My alarm clock blaring wakes me whether I want it to or not, a low groan escaping as the noise only aggravates the pounding in my head. I can't quite seem to open my eyes, knowing that when I do, my headache will only intensify in response to the brightness of the sunlight streaming in through the curtains in my bedroom…

Of course, as soon as the rough pounding on the door registers in my still-groggy mind, I realize the desire to keep my eyes closed is not going to come to fruition, another groan leaving me as I recognize the voice coming from the other side of the door.

"Camille! Get a move on, you're gonna be late for school!"

School. The one place I really do not want to be right now.

Great.

"Camille!"

"Got it, Dad!" I holler back, wincing as my voice ricochets through my still-pounding head, and moving as gingerly as I can to swing my legs over the edge of the bed after throwing back the sheets. My stomach churns as I flex my toes against the carpeting beneath them, my fingers digging into the mattress as I try to resist the urge to hurl, and the room spins on its axis around me.

Note to self. Chasing some of my dad's beer with vodka was probably not one of the smartest decisions I've ever made.

Facing the consequences of that decision on a school day, though? That, I'm not sure I will be able to survive.

This is really gonna suck.

Regardless, though, I know school isn't exactly going to be optional now that my father is awake, a heavy sigh escaping as I force myself to my feet and trudge toward the closet at the far corner of my room for a change of clothes. I'm thanking my lucky stars right now that I had somehow managed to possess the wherewithal to take a shower the night before, my hands groping blindly in the closet to pull out the first top and pair of jeans I can find. I don't care that the jeans are ripped. That the shirt is frayed, with a faded band logo splayed across the front.

Honestly, the fact that I am even capable of standing–of any kind of conscious movement at all–is a miracle, so anything else that happens after that I will simply have to take as it comes.

Donning the clothes, and running my fingers through my hair a few times to make sure it didn't look too bedraggled, I avoid a look in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door, instead choosing to pull it open and step cautiously into the hallway beyond. Once I reach the den, I stoop to grab my backpack from its place in the chair beside the television where I'd left it the evening before. But just as I come to the conclusion that maybe I'll be able to slip outside under the guise of walking to school, thus earning myself a chance to blow the day off entirely, I hear my father's footsteps coming towards me, my eyes slipping closed once again as I brace myself for whatever it is he is about to say.

"Weirdest thing. Came home last night. Went in the fridge for a beer. And suddenly I'm down by a pack when I could've sworn I bought more just the other day at the store."

"Strange."

"Vodka's half-gone too."

"Well, you know what they say about blackout drinking, Dad. You can wake up the next morning and have no clue what happened the night before."

"Camille–"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"About what?" I question, hoping that the smile I manage to force to my lips will be sufficiently innocent, though just a single glance at my father's face tells me otherwise in next to no time at all, "I'm not doing anything."

"Then why do you look like you're hungover?"

"Maybe because you're imagining things."

"Or maybe it's because my daughter is getting into my alcohol supply, instead of doing her homework," Dad retorts, anger mingling with something I do not expect in his expression–concern–while he makes a clear attempt to get himself back under some sort of control, before trying to speak again, "Listen, Cami, I know you're still trying to get used to things here. But I want you to know, I'm–"

"Look, Dad, we don't–we don't have to do this," I cut in, tucking a stubborn lock of hair behind my ear, and forcing myself to ignore how a flicker of disappointment makes itself known in my father's expression as I go on, "I'm fine."

"How you spent your summer says otherwise."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I know what you were doing when you said you were spending time with Barb and Nancy. From there, it wasn't that much of a leap to figure out who you were with."

"That's not–it wasn't–"

"It wasn't what?"

"It's nothing," I manage, biting down on the inside of my cheek as a distraction from the burning that has taken root in the corner of my eyes, "It doesn't matter."

"Kid, I know what drinking to forget about pain looks like. It matters."

"That's what you do, Dad. That's not–that's not what this is."

"Cami–"

"It's not."

"Okay," My father relents, a world-weary sigh escaping as he runs a hand across his face, exhaustion apparent in the gesture whether he wants it to be or not, "Okay. I just–if that Harrington kid did anything, I just want you to know that you can–"

"Dad, stop! Please! Like you said, I'm–I'm gonna be late for school."

Before my father can come up with anything else to say, I brush past him and head for the front door, one hand lifting to dash at an errant tear in the hopes that I can make it disappear altogether. I know, on some level, that he's trying. That my father is doing what he can to make things easier, despite the fact that I think we both know losing Sarah means that our lives will never be easy again.

Every year it just gets harder to go on without her. That is why I started drinking. It's why I'm still drinking.

The pain of losing my little sister has been eating me alive ever since it happened, but now, instead of just that loss, I'm heading to school knowing that I will have to face another sort of misery altogether.

The misery of realizing that my attempt at shielding myself from further heartache, I might just have made my situation worse. If there was one thing I knew about the so-called hierarchy of fellow students at Hawkins High School, it was that one did not snub those more popular than themselves. They snubbed you.

And somehow, I had managed to snub none other than Steve Harrington, breaking off–whatever it was that we had–over the summer, before he could get the chance break it off with me.

So yeah.

I was well and truly screwed.

School should be fun, right?

If only I had known what was coming. Let's just say I probably wouldn't have been complaining about high school drama when something else that was far worthier of being considered like life and death was waiting in the wings…

…