The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die (GirlXGirl)

Chapter 2: The Move

The sun filtered through the blinds, stabbing my eyes with its weak, useless light. Great. Another day of being stuck in this body, in this life. I blinked hard, my mind foggy and slow like I'd just come off a bad trip. My body felt like it had been beaten with a hammer—aching everywhere, stiff from yesterday's little misadventure with the river. Thought it'd be my one-way ticket out of here, but no. The current spat me back out like some half-eaten meal, and now I was here, lying in bed, cold to my bones, but alive.

"Alive." Funny word for it.

I stared at the ceiling, watching the dust float around in the thin sunlight. It was so damn quiet. Like the universe was having a laugh at my expense. You tried to punch your ticket, and look where you are—still stuck. Not even the water wanted me.

Then came the knock. "We're leaving in an hour," my father's voice drifted through the door, flat and empty. Like we were heading to the DMV or something, not packing up and ditching this whole place. He didn't ask why I was home late, soaked like a drowned rat. Maybe he didn't notice. Hell, maybe he didn't care. He never did.

I groaned, rolling over, pulling the blankets tighter around me. My muscles screamed, stiff from the fight against the river, the icy grip still clinging to my skin. The only thing that went according to plan yesterday was that sickening weight—failing at dying doesn't mean you wake up with some magical epiphany. You wake up in the same crappy life, except now you're just wetter.

Forcing myself out of bed, I swung my legs over the side and stared into the cracked mirror. My reflection stared back, hollow-eyed, hair sticking to my face like I'd crawled out of a damn grave. I looked like death, but death didn't want me.

I threw some clothes into my suitcase, not caring what I grabbed. Why bother? It's all just moving the same miserable existence to a different backdrop. I wasn't running away to start over. I was being dragged somewhere else, like some piece of baggage my father barely acknowledged.

Downstairs, the house was a ghost. Boxes everywhere, the walls stripped bare, like it had already decided we were gone. The air tasted like dust and cigarettes, stale like everything else in my life. My father stood in the kitchen, back to me, sipping coffee from that chipped mug of his. He didn't even look up when I walked in, just stared out the window like he'd rather be anywhere but here. Join the club, old man.

"I'll be in the car," he muttered, brushing past me like I was a piece of furniture. Typical. Even when he's here, he's not.

I stood there for a second, soaking in the suffocating silence. This house never felt like home, but now it was just a husk, a dead shell with all the warmth sucked out of it. The cigarette smoke clung to everything, even though I'd stopped noticing it years ago. It was familiar. At least it was that. But familiar doesn't mean comforting.

I walked out, pulling the door shut with a soft click. The air outside was sharp, cold, cutting through me as I tossed my suitcase into the truck and climbed in beside my father. He didn't say a word, just started the engine and drove, like we were on some unspoken mission to nowhere. The road stretched out ahead of us, bleak and endless, the trees passing by in a blur. Every mile felt like I was getting further away from nothing and closer to... more nothing.

My head thudded against the window, the cool glass grounding me in a way the monotonous hum of the engine couldn't. My father had his music on, that same droning rock station he always listened to. It filled the silence between us, but it wasn't enough to drown out the weight of everything unsaid. Not that I gave a damn. Talking wouldn't fix anything.

As we got closer to the new town, the landscape changed—trees got thicker, houses farther apart. The sky seemed lower, like even the clouds were suffocating. Great. Another dead-end town. Maybe here the kids would wear smiles painted on like everyone else, pretending life didn't suck.

The house we pulled up to was a joke. A crumbling, faded box with peeling gray paint and a porch sagging like it was trying to give up. I stared at it through the window, biting back a laugh. Of course. Another rotting carcass to live in. Maybe this one would finally collapse, and I could let it bury me for good.

I followed my father inside, the door creaking like it was about to fall off its hinges. The house was colder than the last one, and emptier. Bare floors, beige walls that looked more like prison walls than a home. My father disappeared into some room, closing the door behind him like that was his answer to everything. Out of sight, out of mind.

My room was small. Pathetic. One window looking out onto the gray street. The bed sagged in the corner, the mattress like a limp handshake. The walls were blank, sterile. I dropped my bag onto the floor, the thud barely making a sound against the dull carpet. The silence was suffocating again, pressing in from all sides.

I wandered to the window and pressed my hand against the cold glass. The sky had darkened, clouds rolling in, threatening rain. This place, this town—it felt like a giant waiting room for death. No one here was really alive, just waiting around for their number to get called.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn't check it. It didn't matter who it was. I'd ignored my "friends" long enough that they'd probably written me off anyway. People like to act like they care until it gets inconvenient. Then they move on. It's easier that way—for them and for me.

By the time I went outside, the rain had started. Not heavy, but enough to soak me through. I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets, walking without any real destination. The streets were empty, the smell of wet pavement mixing with damp leaves, but it didn't do anything to clear the fog in my head. I felt like I was moving, but not going anywhere. Just like always.

The houses I passed looked normal, neat. But there was something off, like the people inside were just as dead as the house I was living in. No music. No signs of life. Just the rain, tapping against windows, washing everything clean but leaving it all just as hollow.

I kept walking, the rain sliding down my face, chilling me. It was cold, sure, but at least it reminded me that I was still here. Still stuck in this body.