Final Room

21 | jess bradford

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | JESS BRADFORD

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          The thing about constantly feeling like the world is about to end and that something terrible will certainly happen is that you don't know what to do with yourself or how to function when you don't feel that way. You grow used to the permanent rumbling panic nesting in your chest, grow to be grateful that your brain is trying to protect you, and you can't help but feel betrayed when you fail to get a heads up.

          Even when nothing bad happens, even when you're painfully aware this is not sustainable and is ruining your life, part of you resents the moments you manage to forget and live. I don't miss having panic attacks during lectures or on campus, in front of the entire student body, and I certainly don't miss having to lock my bedroom door because a noise outside scared me, so I should be thankful I've been mostly fine tonight.

          Hell, the worst thing to happen to me tonight was dancing with some guy I don't know—thankfully not Callum, as Odette would never forgive me if I crossed that line—and it didn't trigger any panic in me. It was just guilt—good old, reliable guilt—and mild disgust, both things that would be normal in someone in my shoes. I don't want to make a habit out of drinking my weight in alcohol when I can't even handle one cup of vodka soda, regardless of college parties being a formative experience in every young adult's life or not. This life isn't for me.

          Julie stares back at me like I've just insulted her entire family, and I'm suddenly conscious of how many people are standing in this kitchen, staring right back at me. Odette and Callum are still here, no longer as oblivious to their surroundings as they previously were, now that I've unceremoniously interrupted their private moment.

          It's dawning on me that I don't really know any of these people, nor have I ever made an effort to change that, even with them switching up their daily routines for my sake. Waltzing into a party and turning the spotlight on me, putting Maeve in a tough, awkward position by making her pour me a cocktail when I can't drink, and feeling entitled to Julie's time isn't doing my reputation any wonders.

          Still, part of me wonders if this is who they expected me to be or not; what did they think the local Final Girl would be like? Am I shattering their expectations? If yes, is it in a good or in a bad way? Am I as mediocre and bland as I'm supposed to be, nothing but a trope instead of an antithesis of one?

          "I think you should get some water first," Julie says. I look away from the two people in the kitchen I know, panic over disappointing them and embarrassing them spreading across my chest like ice water. This is the person they've brought along to introduce to the rest of their friends—painfully unremarkable. "You look a bit pale."

          Odette steps forward, heels clicking across the tiled floor. "Come on, Wendy. Let's go."

          I don't want to go anywhere with her, not when I stumbled into the kitchen to talk to someone else, and she's making things so much harder than they need to be. She's not the enemy, I know that, but someone in this house has to be, and she's the most familiar face and, therefore, the easiest target. Not even Callum gets treated that way.

          "I'm okay—"

          She shoves a glass of water in my hand. "Drink that. Sit down." She pushes me towards one of the high stools, which I wouldn't struggle with climbing to if I were sober, no doubt, and I reluctantly obey. Now that I'm no longer causing a scene, people aren't paying much attention to me anymore, but I don't want to give them a chance to reconsider I'm more than the good girl who follows the rules. Contradicting a trope is dangerous. "What's going on with you? This isn't you."