MAJOR CONTENT WARNING: BODY HORROR, VOMIT, IDEATION OF SELF-HARM, DEPRESSIVE THEMES
"Guys, when I say 'I don't want a party,' I want to be perfectly transparent that isn't any passive-aggressive, reverse psychological implant to make you guys throw me a party."
Paulina's nails were dug into his sleeve, practically dragging the football player behind her, "Dashie, you can eat humble pie any other day of the year."
The quarterback reached his hand towards the covering on his face, "Was the burlap sack really necessary?"
Swatting his hand, Kwan reminded him, "This is the compromise we reached. If Paulina had her way, you'd be strung up like a pig and carried there." The linebacker kept pushing his back, "It's better if you don't fight us on this."
"It's about showmanship!" Paulina squealed. It sounded like her tiny fist was smacking the button for the intersection crosswalk outside of the school. It felt like they were going downhill. The head cheerleader hummed, "To pass the time, why don't you guess where we're going?"
If they could see it, Dash was rolling his eyes, "The Nasty Burger?"
There was a stunned silence. He imagined Paulina shooting a glare over at Kwan.
"Guess something else," Sanchez muttered in a vague threat.
The boys caught a laugh about how offended she sounded.
"Okay, okay, if we totally aren't going to the Nasty Burger like we always do—" Dash suggested with a shrug, "Are we going to the arcade? I could literally watch Kwan kill some dweebs at Dance Dance Revolution for hours."
"As long as one of the dweebs I'm killing is you, Mr two-left-feet." There was a tight squeeze from the linebacker. Byun-Ji replied in a sing-songy tone, "It is your special day , after all."
Dash dismissed the accomplishment outright and responded in the same tone— except flatter, "I hardly think being the last possible option makes me 'special,' but alright ."
"C'mon, don't be like that, Coach went with her gut, and she picked you." Kwan tried to coax his less than confident new captain. He exclaimed in Korean, "Gae-cheon-es-eo yong nan-da. Remember that!"
That was something of a mantra around the Byun-Ji household; Dash was sure it translated to, 'Dragons start from the stream.'
It meant people with very little could achieve great things. Dash was sure it would apply to everyone else before him. Dash's dad was something of a big deal. Often Dad would throw his weight around, tossing money at a perceived problem to make it go away. Dash could care less about being the Captain of the Casper high crows—it certainly made a college application sparkle. But it wasn't anything the jock had any skill for. Dash wasn't really leading man material, regardless of whatever hot air his friends tried to supplant into his sails.
The quarterback could only nod, "Alright, alright. I promise I'll stick around for… an hour. Maybe, if you're lucky."
"That's the least you owe me, cabrón!" Paulina yanked him through the crosswalk. Her heels clicked smartly on the damp road.
The traffic was dense and rumbled the asphalt beneath their shoes. The rainy overcast light was harsh compared to the artificial, flickering, fluorescent bulbs inside the school. Any amount of fleeting sunlight felt nice on his skin. The scent in the air tangled with car exhaust, the coming breeze that skirted the surface of Lake Eerie, the approaching afternoon rain, and the wafting odor of grease hitting the grill at the Nasty Burger down the way. It was familiar, safe, and captured just about everything Dash found fond of Amity Park. It was Stockholm syndrome. Dash was the hostage that fell in love with his captor.
Amity Park, for all of its drawbacks, was his home. His core memories had impressions in the concrete that has long since cured. It's where his friends were. It's where his friends died. It's where his mother was from. In a way, he was Amity Park. He had one-way streets that didn't make any sense. He had the wagon wheel pattern in the center of the city memorized. Every neighborhood was as familiar as his circulatory system. By heart and instinct, he knew the evacuation routes. He was haunted all the same. He would have to figure out how to navigate the real world in two years. The world outside of these lush green hills and mausoleums that looked an awful lot like modestly priced suburban homes was a big one.
How hard could it be? Dash Baxter survived the living dead, for God's sake.
He could survive anything.
He had to.
The door chimed as it hit them on their way inside the restaurant.
Tearing off the burlap sack, Paulina decreed with a giddy little hop onto her tippy-toes, "Tadaa! Surprise!"
The familiar face of Star Robinson popped out from their usual booth, "Surprise!"
With a crooked sarcastic grin, Dash greeted everyone who had shown up in his honor, "Wow, I am so shocked. I think you may have to call an ambulance because surely my heart has skipped several beats."
Paulina swatted his chest and pouted.
Out of the booth stepped a black mary jane and baggy jeans, complemented by frizzy coppery hair barely tamed with a flat iron, "Hey 'bout time you showed up."
"Fenton?"
"In the flesh," She wryly replied, gesturing to herself.
Elatedly, Dash nearly leapt from the door, his sneakers skidding on the checkered floor of the diner. The quarterback wasn't big on hugs or grand displays of affection, but you could be fooled by the scene in front of the patrons of the Nasty Burger. He scooped his math tutor into his arms and twirled her around— "Heh heh! Heya! How long has it been?"
She giggled and exclaimed, "Too long! Put me down, ya big lug!" The would-be-psych signaled a tap out on his bicep.
"I'm so glad to see you!" He set her down and straightened his posture. With his head on a swivel, Dash then asked, "Where's your brother?"
"He had to go wash his hands or something, but I made him promise to be on his best behavior. He's not gonna ruin anything."
Cocking his head like he didn't understand the statement—How would Danny ruin the party? If anything, having the younger Fenton around meant that it was twice as likely Dash could get lost in whatever chaos would inevitably follow the siblings. The Fentons were something like disaster magnets. It was as though their mere presence offset the universe by a few degrees, and they couldn't be corrected.
Dash opened his mouth to assure her, but his attention immediately split to another voice that spoke up from the booth.
Dash prayed he misheard, but his blood still went cold all the same.
Like a plot in a cemetery, his old basketball team partner, Wes Weston, sat there; composed as if he were always a part of the scenery.
Weston dressed in his usual ensemble. He was wearing his basketball shorts with his matching white hightops. Everything he wore looked too big on him by the nature of his wiry physique. The more you looked at him, the more you would peel back. You could tell the shoes were hand-me-downs with noticeable wear and tear. The way they were sun bleached and stained with dirt. The deep maroon sweatshirt was the same; the sleeves were hand cut at the shoulders. It contrasted his lighter, but still just as pigmented, orange hair. One had to assume wearing his white sweatbands was now more out of habit than actual need.
It wasn't like he was on the basketball team anymore. By all accounts, it looked like he never left. He was absentmindedly fussing with the dog tags he wore underneath the collar of his sleeveless hoodie. Rolling them through the fabric with his fingers.
Wes had his cheekbone pressed into his other fist; he stole his exhausted glare from the small parking lot outside the window, "You'd be late to your funeral, buddy."
Baxter took his word for it; after all, Wes was the leading expert on funerals. To say Dash didn't expect to see Wes here was the understatement of the century. It was ridiculous, but the quarterback lingered near his math tutor, cowering almost. It was like he had seen a ghost. A rogue drop of sweat rolled down his forehead.
A dry laugh escaped his throat, "Wes?"
Star chimed in from her side of the table, across from the surly ex-basketball player, "You're kind of a hit with spunky, ginger dorks, Dash." Star shot a glance at Jazz before discreetly saying, "No offense."
Jazz was sincerely happy to be included, "Uh, none taken?"
Everyone got situated in their seating arrangement. Star was eager to sit next to Dash, but he let Jazz go ahead of him. On the opposite side, Kwan giddily sandwiched himself between Wes on the very end by the window and Paulina in the aisle seat. Of course, Kwan was invested in the buzz of conversation. Though arguably, his attention was at a draw with the menu. The linebacker had given little hints all day that he was absolutely famished. He wasn't exactly the best at keeping secrets. Even then, what kind of secret was it that the kids loved the diner just down the hill from their school? They had spent so much time there it was practically their second home. Long nights after nail-biting games, they barely skated by the skin of their teeth. Or sharing pies by the tin after successful theater productions. It was a sanctuary. When the sun went down, it felt like… It honestly was the closest feeling Dash would assign to serenity.
When the windows darkened, and there was nothing but warmth and junk food on the inside, it was unmatched. There was a unique type of bliss in the Nasty Burger. Where no one talked about the future, no one said anything about how the economy left them with the scraps when they graduate. No one talked about college. No one told them what to do or what to say. They didn't have to guess or predict what was expected of them. It made him think of candlelight. There was something- small and fragile, but it flickered in the face of the terror. It was the little things Dash had come to appreciate most of his town and friends.
The A-listers had, of course, their 'usuals' that they knew by heart. Dash could recite Paulina's extravagant burger order forwards and back, including all the substitutions. She wasn't picky; she just knew what she wanted. He tried to tell Sanchez that it didn't make sense, but he was always dismissed.
Kwan preferred his family's cooking over anything else; he was a momma's boy. No freshman could escape his mason jars full of kimchi. He Poke bowls with the crispy french onions were his prescription for weight training. He touted Army Stew and Samgyeopsal alike.
All this to say, one thing Kwan did like about these twenty-four slop shops is their pancakes. He loved getting the biggest stack the restaurant would allow— topped with fruit, chocolate chips, and whipped cream.
Val— Val, she'd pick fries off of Paulina and Dash's plates. She'd always chuckle when they'd call her out on it. She would pretend she had no idea what they were talking about. That smile was essentially everything. She had no idea how such a smile could light up any place she set foot, and her laugh was almost healing. She teased people. That's how you know she cared. Valerie would always get some variation of the chicken and waffle sandwich. According to her, it was delicious swimming in maple syrup.
As he scratched his nails awkwardly against the grain of the table, Dash asked, "Is Val gonna…?"
Kwan assured, "She wouldn't miss this for the world. She's gonna join us on her break. In like half an hour—"
Adding to this, Star nodded, "Yeah, like— after the lunch rush dies down."
"I call dibs! She's gonna sit next to me!" Paulina held up a perfect lavender-painted finger and decreed it so.
Shaking her head, Jazz snickered and stared down at her menu.
"You've met Val, right?" Paulina addressed their newcomer.
The elder Fenton shrugged, "Considering how much Dash and my brother talk about you guys, I think I've got you all figured out."
"Oh?" Sanchez arched a brow. The head cheerleader coyly rested her chin on top of her wrist, "Only the good stuff, right, Dashie?"
The quarterback parried with a smirk, "By 'good,' do you mean the story where you accidentally ordered an industrial-sized box of baby Jesuses for the student council party instead of baby cheeses ?"
"Oh my god— you didn't !" Bursting into laughter, the head cheerleader should have known that's what she'd be remembered for.
"You're never gonna live that down, Sanchez."
Flipping a page in the menu, Kwan suppressed a chuckle, "And she will never order anything over the phone ever again."
Meanwhile, Star bit her lip, "I just can't imagine the poor deli guy— The poor deli guy— he just set the sandwich platter down, and he has a box of these little nickel-sized plastic Jesuses."
Being amongst the laughter that wasn't at her expense for once, Jazz seemed to warm up. She's always been a bit hesitant about these get-togethers. But truthfully, aside from being the pushiest people in the world, Dash's friends were… good. They were good to him. There was nothing to be afraid of with them.
The would-be psychologist gave a sheepish smile and awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck, "Dash also went out of his way to say that you're probably the motivator of the team. You're the idea-haver. That's really important to a dynamic."
She rapped the table with her knuckles, wondering if she had said too much.
However, much to Fenton's surprise, Sanchez agreed with her, "I wouldn't say I take all the credit for getting these bums into trouble— but—" The model raised her hands in surrender, " Guilty ."
Star tried to play it cool, but the eagerness written plainly on her face betrayed her, "Okay, I can only imagine Dash had so much to tell you about me— it must've overwhelmed you!"
"Yeah, Star Robinson, the pre-calculus wizard! Always good for a laugh." Jazz was heartfelt, "You're just how I imagined you. Sort of like a woodland fairy with platform sandals."
At this, the subordinate cheerleader twirled her straw-yellow hair around her pointer finger. Giving Dash a lot more eye contact than he was comfortable with. Star blushed and giggled, "Thanks…"
Kwan snorted.
"Ah, ah, don't worry!" Jasmine misread Byun-Ji's expression as one of impatience; she pointed with her interlaced fingers to the large young man across from her, "He didn't leave you out! You're the big sweetheart of the group, Kwan. The gooey emotional center."
The linebacker shot Baxter a look, " Gooey , huh?"
"Creative embellishment," Dash dismissed, his smile curling further into his cheek.
Everyone laughed.
The air was positive around the table. Bubbling with anxious excitement, Jazz doubled down. Her passing gaze fell to each face that surrounded her. This wasn't common for the Fentons. Always on the outside. Never in on the joke. The joke was that the universe staged these kids in this cosmically in an unwinnable game, and these little moments were harder and harder to come by. You only made it out with whatever happy memories you could cling to. Going forward, Dash was determined to change this. From now on, it would be clear skies, smooth sailing, and Jazz—
From the corner, Weston had cleared his throat.
The elder Fenton eyed him. In real-time, you could see her pacing in that intricate mind of hers, going down the mental cue cards. Rooting through file cabinets to conjure something about the stranger with the green eyes and the sour disposition. Surely, Dash must've told her some anecdote about him. The skinny guy. The stranger had freckled skin that told the story that he had spent most of his life outside, but that didn't detract from the yellowing teeth and poor complexion. Overtired. It didn't look like he had eaten. Like someone of his size didn't belong in a dining setting. There was no name she could assign to the stranger. Jazz squinted and opened her mouth to say something— anything—
But the ginger cut her off; he extended his hand.
He clicked his tongue, "I'm Wes."
"West?" Jazz clarified. The name did strike her as familiar, in a way that didn't hold fondness.
" Wes ." He enunciated— His nasal voice hitting their ears a bit too hard.
Dash silently wished for the water to arrive so he could have something to occupy his hands other than the guilt.
Wes paid a glance to the group he used to call his friends, "Saving the best for last, huh?"
The group fidgeted. Like they had already forgotten that he was there. As if Weston had blended into the faux leather of the booth.
Though, he knew. He knew why they didn't talk about him.
It would kill the mood.
In this town, happiness has to be preserved. Wes knew that's how the game was played. He would have done the same. Wes took the stab to his pride with a strained affability. All the warmth about him was a production.
When the ex-jock laughed, it was clear he was out of practice. He immediately ran out of breath, "I don't blame ya."
"It's kind of awkward with the dead brother an' all." It was a statement delivered with such levity that you wouldn't think it was horrifying. Wes's eyes crinkled as if trying to smile, but it wouldn't come to him. It didn't sit naturally on his face anymore. The price was too steep. He was typecasted, but it didn't inspire envy.
…
…
That's why Jazz recognized him.
It was a long time before someone said anything.
Jasmine softened as her expression dropped to the earth's core, "...I-I'm sorry for your loss."
It wasn't a hollow platitude read off the greeting card section of the grocery store. Her movements were halted and haunted all the same. The elder Fenton spoke as if she had been waiting to hear those words herself. She had been mulling them over in her head constantly. The words themselves had been said so much over these past few months that they had practically lost all meaning. Not to Jazz.
" Thanks. " With a nod, Wes exhaled. His posture noticeably changed. It was like the weight of the corpse he had been dragging rolled from one shoulder to the other. Not like it had been removed, but he was allowed a small respite.
The table was not allowed the same luxury.
They didn't want to remember.
They wanted to drift aimlessly.
Having Wes around hurt too much.
An interruption came in the form of a tray of blue plastic cups hitting the table. The way the ice jostled inside the walls of the glass inspired a new wave of energy. Valerie Grey had leaned down, giving a wink, "Hey y'all! What's up?"
The table attempted to perk up, all offering their greetings.
"So, how's our special boy on his special day?" The part-timer queried, bothered by how many frowns she was seeing.
"Is anyone else hearing labradoodle when you say that?" Baxter flashed a defeated smile Val's way.
"You do have that cute curly coat— don't you, boy ?" Grey gave him noogie with the corner of her fist, effectively fussing up the quarterback's gelled quaff.
"Ah—! I just got it to behave!"
Paulina commented, drawing comparison to her own heavy mane of black hair, "The humidity is killing us, Güero Conejito."
Shaking her head at this, the part-timer continued her way down the corner booth passing out the waters, "Drama queens; the both of you."
Wes and Val's hands accidentally brushed as he grabbed the glass she was handing him. The meeting of their eyes was brief and awkward. Quietly he thanked her.
"It's my job." She replied, a bit more wearily than she was supposed to, before tucking her tray under her arm. Toying with her earring, Valerie eased her way back into her section, "Hopefully, I'll get out behind the milkshake bar sometime soon, and we can all catch up properly."
She waved before returning back to her station, "Ciao."
As her sneakers hit the tile, the table was neck-deep in another steely silence.
"So, how is therapy goin' for you, vato?" Sanchez stabbed at the ice at the bottom of her glass just for something to do.
Wes made a passive wave of his hand, "Going."
He sighed, "...I suppose."
It was noticeable that everything about that question violated every boundary the ex-jock had put in place. That topic was the furthest thing from his mind, and he wanted to keep it that way.
"We were thinking 'bout hitting the arcade after this…" Kwan offered purely out of obligation, "You maybe wanna join us?"
There was still a sense of loyalty there, however faint.
They owed it to him.
"Ah, I'd like to, but I gotta pick up Kyle after this."
"Hey, how come no one told me about the arcade?" Star whined from her adjacent corner.
Swatting at an insect that orbited him like the moon does the earth, in a chaotic semi-oval, Dash pulled himself from the conversation. The fly buzzed dangerously close to his ear—
It wasn't something you could ignore.
It wasn't hard to get a rise out of the quarterback. It was the little things, after all. As one fly lapped his head—another landed on his hand. Where the webbing where his thumb and pointer finger met. He felt contaminated somehow. It made him feel… ill. He didn't dare move; it was like the insect paralyzed him. On a nearly microscopic level, Dash felt unclean.
Stop freaking out; it's just a bug. He reprimanded himself.
The quarterback looked elsewhere— literally anywhere else.
Glancing at the idle blades of the ceiling fan, he heard this clicking in his ears. It was a torque wrench tightening. Dash was sure it was a torque wrench— The raspy metallic clicking was inquisitive, as it was out of place in a restaurant. The ceiling fan kept spinning and spinning… and breathing became a task too hard to keep up. This was just an anxiety attack. Just an anxiety attack. His heart was going too fast for his brain; that's all this was. It had to be. There were just too many people next to him. His skin felt wrong somehow. His skin… his skin became claustrophobic.
"Dash, you okay?" Kwan gave him a look from across the table.
Then Paulina, then Jazz, then Wes all followed, giving him that same puzzled stare. He could have sworn the table next to them popped their heads over to check on the noise as well.
'I think I need to step outside to get some air.' That was all Dash wanted to say. He wanted to explain. But the words blurred together in this head into some incomprehensible mass.
"Okay?" He laughed uproariously, despite his face not matching, "I'm Dash Baxter; greatness is my middle name."
This didn't seem to go over well with everyone at the booth. They all paid their curious glances to each other. Their reaction was flat like the guy had just said a joke that didn't land.
However, Wes kept his eyes on Dash. He seemed to be the only one keenly aware of what was happening. Keenly aware that someone was missing from the table still.
I didn't say that. It sounded like his voice, but never in a million years would he ever say anything like that . It was like a pre-recorded line an action figure would spout.
The tips of his finger suddenly turned frigid— the quarterback struggled to dispute himself as that chill proceeded to infect every muscle in his body.
It wasn't an anxiety attack, but he still knew what this was. Dash knew better than anybody what was happening.
He fought to regain control of his neck, to focus back on his anchor point— the dead ceiling fan— but the force invading his body refused to bend. So instead, the entity inside his skin pinned the corners of his mouth into a wide grin. In this state, the quarterback could only watch, feeling the pain that bit at his cheeks.
He was drowning on land. The entity didn't have to breathe; he knew from how it drew breath into his body, how it was just a beat or so off. Dash could feel his lungs expanding and contracting with every misplaced breath. It was letting him breathe as a courtesy. Dash was sure of it. The thing inside of him was half-heartedly moving his lungs for the sake of keeping the game going. It was only getting started.
His erratic heart rate slowed— but that didn't mean he wasn't panicking. It just meant he wasn't in control.
In Amity Park, control was only an illusion.
It was as if he was getting locked out of his house… but anyone who could help him couldn't hear him. Everyone for miles could see the lights inside were on— but no one was behind the door. Dash was clawing at the glass window in the front yard, seeing himself from above, screaming to be let back in.
His soul inched away. Beaten like a weak flame. The essence that made the teen feel alive was tamped down—buried alive within his own blood, bones, and muscle.
A deep voice coming from the depths of his brain ordered him—
Stop struggling. You're only gonna hurt yourself.
Kwan cocked a brow at this. Unsure how to gauge Dash's response. The linebacker attempted to be discrete, "You're sweating a lot, dude. And your eyes…?" He trailed off as a shudder went down his spine, "How're you doing that?"
Oh god, The waitress was coming over.
Just enjoy the ride.
The seasoned waitress arrived. Her name tag read, 'Beatrice.' Her four adolescents back home made her predisposed to dislike teenagers. She especially didn't like how many there were crammed into her corner table. The woman glowered down at them as if trying to predict how big a mess they were gonna leave. Beatrice lowered her glasses to the bridge of her nose with a hefty sigh, "Some familiar faces return."
She declared sarcastically with an indistinguishable east coast accent, "You big spenders wanna mooch off an appetizer?"
Beatrice turned her attention to Paulina since she always ordered first. She held up whoever was unfortunate enough to serve them with endless questions about substitutions, cooking styles, and trans fat quantity. Paulina may have been part-time model thin, but the girl could out-eat anyone at this table. Sanchez, with the menu in hand, gestured to something under the specialty lemonades before—
"Um, actually, since Danny isn't back yet, I'll order for him and my— h-his sister—" Dash had stretched across the table, rudely pushing all the silverware and napkins off with his torso. The utensils clattered to the tile noisily. Ice, soda, and water followed suit, coating the floor.
The waitress jumped back, startled at what became of her floor—
Hiding behind her menu, it dawned on Jazz what was happening, "Er, 'Dash,' I think I'd prefer to—"
"Nonsense, it's on me! She'll have a chocolate shake with, like, something off the kids' menu! She doesn't care, right, Jazz? And get the skinny kid some Nasty Fries, Extra chili—"
Somehow this was worse than the times Dash would just wake up in the janitor's closet and not remember what happened in the hours prior to his blackout. That's what he was left wondering about; when is he gonna blackout? When will this nightmare be over? When would the other shoe drop and he never wake up again? Was it possible the entity now in control wanted Dash to see this? What was so different about today?
Kwan narrowed his eyes at this, muttering under his breath before turning back to his menu, "Hey, buddy, remember that talk we had about you being an asshole…? Yeah, that's happening."
Dash would love nothing more than to apologize for everything— for being born . He'd also love to feel his legs again too. If he could just get his body to cooperate—he tried to look at the ceiling fan again—blades still spinning mindlessly with no electric current underneath to guide its movements. They had that in common, at least.
Playing with the bits of her torn-up straw wrapper, Star grumbled, "I wish he'd order for me…"
Wes hoarsely barked, "Knock it off; you're starting to make a scene." The ex-jock didn't even seem phased that his water was now a puddle on the red checkered tile, slowly reaching back toward the diner bar, where some truckers were waiting for their coffee. They were glaring at the teens in disapproval.
"Aw, c'mon, guys, don't be like that— I'll pay for you too! In fact, why don't I get everyone's refills?"
Diligently the waitress scribbled down everything that Dash had either spilled or broke, as well as everything else on the order ticket, "Okay, so you want to pay for your friends' refills and drinks?"
"No, no, no, everyone's refills." The young man raised his brows to emphasize her mistake.
For several seconds, the server and 'Dash' made unbreakable eye contact. Her shoulders drooped when she realized he wasn't kidding. She scrawled that down on the ticket with her cheap blue pen that crackled under her iron grip.
The quarterback noticed he wasn't blinking. Not anymore. The entity just under his skin wanted him to experience this humiliation and not miss a single moment of it. His face was starting to cramp under the weight of that horrid smile.
Paulina rolled her eyes and wanted to get her order back on track—
Though once again, she was thwarted by 'Dash,' "Then I was thinking I could get two Triple-Decker Cheddar-Blasted Fried Spam Burgers? With the fries and mayonnaise— a basket of jalapeno poppers, And—"
He inched his finger down the laminated paper, mouthing along to what he was reading— squinting, "Sorry, I forgot my glasses at home— but let's get a diet coke— no, wait— dreamsicle shake— no… diet coke— Screw it! Throw in both!"
Folding up the menu, he then handed it to Beatrice. He turned to his friends with this coy 'who me?' facade, "Well? What're you guys gonna eat?"
Grimacing, Paulina folded up her menu as well and just murmured a demur, "Caesar salad, please."
Kwan hunched over the table and rubbed his temple, "...Just onion rings for me."
Star chimed in, "I'll have the same."
The waitress nodded and flicked her gaze to Wes at the very end, "And for you, hun?"
Scrunching up his nose, the ex-basketball player declared, "I'm not hungry."
Not even asking for confirmation, the woman elected to get out of there as fast as possible. She turned away from the table while still scribbling away.
"Okay, I-I think you proved your point," Jazz hissed in a whisper, uncharacteristically authoritative, "Dan—Danny—Danny should really be back now, don't you think?" She paid a panicked glance to the rest of the table.
Dash could feel his legs unfurling underneath the table, booting Kwan in the shins in the process. His arms pillowed his head, "Who cares about that twerp? Shouldn't you be busy, I dunno, kissing the ground I walk on or something?"
Wes snapped, having become thoroughly exasperated with this act, " Dash ."
That familiar pain was shooting through his legs like a civil war doctor was hacking them off in search of the shrapnel that had failed to finish him off. His nerves rebelled against the foreign control, to no avail. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. To his absolute horror, he couldn't. His mouth was no longer his.
He couldn't move.
Comfortable?
That same hateful voice rang in his head, causing it to pound and throb. It was mocking him. It was like a thousand whispers from a faceless cacophony, it was all he could hear.
Don't pretend you didn't miss me.
With it here, it was like Dash was never alone. He hated being alone the most. In a way, it was comforting. This assured destruction was comforting. The same way volcanic ash floating down from a mountain bore so much resemblance to snowfall. There was a surreal, serene quality to it all. Like it was trapped in the meticulous but furious brushwork of The Death of Marat II. Everything was stripped of its detail. It was blurry but thickly opaque. His migraine brought to vision runny and watery pigments that grasped onto nothing. However, it somehow still held shape.
His head was stripped like a screw-tightened one too many times. Stripped like the canvas of his mind had been dowsed in acetone.
The way in which colors felt now was overexposed but utterly devoid of life or warmth; no, he must be preparing for his final moments in Andy Warhol's Electric Chair.
His own body was cannibalizing itself to fight against this new plague- his organs were twisting in on themselves. The quarterback had become Saturn's devoured Son.
The drinks were the first to arrive to the table. The table was lined with tall faceted heavy glasses filled to the brim with ice cream, each topped with cherries.
Making a face at this, Kwan offered his to Paulina, "These are always way too sour for me."
"Your loss." She accepted the cherry.
This was humorous to the party across the table, 'Dash' snickered.
The cheerleader gave the jock in front of her a suspicious glare, "What's so funny?"
Of course, when the joke was at anyone else's expense, it was hilarious to Ms Sanchez. Her manicured brow arched in a spot of vexation.
The puppet composed himself. Stifling a laugh into his fist, "I mean, I always assumed you tried to avoid rumors like that, Paulina." He sighed, "But here you are— taking Kwan's cherry."
Paulina sneered at him.
"Oh, Sorry." His hands came up in a surrendering gesture before the vessel, then turned to explain to the rest of the table, "If that went over your heads— I'm calling her a slut."
Awkwardly, Star chuckled at this.
There was a gasp, and then in a moment of teenage impulsivity— Paulina hurled her strawberry shake. Ice cold, sticky slush hit the blonde cheerleader, and suddenly the two were screeching at each other.
Internally Dash was twisting at the casual cruelty of it. He was conflicted to desire punishment. Part of Dash was sure somehow he had done something, a long time ago, to warrant this waking nightmare playing out before him. This was some kind of divine intervention, right? Some kind of karmic justice? For the life of him, Dash didn't know what he did. But he knew he deserved it; by now, he had learned that lesson.
His friends, on the other hand, none of them deserved to be treated this way.
The creature seemed… disappointed by that conclusion. No, wait, that's not right. That's not correct.
The attention was torn away from 'Dash' briefly to the fight between his girlfriends. That's what the entity was upset about. It wasn't satisfied unless Dash was the sole source of scrutiny. It wasn't anything derived from selflessness. It didn't care if the others were suffering, but it wanted Dash to suffer the most. It quickly grew bored at the lack of attention.
'Dash' downed his milkshake with little issue, cherry and all, before casually dropping the dirty cup on the floor. It broke into thick blunt shards.
The glass shattered against the floor, and the diner's patrons swiveled in their chairs. Heads popped up in attention like flowers after winter. Drawn in further to the blow-up by the collateral damage.
"Oops…" The entity's amusement began to grow, along with that agonizing smirk from before. It wanted Dash to be the centerpiece of it all.
How do you describe immense misery and humiliation? Words could do no justice. There was no meaning to it. There was no point.
Time was Sisyphean. Nothing more than a joke.
The hushed voices swirled around the diner. They felt louder and louder as time-warped around him. Everything was going too fast or not at all. People and staff paced along the main shotgun stretch of tables at a molasses pace— but the voices, the conversations were too fast to be decipherable. It was like a film on VHS. The sound was comparable to a blunt pin scraping the rubbery latex skin of a balloon. The balloon was just stubborn enough not to be punctured.
It could have been hours or minutes, and Dash would have been none the wiser. The shadows inside grew longer as the sun shifted in the sky. The glare through the glass overwhelmed the lights inside, and everyone at the booth was captured in a sunbeam. For the most part, they all were blissfully unaware of the agony that just breathing caused him.
The athlete wanted them to stay that way.
Wes seemed to stay quiet outside of his repeated scoldings of the girls. He was the only thing keeping them from resuming their previous outburst. His gaze was glued to Dash.
Jazz was largely the same. Staring down at her hands and did not say much of anything. It looked like she was biting the inside of her mouth—daydreaming of different disasters to befall the Nasty Burger so they all could just evacuate. She looked like she wanted to say something but wasn't.
In the absence of time passing, there was harsh light— and noise— so much fucking noise . It was as if he could hear the very world turning. It was passing, however gradual. Time was holding the quarterback hostage. It was dragging him along whether he liked it or not. The buzz of flies and the ringing of torque wrenches scraped the nape of his neck. If Dash could control anything, he would have jammed a butter knife in his ears for some semblance of relief.
It felt like centuries.
The ceramic edges of the plates making contact with the abrasive plastic-y surface of the table was enough to make him want to end it all. The plates just kept piling up in front of him. Each time they clinked together, it felt like a nail being driven into his skull.
If it were any other day, at any other time. The food may have looked appetizing. But the smell— Dear, God.
It was a thick slab of meat shoveled onto grease-coated bread rotting in front of him. It was the grim realization that this once was a living thing, and now it wasn't. The entity found this sudden squeamishness amusing. As if it weren't sending these false signals in Baxter's head and in control of every involuntary image of slaughter projected against the backs of his eyelids.
Aren't you hungry, big guy?
Whatever power the entity had was starting to shift like grains of sand in an hourglass. Dash wouldn't call it winning. In reality, the creature had grown too exhausted to expend energy through his body. He felt his soul-catching sparks on dry leaves spreading out from his chest. He balled his fist and slammed it into the table, causing the plate to jump.
Kwan, Wes, and Jazz startled at the noise, they weren't oblivious to what was happening, but they had no idea how to help. Because that's all Dash was doing— Baxter was crying for help, but no one could hear him. They didn't know what to listen for.
Why aren't they doing anything? Why aren't they helping me? Please—
Do you really think—? That's funny; you think you're important. Do you think that they really care about you? You're an embarrassment.
Then again, did he want help? Did he want help, or did he just want to cry for their attention? There was a difference. A subtle difference but one the entity homed in on and prodded at.
The pain was his anchor.
I said, eat.
No.
I didn't ask for your compliance. I ordered you to eat.
Fuck you.
Oooo, scary! You wanna see something terrifying?
Dash's hand crawled to the knife protruding out of the sandwich— It was insect-like in movement. Like each finger was a leg and feeler that crossed the table in a curious scuttle. The voice scratched at his brain. He could feel it at the back of his eyeballs, a light pressure. Something skirted the connecting tissue with the intent to sever. It was ginger, light, and coy.
There was a hand inside his brain; it squeezed the mass within Dash's skull. He was sure it was a hand. He could feel the subtle bend of fingernails as they dug into his grey matter. They were like fish hooks tearing in separate directions on the delicate flesh of his cerebellum.
The boy snapped up his own sleeve and pinned it to the table. The plates rattled in protest.
This garnered odd glances from Byun-Ji. Who was still turning the gears in his head, trying to remember if Dash's eyes had always been green?
It was laughing at him now. The entity's cackle sounded exactly like hyenas alerting their pack of a fresh kill. It echoed off his nerves. The voice shuddered through him like he was being struck by lightning. It was so goddamn loud. Hearing something inside your head—it was unfathomably loud and deep as if it reverberated through all the bones in your face.
Like any virus, Dash just had to sweat it out. His lungs became flush with sharp, shallow, rapid little breaths from his nose. He could breathe on his own again. The chill was breaking. He could feel the warmth from the window gracing his skin.
You're boring me, pig.
Breaking free of his grip, Dash's right hand stole the knife from the bread. Posed with the pointed end to the ceiling. The light caught the serrated edge. In English, the quarterback always wondered what Shakespeare meant by a 'happy dagger.' The way the light glittered off of the blade, he understood in an instant. It smiled at him. He could squint and make out the teeth that grinned down at him callously.
It was a dull restaurant utensil, but it would result in a closed casket. It wouldn't have stopped the entity. Something as small as the sharpness of the weapon wouldn't have mattered. Baxter was certain of it. This thing didn't want to kill him, though. If it wanted to kill him, it would have done it a long time ago.
This was something of a recurring waking nightmare. Dash's brain would simply… turn off, for hours at a time. His body would then operate on its own, or rather it would be puppeteered around by this… thing . It really needed a name, but Dash couldn't find one that fit. Like his conscience, it would berate him. It would abuse him. It would parrot everything Dash hated about himself and agree with his assessment.
In a way, it was the most intimate relationship the young man ever had. It knew everything. It was only polite to give it a name.
The knife clattered to the tile as Dash's right hand discarded it unceremoniously.
Eat.
Eat.
Eat.
Something… clicked in his skull as Baxter unhinged his jaw. He didn't have a chance to chew. His throat burned, trying to keep himself from choking to death. Consuming everything in sight. It wasn't just animalistic. It was sickening.
It had become a compulsion. The entity didn't need to eat— but it wanted to —it had to as an attempt to prove that it could. The creature wanted to feel full, but it evidently lacked the ability. The ability to stop. Restraint wasn't in its vocabulary.
It was simply using Dash as a vessel to achieve whatever high it was trying to chase. Dash was a proxy. He was used as a bridge for the sensations this thing craved. Touch, taste, smell— that was just the beginning. It wanted to be human, or at least pass for one. It tried to poison Dash from the inside so that he would be easier to control. It wanted to hobble him. Break him like a proud stallion. People like animals more when they're tamed. That's really what the entity desired. That's what would sate this demon— it wanted to make him weak. The creature fed on that helplessness.
Dash thought about how he needed this. This was his punishment for being born; this was his cross to carry. How sad that it was almost over.
Baxter wondered if he could survive without being told what to do, even by the entity.
Suddenly Dash's torso dropped, and he hit the table. Head first. As if he was being held up by the scalp and was abruptly let go. The impact reopened a scar on his forehead. Blood blended with the red on the table.
By all appearances, it was as if Dash Baxter, tenth grader— dropped dead of an aneurysm. Jaw open. Fingertips twitched at his sides. His pupils were unnaturally constricted… the cloudy green hue vanished from his unblinking eyes. His tear ducts began to leak profusely.
No one said a word. Stillness overcame the restaurant, and the flies began to circle in migratory curiosity.
Unfortunately, he was still alive.
After a few moments, he gasped. Throwing himself back into the plush leather booth. Sweat and drool partially fused him with the debris-covered table. It felt as though the table took a bit of skin in the separation. He hit the wall and still wanted to get away. That's all his thoughts could latch onto, far and away .
Coughing— there was something stuck inside his throat, impeding Dash's attempt to draw in air to his lungs. Whatever it was, it burrowed further in. Like falling from a great height, what hurt the most wasn't the fall but the recovery. That abrupt stop. Where momentum didn't matter, pain surged across his body as gravity began to sync back up like a tightly wound watch.
The chorus of his friends asking if he was alright had been drowned out. It was all so much. Too much. Like being brought out from an insidiously dark dwelling into the stark daylight. He shirked away from Jazz, patting his shoulder— recoiling at the mere idea of being touched.
Her face, what Dash could glean of it, was pained and apologetic. Her mouth kept moving—
'Oh, god, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.'
No one noticed it at first, but Danny had finally returned from the bathroom.
There was a piercing, shrill ringing in his ears now. It was like his head had been stuffed— waterlogged almost.
Baxter's adrenaline finally caught up to him, nearly too little, too late. His heart palpitated; he counted every other beat. He counted them in disbelief that he was awake and not in his bed back home.
The younger Fenton stood at the head of the booth wondering why no one was letting him take a seat. He was wiping his hands off on his baggy white shirt that ended right before his knees. Normally, the guy was quite lethargic— so it made sense that he was in the bathroom often, taking care of whatever vague medical problems he possessed. But he looked different. Dash was too overtaxed to put his finger on it— but different was the word. It was like Danny was taller all of a sudden. He walked with a certain confidence about him now.
Hands on his hips in a huff of impatience, the younger Fenton urged them, "Hey, guys, c'mon, make room."
Dash's complexion blanched. 'Room' made him think about how little space was left behind his skin. Everything felt tight— like his entire body was a growth that needed to explode. That needed release. He was going to die. Baxter was going to keel over and die in front of everyone. Arms barred around his stomach, he curled in on himself and groaned.
" Gee , Dash, you don't look so good," Danny said, cocking his head.
Acid and bile flooded up his esophagus, and from his nose. Dash barely contained the mess of partially digested bits of meat within his mouth. Tidal waves of vomit were held back by his fist, firmly keeping his jaw shut. His chest and muscles began to work against him—constricting around the mass of food in his gut that refused to sit. Racked with convulsions, he could barely detect a bulge in his stomach traveling underneath his hand—like there was some kind of appendage inside him—twisting and writhing around his intestines.
Thank whatever god that gave him enough common sense to stand, however wobbly. And enough composure to make a break to the washroom. Baxter shoved the ghost boy out of his way, just needing a clear path. Sprinting across the floor, the rubber tread of his sneakers squeaked deafeningly. Patrons of the diner continued to eye the commotion.
Val had appeared from nowhere. She had opened the gate leading from the stool bar, "Dash? What's your hurr—?"
Shoulders slamming together, she was on the ground instantly.
Pushing past the heavy door to the men's restroom, the quarterback kicked open the nearest stall. He dropped to his knees like a deadweight, hard enough to leave bruises, and proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach for several minutes. Not even paying attention to the other customers asking if he was okay.
The pain was an anchor.
Dash repeated his mantra. However, the ugly truth was that he couldn't feel anything aside from pain. Guilt and embarrassment only existed as off-center definitions for physical ache.
His entire body racked in convulsions. He coughed up… a worm. He didn't know how that was possible. A plump, fat, wet, wriggling worm. The creature had been lodged in his throat and curling against his tongue. It tasted like death.
The sight of it causing ripples in the water was enough to make Dash puke again. It all came up the same color. Black. Like somehow, the food had rotted inside of his body. Whatever was inside him— Absorbed all light. It burned at his esophagus like it would bore a hole through the tissue; it was in his sinuses. He was sure it would come out of his eyes.
Just to make sure there was nothing left in him, Baxter, in a practiced motion, jabbed a thumb to the back of his mouth and gagged.
He spat into the toilet bowl before losing all strength that kept him upright. He collapsed onto his hip. The back of Dash's head hit the dispenser attached to the cool metal stall wall. Realizing that he couldn't sink any further, the quarterback rested his clammy face on the bathroom wall. Dash was upset that there was only one voice in his head, and it was his—
I hate parties.
Quietly, the young man sobbed, drawing his knees into his chest.
He stayed on the ground. Hiding his face in his arms. Blinding and deafening himself for the sake of hearing his heartbeat on its own.
"Dash…? Are you okay?" Clear as a church bell. A voice bounced off the tile.
He had been on the floor so long that when he pulled his head from his arms, the light blurred everything, "... Please, just—get away, Wes."
The athlete scrunched in tighter on himself, wanting only to disappear. It was the wish the universe kept denying him.
Wes wedged his way into the stall and shut the door behind him. He sank to the floor across from his friend, "What happened out there?"
The question was gentle in its approach. Barely a whisper above the ground. Wes was familiar with the aftershocks that came from overshadowing. What followed for days after was this feeling that God impaled your brain with a railroad spike. An aversion to anything louder than a breath. Geyser-like nose bleeds. Muscle spasms. Deja Vu. Chills. Numbness in the extremities. Necrosis. Atrophy. Decay.
Sluggishly, Baxter blinked, "I-I… really don't wanna talk about it."
"You look like hell," Weston chided him.
I am hell. That was what Dash wanted to say, but his jaw snapped on his tongue— his head still throbbed with the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.
He sniffled, "Wes…"
"I'm not going anywhere until I know you're okay." The ex-jock was firm in his statement. His green eyes pierced through all clouds of uncertainty.
Wes was a constant. Whether or not people took him for granted.
He didn't make friends easily after all. Wes wrung his hands anxiously, "It was that thing again, wasn't it?"
'That thing' was shorthand for whatever ghost that joyrided Dash's body. They had hypothesized it was the same one every single time, but they were never sure. They referred to it as a condition at first, like it was something recognized in the realm of modern western pharmaceuticals. Something that could be cured. Over time they realized the issue was much more complex.
Dash was apprehensive of their closeness, but because it was Weston— He… acquiesced. They had been on the basketball team last year. That had won their homecoming together. Wes had seen him at rock bottom, and he was equipped to handle the lows.
Wes was sort of a self-taught expert when it came to things that were no longer alive. He's been obsessed with it since his brother died in that haunted house. It was weird to describe it that way since they couldn't find the body. He was technically still 'missing.' But optimism was a toll too steep to pay these days. They called the fire a freak accident. The arson investigators were left stumped as to what caused it. Some declared it an act of God. A lot of people didn't like that answer. No one wanted to believe that their God could be so bored.
Wes never liked the first answer anyone gave. He would always pick at it like a scab until whatever truth appeased him emerged. The ex-jock could be relentless in his pursuit. It left his friendships to wither, his grades to suffer, and his extracurriculars to replace him without so much a second thought. Wes was in desperate need of closure. The problem was… he didn't want closure. He wanted a culprit. He wanted something he could sink his teeth into and let it bleed. Wes didn't know when things needed to be laid to rest.
There was nothing to be earned here.
"You know it was," Dash muttered, coughing again, his throat dry.
There wasn't much conversation. Just agreement. It sounded like rushing water from the pipes from the adjacent washroom.
The entity wasn't going to stop on its own.
Wes glared. Not at Dash, but the world. This cruel, awful world that wanted to take everything away from him.
Orange hair lulling on the red sheet metal, a question floated out of Weston, "Why haven't you told anyone?"
It struck him in the sternum. It caused the quarterback to pull himself forward at the hint of an accusation. Dash growled, "Th—there are plenty of things to worry about a-and… and I—"
With a blanket-soft voice yet paired with a weary knitted face, the photographer finished the statement, "And you don't think you're one of them?"
…
The brief flash of defensive irritation left him, and Dash sat back. At his sides, his hands balled into fists against the painted squares on the floor.
Slowly, Dash shook his head. It was an unintentional confirmation.
Wes could only stare at him. There were dots of black vomit at the corners of Dash's mouth. A sheet of sweat glistened off of his colorless skin. There was a dark triangle stain on his white t-shirt that cascaded down. The fabric clung to him uncomfortably. There were obvious tear tracks running down his face, as well as yellowish snot crusting to the outsides of his nose. A trail of blood smeared around the bridge of his nose.
Resigned, the basketball player got to his knees and offered his hand, "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."
"I'm not going back out there."
"We're not going out there." He assured, "We're just gonna get out of the stall." Wes snorted, "I dunno about you; my legs are starting to cramp."
Taking his hand, Dash covertly wiped his eyes with his shoulder as he rose. The pair wedged out of the opening. They shuffled to the sink.
Wes offered, pulling at his sleeve, "So… the jacket looks good."
Dash thrashed out of it, throwing it in the sink.
Stuttering through his addendum, Weston attempted, "With the captain's patch, I mean…. Not with the—the puke stains. Obviously."
Saying nothing, Baxter turned on the faucet. He huffed like an ox. Punching the paper towel machine, all he saw was red.
Cautiously, Weston picked up the letterman by the neck and stared at it.
"Why didn't you tell me you made captain?" the photographer wondered aloud.
Wetting the loosely wadded paper, Dash scrubbed his hands with scalding hot water, "...You're telling me you'd be happy for the guy who has to carry Clay's…"
Baxter was surprised when muscle memory superseded the fact that Clay Weston was now past tense.
Wes turned on his sink and began to beat the stains.
"It's okay to talk about him, y'know. I mean— shit, it feels like everyone but me has stories about him." The ex-jock swiped at the hair in front of his eyes. His voice wavered, "I know more than anyone what it's like. Y'think for a guy who should be in a coffee can above the fireplace, he wouldn't be so hard to carry around." Wes only steeled, "I get it."
"Y'think he's dead?" Dash was surprised.
"If he's alive, he'd be home." Wes stated matter-of-factly, turning the sleeves against each other and working the black spots with the friction, "So, either he can't come home, or…"
The ex-jock had that far-off look again. the cloudy water filled the eggshell-colored basin.
He cast his gaze to the water tumultuously swirling around the drain. It was as if he could tell you it all had a meaning, but the cost of the knowledge was too much.
"What'd you expect?"
"I dunno." Dash splashed his face with hot water, "Statistics, and you never seemed to get along."
He rubbed his skin until it was raw.
"I don't believe in conspiracy theories, regardless of what you all think of me." Wes's bitterness betrayed the neutral effect he attempted to maintain, "I believe in facts and the truth. I believe in things bigger than us that we can't control. I believe in a universe that's in unrelenting chaos! I believe in nothing. What the hell am I supposed to believe in?"
"Hope?"
Believe in me. Believe in people again.
With a snort, Weston blustered.
Now, that was a Dash Baxter original. The guy never knew when to give up the ghost. That was so like him. No matter how dark it got— no matter how hard he got hit; Dash would walk it off and limp to the silver lining.
What did anyone in this town know about hope ?
How could Dash keep this to himself?
It was easy.
No one asked.
"I-I just don't get it— I don't understand. Why you? Why is this happening to you?" Wes gestured to Dash through their reflection, wholly useless in this situation.
What was obvious about it was that the creature wasn't human. It both wanted to be, but it unraveled if it stayed inside someone for too long. There was not enough room for each of them to exist. It was as if the ghost would splinter into ribbons exposed to the light of someone's soul. They would rip each other apart. Why would the spirit put the both of them in danger? It didn't make any sense. It wasn't a parasite despite all appearances. They both benefited from their union. In an unseen way, they both needed each other.
What was disturbing is that Dash seemed to be reluctant to be cured. Baxter was nervous to even speak about it. He didn't know if he could help it. For the most part, Baxter didn't want people to worry, which was true. But what Dash didn't say is that he deserved it. He didn't want people to know he might depend on this creature that used his body for asylum. How would they even react to that? Deep… deep down, Dash wanted to be sick. He wanted something to be wrong with him. He couldn't explain it. Dash Baxter would lay awake at night, staring up at the ceiling, praying for something terrible to happen to him. Something bad had to happen to him because he might have had the chance to save Clay Weston— but he was too big of a coward to look for him when the blaze started. Clay Weston had to be alive because Dash couldn't wear this jacket.
In the Compendium of the Dead by Edna Wicket, ghosts could manipulate the weak of will— aimless people. People who spun a globe and did not care when they landed in the water. People who didn't look both ways at the crosswalk. People who wanted to die. They passively talked about death as a solution to all their problems. Passive was the keyword. He remembered when his eyes skimmed the passage, there was a spark of recognition. Dash wanted to die.
It was the most intimate relationship he had ever had. The entity knew everything that was wrong with him, and it kept coming back. He was conflicted. Some days he hardly thought about the creature, but most days, he physically ached for its return. It was like a drug; the sophomore had become addicted to feeling helpless and miserable. Dash didn't want to think about how incomplete he was without it.
Love was such a strange word to use in this context. There were all kinds of love decided on by the ancient greeks. The kinds of love shared between friends, family, and the self. They even had a word to describe the love that was bad for you.
Dash was in pure infatuated mania .
He swallowed, "I'll live."
That wasn't what he asked.
Exhaustion pulled at every inch of the quarterback's face. He seemed too tired for someone his age. The piece of canvas hit with another cleansing layer of gesso. Yes, there was technically a fresh slate there, but there was a mess of wild amateurish impressionist brushstrokes just behind the facade. There was a subtle rigidness to every one of his movements. Baxter mainly murmured to himself, "It talked to me this time."
Flitting his eyes back across the mirror, the photographer gaped at him, "Wh—"
Dash cupped his hands under the faucet, gulping down handful after handful of tap water. Dehydration was by far the worst affliction possession left you with.
Composing himself, Wes dropped the jacket, "What do you mean it 'talked' to you?"
"In my head." Dash clarified through gulps, "I could hear its voice. I could see what was happening to me, and I…" He grit his teeth, "and I couldn't…."
"I can't even begin to imagine how that felt." Anxiously, Wes barred his arms across his chest.
"You. Don't. Want. To."
"Wh-what did it sound like?" If Dash didn't know any better, it appeared as though Wes was excited. The photographer was genuinely intrigued. The clearest Baxter had seen him since the good old days on the basketball team.
Their conversation stalled when a few more patrons entered the restroom. The boys lingered by the sink. Dash's haggard shell-shocked appearance made the approaching truckers hesitant to enter.
Immediately whipping his head around, Wes barked at the men, "Occupied!" He bared his over-bitten teeth, "Beat it!"
Stalking to the door, he ripped it from their grasp and slammed it shut. To the side, there was a green broom against the wall— Thinking fast, Weston used it as a brace. The door handle now firmly locked.
"... It's complicated." Forehead creased in bewilderment, Baxter said it under his breath. Under the sound of the running faucet.
Wes had turned around, with his previous enthusiasm thoroughly washed out like a sand castle. He leaned against the door, crossing his arms.
Attempting to rationalize the experience, the athlete elaborated, "I think since it only spoke through my head, there were no vibrations to carry the noise. So, it didn't sound like anything . It was loud, though. I couldn't focus on anything else. It wouldn't let me. Every bad thought I've ever had about myself— every stupid thing I've ever done—" Dash rested his fingers on his temple, "—It trapped me in my own head."
"Now, that isn't your bog-standard possession…" Wes placed a hand on his chin thoughtfully as though what he said made complete sense to him and no one else.
Nearly exploding, Dash nested his quickly forming fist in the fabric of his shirt, "Please, tell me you're not talking about that goddamn book again—"
"Edna Wickett's Compendium Of the Dead should be taken as gospel, Dash— you were overshadowed just now! And you're lucky that thing just wanted a snack!" The photographer held up his fingers and pinched the air, "You were this close to becoming the next Son of Sam or whatever—!"
Another wave of pain crashed at the back of his head and spilled with the echoing shrillness of Weston's voice. Baxter shut off the sink, "You're taking the word of a crackpot as a medical journal?! Are you seri— You're kidding, right?!"
"The only thing you should concern yourself with is getting the hell away from the Fentons— I get it, you have a crush on Jazz or whatever, but her brother is the one behind this. I'm telling you, Baxter! What kind of coincidence that he's the only one missing when you go all emerald eyes?" Wes was rambling madly, gesticulating chaotically— With a beady look about him, "That kid is some kind— some kind of ghoul— I just know it. He's just using the Phantom persona to build up good will so no one would even suspect him. I'll put him away for good. I'll put him down—He—He's gotta pay. "
"What the hell are you even talking about?! Danny Fenton gets the shakes when he's picked for dodgeball—"
Their voices were overlapping and arguing about points that had nothing to do with each other.
Dash exploded, with his throat aching, "Freshmen use that book at sleepovers to scare each other! You're trying to ghost hunt right now—?! Out of all the times! Right now?! I THREW UP A WORM, WES! "
The letterman in the other sink clogged the drain, and dirty water was beginning to spill onto the linoleum.
It was then the pair realized they were relentless in completely different directions, and they always will be. The stillness came back as the air conditioner whirred to life over their heads.
Nostrils flared; Dash ran a hand through a knuckle's worth of platinum blond hair and ruffled it in a fit of anxious thought. He panted, "I can't—I can't do it. I just can't with you right now. Okay, Weston? I didn't even want you here! "
Just as quickly, the quarterback slapped that hand over his mouth—in utter disbelief, he admitted that.
Wes launched himself from the wall he was resting on. He crossed the floor in an instant, sneakers squeaking along the way. He shut off the sink.
"... Did you really mean that?" With fingers loosely lingering on the faucet handle, Wes bore a hole in the floor with the weight of his stare, "Or was that Fenton talking?"
Dash said nothing.