Gaslighter

23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

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2021

          I woke up with a start, plagued by the overwhelming, unmistakable feeling of dread creeping up my spine like something wasn't quite right. Something wrapped tightly around each of my ribs, weaving my bones together into a spider web, and I struggled to pull myself up into a sitting position, with a strange weight on my chest fighting the opposite way.

          The empty space on the bed next to me was a clear indicator something had happened. I could pull the covers and the blankets to my side, covered up to my shoulders, and they wouldn't get stuck or be held back by the weight of his body, sound asleep next to me. My heart pounded so hard against my chest that my vision pulsated red when I dared to roll out of bed, slowly setting my feet on the wooden floors, so gelid even while I was wearing two pairs of warm socks.

          I'd always been terrified of Chase's grandparents' cabin when the sun set. It was stupid and childish and we'd been coming here for years at that point, yet there I was, dreading the moment I'd be alone in this place.

          It looked like a proper horror movie set, once the flames in the fireplace had been put out and the lights had dimmed, with danger lurking around each corner. With Chase around, I wasn't nearly as restless, but being in there all by myself in the dark—the clock on my phone had informed me it was three in the morning—did nothing to ease my fears. His own phone was sitting on his bedside table, where he'd left it just before we went to bed, but he'd taken his wallet, driver's license, and ID. If anything happened to him outside in the frigid weather, he wouldn't be able to call me for help—and I wanted so desperately to believe he knew by number by heart if he ever got access to a phone—and I mentally scolded myself and my brain for instantly jumping to the worst-case scenario.

          Going back to sleep when my mind was racing like a freight train wasn't an option, so I could very well return to my laptop and focus on outlining my senior project, which I'd conveniently been neglecting for months. It's what I should have chosen to do, but I knew I would never be able to focus when I didn't know where Chase was or whether or not he was okay and safe, and I wouldn't give into selfishness and put a stupid senior project ahead of him in my list of priorities. I could redo it next year if it came down to that, even though it would be downright humiliating and I was certain my parents would never forgive me for it, but certain things couldn't wait for me to get my life together.

          In the living room, my trembling hands poked the fireplace and lit up matches until the fire revived, illuminating and heating that side of the house so he wouldn't come back to a dark, freezing cabin—if he'd even care. I wanted to believe he'd come back, with the only one of his belongings gone being his wallet, but his recent behavior had been worrying me, though I didn't feel the right to even bother him about my concerns. It wasn't like he'd listen, and it wasn't like I'd ever understand what he was going through, so my pathetic attempts at being supportive and comforting would fall flat and make it all worse.

          To say his recent behavior had been erratic would be an appropriate way of putting it, in my opinion, even if I never admitted to it aloud.

          Ever since my father's critique—he was taking it like criticism—of his script, Chase's mood had worsened considerably, and being around him was like waiting for a bomb to explode.

          Though he still showed up for lectures and no one was missing out on new Film Theory content, it wasn't the same; he was unfocused and impatient, unforgiving of any mistakes or anything that wasn't close to perfection, snapping at people, and even his appearance had taken a nosedive. He was disheveled most times and not in the effortlessly attractive way he'd pull off the look ever since I first met him; he'd throw on the first pieces of clothing he'd find and call it a day, though he was still showering. He hadn't bothered to shave his stubble, leading him to grow quite an impressive beard, and most people complimented him on it, saying he was embracing his age—not that he was that old—and that it made him look more professional and mature. I regularly shied away from making any comments about that, not wanting to deepen the chasm between the two of us any further, especially when the age difference between us was such a sore spot at times that I didn't dare to touch the subject when his emotions were so volatile.