Run

Chapter Four

Sometimes, to torment myself, I'd read the articles. This usually happened when I'd fallen so far down into the pit of Bad Things I wasn't sure it was worth it to get up. I'd see the glaring mistakes I'd made, find a million different things I could have done differently, imagine scenarios that left Deirdra alive and me with my job. The most prominent was reporting her behavior to the school guidance counselor.

I stared at the cracked ceiling, the late afternoon sun sliding in around the edges of the blinds. I'd already known what I was going to do that evening; I didn't need to make it worse. But I'd gone to the library to get a library card and the computer terminals were just...taunting. Why not? Why not loop full circle and drag myself into the pit again?

So I had, and they were as bad as they'd been the first time I'd read them. Worse, even. Worse because in the three weeks since the bar, the night out with Celia and Charlie, there'd been no reprieve.

I ached. Everywhere. Even my teeth. I wanted my little house, my friends, the brewery we'd spent hours at, the random visits from my parents and the phone calls from my mother threatening to move down from Bellingham. Homesickness washed over me and settled into every possible crevice and wouldn't float away, no matter how many times I scrubbed my skin raw. The only time it dissipated was the few hours I'd spent with Celia. And it was because it felt like home. Felt like I belonged.

So tonight I was going to try and regain that peace I'd had after I'd left Mister Nice to Look At in his bed. Because I wasn't stupid - I knew I was getting worse. I also wasn't ready to go home yet. I wasn't strong enough.

But I would be. Or I'd kill myself trying.

I rolled off the bed, stripped, and walked into the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. Looking in it would only be a deterrent. The best I could hope for was my concealer would cover the dark circles without looking like pancake makeup.

The shower helped, mostly because the water was freezing for the first five minutes. I shivered my way through shampooing, goosebumps soothed as the water warmed. By the time I stepped out and wrapped a towel around me, I felt marginally more alert.

And when I dried off and pulled on jeans and a tank, the butterflies stormed the keep and set up camp. I pressed a hand to my stomach, like pushing on it would calm it.

I wiped off the steam and stared at the mirror. I'd re-dyed my hair the other day, changing from purple to blood red. The color suited the mood I'd been in the last few days. The water-darkened strands stood out against my pale skin, highlighting the rings under my eyes.

My hands shook as I tried to cover the dark circles, leading me to forgo any other sort of makeup. I'd end up looking like a kid playing dress up or poking myself in the eye with my mascara wand. I found my sandals, slipped some cash and my ID in my pocket, and headed for the door.

It was too early.

The last time, the only time, I'd gone to the bar, the sun had just given up the ghost and twilight was making way for the dark. As I stepped outside, the sun was low on the horizon. A normal person would be eating dinner at this hour. The thought of trying to swallow food had my stomach crawling up my throat. Food was out of the question. Besides, with any luck, I wouldn't be drinking much.

In the fading light, the bar was even sadder, the front having been scrubbed clean of graffiti a little too often. There were more cars in the lot than last time. I scanned them for a hulking truck and found way too many that fit that description.

There were more people tonight, too, to go with the influx of cars. The stool I'd occupied before was empty, though, and I wandered over, keeping an eye out for shaggy hair and broad shoulders.