The Degeneration of Gwen Weaver

Charades

I walk through the hallways like I always do, foot over foot along the tile grouting, hands shoved in my pockets. When I want to avoid someone, I pretend like I'm concentrating on my footsteps, but truthfully, muscle memory allows me to trace with ease. Today, however, I glanced about, not quite anxiously. I mean it. I'm fine. I'm just supposed to be meeting Carly for lunch and she's late and... well, we just need to talk.

Finally, she comes around a corner (a different way than usual) with an odd look on her face (guilt?) that vanishes when she catches my eyes.

"Hey Gwen." Her voice is soft yet distinctive, so different from my brassy croak.

"Carly!"

I've known Carly since the fifth grade. She can tell me anything. I tell her everything. I know her face, know her furrowed brow and eyes that get puffy when she's tired, which is always. I know the one cowlick that she always has to straighten because if there's anything Carly needs, it's control over herself. Control over her life.

I think it's because she's scared of what might happen otherwise.

Today, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright, but also scared. Guilty. Deceptive eyes.

"What's wrong?"

I'm startled. She looks at me, the same old girl, honest and together, face arranged into an expression of concern.

Like what I saw before was some alternate history, some false memory of forbidden exhilaration.

"G, you look terrible!" What's wrong?"

"Ah, yeah, I'm just tired. I had this weird dream and..."

"Hey, babe." A tall, sandy-haired boy, impeccably dressed, holds Carly's shoulders. As she turns her head to greet him, he pecks her on the cheek.

And maybe I'm just tired, but I see a bit of stiffness in Carly's shoulders that wasn't there before, like if sinew and muscle were replaced by bone.

"Hey, Faust," I nod.

"Aye, Gwen. How's Julius Caesar?"

"Still dead."

"Dammit, Brutus," he mutters.

Carly laughs and we wade through the hallway to sit down at our nondescript spot in the middle of the cafeteria. I'm not hungry, my cheeks are burning, and there's a persistent pulse of blood pounding at my head. It's all I can do to sit up straight.

Ever have days when you just feel like you only have to make it through? Like if you can make it to the last bell before you collapse into ashes, it'll be okay?

Today is just a charade.

Wise-ass joke here, correct answer there; here's the part where I run into some clueless freshman in the hallway, here's where my bio teacher rants about reality tv and his ex-wife; here's where I embarrass myself in front of half the student body by falling UP the bleachers. Everything's rehearsed a million times, each jab, each suprise, each accident. The good news about running on autopilot is that you can think about important things.

Like Carly's shift in behavior.

Like my nightmare.

That woman isn't my mother.

My mom works at an insurance firm, 9 to 5, 7 days a week. She's small and mousy, with curly blonde hair and a midsection that's a bit softer than it was when she was younger. She watches a lot of Food Network but can't cook and she hates it when I'm out past ten the few times I've left the house on the weekend.

And my dad used to brew his own beer, but now all he does is watch rugby, work at Ford developing hybrids, and argue about poiltics with the mailman.

They're just parents.

Kinda boring, but really, it's better that way. Parents aren't meant to suprise you.

They aren't meant to have long black hair and a dark past.

"Gwen? Seriously, what's up? You keep spacing out on me." Carly whispers worriedly.

"I -um- gotta- bye," I stand up too quickly from our table and bang my knee before limping away.

~ ~ ~

I push the door to the bathroom open with my shoulder because my hands are shaking too much. My breath is short and heavy, my heart to loud in my ears. A feeling of dread, of panic, gnaws at my stomach, like there is something terribly, terribly wrong. I drop my books on the ground, pencils clacking across the floor, but I don't want to make a scene. I splash water on my face in a feeble attempt to cool it down, but all it succeeds in doing is matting my frizzy mop of hair.

A tiny voice of reason in my head says that this reaction is irrational and unprovoked, but the rest of my mind is possessed by a maniac, terrifying buzz, a wild paranoia that turns the world a cloudy red. Slowly, it fades, so subtly that I don't realize it's abated until I can see again.

I realize that I'm braced over the sink, the cloudy water soaking the ends of my hair. My face is wet with snot and the salty sting of my tears. I cough a couple times, even retch, and slowly raise my head.

And I see my mother.

It has to be her. She has my beaky nose and bushy eyebrows, though on her they look regal, like an Amazonian queen. My pasty skin is her porcelain complexion, my frizzy hair her raven mane. She looks at me with wan green eyes that still glint with a small spark of energy.

I stare stupidly, head still too clouded to fully comprehend the face in the mirror that's not my own. I blink...

And I see a human head, perfectly intact except for the absence of skin or hair, eyes bugged out and teeth grimacing as if in a perpetually surprised leer-

I see muscles pulsing, blood flowing, eyes darting

searing the gruesome image into my mind before I recoil in shock and horror

and feel my shoulder smack into a body

and hear a yelp, though I don't know from who (me?)

and blunt impact, and a crack, and warm, dull, loud pain that swallows my head...

A/N Heyo, if you liked this, don't forget to vote, and if you didn't, please leave a li'l comment below explaining why. I love feedback, so yeah... okay bye.