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The Beautiful Ones	By : TaimaMarie Category: Individual Celebrities > Criss Angel Views: 1682 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrity I am writing about. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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AN: This chapter is inspired by the song Every Lie by My Darkest Days. I adore the song and have had it on repeat for two days now, driving my cats and brother crazy.
Ero, darling, I have to thank you for your compliments and say that yes, I do plan on finishing Bittersweet, most likely over my Christmas (winter) break. And yes, to answer your question, I do often feel strange writing these things, like I'm fucking with their lives or something. I feel like if they ever (God forbid) read any of this, they would come and lynch me or sue me, or even worse, say that I was a bad person. But I think, my love, in writing, you have to suspend your "inner editor" and this includes feeling like that. It is hard to get past, but I do believe it's possible. As long as you're enjoying your writing, that's all that matters. Just remember that we are fans, and we do this as loving fans. We do not do it to harm or injure our beloved celebrities. Does this help at all?
Also, I'm going to school to become a physician's assistant. I want to specialize in HIV/AIDS patients.

Criss’s eyes cracked open when his cell phone jangled a familiar tune. Reaching over with an arm heavy from sleep and sadness, he lifted up his phone.

“Hi Mom,” he mumbled.

“Christopher. Oh, Christopher.” Dimitra’s voice was thick with disappointment and concern. “What in the world have you done?”

“She lied to me. I couldn’t keep her because she lied to me!” he rolled over in his bed, covered his eyes with his other arm. Criss hadn’t gotten out of bed for the two days that Cassandra had been gone.

When he returned that day, everything was gone. There was not a trace of her, except for the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. His first reaction had been to Lysol the fuck out of the air, but as soon as he reached for the can, he paused. He wanted to keep it. He wanted something left of her.

“She’s a child, Christopher!”

“Way to make me feel like a pedophile.”

“You know what I mean.” Dimitra sighed. “She’s legally an adult, and she acts like an adult most of the time, but there’s still a lot she doesn’t know. Did you even ask her why she lied? Did you even try to understand? I’m not trying to excuse what she did, but… She didn’t feel like she had a choice.”

“Are you on her side?” he cried indignantly. “I’m your son.”

“I’m not on anybody’s side. She’s young though, she’s here all alone, and… Criss, I haven’t gotten her to eat in two days. She’s just laid on the couch. I’ve barely managed to get her to sleep.”

“You’re keeping her at your house!” Criss sounded scandalized. “Mom!”

“Well, what did you want me to do, Christopher; send her to a homeless shelter? She didn’t have anywhere to go.” Dimitra hissed.

“I got her a hotel suite. I took damn good care of her.”

“Not in the way she needs. She’s miserable.”

“You don’t think I’m miserable too?” the illusionist’s voice cracked. “You don’t think I’ve hated every minute I’ve been apart from her too?”

“I know you have, Christopher! Why don’t you just put you both out of this misery and be together?” she leaned against a door way and peered in at the girl sleeping on her couch. Cassandra was curled into a tight ball, wearing one of Dimitra’s own nightgowns.

The gown was ankle length white silk with poet sleeves. There was a little bit lace at the collar and cuffs. If her face wasn’t the picture of despair, she would have looked gorgeous, an old fashioned little girl. But her eyes were red and swollen, and the marks underneath them made Dimitra cringe.

“Because she’s still a liar, Mom.”

“You’re so difficult. You have been since birth.” His mother let out a frustrated puff of air.

“Sure, throw the whole birth thing in my face.” Criss rolled over again, burying his face in the pillow.

“Come and get her,” Dimitra said softly.

“I can’t. I won’t.” without another word, he hung up the phone. The small outburst had cost him a lot in terms of energy. He pressed his lips to the soft material of the pillow case. He wanted his lips to be against Cassandra’s face, against her lips. He wanted her there in the bed beside him.

I’m teaching her a lesson, Criss told himself. I’m making her understand that she can’t treat people this way.

But it seemed like they were both suffering.

**

Dimitra went into her living room and knelt next to the couch. She stroked back the hair that was clinging to Cassandra’s forehead. She stared blankly at the woman. Her skin was pale and cold.

“Can I get you anything, honey?”

“Criss?” the girl asked hopefully. The woman paused and bit her lower lip.

“I’m afraid I can’t get him for you, sweetie. He doesn’t---he can’t come right now. But he will soon.” I hope, she added silently. I hope he comes to his senses and realized what a precious thing he has in you.
“Isn’t there anything else you want?”

“No,” she pulled a quilt over her head. Dimitra had given her that quilt her first night. For some reason, the woman’s mother radar was going off. She’d padded to the living room and noticed Cassandra shivering there on the couch. She’d frowned at the little body curled up on her couch and went to the closet. There was a pink and purple quilt she’d made when her sons were very young. None of them had wanted it at first, proclaiming it to be girly. But when they were sick, they always asked for that quilt. Dimitra spread it over Cassandra that night and hadn’t taken it back since.
“Only Criss. I just want Criss.”

“I know, Cass. I know.” She got up off the floor and went to the kitchen. She sat at the table with her chin in her hand and chewed on her lower lip in thought. There had to be a way to get them back together again, if she could only think of it.

***

Late at night, Cassandra couldn’t sleep. She’d sit awake under the pink and purple quilt, clutching Stanley. She stared out the window at the stillness of the suburban streets. She lay on the couch that did not belong to her in the house that was not her home and feel an ache in her soul.

She wanted these things. Want a home like this all of her own. But she didn’t want it without Criss. Why did everything always go back to him?

“I wish I didn’t love you. I wish I didn’t even like you at all. I wish I’d never met you, Criss Angel. I wish you’d never seen my face, Christopher Nicholas Sarantakos.”

No matter how many times she said it, she still felt it. She still wanted him, needed him with every fiber of her being. Criss was in every drop of her blood. He had become half of her. She felt incomplete, like she was limping around, half a person.

Her sleep was haunted by pictures of him, images where he was just out of her reach. No matter how hard she strained, she could never quite get to him. It was torture. Every second without him was sheer misery.

But, of course, the only thing worse than this was going to be working with him still.
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The Beautiful Ones