Beach Day

34: Melodrama Conspiracy

The walk back to the motel is one of shoving her fists in her pockets and fighting off the fatigue. Maybe she shouldn't have stayed up so late. Maybe she should have called someone and asked for a ride. She can walk, though— and she'd rather have a chance to clear her head.

And there it is: Nothing.

She spots it in the windows of homes and businesses she walks by. It grins, waves, looks at her— tries to look her in the eye. Unacceptable. She keeps walking.

Tiff pauses under a streetlamp under the corner, against her better judgment, and looks down at the puddle in the concrete there.

It stares at her, waving shittily and backed by the yellow glare of the light and the infinite stars above. "Hey there, dear Nothing."

"What are you doing here?" she asks, surprised how tired her voice is and peeved at its presence. "I thought you were relegated to dreaming."

"Sometimes. You're talking to me, though, aren't you?"

"I'm not asleep."

"You're not asleep," it agrees. "You're just between. You always are, though. There's a reason you're always so bone-tired."

Rolling her eyes, she keeps walking without checking the street. "My bones are fine."

It appears in the reflection of a stop sign next. "You're working yourself to the bone again."

"And why shouldn't I?" Tiff tilts her chin up to it, regards it for a moment, and keeps walking. When Nothing pops up again in windows and water, she ignores it.

"I told you," it says. "I was right."

And Tiff says nothing.

She gets back to the motel about half an hour later. Five AM, and the sun is still down. No matter how hard she tries, it's impossible not to think when your mind works a mile a minute and your body can only keep up by devolving into pure, numb anger.

She could describe it in flowery terms or old sayings her great-uncle used— she's so angry she could spit— but nothing sums it up better than her just being pissed. There isn't even time to be delighted or marvel at the odd design choices in the halls of Penitent Ivan's. She just opens the door with the chunky, piece of shit key and its triangular rubber keychain. She doesn't want to touch it. She doesn't want to touch anything.

Everyone inside is still asleep when she shuts and locks the door behind her. Drew is face-down in bed; her aunt is curled into a ball, frowning in her sleep; Kepler is sprawled out on his back in a very non-rat way.

She wants to take off her shoes and jacket and go to bed; she wants to pour all this emotion into something productive; she wants to go for a walk until she reaches the end of the world and falls off; she wants to peel off her skin; she wants to start running and never stop. She just stands there, looming in the doorway like the shadow of a narrative, chest heaving with the weight of breaths she can't quite catch.

Her aunt stirs, bolts awake. The clock by the bed glows a green 5:13 AM. Tangled in the blankets of a motel bed, she blinks away what little remains of her already-small sleep. She squints into the darkness.

"Tiff? What are you doing awake?" She squints some more. "And how come you're dressed? Where are you going?"

"There is a conspiracy afoot." She barely breathes, trying to keep everything contained. "Involving our family."

A moment of hesitation in the green alarm clock glow. "What?"

"I know the truth now!" It takes more effort to keep her voice down than it should. "I know the truth."