Inversion [Camp NaNoWriMo July 2021]

day 6

d a y   6

Time heals all wounds—or so the saying goes.

But everyone knows this isn't entirely true.

Time cannot heal your wounds. Not entirely. It can make the pain that accompanies the wounds more bearable. It can erase the physicality of the wounds, leaving only the memory. And even though memories fade with time, they never completely disappear.

It's been nearly a week, six days, living with Cian. Two weeks since the party and the accident.

I never thought the day would come when I would wake up and look in the mirror and not balk at my reflection. But six days in, that's exactly what happens.

This is me, I realize. This is my life now.

At least for the next three weeks.

"What's going to happen to me?" I blurt out, and then immediately flush when Cian's dark eyes turn from the TV to look at me quizzically. There's a depth to his gaze—there always is—that makes me thoroughly self-conscious, as if he can see all my secrets and innermost thoughts.

"When the four weeks are up," I clarify, picking at the hem of my shirt. I've taken to wearing darker colors now, and today is a dark gray color that matches the couch. As Cian continues to watch me with that piercing gaze, I almost wish I could blend in to the furniture, and it takes a conscious effort to keep from shrinking back against the cushions. I chew on my lower lip. "I mean, I can't live with you forever. So what's going to happen to me?"

Cian tilts his head thoughtfully. "I guess ... well, you're welcome to stay with me as long as you need to. That's my job. And you can decide what you want to do with your life. Who you want to be, where you want to go—I'll help you get it done."

I let that sink in for a minute. What do I want to do for the rest of my life? I'm only eighteen. I haven't thought much farther than what classes I might take in college. I don't even know what I want to study, let alone what career path I might choose. I don't like to think far ahead. I don't plan.

Cian studies my expression. As much as he's a closed book, I know I'm an open one. He has no problem figuring out what I'm thinking or how I'm feeling. It's scary to think that this guy who's been in my life for less than a week can read me so well.

"You don't have to decide yet," he says. "You still have three weeks. Don't lose hope."

But that's the thing, I want to say. I've already lost hope. I lost it the moment I returned home. And I haven't been able to go back again. First, simply because it's too dangerous, which I now understand. And second, because I don't want to feel that heartbreaking loss again. I'm learning to cope, finally, and going home would be taking a giant step backwards when I've only just started inching forward.

A loud sigh makes me look up. Cian turns back to the TV, a purposefully bored expression crossing his face. "Don't think too much about it. We'll deal with it when the time comes."

* * *

Two hours later, I'm stepping out of the bathroom, hair wrapped up in a towel, dirty clothes in hand. I chuck the clothes onto the growing pile in the corner of the room, reminding myself that I need to get them washed soon and heading to the closet to grab some pajamas. I've finally relented and unpacked my suitcase, so the room finally looks like someone's living in it and now just ... staying, for a day or two. It lends a sense of permanence to the situation, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I change and get ready for bed, about to turn off the light when Cian knocks on the door. He enters, a troubled expression on his face, but doesn't say anything.

"What's wrong?" I ask worriedly when he still hasn't said anything after a few minutes. He's sitting on the bed, staring at his clasped hands, that silver scar shining against his dark skin under the lights. "Cian?" I place a tentative hand on his arm. He tenses but doesn't pull away. He's so stiff that I can practically feel him vibrating from the tension.

"It's almost midnight," he finally says. His voice is low and rough, a timbre I've never heard before.

"And?"

"The second," he says hollowly. "Of July."

I laugh nervously. I don't know what to do. All this time, it's been me going off the rails. I don't know how to deal with other people who are suffering.

"Cian, what are you talking about?"

"I ran away from home four years ago." When Cian turns to me, the light shines in his eyes, like tiny flecks of gold. "And in that time, no one's even so much as looked for me."

I remember his words from Wednesday. If your dad really doesn't want you, you'll know. And it will hurt so much to say out loud that you can't.

"I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say.

His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "It's not your fault," he says roughly, eyes fixed on the ground.

"I know it's not." I shrug, looking down at where my hand is still on his arm, almost white on black. "That's not what I'm apologizing for. I'm sorry because I've been acting so ... selfishly this past week. All this time, I've been upset with my dad and with all this"—I gesture around vaguely—"and it all seems to stupid compared to what you've been through."

Cian stiffens almost imperceptibly.

"Oh, I don't know the details," I assure him softly, withdrawing my hand. "But I'm not stupid. You're a Death deity who ran away from home when you were sixteen. You have this." I hover my hand over his scar, not daring to touch it. "And you've hinted at how your parents didn't want you. I don't need to know what happened to know that what I'm going through is completely tame compared to what you went through."

We lapse into silence, the one that always seems to descend upon us. It's not awkward, but it's not entirely comfortable either. We're just two strangers who somehow got thrown together because of Death, and we both have our own fucked up lives to deal with.

And as Cian already said, how can we help someone else when we can't even seem to help ourselves first?

* * *

Something's different.

After that not-so heart-to-heart earlier, the dynamic between us has changed. I can't say how exactly, but it's definitely different. It's like ... we've been standing on opposite sides of a one-way mirror, me in the light and he in the dark. And now, the light's been turned on on his side as well. So instead of the two of us staring at that glass and seeing me, we see each other. He still sees me—that much hasn't changed. But I'm no longer focused on myself, on my own trivial issues. I finally see Cian Sampson, if only somewhat, because the glass is still distorted, blurring his image.

And I'm not sure if I want his image to become clearer, more defined. Or if I want the lights to turn off again so that I won't see what he has to show me.