CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | ✓

32: THE DESIRE FOR SELF-DISSECTION

            My head swells as I sink into lethally peaceful isolation. The explosions from fireworks and the boom of music go mute. Water insulates even the occasional burst of conversation from partying neighbours taking smoke breaks on the street.

The movement of the shadows on my bedroom ceiling slows along with my breathing. I'm near enough to death that even Beewolf don't register me as worthy prey. Or maybe I just can't hear it.

My own eyes look up at me from the ceiling. Down? Gleaming black that hides the pupils.

No, that's not entirely right. I have moved to the ceiling, now watching my body in the coffin of my bed. The reflections of the singing clouds outside are cast over the side of my face, fire nibbling at my ear and cheek.

My phone screen lights up. With it discarded on the bed by my thigh, I shouldn't be able to see it. I shouldn't be able to notice the incoming call at all because my phone is muted. But I watch Diwa's caller ID flash on the screen until my hand finally grabs it.

'Hello?'

'Cece? It's Diwa.'

Why does she always say that? I'll commit war crimes if she says that one more time.

'I know that,' I hiss—or intend to, but my voice is flat. 'I have your contact saved.'

Rather than match my snark, she laughs at herself. 'Just wanted to ring to say happy new year.'

Oh... I didn't even think about doing that.

I'm a bad friend. I might be the worst friend.

'You too,' I mutter. She might not hear it, not with the commotion clamouring into my ear. 'You having a nice night?'

'Yeah. I don't get on very well with my immediate family but it's nice to see the rest of them. My aunt has been drinking since noon and she called my dad a crusty jizzsock—it were brilliant. How's your night been?'

'Fine.'

Clatter. Then the distinct sound of a door and the party muffles. After shuffling, which suggests she has sat somewhere soft, Diwa speaks again. 'So have you got any resolutions?'

'No. Promises are just a guarantee for letting people down.'

'Not unless you make a resolution to be a cynical tosser.'

Fair enough.

'Well,' Diwa starts, 'I've been thinking about what you said about not caring so much about what my parents think and I promise–'

She's cut off by a shriek of her name followed by babbling in at least two voices in what I assume is Tagalog. I don't have to understand the words to know that Diwa is trying to convince them to leave her alone but, eventually, she admits defeat.

'My younger cousins have found me. I've gotta go. We always eat pancakes after midnight on New Year's.'

My facial muscles are likely incapable of smiling but a wink of joy kindles somewhere in my chest. I'm not sure I've ever heard her voice be the tickle of grass against bare feet rather than the clash of talons.

'Enjoy. See you at school.'

'Be ready to study,' Diwa sings. She wishes me a happy new year again before ending the call.

I drop my phone on the pillow. My sight has returned to my eyes, watching the shadows on my bedroom ceiling disperse from fireworks. Holes and holes and holes burned into the dark.