The Perks of Being a Freak (Editing)

2. This Is Not My Bedroom

I am a teenager. To be more exact, I’m sixteen and a half. And true to the stereotype, I hate mornings. I hate waking up. I loathe the sun with a fiery passion. It doesn’t really matter why I have to wake up. Whether it be for school, for swim practice, or because I’m going to the beach with some friends, I hate waking up.

I prefer to stay up late, as late as possible, and sleep in until I can’t sleep anymore. During the summertime, I’ll usually do just that. I’ll be up until twelve or later watching television or doodling or playing video games, and then I’ll sleep until I have to get up to eat or to go somewhere with my friends.

There’s something really awful about waking up. Sleep is a bit like an embrace. It’s warm, and comforting. You’re surrounded by fuzzy half-memories and familiar strangers. When I’m asleep, I feel safe. Consciousness is cold and sharp, like a blade.

This time around, waking up was particularly horrible.

At first, all I could tell was that it was dark. It was darker than it should have been, at least. There’s a streetlight next to one of my windows, and that meant that my bedroom was always lit, even when the curtains were drawn.

In my sleep-hazed mind, however, the darkness was easily explained. The streetlight must have burnt out or my curtains finally started working like they were supposed to. I grinned to myself, sure that I still had hours to sleep before I had to get up and eat something. I shifted my back, trying to snuggle closer to the warm blankets beneath me and all around.

But there were no blankets beneath me. There was no bed beneath me. There was nothing under me but cold concrete.

Usually when I wake up I see the warm wooden walls of my bedroom. During the summer, the walls will be bathed in the early-afternoon light. Sometimes I hear laughter from downstairs as my family eats together, and offer each other the companionship that they deny me. I have never woken up and not known exactly where I was.

Until now.

I have also never woken up in pitch darkness, lying on rough cement, with Emily Thompson’s head on my lap.

So it’s a day of firsts.

I’ve known Mily since the first day of sixth grade. She thought that I was an eighth grader when I walked into science class, and had been terrified of me. Later, she had bumped into me and gone sprawling. According to Mily, she had been afraid that I was going to kill her.

But, obviously, I hadn’t. I had stopped, helped her gather her things, and apologized. By lunch time, we were inseperable.

There was something gritty in my eye, and it was stinging every time I blinked. I rubbed the back of my hand across my eye, and was relieved when the throbbing went away. My relief was short-lived, however. I could feel panic on the edge of my consciousness, swelling and whirling and ready to crash over me and drown me. Was this some sort of bad dream? A nightmare? 

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the wave of confusion and fear grew greater. Emily and I were not the only ones lying on the cold floor in the Dark Room.

Rajeev Nayar, a classmate of ours, was sprawled on his back near Emily’s feet. Lying parallel to Rajeev was Benjamin Hall, known as Benny. Lastly came Anthony O’Neil, the only one of them who I didn’t know personally. I had never really spoken to Tony. The only class I’ve ever had with him was English, sophomore year.

What the hell is going on? I thought, looking around. Behind me was a door, with a strip of golden light shining out from beneath it. Thanks to this small light, the others were thrown into relief. Also thanks to this light, I could see that there was nothing in the room, besides us. 

I wasn’t wearing enough clothes. Through my near-hysteria, I could tell that what I was wearing wasn’t exactly decent.

I was trapped inside of a concrete prison, with four other teenagers, wearing my brother's old t-shirt and a pair of panties.

My breath came faster and faster, shallower by the second, as my heart sped onwards. The dark was encroaching on all sides, filling the air and filling my lungs with cold darkness. Hopelessness and fear weighed heavily on my chest. My head spun, what little vision that I had blurred.

What were we doing here? Where is here? How did we get here? Why are we in our pajamas? Were we kidnapped? Are we going to be killed? Will they ask for ransom? Why the five of us? What makes us so special? Where are we? Where are we? I wanna go home…

The terror fueled my thoughts, and my thoughts fueled my terror. I wanted it all to stop. I wanted to return to the warm obliviousness of sleep. I buried my head in my hands and wailed silently.

Emily stirred slightly, and moaned in discomfort. The noise made me jerk out of my reverie. I couldn’t be weak, I realized. There were other people here with me. I wasn’t allowed to panic until I knew what was going on. I had to be strong, for Emily. I had to be brave for the four of them, because I was awake and they weren’t. I had to be fearless, because I wasn’t helpless.

I shifted onto my knees, ignoring the twinge of soreness as my knees grated on concrete, and forced my breaths to even out and slow. My heart was still fluttering, but now my breaths were deep. I reached out to touch Emily’s shoulder and shake her awake. Groaning, she clenched her eyes shut and wiggled away from me.

A feeling akin to exasperation rose within me. It was between frustration and annoyance. Mily did always hate waking up. Probably even more than I do. I remembered our many sleepovers. I would always be the first one awake. Emily would only get up if someone (me) forced her to. And then, once she was awake, she was sluggish at best getting ready for the day.

Now, however, she woke fairly quickly. Squinting in the darkness, she sat up and opened her eyes.

Are you alright? I asked, flooded with relief. There had been some part of me that was sure that Emily would be dead or hurt. 

For a split second, her wide, dark eyes met mine. I could read her confusion and worry just as clearly as I could read a book. But then everything in the world dissolved away into red-hot waves of blinding agony. A pulsing beat erupted being my eyes, throbbing in rhythm with my rapid heartbeat.

I remember screaming, my voice joining Emily’s in a chorus of pain.

There was a crack that shattered every fibre of my existence as my skull met the concrete.

And then the Dark Room vanished.