Permanent Scars

Static Screams

December 2, Monday. 9:03 p.m.

Unease is rampant. Daddy hasn't come home yet, and I'm starting to think he never will. I'm starting to forget what he even looked like. The impending apocalypse is driving me nuts. I just need to tell someone.

Adam's working, so I haven't called him. Dylan is always an option, though. He doesn't work as often as Adam, nor does he work as late. As a matter of fact, I don't even know where he works. My thumb hovers over the call button for a moment before I decide to just go with it. I mean, what do I stand to lose?

   It rings a few times before Dylan picks up. "What's up?"

   "Hey, uh, I was just wondering if I could come over."

   "My parents aren't home. Sure."

   "Identity check?"

   On the other end, he huffs frustratedly. "Okay, that came out wrong."

   If he says anything else, I can't hear it. My heart seems to thud in my ears, wondering if the information I just received was dropped nationwide. Wondering how many people know about it.

   "Amber?"

   "Yeah?"

   "You can come over anytime you like. Oh, and in case you're hungry, I'm making ramen."

   "This time of night?" What I really want to know is why you have such a fascination with ramen.

   "..."

   "Okay, never mind. I'll be there. Give me fifteen minutes."

   "They're all yours. See you then."

Hanging up, I take a deep breath and try to mentally prepare myself for anything Dylan might have in store. He's a good guy and I'm pretty sure he'd never do anything to hurt me. He sounded really puzzled, concerned, and awkward all at once.

At least I won't be alone.

  
9:19 p.m.

Sopping wet, I stand in front of Dylan's apartment and knock shakily on the door. It's cold out here and I still don't have an umbrella. I should really get one. In the crying darkness, the neon lights are distorted into streaks of vibrant color that give off vibes of desperation and unrest. Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath and pull myself together as Dylan opens the door to let me in. His eyes widen at my condition but he doesn't speak, quickly bolting the locks and taking my coat from me. Dripping onto the linoleum, I shiver and slowly shuck my sneakers off, following Dylan into the small living room. I'm surprised to see a fireplace in here, albeit a faux one. Most apartments don't have fireplaces.

   "You can dry off here." He gestures to the fireplace before stepping into the kitchen to attend his pot of boiling water. My feet silently move over the carpet, drawing close to the faux fire's warmth. It seeps through my wet clothes, penetrates my skin until my bones are basking in the comforting heat. Slowly turning, I manage to toast all sides evenly, feeling better the more moisture is wicked away. With hypothermia surely no longer a risk, I can turn my attention to more trivial things, like the fact that this apartment is very bare. Beige walls, minimal furniture, no artwork.

   My slow movements have caught Dylan's attention, and he walks to the edge of the kitchen space with his head tipped curiously to one side. "Uh, Shortie?"

   "Yeah?" Head snapping to look at him, I attempt to focus.

   "Is...is everything okay?"

   "Yes. No. I dunno...why?"

   "You don't look so good. You didn't sound so good over the phone, either."