Cat & Drew's Whirlwind Adventure

26. Sweet Dreams (are Made of This)

Those nightmares I've been plagued with, those spine-chilling, sweat-drenched horrors, have lost their direction; no longer are they confined to when I'm finally able to drift off to sleep. They follow me throughout the day, and they're waiting for me when I wake up, bled out into real life. I want to keep blaming Cat for that because it would be easier, but I think I'm big enough to admit it was always going to come to this. She wasn't wrong, I was a fool to believe I could see Chad day in and day out without any consequence, eventually it would have come to a head one way or another, and I still would have had to tell Troy the truth regardless since I was so willing to pull him into this nightmare with me.

It's really my fault, then. In close to a decade I've never seen Troy quite like that, how he had looked for every second he stood there in that bathroom with me, listening to how I recounted the details of what had happened that night in a blubbering, decimated mess. He looked heartbroken, and sick, and so, so angry. So angry that he wanted to hunt Chad down again and finish what he had started, but I managed to stop him, to implore him to stay with me so that he wouldn't cross a line neither of us could come back from. Then we just cried together.

These are the thoughts stuck on repeat in my head, keeping me awake as I stare up at those patterns in my ceiling, wishing I could ignore my pointless alarm that alerts me I have to start getting ready. I had come home yesterday and flew straight up here, I didn't have strength for anything else, but this is a new day, and I have to get out of bed and decide how I'm going to begin all of this again. If only Troy would text me back, but he hasn't responded since last night, I'm trying hard not to worry. None of this is his responsibility either, it's not on him to carry me through this, even if it would be easier to have him here. And to know what he's thinking.

Shrouded in that familiar fog I sit up, still dressed in the pair of Troy's gym shorts he'd loaned me. The plastic bag, tied tightly in a knot, sits where I'd thrown it, containing my shame and the piss-soaked pants I can never wear again. I can't give them to my mom to wash, there's no way I could explain it. I could throw them out, but I can't bring myself to part with them either. That leaves only one option, and with a debilitating reluctance I look over gradually to my closet, knowing that it, too, contains that which I cannot let go of.

Still almost all of me would rather die than go in there again, to be so close, to relive it like I had to relive it yesterday, but all choices have been stripped from me. This is the most I've thought about hurting myself since I got back from Resthaven, and I mean more than just cutting my thighs. I think about it as I pass by my mirror—cutting myself—the intrusive thoughts clouding my head much like the fog, and I'm tempted, but I push through, passed the mirror and right to the closet before I can talk myself out of it.

After I toss the bag in with haste I get dressed, and text Troy again, and then brush my teeth, and text Troy again. He remains silent on the other end, so all alone I do what I had done my first day back home—I tuck all the terrible things I'm feeling away neatly, and focus on surviving. Downstairs my mom has breakfast waiting on the table, her back to the doorway while she scrubs dishes in the sink. The thought of eating turns my stomach, but she's just started to ease up, any indication of how not okay I am and I fear she'll snap right back to how she'd been before, so I rely on what I've learned over the last several months to mimic what my therapist calls healthy behavior.

"Good morning." Sitting at the table, I force a greeting.

"Oh, Andrew." Mom acts startled, completely frazzled when she acknowledges me. Then she returns to her dishes. "Eat quickly, we've got to be to school a little early this morning. You didn't tell me there was an incident yesterday, I had to find out through an email from your principal—we're supposed to meet with him in about half an hour."