Inversion [Camp NaNoWriMo July 2021]

day 27

d a y   2 7

A miserable sort of somberness falls upon the apartment. Cian's still asleep, having been nearly as exhausted as I was from the aftermath of our fight. He'd indeed stayed up all night and called off work waiting for me, and had only dozed off minutes before I'd returned.

I slowly extricate myself from his grasp, and he rolls over, arm falling onto the mattress where I'd just been. He doesn't wake up.

Through the living room window, the sun is just beginning to light up the street, painting lines of golden light through the blinds onto the wall. There's nothing in the room, or in the kitchen, that belongs to me other than my guitar, packed neatly into its case, as always. I examine the phone in my hand, wondering if I should leave it behind. But I think about Cian, still sleeping soundly, and know he'll panic if he wakes up to find me gone and the phone sitting on the counter.

It doesn't matter anyways, since Cian wakes up before I get a chance to slip out of the apartment. I'm in the guest room, packing up my clothes, the last load of dirty clothes in the laundry, when he appears in the doorway, yawning, shirt rumpled and hair disheveled. The small smile on his face disappears when he spots the suitcase and backpack sitting in the middle of the room, the only belongings I brought with me. It's not like I'd ever truly settled in, but the sight of those bags makes the room look empty—makes all this feel final.

It is final, I remind myself, pretending I don't notice Cian's frown as I continue packing clothes into the suitcase.

"What are you doing?" The question pierces the quiet like a blade, but it doesn't quite manage to cut through the tension in the room.

"Packing." I keep my head down, grabbing another shirt from the pile on the bed and folding it neatly into the suitcase.

"Let me rephrase. Why are you packing?" There's an edge to his voice, a rawness that I can't stand. My hands start shaking, hard enough that I can't fold the next shirt I grab, so I let it drop into the suitcase and stand up.

I spread my palms, the warm tones of the sun doing nothing to make my skin look any less washed out. "Tomorrow night, I'll be stuck in this body for good," I say helplessly, struggling to find the words to explain. The thoughts have been whirling around in my head for the past few days, refusing to give me a moment's peace. I don't know why it even matters to me. It shouldn't. I've known all along that my dad wouldn't change his mind about what he'd said. "Don't you think it's time for me to figure out what I want to do with this ... life?" I spit out the last word.

"Why are you packing?" he asks again, practically growling at me.

"I can't stay here forever."

Hurt flashes across his face, gone so fast that I might've missed it if I hadn't been watching out for it.

"You don't have to move out immediately." A muscle ticks along his jaw. "It's not like I'm going to kick you out the second this month is up."

I don't have an answer to that. I know he'll let me stay as long as I need, but the problem is that I don't want to stay. But I can't tell him that.

Even though I don't know who I'll be in two days, I do know that there's a whole world out there that I want to see. I want to go to college, even if I haven't figured out what I want to study—even if I have to apply all over again, however that will work. I want to travel and meet new people and visit all the places I'd clipped out of magazines without ever having a serious thought of seeing them in person. I want to live.

But that's not what Cian wants. Or needs. Right now, he still needs to stay here, to work through his trauma and figure out who he wants to be outside of this job.

How can I forgive myself, let alone expect him to forgive me, for that selfishness? For deciding to leave, rather than stay here with him? For knowing how he feels, and doing nothing to prevent it?

I like Cian. I really do. But whatever this is between us ... it's only been a week. I'm eighteen. He's twenty. There are so many reasons why we should be careful, to not jump in too quickly.

"Where are you going to go?" he asks quietly, eyes never straying from me. "If you're going to leave, you need to have a plan."

"I don't know," I reply honestly. "But if I don't pack now, I may just keep pushing it back."

Is that so bad? his eyes seem to ask.

I don't have an answer to that question either. But I move towards him, leaning up to brush a kiss across his cheek.

"Will you promise not to yell at me if I tell you I'm going to do something stupid?"

"You're going home." Not a question. No hint of emotion in his voice.

"Just for one last look. Before this all becomes permanent." My voice cracks, and his expression softens. He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, opening his mouth.

I'll never know what he was going to say.

At that moment, a loud crack shatters through the room, and a burst of brilliant white light blinds me. I fall back from Cian with a cry of shock.

And then I'm plummeting. Falling and spinning with no end in sight. Everything is bright, so much so that I can't even see my own hand in front of me. But I see other images. My house, dark and quiet, melancholy strands of music floating out through an open window. The dimly-lit master bedroom windows, Mom silhouetted against the light, pale and still as a ghost. The interior of the house, lingering on the chip in the staircase banister, the dark stain in the living room carpet, the red and blue handprints on the cupboards in the kitchen. A dark bedroom, Jeremy, appearing in his bed as if out of nowhere, whole and uninjured and alive. Mom and Dad yelling, arms gesturing wildly, Dad red-faced and Mom crying.

The next images blur together.

As I keep falling, I start to hear something. Voices.

"I'm leaving." Jeremy. "I'm flying back to New York on Monday."

Mom begging him to stay.

Nothing from Dad, standing silently by the window.

"I can't stay here any longer. Ally's dead! Because of you!" Jeremy points at Dad. "And you can't even find it in you to regret what you did."

"I can't regret anything that brought you back to us." Dad's voice is quiet. Cold and distant, as if he's not really present.

"Even if it doomed your daughter?"

I don't know if I'm dreaming or if I'm hallucinating. Maybe I'm dead. I don't have any breath in this ... whatever this place is, but I feel my chest tighten painfully, waiting in anticipation for this final damnation.

"I won't risk losing you a second time. I won't take back what I said." Dad pauses. And I finally manage to get a good look at him. Pale and unsteady on his legs—not from alcohol necessarily, if the bags under his eyes are any indication. He looks terrible. Even more so than before I'd left. I barely catch his next words. "But I will never forgive myself for what I did to Ally. If I could go back, I would. If I could go back and make it so that both of you are here with me, of course I would. I never meant for Ally to die."

My heart stops dead in my chest.

And then the floor appears from the brilliance all around me, rushing up to meet me before I can brace for the impact.

All I see is white.