Inversion [Camp NaNoWriMo July 2021]

day 8

d a y   8

The kitchen is uncomfortably quiet. I don't look up from my staring contest with my long-cold coffee as Cian's quiet footsteps pause at the entrance to the kitchen. When I got back, just after sunset, he was already back in his room, a plate of pasta in the oven to keep it from going cold. A peace offering, maybe—even though I had calmed down enough to admit to myself that I had overreacted. So I ate the dinner he had left for me, retreated to the guest room for a quick shower before bed, and woke up from the same nightmare that always plagued my sleep.

"What are you still doing up?" Cian's voice is raspy and deeper than usual from sleep. "It's four in the morning."

I run a finger along the rim of the mug and give a small shrug. "Nightmares," I answer honestly, though some part of me wonders if it would be better to keep it to myself.

A beat of silence. And then footsteps coming towards me, before the stool next to mine pulls out. Cian settles down on the seat but doesn't say anything. Waiting for me, I realize, to talk when I'm ready. If I'm ready.

I remember the stupid fight. How he didn't want to talk, and how lonely I felt as I left the apartment. But he's here now, and I'm not asking him to talk. I loose a quiet sigh and wrap my hands around the mug. There's no heat to block out the chill, not from the nighttime but from the nightmare, but at least it keeps my hands from shaking.

"It's the same nightmare every time." I'm still staring at the coffee, as if it can provide the words to describe how I'm feeling. "It's ... it's not just a nightmare. It's real. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that car. And I have to live it all over again. Being drunk, driving through that storm, watching Jeremy die in front of me. Over and over and over." My voice sinks into a whisper, and I repeat those words, over and over and over.

I want to drown in that dark pool in front of me. I want to ...

Something pries the cup from my hands. Someone. Cian's grip is gentle as he turns me in the stool to face him, and then his hands find mine, clutching them. Solid and real.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his hands tightening around my trembling fingers. I finally look up. Up into his dark eyes, so much darker than the coffee, black like Death, like the deepest pits of Hell. "I know it doesn't mean anything for me to say that," he continues, swallowing roughly, "but I am sorry I can't help you out more. I don't know how to."

I try to pull away. I don't want his apology. I don't want to feel better. I hate the nightmares, but they're a reminder of the unforgivable mistakes I made. Mistakes I'll never make again. But Cian doesn't let go, and I give up after a few seconds.

"You have nothing to apologize for," I say stiffly. My eyes shift sideways, to the oven clock. Half past four. It's still dark out, but I can hear faint chirping as the birds start to awaken. The beginning of a new day. But I'm still stuck in the same limbo.

"I do." Cian's voice is as firm as his grip, and I frown as I look back up at him. Up, because even though we're both sitting down, he still somehow towers over me. "Earlier, when I snapped at you ... and after this morning and the alcohol ..." His voice is quiet, but not soft. "I'm sorry for how I acted. For reminding you of your father. I saw how it frightened you."

Of all the things he could have said, this isn't what I expected. I hadn't even realized that he'd noticed earlier. I had barely admitted it to myself—that I had left the apartment because I didn't want to look at him and see Dad.

This time, I give a hard yank, and he lets go of my hands. My movements feel robotic as I dump the coffee down the drain and leave the mug soaking in the sink, too tired to bother washing it, and head towards the guest room. I'm just about to turn the corner of the hallway when I glance over my shoulder and find Cian watching me in that quiet way of his.

"Thank you."