Hellish Dream
Shit, what? No . . . No, this is fucked up.
Max staggered away from the Vortex Club, nearly tripping backwards over her feet. Her lungs weren't taking in as much as air as they should be. Her head reeled as the reality of what had just happened, and what she had done, sunk in. As real as her reality could be, anyway. With her rewind powers and all the shit she'd seen just now and what she'd gone through the past few weeks—Kate's death, the beached whales, Nathan Prescott—who could tell what was real anymore?
She gasped when she bumped against someone. Whirling around, she met Warren's eyes.
"Hey, Max." He stood right there, but he sounded a million miles away. "Max? Hey, Max, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Yeah, I-I'm fine," she stuttered. "Just . . . slightly woozy, but I'll be fine."
"Oh, okay. If that's the case, then get some rest. Do you want me to take you to—"
"No, no. It's fine, Warren. I'm fine." She managed a wan smile. "Thanks for the offer, though."
When she turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of someone walking up to Warren, gave him a peck on the cheek, and took his hand. Her heart sank when she recognized the person as Stella.
Did I . . . Did I do that?
She must've still been staring at them, because Warren said, "Oh, yeah. I haven't mentioned this to you, have I?" He sounded sheepish, apologetic even. Max simply didn't know what to feel.
"No." Her voice was barely even a whisper to her ears. "Since when . . ."
"A couple of weeks back, actually. Seriously, Max. Are you feeling alright? You—"
"No, I'm telling you I'm fine." Max was indignant now. "I'll . . . be heading to my room now. You guys . . . have fun, I guess."
She hung around the dormitory, peeking from behind the door until Warren and Stella left to . . . somewhere. Then she headed out.
There was a ringing in her ears, so loud and distracting, she almost missed the school bus as it coughed its way up the street. The doors swung open and, with buckling knees, she clambered up the steps. The sight of David at the driver's seat did not improve her mood. Stars danced in her vision. Bile rose up her throat.
What the fuck have I done?
She collapsed in a seat, heart pounding, and buried her face in her hands. Deep breaths, deep breaths. She forced herself not to think of anything for a while, except Chloe Chloe Chloe . . .
When she calmed down slightly, she stared out the window, taking in the rows of houses, the lull of many tangled telephone cables, and the orange dye of the sunset. For a moment, she saw herself standing across the view, her camera pressed against her face, a gentle breeze brushing the ends of her hair against her neck. As fucked up her situation was, and how soon Arcadia Bay was going to fall to its demise, she wanted to capture this moment. If she could capture one fleeting moment of fragile, blissful ignorance, this was it.
She spotted seagulls flying in a flock despite the expanse of the sky—in her mind, it felt like as though someone was scratching away at the dam that contained her thoughts. But she held her own.
Then, further down the street, where a break formed between one house to the other, she saw more beached whales. This time, more than there ever was before.
Max sucked in her breath. The bus screeched to a stop in front of a different row on houses, all wood, blue, and white resembling a clear day at the beach. Heart in her mouth, she dashed outside, but stopped herself at the front door, her fist raised for the door.
Chloechloechloechloechloechloechloechloechloechloechloechloe . . .
She knocked.
The door opened to reveal Mr. Price. "Max Caulfield!" he exclaimed. His grin was contagious. "We thought we'd never see you again after you left for the big city."
"No," Max said. "No, I would never do that to Chloe."
"Speaking of, I know she's been dying to see you. Hold on." He turned his head and called out, "Chloe! You have a visitor!"
Then he stepped aside.
Maybe it would be better if he hadn't moved at all.
There were a million things different about Chloe. Her hair wasn't blue, for one—it was in its natural, honey brown color. Her cheeks were fuller, rosier. She seemed . . . homely. Gone was the punk rock chick Max had come to know. In her place was a girl clad in a simple shirt and plain cardigan.
But all of that could not distract Max from the sight of her best friend strapped to a motorized wheelchair, with tubes stuck in her arms and neck, and a quilt draped across her legs.
No . . . Chloe, I am so, so sorry . . . I didn't mean to . . .
The dam burst. Her thoughts were in shambles—past and present refused to make themselves distinguishable. She felt like she was living a hellish dream. A hellish dream that she herself created. Everywhere she looked, she felt like she was seeing things through a broken kaleidoscope. It was bewitching, unlike anything she'd ever seen and experienced before—like her powers once were—but it looked wrong.
It was wrong. She lost control and went too far. Now look where it had gotten her.
She knew she had promised Chloe that she would do anything for her, for them. But this wasn't how things were supposed to be. All she wanted to do was to make her friend happy again.
It took all of her might not to let the tears leak, but it did anyway.