Final Room

09 | gale weathers

CHAPTER NINE | GALE WEATHERS

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          Sidney and I spend plenty of time staring at my bedroom ceiling.

          Back home, my bedroom ceiling was covered with glow in the dark stars, something I've never grown out of and never bothered taking down, but I haven't brought them along with me. It's the one thing about my old bedroom that Xavier doesn't remember, even though it's been there for years, ever since before the pink era.

          "Are you sure this doesn't hurt your neck?" I ask Sid, who's sitting next to me on the bed. While I have the luxury to lie on my back and stare up, she has to crane her whole head up to mimic me. "We've been doing this for a while."

          Sometimes I wish she could talk, so I could know what goes on in that pretty little head of hers. I wonder how she feels whenever she has to calm me down, if she does it because it's what she has been trained to do, because she feels like she has to, or if it's because she genuinely loves me and wants to make sure I'm okay out of the goodness of her heart.

          I believe animals are pure at heart, especially dogs, and projecting my insecurities onto a little puppy—who's not exactly little anymore, growing by the day—is more than unfair, but a girl has to wonder sometimes. She often shoots me looks of utter adoration and admiration and every doubt I have about her love for me immediately dissipates, but then there are those times when they come back with full strength.

          Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Mom got me a cat instead. I don't think they're recognized as service animals anyway, but Sidney is getting too big to sleep on my lap or chest without smothering me, like it's even her fault, and she provides more than just simple emotional support. When I roll to the side to face her, she lies back down, turning her head to rest it on my shoulder.

          "I know, baby," I whisper, against her fur. "I wouldn't trade you for anyone else in the world."

          She yawns in response and a flash of guilt stabs me right through the heart, aware I'm the reason she was up for the majority of the night. Since I couldn't sleep, it left her on high alert as well, just in case she needed to calm me down, but it turned out to be nothing but my anxiety acting up. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, obsessing over my first day at UAS, obsessing over things that may or may not happen, and got little to no sleep, unable to quiet my erratic heartbeat.

          My alarm is about to ring, too, but I have yet to find the strength to get out of bed and shower. I should, before I risk taking too long and end up missing out on Betty's offer to give me a ride to campus, but the bed's magnetism is far too strong for me to be able to fight it. It sounds like the absolute worst excuse in the world, but I'm exhausted from the pathetic sleep quality I've gotten lately, and therapy has also been strangely demanding. No one ever told me how tiring it is to cry for forty-five minutes straight, twice a week, yet here I am, dehydrated.

          I don't want to follow Betty and Odette around campus like a lost puppy, but it's not like I know anyone else, and I don't feel brave enough to try and meet other people. There surely are extracurricular activities and clubs I can join if I ever feel like it, but I'm concerned about the roots I'll be growing in Alaska without knowing for how long I'll keep watering the plants. I don't want to get attached to people and places only to have to let them go after a year, maybe two, because I simply can't see myself growing old away from home.

          This isn't where I belong. It's terrible and dramatic, but it's true, and I don't think it's either fair or beneficial for anyone if I start pretending otherwise. I don't want to stay, but admitting it out loud or acting on it aren't valid possibilities, as my parents would immediately argue I need to stay. Mom, in particular, has been nagging me lately about my future and career, when both of those things haven't found a high place in my list of priorities. Dad tells her she has it easier than anyone else, when all she has to do is post pictures on social media and promote trendy brands, which sparks a series of passive-aggressive comments between the two of them, and I force myself to stop listening. I don't want to be the reason behind yet another argument.