Killing Mila (wildfire: rewritten)

1. Wrong Turn

Some deaths are slower than others.

Mine has been a long time coming, like the sputter of a car engine that has been leaking gasoline for miles. Drip, drip, drip along the road. A splash here, a dash here, unnoticed. Until it finally gives out in the middle of nowhere, and chugs to a halt. Somewhere along that road, you start to see it coming. The fuel gauge ticks lower and lower, and the engine light flickers on. But there's nowhere to go but forward, to follow the trajectory fate laid out ahead of you. No U-turns or side roads. Nothing to do but drive, and wait for the inevitable.

At least, that's how it feels when the dizziness hits: inevitable.

The forceful throb of the music feels strong enough to split my skull open. It's so loud. Too loud. My balance fails, sending me careening backwards, into the path of other dancers. But the crowd is so tightly compacted into the cavernous space that I'm just jostled a little, held upright by sheer momentum.

I drag unsteady fingers through my hair, squeezing my eyes shut until it passes. The dizziness is chased by a queasy feeling. I feel seasick, almost. But the growing ball of dread in the pit of my stomach is the worst part. The panic. The urge to analyse what something as innocuous as dizziness might signify. It's just the tequila. How many shots have I had? Two? Three, maybe? Four? More than I usually drink, and my tolerance has always been shit. It happens when your liver's been put through the ringer. It's okay. It's normal. To be expected. You're fine...

Breathe. In... Out...

My stomach gives a warning lurch, a scant scend before someone throws their arms around my neck, slamming their whole body weight against me. Lexie. Fuck. Lexie.

"Happy birthday, happy birthday, Mila Reyes," Lexie slurs in my ear. "You made it to twenty-three!" She laughs huskily over the bass, oblivious to the horror show unfolding inside me. When she leans in, all I smell is a sickening blend of sweat and tequila and cheap, dollar store perfume. I grip her hips for balance, digging my fingers into her sides, but she barely notices.

When I open my eyes, there are three of her smiling back at me.

I blink hard, trying to force her face into focus. Slowly, all three begin to merge into one clearer picture: her blonde hair is plastered to her face, and there's a thick streak of mascara under both of her eyes, but she still looks gorgeous. She's always been like this, since we were little. So carelessly pretty. Always smiling, like life has just been one long, wild party for her. Sometimes, I think of our friendship like osmosis – like a tiny, desperate part of me has been trying to claw a piece of that happiness for myself. It's only now that I'm beginning to see the lie.

Tonight, for instance. It might be my birthday we're supposed to be celebrating, but really this is just another of Lexie's attempts to exorcise her ex-boyfriend from her brain. It's been three weeks since Darren kicked her out of his apartment – three weeks she's spent sleeping on my lumpy sofa, with a smile pasted on her face and warning signs flashing in her eyes whenever I so much as alluded to his existence. Because this is how Lexie really deals: by sucking shit up her nose and pretending she's invincible.

Sometimes, I wish I could be more like her. Wish I could just... turn my brain off.

But I can't.

Lexie pulls away, her palms framing my face. She squints at me in the dark, finally sensing that something is wrong. "Are you okay?" she shouts over the music.

I shake my head. What I need is air, though fuck knows where I'll find it down here. The club, Howl, is hidden within the tunnels of the Seattle Underground, built inside one of the old, disused warehouse floors that burned in the Great Seattle Fire. I press a hand to my belly, trying to quell the horrible, see-saw motion of my stomach. "Restroom," I mouth at her, slipping out of her grip.