Impish

CHAPTER 20: FALLOUT

I spend the rest of the afternoon outside the park, waiting for Roux to pick me up. They said they would. I spend some of that time talking to Hirphias, who is actually pretty cool (that is, if I'm not getting manipulated again), but I spend most of it sitting on the curb and fuming. I pick at my skin and rub the back of my hands on the ground, but it's mostly an idle sort of action. I sit there for longer than I plan to.

Music spills from the open windows of the car when Roux pulls up. They pull up next to me and force the car into park. The window rolls down a sliver. They had to reach over to crank it by hand.

"Hey," they say, simultaneously sober and fun. There's a thousand things in that one word and I understand every one of them.

"Hey." I wrench open the door and climb inside. I don't bother to buckle my seatbelt. I just close the door and motion for them to drive.

We drive in silence for a while, until the music playing all sounds the same and my ears start to ring. We drive until we're nearly at the hotel, at which point Roux opens their mouth and asks, over the turned-down radio, "What happened back there? I mean, I caught some of it on the phone, but... I didn't quite get all of it. Are you okay?"

"No, I'm angry. I'm upset. Doug's a dick. You were right. I was too stupid to see it." I sink down in my seat and fold my arms over my chest. My chin touches my clavicles.

"You're not stupid. I mean, you are sometimes, but-- That's not the point." They pause the conversation as they try to line up the car with a parking space outside the front of the hotel. The music overtakes the silence; frankly, the silence would be more overwhelming. As they pull into it, they decide to speak again. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not right now," I sigh, wanting to sink even further down into the car.

They shrug slightly, then start picking their stuff up off the ground and out of the middle console. They toss it into a reusable shopping bag I don't recognize. It looks old and crumpled, but it still has the tag on it. Roux does not look at me as they ask, "Have you eaten?"

I shake my head. I technically have, but I know what they mean. I haven't eaten dinner. Except for what I ate at the diner, my food choices have been pretty few and far between. I would like to think that some of my malaise comes from that, but I think most of it comes from what Doug did. Most of it comes from being let down by someone I thought I trusted.

"Do you want to go out?"

I try to snap myself out of my funk for Roux's sake. I blink hard and sit up all the way. "Not really. I'm not even sure if I'm hungry or not."

"Well. Hm." They make motions with their mouth like they're moving a hard candy from cheek to cheek. I haven't seen them mull things over like that in a long time. "I'm going to pick up a pizza, then."

"Only if you want to."

"I do. Now, get out and go up to the room. I'll be back soon." Roux pushes on my shoulder, steering me toward the door on my right.

I can't stop the wry little chuckle that comes out of my throat. Their smile forces it out of me. I give them a quick side-hug and exit stage right, trying not to break into a million tiny little pieces in the passenger seat of the car. They wave goodbye to me as I stand on the sidewalk, covered in my own blood, in clothes that aren't mine, waving goodbye to them in turn.

As soon as I'm in our hotel room, I fall apart. I can't help it.The thought of privacy has turned me into a weepy, disintegrating mess. Instead of falling into a pile on the floor, I walk mindlessly to the bathroom, nearly blind from the haze of tears. This is all my fault. Doug was right. Roux was right. Everyone else in the world was right. I'm a fool. Every decision I have ever made has come back to bite me in the ass.

I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. I can't help but feel pathetic when the tears fall. Trying to restrain them stings my nose like pollen and vinegar. It's like knives are poking into my nose and lacrimal gland and eyes and it makes my cheeks feel numb. I don't want this to happen. I don't want to be like this wet, sloppy thing I've become. I'm not a fan of uncontrollable sobbing. Dry, bloody anger appeals to me more than the kind that brings snot and tears and reduces me to a little snivelling thing with no sense of how to control myself. I try to keep everything inside me as long as possible.

When I stand under the lukewarm water in the shower, I know that there is no comfort here. The spray of this unfamiliar shower head won't fix anything. The water is like needles on my skin that prick me over and over again. It's simultaneously uncomfortable and the one thing I didn't want to remove. The pressure of it isn't as comforting or calming as it could be, but I'm already too used to it to stop.

What's wrong with me? I was just played like a fiddle by someone I thought I could trust and this is what I break down about? This is what makes the tears spring forth from my eyes? This is what makes them flow until my nose is swollen and I can no longer tell the difference between my tears and the water on my face?

I want to drown in it. I want to stick my head under the water gathering by my feet and hold myself there until I stop breathing, until there is nothing in my mind but death and survival. This isn't an actual wish for suicide; I don't have the energy for that. I know, in my heart of hearts, that I don't have the conviction to do anything of that sort. What I really need is to get out of the shower, wrap myself in the only sweatshirt I packed, and go lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling. What I really need is a night of fuzzy nothingness so I can sort through everything that has happened.

I do those things-- switch off the water without washing my hair, wipe down the already-healing wounds, bandage my body, and dress myself for bed in pajama pants, no shirt, and a sweatshirt I found on the floor. Mom never let me wear sweatshirts with strings in them while I was sleeping for fear that I would strangle myself in my sleep. Right now, I would be okay if that happened. I wouldn't encourage it, but I wouldn't stop it.

God, this night sucks. This entire day has. There isn't any other word for it.

Most of this emotion and thought happens in the back of my mind, where I'm barely aware of it. It's hard to understand what's happening to me, what I'm feeling, and how all this is affecting the way I view myself and the worth of my life.

I've felt like this before. I have been hopelessly lost in an ocean of feelings that I can't decipher and wishes for death that I don't want to think about or unpack at all. It's been a good, long while since the last time, though. The thing is, I'm much too lazy and much too paralyzed by what's happening within me to actually act out on any of the thoughts I'm happening. I always have been. I feel my feelings and never do anything about them.

It's not wrong to have these thoughts, I don't think. It's not concerning. It's just a weird part of who I am that overtakes me every so often, and what happened with Doug hastorn it out of the back corner of my mind tooth and nail until it sits front and center on the stage of my brain. I've always been like this. And maybe-- just maybe-- I've always been as angry as I am.

I lay back on the bed with one of my legs hanging off the side, looking up at the ceiling like I'll see the stars somehow. All I see is white popcorn paint. Am I really this stupid and weak? Is this all that I am? This angry, bloody, snivelling mess of a girl?

I thought I was a strong person. I thought I was a lantern burning down an abandoned farmhouse at the edge of a farming town. I thought I could shatter the glass and peel the paint with sheer force of will. I thought I was a force of goddamn nature exploding mine shafts in a ghost town, consuming everything in my path. It's important to me that I come across as brash, loud, and bright. It is important to me that I am those things. I may feel odd about it sometimes, but that's a part of who I am. I can't deny that.

To have that stripped from me like a layer of paint makes me feel exposed. I am laying here like my chest cavity is open and my heart is exposed and still beating. If I am not burning kerosene, then what am I? If I'm not the flame, then I must be the fuel.

And maybe I am a fool. Maybe I am too trusting. Maybe there really isn't weight to any ideas I have ever had. Maybe I should learn not to trust people. Maybe that would be best for everyone.