Notes from Mama Lobster: song is Where is My Mind by The Pixies.
Reader discretion is severely advised. In fact, I am just going to put a big honking trigger warning from now through chapter 30.
Where is My Mind?
== Be Casey.
The clock is moving far too slowly, sideways maybe, backwards you're sure, past the salvia packed in your bong and the screeching pain in your head. Drew offered to share, and you know by now that turning down his offers doesn't end well. He doesn't like rejection, he doesn't like back talk, he doesn't like you implying that you might not need him for anything. If any of that is enough to make him angry, he doesn't like you either.
There's a body somewhere beyond the clock. It's full of teeth and hair and eyes, things you vaguely wish could form the proper arrangement to be a face. The teeth are the closest to you. They look completely ridiculous, but you don't have the breath to laugh.
A few weeks ago, you mentioned that you weren't happy anymore. That his bad moods were too much for you to handle. The look on his face broke your heart. He was perfect afterwards, rubbing your shoulders, taking you out, brushing your hair out of your eyes and telling you that he loved you. He asked if you might be a little nicer to him, to make sure he wouldn't lose control again.
"It hurts me, Casey, what you make me do. Please. I don't want to be like that again."
There's a darkness spreading through the too-bright room; the walls expand as your vision collapses. You can't shake the feeling that there is somewhere better for you to be, somewhere more important, but your limbs are leaden and molded to the comforter. The stress of moving is too much. The pain is gone, faded into quiet static, blue what once was red.
It took time for your friends to start noticing, commenting that Drew talks over you in conversation or that you flinch when someone pokes your stomach. One day Zack sat you down to ask you about it. You kept your mouth shut, because it would be so hard to explain without making yourself seem unbearably pathetic. Maybe you are pathetic, but Zack doesn't need to know that.
The next two days, Zack wasn't in school. You saw him on the third day, bruised and winded, and he brushed past you when you said hello. After that, no one asked you about anything.
So you sit here, the walls expanding as you collapse, and you wait for his grip on your neck to release. He'll give you a ride home when he's gotten bored.
You scan the front of your school's driveway, trying to remember what bus might take you home. You haven't ever actually been on it, you have no idea what number it might be, but it would be really nice to figure it out for once. Getting straight home to your own bed sounds amazing.
Of course, same as every other day, you can't figure it out. The mass exodus of students blocks your sight. Your friends gather one by one, laughing and joking and passing cigarettes, waiting for their ride to show up. You briefly wonder if any of them feel the same way you do, resenting the way he twists them for his benefit and yet still somehow craving his approval. Everyone, even Zack, still waits for him outside.
Drew pulls up, the thumping bass coming to a halt as he parks.
"Hey Babe. Missed you."
"Me too." You lie. Or maybe not.
He grabs you by the waist, pulling you into a hug that feels more like grotesque pressure of limbs on limbs than any sign of affection. "You want to see Gamz today? I'm looking to make some extra cash and I heard he's got a wicked new stash in." You're surprisingly okay with seeing Gamzee. His shit is always good, and he keeps Drew in a fantastic mood.
You drive across town to drop Kyvris off first. Adam's house is dark when you pass it, and there are no cars in the driveway. You hope that wherever he is, he's doing better than you are.
There isn't a whole lot in your situation to look forward to, but you manage to figure out the perks. Drew's range rover is set up with a sweet stereo and you never have to pay him back for gas. You try to relax and enjoy the music for a while, letting go of your nerves with a sigh. So what if you're waiting for a collection from a dangerous and possibly unstable juggalo? It's not like you have to go in there and deal with Gamzee yourself. No, even Drew admits that Gamzee's fascination with you is weird.
He returns to the car with a backpack heavier than he started with, and he smirks.
"Presents." He dumps a bag into your hands. "Gamzee's orders. Dunno what it is, but he's got a soft spot for you."
You examine the bag a bit more carefully, noting five little pills smiling back at you. Literally smiling. Creepy motherfucker or not, you think you owe him one.
Dinner is on the table when you get home, but your Dad has his coat on. He's probably got a show to play tonight, something you forgot about by being a shitty daughter. He might even be late by now, but have waited for you to come home to say goodbye.
"Hey Case. There's juice in the fridge if you want it. I shouldn't be home too late." He moves as if he wanted to hug you but thought better of it. For a split second, you hate him with every fiber in your being.
"Dad…?"
He stops immediately. "Yeah?"
This is stupid. You can't be mad him for being gone when you're the one who's never home. It would be horrible for you to ask him to stay now. He's got work to do. You should be able to clean up your own messes, anyway.
"Good luck."
His smile is anxious and weak, but he's got a deadline to make.
Your left cheek is stinging, and you know this one was hard enough to bruise. He might be getting bolder, since no one would dare ask you about it anyway. None of your friends will talk to you about anything at length; they know you're not the same person you used to be. You hear them talk sometimes, when they think you're not around. They call you a fuck up.
He's got a bag of ice and a kiss for you, and another apology that you try your best to believe. His touch is gentle, testing the pressure it might take to cause you pain.
"…I want to go home." You hate the whine in your voice, and you know what the answer is going to be anyway.
"I'm so sorry, babe. Just let me make it up to you and then I'll give you a ride."
You know what comes next, because it's the same as last week, and then a month ago, and three times over that weekend you spent with him. You're relieved to feel the push of the pills in your pocket, because you need something to make this a little easier. His kisses turn from gentle notes of apology into something deeper, his tongue reaching to play with your lower lip. He tugs at your skin so, so gently, and in time you reach your hand up to his neck. If you play along, it might not be so bad this time.
He rolls you to your stomach and his hand pulls at your jeans, and you shove a smiling tab into your mouth as discreetly as you can. It doesn't take long for colors to become brighter, and the feel of soft sheets against your skin is so comforting you could live in them forever.
You wrap yourself in that comfort, and for a little while there is nothing else that matters.
It's dark when you finally get home. Dark and quiet. You're very much okay with this; for every part of you that wants to hug your father, a louder part screams at you to hide and go to sleep. Your knee doesn't seem to want to support your weight, and your wrist is far sorer than you thought it would be. Forgetting about all this will be a lot easier in bed.
Stairs are tricky, though. Someone should have warned you about that. You catch yourself before you fall too far, but the noise draws some attention.
"Casey?"
You don't know if you're more relieved or upset to hear your dad's footsteps approaching. He rounds the corner, stress showing in fine lines around his face. You shake out your hair, hoping enough of it covers your bruise to keep it secret.
"Hey Caseadoodle. You coming down for dinner?"
"Not tonight. I'm tired." He fakes an unconvincing smile, one that makes you hate yourself a bit more. You don't want him unhappy. You just want to be left alone and feel nothing.
He steps closer, and you fight the urge to retreat. You might be able to tell him. You want him to help, to hold you like he did when you scraped your knees and show you, in his infinite adult wisdom, how to get out of this hole you're digging.
Zack dodges when she approaches, covering his face with one hand. She can see the sick purple and green blossoming under his fingers, and he eyes her with hate.
It's her fault. Having friends means having friends hurt.
You're dizzy. Maybe it's the change in altitude, maybe it's you coming down from a high without having eaten. After taking a moment to steady yourself, you find your way back up the stairs.
Your dad is still behind you. He's watching close, and you realize you have to work to stay upright. You try to move as normally as you can, ignoring the pain in your knees and your wrist as you grip the railing. Three steps is all you have. Your dad manages to catch you as your knee gives way.
The sheets feel cool and soft under her stomach, and she presses her cheek against them to savor it. The smell of sweat and salt is sickening, the touch of her hair and her hands, the clock spinning a bit too slowly.
She moves to get more comfortable, and her wrist crunches under an iron grip.
For a split second, you wish your Dad had just let you fall. But he holds you, steady and stable and incredibly painful against your arm, before lifting you up the rest of the stairs.
"I can handle myself."
"I'm sure you can." He doesn't look at you. "Humor me for a little while?"
It's safe. In fact, it's the safest you've felt in months. You can only hope that he's not looking, because you don't know how long you can stop yourself from crying. Maybe you could ask to stay with Mom for a while, just to spare everyone the embarrassment.
Your dad sets you down on the bed, trying his best to catch your eyes. He gets you a blanket and a glass of water and even digs CK out from the very top of your dresser before you finally swat his hands away.
He's just trying to help you. You want him to be able to help you. You don't know what your malfunction is anymore.
His eyes are red and bleary as he looks at you, but you don't know what you can say. It's a relief when he finally leaves. With a little effort you manage to dig out the pack of cloves in your pocket, but you find them completely useless. You don't know how to work a lighter with your left hand.
You wake in the morning to a note on your bedside table.
Daughter
If you are reading this, it means you didn't sneak out in the night. I am so, so proud of you.
I don't know what has been happening between us lately. I don't know what's been happening in your life either. But you should know, I will always be here if you need me. I hope that if you aren't talking to me, you are at least talking to someone.
I love you.
-Dad
It takes you a good ten minutes to calm down your crying, and by then the note is little more than a waterlogged scrap. Your legs move like jelly as you swing them over your bed, and you wonder how many more days like this you can handle.
There's only eight months left until you graduate. Once you're out of school, Drew will forget about you. He'll move on to someone else, and maybe you can go to college and everything will be better. Maybe you'll call Adam and give him that apology you owe, and hope that you can be close again. Maybe you'll make some new friends, people who aren't drugged up assholes or self-absorbed psychopaths. Maybe you'll find a decent job and have your own apartment, and take your Dad and leave everything else behind.
Eight months. 242 days of minimizing casualties, and then you can turn around everything. But until then, you'll storm downstairs, throw on your boots, and leave without saying goodbye.