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xix. Here It Is, Our Final Night Alive
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Blair Cameron had a habit of genuinely believing the world revolved around her. It's not her fault, it's the way she grew up. Every little trouble was attended to, every problem was solved. Every desire was fulfilled.
For years, she had forced herself to try and get out of the slump because she realized not to long ago that she actually wasn't the center of the universe. The sun was what the solar system revolved around, not her. And, yes, in the Outer Banks, she was worshipped. But a summer with the Pogues was enough to throw her off her pedestal and make her realize that the spoilt, bratty mentality of girlhood her brain was still holding onto was nothing but an orchestrated lie made up by her twisted thoughts to try and keep her rage at bay.
She came to the conclusion that the world wasn't going to end because she fucked up once (or twice and again and again and again . . . ). The globe wasn't going to stop spinning because she couldn't breathe occasionally, she wasn't its source of oxygen. It was selfish of her to think that the universe revolved around her and that it was just waiting for one simple heartbreak to fall apart.
Because it wasn't. She was still breathing . . . apparently.
She had scissors in her hands and was staring at her shiny reflection in the mirror of her bathroom. They snapped; she was playing with them. She grabbed a handful of her hair and contemplated chopping it off. Was that what the girls felt like in the movies, right before breaking down into violent sobs?
Her impulsiveness was going to swallow her for breakfast one day. Pour her anger in a transparent glass with ice cubes and drink it like it's fresh orange juice. She knew how to tie knots in cherry stems with her teeth but, one day, it would be her muscles all knotted up because she was too greedy for her own good and always thought sweet things tasted like the sugary wind in her hair and the sun in her face. But she couldn't help it, could she? She was human, maybe even a little more than the rest of them.
And even though her mother always told her not to swim on a full stomach, she did. She did and one day she'd drown it and there'd be nobody to blame but her. Her and that damned impulsiveness.
Impulsiveness was fueled by anger, domestic. There was shuffling in her room and Blair sighed, delicately putting the scissors back down on the sink. She scanned the rest of her body in the mirror, a silk, backless ivory-white halter-top and a red flower-patterned black skirt, perfectly styled hair, light Glossier lipgloss. She looked like Blair Cameron, as per usual. But her hands were shaking like the last note of an organ had cut through the humid air of her bathroom and she felt as though her brain was mansplaining her heart with her father's voice.
