Impish

CHAPTER 6: RAGE

I take painkillers with my orange juice at breakfast. Doug was right; I really do need them. They lodge in my throat on the way down and I have to swallow again. It feels like I have the worst headache of my life, like my head is full of cotton, or like my bones are all rearranging. Maybe they are. I have no idea how these changes are supposed to work. I rub my forehead as I slide into my chair.

The juice is complimentary at the clown-themed continental breakfast bar. Since we're the only people here, I help myself to a preemptive second styrofoam cup of the stuff. It's a shame that it's watery and has no pulp, but it's better than nothing. I walk my two cups of juice and a plate with half a waffle on it to the low-to-the-ground table Roux, Doug, and Gazgaroz are already seated at. Normally, I would take full advantage of free food, but I don't think I can get more down than what I already have.

Roux huffs through their nose as soon as I sit down, and looks pointedly away from me. I still don't know what I did wrong. Granted, I still haven't asked. My point still stands.

Out of the four of us, only Roux is dressed for the day in a black wife beater, a green short-sleeved button-up, and black jeans. At least I'm in my pajamas. Doug and Gaz, on the other hand, are in varying states of undress.

I vaguely remember Doug coming into the room sometime last night, just as I vaguely remember Roux getting up earlier than I did, when the sun hadn't yet breached the thin curtains. I had been restless after everything that happened with that clown. Every creak woke me up. Every time Roux shifted, I was shocked out of nightmares of cotton filling my lungs and string covering my mouth. I half-expected to see the Raggedy Andy clown at the foot of the bed when I got up.

It wasn't there, though. It was just an empty space that led to the door and more clown-themed bullshit. Even now, I'm staring down at a paper plate with an entire fucking circus on it. All the cream cheese in the world couldn't cover the ringleader and lions staring at me, so I don't even bother. I'll eat it plain, I decide, tearing it into smaller pieces with my fingers.

"So..." Doug says, toying with his plastic fork against a plate of (probably bland) biscuits and gravy.

Gazgaroz smiles. I try to ignore his sharpened teeth as he focuses on me. His voice is like a snake coming out of a wicker basket. "So. Marky."

"That's not my name," I say, more incredulous than offended.

"I know," he says, grinning wider. "I know."

I just blink at him. "Uh. Okay."

"So. Markatha. I hear you're this hunk's kid." He pokes Doug in the side with the handle of his fork. "Is that right?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"Do you begin every sentence with a filler, dear?

"No, uh--" I catch myself. "No. I'm just... I don't. Sorry."

"That was a rhetorical question. I don't actually care. I will tell you what I do care about, though." Gaz weaves his long fingers together and leans forward with his hands under his pointed, elongated chin. "I want to learn what you can do."

"What do you mean?"

Doug coughs and inserts himself into the conversation. "Gaz. Come on. Are you sure--"

"Oh, I am. I am sure. You have time, don't you?" Gazgaroz, in his bare human chest and fleece pajama pants, bats his eyelashes at my father. His voice is more full of singsong than it has been for most of this time. "You have time?"

"Listen, Gaz. She's new to all this. She only just found out yesterday," Doug protests.

"That's not an answer to my question!"