The Coffee Pact

2| You're my favorite bad habit

The scream in my throat jerks me awake. I try to sit up, to focus on the bright white light of the moon, but my limbs won't cooperate. I've frozen again, trapped in that land between awake and asleep, reliving that night on a loop.

I squeeze my eyes shut, able to hear the insults they'd hissed. The guffaw of their laughter as hands reached out, pulling me into the alleyway. The feel of their fists as they impacted skin. My heart beats harder, the scream in my throat forced upward again, desperate for release.

My door is thrown open mid-scream. For a horrifying moment, I'm certain they've found me, but reality sets in. A familiar voice gently whispers my name, and I'm pulled into a motherly hug.

"Mia, are you okay?" she asks. "I heard you scream."

I go to speak, but it feels like something is lodged in my throat. She doesn't know what happened last summer–no one does–and I intend to keep it that way. "I'm fine," I manage. "It was just a nightmare."

Her shoulders deflate, and I can just about make out her frown through the dark. People say we look alike – same dark eyes and curls – but the more time passes, the more I feel like her shadow.

She glances at the clock on my nightstand, which reads 3:00 a.m, then tucks a curtain of my hair back. "It's still early. Try to get back to sleep, okay? You don't want to be tired for school."

I nod and curl on my side again, waiting for the door to click, but sleeping now is impossible. Instead, I tiptoe downstairs and, despite detesting instant coffee, pour myself another cup.

***

The mornings are always the worst. It's when the lack of sleep–and the overload of caffeine–decide to take a toll. I'm not a drinker, I've only ever tried wine once at my uncle Larry's wedding, but if I had to explain what a hangover feels like, this would be it.

My footsteps are heavy as I head into the bathroom. A glance in the mirror confirms what I'd expected: bloodshot eyes rimmed with purple-like shadows.

I rub at the residue of sleep in my eyes before slapping my cheeks. If I wasn't so tanned, I imagine I'd look as pasty and dead as I feel. This is the downside to my trips to The Coffee Pod. While staying up late means I'm too tired to dream, it plays havoc on my brain.

The hot water on my skin feels like bliss. I rest a hand on the elaborate tiles, praying I'll get through the day. I've got English first thing, and Miss Duncan isn't exactly known for being observant, so I can probably get away with the minimum.

I contemplate forgoing the coffee house tonight, just in case I run into Jake. It's not that I have anything against him per se, but I have a routine. A system. I sit in the armchair closest to the fire, I sketch in my sketchbook, I drink my black coffee, and then I go home and try not to dream. Nobody knows me, I don't know them, and that's what I like about it most. But with last night's nightmare fresh on my mind, I need my routine more than ever.

I spend a little too long in the shower. There's just something about steaming hot water that makes me feel safe. It means I'm late to the kitchen, where my mother has already prepared my breakfast: bacon and toast. Despite the fact she leaves early for work, she always has something ready.

When I've finished, I grab my hat and gloves from the heater, where Mom has warmed them. I'd hoped maybe the unfortunate snow we've been having would suddenly let up, but a fresh blanket covers the streets.

I grumble and trudge along the winding pathway, trying not to slip. It's a forty-minute walk to Artwood High, which isn't ideal, but my mom still doesn't trust me with a license, and it's better than the alternative.