bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter sixteen, part one. 💛

Once Case and Hannah hit the one-year-anniversary milestone, their idyllic relationship started to go awry. They'd been on stormy seas for a few months, but the real proverbial iceberg came during a party. As is the case for most high school parties: the breeding ground for all drama and scandal and devastation. Case and Hannah arrived late and tense, an argument that had brewed under the surface of their relationship for days finally bubbling up in the car ride to some random girl's sweet sixteen. Once there, they drifted apart, Hannah likely wanting to vent about their fight (aka, complain about him) to her friends, allowing Case to roam more freely with his own friends. He let loose, downing pink lemonade mixed with vanilla vodka, scooping Jello-shots into his mouth with sticky fingers, listening to Jay and Miles hammer on about she's such a bitch. She never lets you do anything. You're not even happy. No homo, but you're a good looking guy, you could do so much better. Just dump her.

He was already tipsy, head-spinning, had the freeing urge to be a loud fool for everyone's amusement, when Hannah came back to him. She wanted to leave, saying her friends were bored and Stacey or Becky or somebitch wanted to try snorting raw cacoa powder to get high. Maybe he was drunk and dumb and feeling invulnerable. Maybe his patience was wearing thin. Maybe he was falling out of love. For whatever reason, he said no. On cue, she threatened to break up with him if he didn't come with her. His friends rallied behind him, Miles leading a chorus of other voices: He can do what he wants. He said no. Maybe he should break up with you. He didn't know who said the last one—some freshman girl he didn't know but had been hovering around him all night—regardless, he latched onto the sentiment and told Hannah he would break up with her if she didn't let him stay. A stalemate. An influx of name-calling and swearing from both sides ensued, until finally Hannah left with her friends; no breakup but their relationship definitely in a precarious limbo.

It should've felt like a victory. To finally stand up for himself and have a voice. He laughed and drank more and celebrated with his friends, but in his gut was the dreadful sense he had committed himself to another mistake.

The freshman girl from before—the one who had shouted Case should break up with his girlfriend—came closer. She'd hovered around his orbit all night, but now, maybe with the vindication his girlfriend had abandoned him, she seemed to have given herself the unspoken permission to sit on his lap. She took his hat and put it on her head. Her fingers curled into the back of his hair. She angled toward him, her breasts pressed against his body and he could feel the firmness of her padded bra. She whispered in his ear, her voice warm and wet with alcohol, she's a bitch. You can do so much better. She smelled like raspberry vodka and sour straps. She tasted like raspberry vodka and sour straps.

Even drunk, he knew it was wrong. Despite the fight, he was still in a relationship. Still one half of the high school sweethearts. He pulled away, wanting to tell the girl to get off his lap but he couldn't bring himself to be rude. Gently, he told her I shouldn't. She scoffed then forced another drink to his lips, tilting the bottle and pouring down his throat. He let it happen, already too drunk to turn away. He swallowed obligingly, sculling until his belly swelled like a water balloon, and then instead of alcohol down his throat, it was the freshman girl's tongue. Even drunk, even with his eyes closed as he made out with a girl who wasn't his girlfriend, Case knew that other people in the room were watching, raving, holding up their phones and filming everything.

*    *    *

A single white line started to appear, etched into stone. The plastic lid turned sharp then blunt as Case used it to carve into the wall. Over and over, back and forth. Fine particles of dust fell into his lap as the line grew longer, deeper.

One white line. One whole month.

I want to go home.

Case sighed into the soiled shirt still pressed to his split lip, and hardening with dry blood, as he turned the plastic over in his hand. He'd snapped off the top of a half-empty shampoo bottle Sir hadn't taken away when he brought in the new supplies. He ran his thumb over the point; it hadn't occurred to Case he could make a shiv, and now he'd unintentionally made one. Smooth, blunt, a little sharp at the corners. Not sharp enough. Not that that was an option; Sir was right—Case was too weak for suicide.