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And I think of that now—all these little layers of shit I’ve been wading through since the beginning of this school year—and I wonder just how much deeper I have to go, before I can finally start working my way back up and out.
And that’s if there’s even an out to begin with.
As above…so below…
In theory, there is a balance to things. The tides are supposed to turn.
It’s all I can hang on to these days. That there is an end in sight.
I just fear the end in sight, might not be the one I want…or need. With either Izzy found…dead…or me drowning in this agonized limbo where nothing makes sense anymore and hope is nothing but a carrot dangling cruelly in front of me, just out of reach.
A giggle followed by a low, familiar chuckle has me easing out of my thoughts, and sluggishly turning, not surprised to find Waylon all but mauling his date.
I’m nowhere near drunk enough for the bullshit that is prom—at least I don’t think; it’s hard to tell anymore, unless the room is spinning, or I’m browning out, or waking up with my head throbbing and nothing but a black blur for memories.
It’s living that feels sluggish.
Every move I make.
Breath I take.
Every step I trudge through this alien, dreamlike landscape feels like wading through quicksand.
“Hey,” Waylon barks, reaching around his date, Lena, to swipe the flask from me. He quickly shoves it into the pocket of his dress pants. “At least try to be sneaky about it.”
I just stare at him.
Two teachers chaperoning already saw me with it. And while I did catch them confiscating someone else’s…when they saw me with it, they just sort of gawked and gaped like fishes out of water before quickly scurrying off.
The pity rolling off them in waves was enough to make me almost wish they tried to take the flask from me. I’ve been rearing for a fight—for something…anything to distract me from this unbearable agony and helplessness that eats at me every second of every fucking day.
It has to go somewhere…
It just has to.
My body literally can’t take it all.
So I just keep finding new ways to plug up all the holes.
“Mason.”
“What?” I mutter, when I realize I’m just standing there, staring at just another ghost from before.
Worry lines etch along Waylon’s face, his eyes tight and dark brows furrowed. Darting a quick glance at Lena, he releases her and steps closer to me, pulling me to the side. I yank out of his hold, and spin on him with a glare.
Keeping his voice elevated just enough to be heard over the music and din, but low so his words are only for me, he says, “Are you okay?”
A snort climbs up my throat, and I barely manage to cough it back. “Fine. Just fucking dandy.”
“Are you drunk?”
I shrug. Not anywhere near enough.
Out loud, I say, “Was working on it.” I make a gimme gesture, and he just scowls.
“You said you weren’t drinking tonight.”
“Plans change.”
