Beyond the stretch of window panes and steel beams, rain thundered against the exterior of an otherwise-silent, darkened high school, vacant despite its lonely skeletons on their own evening missions. It was a droning noise that, despite its magnitude, became nothing but silence after a short time, yet still managed to drown out the gentle echoes of distant footsteps on linoleum and insignificant murmurs of the more unfortunate students the day had left in its wake.
It was supposed to be fall, with cold sunny days dissolving into snowy, dark days, but something had decided that this day would be different.
Ib didn't mind the disturbance of unusual weather, nor did she mind staying in her school after hours, especially if it helped her mental health. Her mother had begged her after so long to give a support group the slightest of chances, even if it failed her. It had been months since this relentless pushing had begun, but something drew her further from home and closer to the further recesses of the school's math classrooms that evening, overflowing with plastic chairs and the never-failing smell of mold, left from a summer's worth of flooding.
Over all else was the sound of her mary janes against faux marble, dragging with them rainwater brought in by those returning from the rain late in the afternoon, before the lights had begun to go out for the evening. The smells so familiar to her, reminiscent of the freshman Algebra classes she'd nearly flunked and failed sophomore relationships returned to her again. With memories already poor enough in their recognition, the faintest light glowed from the end of the now-carpeted hall. She moved toward it with a nervous haste, awaiting a safe haven yet fearing the concept of confiding in strangers.
She could feel anxiety, bubbling up into her throat and consuming her whole as the entrance of the lit doorway grew closer. It occupied her every thought, a blanket of fear from God-knows-what, pushing her further away but begging her to move forward. She dug her fingernails into the back of each of her hands, wringing her digits in mental strain. She walked brisk, normally, as best as she could, as fluid as it felt, but the wrongness of it all made her sick to her stomach.
She knew it was too late to turn back when she peered into the room, decorated with a circle of plastic chairs and encouraging academic posters. Inside, a well-kept, vaguely-familiar man sat before the circle he'd made, a congregation of emotionally toiled and damaged minds, seeking comfort that Ib would have been happy not to join. A girl she recognized looked up at her with her narrow eyes, clutching the hem of her dress. Her eyes darted to the floor again, evenly cut black bangs falling over her eyes.
"Ib, is it?" The group leader asked, standing up and brushing off dust. Just the sound of her name made her jump.
The counselor removed himself from the circle of chairs, stretching out his hand. "It's good to finally meet you. I'm glad you're here."
He was a man of average height, gray hair swept back and black tie nearly choking him. He was an aged man, his face showing all the signs of distress. His eyes were round, deeply set in his skull.
Ib met him with her own hand, shaking it with the slightest hesitation and blatant weakness that she knew he noticed. He didn't seem to acknowledge it, returning to his seat carefully. "Sit where you'd like," he offered, gesturing to his own setup.
Facing the door was her classmate, an older man (who probably attended college), and a woman Ib assumed was old enough to be her mother. She took a seat with her back to the door, self-groomed bangs brushing against her lashes.
Her stomach dropped, and remained there. Something gave her an uneasiness, and above her view she could feel eyes, unsure yet burning through her. She couldn't bring herself to meet them, begging for mercy or release from the moment. She wrung her fingers, picking at the callouses on her palm until they released from the undead skin, nearly bleeding.
"Young lady," she heard to her right, voice smacking her in the face. Her head darted up, locking eyes with the teacher. "Go ahead."
That was right, he had asked for introductions. She rose, still holding her hands in fear.
"I'm Ib. I'm seventeen." She sat down.
She heard the beginning of her classmate's introduction, the name of Emma, sixteen, before it left her mind. At least she was able to ignore the presence of her unfriendly, adjacent male neighbor.
"Now that we know each other's names, I thought we might start by discussing what's on our mind."
Ib hated two things about counseling: talking about how she felt and recalling the things that hurt her. Not because they hurt to remember, but because her lies were always different. She couldn't remember what happened. Her doctor told her she had PTSD, but she had never been to war or experienced anything traumatic. She didn't argue since all the symptoms were there, but the abrupt discovery of the illness tore her apart.
"I was caught in a house fire three years ago, and it's been a bit of a road block for me." She sat down.
She looked up now at the people watching her, sure that they would assume her to be a liar. They seemed to understand. Emma continued. She had been depressed and struggling with anxiety for a shorter amount of time, and Ib felt she had been aware of that fact one way or another, though she didn't know her well, just shared a class with her the year before.
The younger man stood, tucking his hair back behind his ear. It was fried, chopped at ear-length. His voice was rusted, sad, tired. "I have PTSD, anxiety, and depression. I was diagnosed with anxiety eight years ago and with the other two seven years ago." This was the person that had been staring at her, she was sure of it. A man, maybe in his early 30's or late 20's. His bleach-damaged hair was dyed a dark green. His brown roots had grown in somewhat, but it wasn't too bad of a dye job. His grey eyes were void, cheeks hollow, but he wasn't hard on the eyes, at least to Ib.
"It's good to see you again, young man," the leader nodded solemnly, smiling. "I hope you don't mind me mentioning," the leader continued, "but you were also addicted to a few things a while ago. Would you mind sharing?"
Ib looked away, listening but too consumed with her mental health to focus on visuals.
"I smoked a lot. I was into a lot of things. I don't want to list them all, so..."
Ib looked up to inspect him again, but his eyes were cast down, somewhere far away. His complexion was light but still darker than hers. There were callouses on his knuckles, and his nails were bitten down to the bed. He was wearing slacks, and considering his state of being and general appearance, they were in pretty good condition.
Ib felt the presence of his focus as his eyes flashed up to watch her face, and she turned away, feeling painfully awkward for staring.
It wasn't a new feeling. She had acted this way before in countless other situations. What scared her was his height and his eyes, irritated from days of neglect and addiction and no sleep.
What scared her was... frankly, anyone at all, but him especially so.
So she sat, a passive observer to the lives of the four people around her.
She found, in the end, that she couldn't find any room to speak unless she had been called on or spoken to. A shadow of a person to the rest of them, she watched the people around her, hardly able to pay attention when she was more focused on not looking imperfect at any given second.
A ride home wouldn't be meeting her outside in the cold, so Ib braced herself, wrapping a wool scarf around her thin neck. With only her mary-janes, stockings, and knee-length skirt to keep her warm below the waist, she started her walk home.
Ice layered the ground now, and every so often she found herself losing her footing. Unconsciously, she'd begun dodging the frozen patches in her path. Her phone hung heavy in her coat pocket, but she would have to take her gloves off to access anything. It remained there despite the urge to grab it. The earlier rain had turned into sleet and now snow, and it caught on her brunette hair.
Someone's presence lingered.
She didn't want to turn, hoping to doubt her senses, but God, he was breathing so hard! His footsteps were getting closer…
Calmly, Ib slid the bag off of her shoulder, sifting slowly through the clutter of her backpack. With her strap around the nook of her elbow, she spun, triggering her bottle of mace.
It missed completely; she aimed too far down, coating the front of the man's clothes.
"Oh, Jesus!" A familiar head of minty-green hair recoiled backwards, and the older man from the support group hit the ground hard. Ib's lanyard flew out of his hand onto the icy concrete, house-keys jingling. At the sight of him, Ib herself jumped away, adrenaline still pumping as she concealed the canister.
The stranger panted out of fear, scrambling for the lanyard to help somehow. His rugged fingers fumbled against the ice. "God, I'm really sorry, I just…"
"That was... excessive," Ib admitted to herself, at a loss for words as she retrieved the keys he offered to her. "You probably shouldn't… follow people like that."
"Yeah, I understand that now," he scoffed with an embarrassed lightness, pushing himself up while Ib's stunned visage went beet-red. As he brushed himself off, Ib's flustered face had him smiling like an idiot despite his initial fright, and Ib couldn't understand what he was laughing at. "Ib, right?"
She replied through clenched teeth, "Yes."
Much to Ib's dismay, the older man held out an ungloved hand.
She wasn't too sure of herself as she accepted his handshake, having forgotten whatever lie she'd given to the others about her worries. Nonetheless, she could feel herself calming down.
He pulled his hand away, sliding it into his pant pocket. "My name's Garry. In case you forgot."
In retrospect, he must've been cold as all hell outside to him, wearing only a scarf and crewneck sweater. Ib felt bad for him. She turned and kept walking, looking over her shoulder. "Are you heading home?" Ib asked him out of curiosity.
"Yep," he replied, nodding as a plume of steam escaped his lips. He quickly bounded forward, catching up to walk at her side. "There's a bus stop five blocks down this road that I wait at."
"And you're… walking there, dressed like that?" She asked in a state of disbelief. She wasn't even sure she could handle the walk home without losing her mind.
"Well, yeah…" he shrugged, watching cars pass through the slushy roads beside them. "I do it every other day, usually."
Ib remained silent for a while, hands heavy in her coat pockets as they walked at each other's sides. "I can't even imagine that, in this cold..."
Garry sighed into his scarf. "I'm used to it."
"Even so, that's-" Distracted by the conversation, Ib skidded on the ice, losing her balance. The ground fell out from under her, and then-
Her ass collided with the iced pavement, but not before Garry tried to grab her by the arm to hold her up, to no avail.
Garry's eyes were wide with panic. "Are you okay?!"
Still recovering from the rush of adrenaline, blood ran to Ib's head. The ruby red of her eyes pierced through him. "I'm fine," she assured him, but she looked far from it. Hoping not to knock her over again, Garry hoisted her up while Ib pushed herself up from the ground. Slowly, the panic was alleviated, but Ib couldn't help but choke on her words.
The tension between the two seemed to fade after Ib regained her balance, but remained despite Ib's internal plea for instantaneous death.
Ib met the corner of her street, and stopped at the crosswalk. It took a moment for Garry to notice that she had halted a few steps back, stopping before he could step out onto the suburban street to cross. He turned to Ib, wind blowing his green bangs into his eyes.
"Is this your street?" He asked, pointing down the road. Behind him, the sun was setting, and his shadow was cast onto her, blocking the light out of her eyes.
Ib nodded, feeling somewhat overprotective of her personal information. "Yeah, but…" Her face was numb. "I wanted to walk you to your stop." The wind was deafening. As Garry's eyes grew wide, Ib stammered to explain herself. "I figured it was really cold, and you don't have a coat, so I was worried that-"
"I'm not old enough to need a kid to walk me home, am I?"
It was more of a concern than sarcasm, but the remark felt like a stab through her chest. Garry seemed to chuckle, and Ib noticed his smile to be strikingly lovely despite his claims of previous smoking habits. His grey eyes glinted in the light of the freshly-lit streetlamps.
"I suppose not," she admitted, looking down to watch the hem of her chiffon skirt sway in the winter wind.
"At this age, it should probably be me walking you home, if anything." The words reached Ib somehow, though she couldn't process the mere thought fully until she noticed Garry had stepped closer. She went to look up at him, and he stood tall in front of her. In fact, as he held his arm out for her to take it, the cocky grin of his was shadowed by his height.
Ib took his arm in hers, floored by his unblinking courage. The wind seemed to sweep them down the road, and Ib's tiny "thanks" was nearly blown away with it.
"How old are you?" Ib asked him in a more confident tone, looking up to see him react. She hoped he wouldn't react badly, but he didn't really seem like the type to snap at genuine curiosity. He'd probably said it at the meeting, but Ib hadn't paid any attention, as she was sure he knew. Somehow, she didn't think it would be too terrible of an idea to bring him along.
His brows rose, but he didn't meet her gaze. He acknowledged her with a faint smirk. "I turned twenty-eight last week, actually."
"Oh, really?" She breathed, pearly whites peeking out from cold-stained, pink lips. "Happy birthday."
"You don't have to say that," he assured her, and he dropped his arm, letting Ib relax hers. Ib's red-brick house peeked out from around the corner. "I stopped expecting it after twenty-five."
"I'm seventeen," she informed him without his asking.
Garry turned promptly to her. "Do people tell you you look younger?" He asked.
Ib quipped, "Almost all the time."
Garry laughed into the breeze, and the cold became harsher as his laughter died. It was starting to get dark now. Ib smiled inwardly.
Garry dwelled on the thought for a moment, preceding his words with a sigh. "Being seventeen was fun."
"Maybe for you," Ib added, burying her face in her own scarf as they reached her gate. She undid the latch on her front gate. Garry stood a few feet away, unable to muster a response.
"Is this your house?" Garry asked as the cast-iron gate slammed shut. Before Ib could respond to reassure him in any way, he continued. "It's nice."
The fence separated the two. Garry leaned against it, watching Ib from a few feet away. "My room's up there," she remarked, directing him to a room on the second floor. The interior had been concealed by lace curtains. Inside, a warm light glowed faintly. The house was one of a few things she could say she was proud of.
Ib turned away, taking a step up the concrete path to the front door before she stopped abruptly, turning back to Garry. She retrieved her phone from her coat pocket, unlocking it from its frozen state. Mustering unwarranted confidence, she turned to him. "What's your phone number?" She called out to the man across from her, who hadn't moved an inch.
He read it off to her as she typed it in, and as she finished putting in his contact information, he concluded, "My name has two r's," prompting Ib to stay standing in the path for a moment longer to make the change.
Returning the phone to her pocket, she waved goodbye. "Stay warm," Garry offered with a parting wave.
