Disarm / Rafe Cameron

03. Optimistic Pessimist

Optimistic Pessimist
chapter iii
warnings: self harm, talks of drug use
& an eating disorder, brief mention
of suicide

LAYNE FELT INCREDIBLY BORED THE FOLLOWING HOURS, as if her lifeline had been cut off from the rest of the world and she was left a bubbling, indescribable mess. Her U2 record had spun out a while ago, so she laid in a tiresome pile on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, and at the moth that had been darting from each corner of her room since she returned from the Wreck. Her stomach had been bothering her since she returned, perhaps it was nerves, or maybe she was about to be sick, but either way, she hated it more than anything. She thought maybe she should have tried to get Marian and Claudia to hang around for longer, but the idea of having to keep conversation with them for more than an hour seemed almost too grueling to bear. For a moment Layne wondered if she was being unreasonable, but shook it off after a moment. She had been scrolling through her phone to the point when it was nearing three o'clock, and she hadn't ventured out of room since noon. Her mom hadn't even checked in on her, and Layne questioned if she even knew she was home.

She felt herself hovering over Rafe's contact multiple times—it was a bad habit she had, almost as if staring at it long enough would summon a text from him. It was lame, and Layne was the first to admit it. So, she threw her phone over her head and heard it thud onto her pillow. Part of her contemplated driving to the Chateau to see John B and the rest of the crew—but opted against it. They were most likely all working, and wouldn't want to see their nineteen year old friend who nearly abandoned them for a year. Even seeing Kiara felt awkward, despite how comfortable it might have been. Layne thought for a moment if she was overthinking things, but the thought quickly vanished.

Suddenly she got an overwhelming urge to return to school. Perhaps it was because she felt like an outsider in the town she grew up in, but there was an odd itch in her back that she couldn't shake out. Almost as if everyone saw through her and considered her a fake. Maybe she was a fake. She hated herself so much sometimes she would convince herself that everyone did, as well. Layne suddenly got up from her bed and undressed until she was down in her underwear, and stared at herself in the mirror. It was a common thing since she had turned eighteen to pick apart everything of her appearance, sometimes to the point where she would cry. Awkwardly she gripped her left arm with her right hand, before digging her nails so hard into the soft of her elbow that she pulled off some skin, and bled into her hand. It didn't even hurt until she looked down at her arm and the skin was red, as were her fingers. "Fuck," she winced, frantically scrambling for her clothes before she hurried to get a band-aid from the kitchen.

It took her a moment to realize that nobody was home. She applied some water to the cut before patting it dry and putting a bandage over it. It hurt when she moved it, and she began to hate herself even more for being so stupid. Her insides felt funny, and for a moment, she thought she was going to throw up, but just continued to try and clean the self-inflicted wound. She wasn't sure if anyone would pay enough attention to her to notice it, but nevertheless, she felt helpless. A moment like this would most likely trigger her to stay hidden in her room until she had to leave. She pulled out the vodka bottle from the pantry and poured herself a shot, hopefully to subside whatever weird, self-hating sabotaging feeling was bubbling in her chest. She decided not to eat for the rest of the day to regain control over herself—and as a sense of punishment. Harming herself further as a punishment for harming herself didn't seem like a sensible option, but anything Layne did was far from sensible. She quickly stuffed the vodka back on its shelf and washed off the shot glass.

When she returned to her room, she saw the missed phone call notification from her mom. It only said one minute ago, but it felt grueling to try and call her back. Layne knew she would want to go out to dinner, or some sort of family event, and it made her head spin. But, Layne felt as though she owed it to them to at least try and be a bit more sociable toward them. It made her sad sometimes, when she thought of how she treated them—so much so that, at times, Layne would bite herself or scratch herself hard enough until she bled. The skin around her nails were chewed open at times, or picked apart so harshly by her doing that she'd have to put band-aids on almost all her fingers.