Dogwood

Chapter 3: Adjustment Period

It was edging onto late afternoon by the time Rory had first gotten to the townhouse. His brother and sister had rented him a U-Haul as a graduation gift to get all of his possessions to the new house. That was the easy part. The real challenge came when it was time to unpack.

He'd spent the better part of four hours unloading everything by himself before his roommates came back. There were three of them in total: Evan Woodson, Daniel Masters, and Isaac Hockstead.

"You need some help?" Evan had asked when they pulled up in his truck.

He was a lean guy with choppy, black hair. A salt and pepper stubble ran along his stone-chiseled jaw and coated the lower half of his face. Rory, suddenly aware of his own pallid body and chubby features, refused their help.

A nasty sunburn had started to form on the nape of his neck, and he was sweating in places he didn't know could accumulate sweat. Still, he persisted with this ridiculous assertion, proclaiming he had everything under control.

Evan snickered as if the very idea were nothing more than a failed attempt at a joke. "C'mon guys, let's help him out," he said, fostering complaints from Daniel and Isaac. They both got a smack on the back of their heads. "Quit being babies. There's not even that much stuff left."

With three additional people, the job was done within the hour. Then, Evan volunteered himself and Isaac to take the U-Haul to the nearest drop off so that Rory could start unpacking. Suddenly, Rory wasn't upset about not getting campus accommodation anymore. This setup didn't seem to be as bad as he had once expected. The only downside would be the walk to school every day, and the fact that his bedroom was in the attic where there was no central air or heating.

"You'll have windows though," his brother had told him months ago when he first approached Rory with the offer. Evan had been an old high school football buddy, and apparently, connections paid off.

In a matter of no time, Rory had his furniture situated and clothes unpacked. It wasn't terribly difficult considering he only had a bed, a desk, a nightstand, and a TV stand despite the lack of a TV.

In one of the cardboard boxes, he found an old letter from his father dated five days before his suicide. The letter was a sheet of notebook paper, but only two lines had been used: It's too much. The world went to shit, and we're all going to die alone and worthless.

Now, Rory took a deep breath, exhaled, and repeated the cycle. The room suddenly felt flimsy like a paper Mache copy of the attic. He sat down on his bed, trying to regain his bearings, but he couldn't get ahold of himself. The pain from that day, when he'd been pulled out of class by his mother and a police officer alongside his brother and sister, resurfaced like a freshly picked scab. The guilt and fear flooded his mind until all he could hear was:

Alone!

Worthless!

The voice in his head was a cruel thing. A haunting screech belonging to a forgotten banshee.

Lazy!

Loser!

His anxiety was getting worse. Especially in the last year, with everything changing. He was glad to be away from home, away from his stepfather, but at the same time, there was no more of a safety net. He was completely on his own, and if he failed, there wasn't anyone for him to fall back on. He couldn't allow himself to screw up this opportunity. He couldn't become just another face in the crowd, like his father had been. Rory was going to do something great; he was going to accomplish his dreams no matter what it took. It was just too damn difficult to concentrate with these voices in his head, with this pressure in his chest. He needed to placate the anxiety, to numb the noise.