Finding Obsidian

24 - The Aronhalt Name

I spent the next week in isolation.

I know, I know. It was a very drama-queen move, I'll admit that. I was just having a hard time processing things.

The sunlight creeped into my room, finding its way through the blinds and into my eyes. It seemed to light the place on fire. I silently glanced at the clock on my sidetable. Almost 12:00 p.m., and I was still in bed.

Not that it really mattered. I stared blankly at the ceiling, cold sweat clinging to my forehead. The cuts in my palms had healed, but it was becoming increasingly clear that the rest of me hadn't. A certain name was ringing in my ears, and it'd been especially dedicated to robbing me of my sleep lately.

Yep. This nightmare marked the seventh in as many days. 

I groaned and rolled onto my side, contemplating the situation. In a few days, it'd be time for the ball. The day before that, I'd be dealing with a whole different issue, one that resurfaced every year, like clockwork. I wasn't looking forward to it. 

And the nightmares weren't helping. I shuddered involuntarily—they were truly horrific. It hadn't been this bad since immediately after the incident, three years ago. I'd thought they'd get better with time, but they were only getting worse. 

Actually, not totally true: I thought they'd get better with distance. 

Specifically, distance from the one person who'd been starring in my dreams—nightmares—for the last seven days straight. Go on. Take a wild guess who I was talking about.

That's right: Haltie. 

What a stupid nickname, I thought, but to my chagrin I still felt a half-smile pulling at my lips.

I reluctantly swung my legs off the bed and yanked the sheets off to throw in the wash. Rather than dwell on the disturbing contents of my latest nightmare, I opted to focus on some more pressing news. Namely, the Evaluation Competition. 

With the drone of the washer in the background, I padded over to my fridge and withdrew a bottle of water. As I took a long draught, my thoughts drifted. The ecomp was in two days. That meant the ball was tomorrow.

I sighed and slammed the fridge door shut. As I turned away, I caught my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. 

Yikes.

I hadn't exactly been lavishing in self-care these past couple days, so it stood to reason that I'd look less-than-my-best. But this? This was bad. I looked like a troll. How was I supposed to go to a ball looking like I lived under a bridge?

I cast a sidelong glance to my phone, sitting innocently on the counter. It was currently powered off, but the battery was full. I could call Lisa, I thought tentatively. She'd know how to fix this.

But if I did that, then I'd have to . . . talk.

"Ugh," I groaned, flopping onto my couch. The bottle of water rolled out of my hand and onto the floor. "This is stupid. I'm being stupid." My eyes darted again to my phone. "I should just call."

But I didn't. Unable to bring myself to it, I instead busied myself with straightening the place up. I finished the laundry, rearranged the couch cushions, did the dishes, vacuumed, showered . . . basically everything I could do besides touching my phone.

Procrastination is indeed the secret to being productive. Who knew?

Finally, I found myself bent over the counter, nervously studying the block of metal before me. I didn't know what my problem was.