clothes are perfect. Don't disappoint me, a lot is riding on this shoot. And don't be late tomorrow, I've got meetings set up with three other magazines that want to do both interviews and shoot the new line.'

Mommy dearest, oh joy!

It's all the same thing, really. Brooke needs to make an appearance here, Brooke needs to go smile pretty for the camera and sell herself to a magazine reporter. Brooke needs to go make sure the models know how to dress themselves.

Brooke Davis is a lifestyle now, not an actual person anymore. She's a clothes line and a party girl and a face plastered on a magazine. She's what every girl wants to be as well as what every girl wants to wear. She's the American Dream of beauty and success.

At least that's what Victoria says.

Sometimes I think that's true though, Brooke Davis is nothing more than an illusion. She's a memory of someone that used to exist, that used to have some power and say in her own life.

Now I'm just an image, a dress up doll for mother to play with. I sometimes wonder when I lost myself so completely, but deep down I know the answer. I know exactly when I lost myself, why I lost myself and most importantly, because of who I lost myself.

And as if the universe could actually read my mind, a voice I haven't heard in months suddenly fill my apartment.

'Brooke, hey, it's Haley. Look, I don't know if this is the right thing to do, because maybe it would be better if she tells you this herself, but...she...God, this is harder than I thought it would be. Brooke, he asked her to marry him and...and she said yes. I'm sorry, Brooke. I just thought I'd warn you. Call me, okay? Please call me and we can talk about it.'

I can hear music in the background as well as loud, happy voices and I can almost imagine Haley standing there, surrounded by those people with a worried frown on her face. I can hear the hesitation in the soft sigh before her voice filters through again.

'I'm here for you, Brooke. So just...call.'

Message number 15 broke my heart. Well, what was left of it anyway.

She's getting married.

Peyton Sawyer is getting married and I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. Actually...Oh crap!

By the time my knees hit the bathroom floor I'm sweaty and shivering, my body convulsing as I gratefully grab hold of the toilet bowl and vomit. I don't know if it's because of the booze or the shock or just the simple fact that the intense pain that shot through my chest was just too much for my body to handle, but I throw up like a kid that had a hotdog before going on a rollercoaster.

It's really not a pretty site.

I manage to drag myself up off the floor and immediately I pull my dress over my head, my bra and panties joining it on the floor seconds later as I make my way to the shower. I turn the cold water on full blast, hoping the cool water will sober me fully, because God knows I have a lot to think about now. So here I am, standing freezing my ass off in a shower while I try not to cry.

I've done enough crying over Peyton Sawyer, had my fill of it after that summer we spent together when we finished high school. So I'm not going to do it now, not after four years of silence on both our parts, not after pretending for years that she didn't break my heart when she left me to go back to Lucas. Not after trying so hard to forget her face and her smile and the sound of her voice when she said my name.

Hell no! I wont cry. These aren't tears running down my cheeks, it's just water from the shower. It really is.

I'm not crying because I miss her and I'm not crying over the fact that after all these years, Haley's message still managed to have such an effect on me. That the thought that she really picked him, that she really loves him, hurts more than anything has in a very long time. So no, I'm not crying, not over any of those things, because it is just water running down my face, nothing more.

By the time I get out of that shower I'm pruney, not a good look on anyone really, but I like to think I pull it off. I'm also completely sober and I'm starting to think that's a mistake, because now I can actually think clearly. That was never something I enjoyed very much, it only ever got me into trouble.

Like the time I started to think about why I was never as happy with anyone else as when I was with Peyton, like when I started to wonder how it would feel to kiss her, really kiss her. Kiss her with lips and tongue and reckless abandon, which I did in the end. Yet for all my thinking and kissing, look where it got me.

Okay, so I'm rich and hot and live in a penthouse apartment, but you know what I mean.

It got me nowhere, because I'm alone in my fancy apartment, my hot body hasn't been worshiped in longer than anyone would believe and the money is useless if there's no one to spend it on. And now she's getting married to broody fucking Lucas. Who's poor and lives in his mother's old house writing books about crows and crap like that.