Inversion [Camp NaNoWriMo July 2021]

day viii | part i

d a y   v i i i

( p a r t   i )

If someone else pays for your mistakes, for your careless and stupidity—if it should have been you who paid—then should you still pay, regardless of whether someone else has already paid the price?

Pay. Pay. Pay.

Dad's words cut through me, slicing into my already-fractured heart over and over again.

Should I be dead right now?—paying for my actions? Pay. Pay. Pay. If it can't bring back Jeremy, then is it worth it for me to die as well? Pay. Does that even matter? Maybe it's the principle, that I should have been the one to die, so I should die now for escaping death's grasp before. Pay.

Pay.

* * *

I slump down in my booth, tugging my beanie down over my blonde hair. As my gaze darts around the diner and then out the window to study the people passing by outside, I feel the inexplicable urge to hide.

I didn't know what to do, after Dad passed out on my bedroom floor. His words broke something inside of me. So I just ... ran. Grabbed a bag, stuffed it with a change of clothes and my phone and wallet. Packed up my guitar. And left.

It was a stupid, impulsive decision. I have nowhere to go, no money to last more than a couple of days by myself. No food or supplies or plan. But I don't want to go home. That much I know. I don't want to see Dad's reaction. I already know Mom won't care. She hasn't left her room in a week. The only time she even gets out of bed is to go to the bathroom—she didn't even go to Jeremy's funeral—and she barely eats. She's barely breathing.

I'm startled out of my thoughts by an overly cheery voice. "Hi! My name is Cian, and I'll be your waiter this morning. Can I start you off with something to drink?"

I look up at the waiter standing next to my booth. He can't be much older than I am. His curls are darker than his faded black t-shirt, but his eyes are darkest of all. That's what I notice first in my frazzled state.

His brows wrinkle into a frown, and that's when I realize I've been staring at him. "Um, I'll have a cup of coffee, thanks. Black." I have to drag the words out, each syllable an effort. I look down at the table, blinking blearily, my head feeling as if it's stuffed with wool. I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours, and it's starting to catch up to me. It takes more energy than it should to keep my eyes open, and my head begins to throb with an impending migraine. Hammer to the head to complement that dagger to my heart, I guess. I'm still recovering from my concussion, and I'm sure that sleep deprivation isn't exactly good for my recovery.

Cian—I only just remember the waiter's name—scrutinizes my face. I'm too tired to feel embarrassed or uncomfortable, though. "I'll make it extra strong," he says. He turns away before I can reply, and I'm left blinking at his back.

My phone buzzes on the table, and I glance down to find a new message lighting up the screen. The thirteenth one I've received, all from Dad. Along with five missed calls, and their accompanying voicemails that I hadn't bothered to listen to.

My hand shakes as it reaches for my phone. I get the chilling sensation that someone is watching me, but a quick glance around the quiet diner doesn't show anyone even looking in my direction. Even so, I tug my beanie lower. I know it doesn't serve as much of a disguise, but something about it comforts me, as if it were a helmet to shield me from the rest of the world.