You are sitting on the steps in front of Sarah's apartment.
You are sitting, and you are waiting. You, the one who can dislocate and dismember and disembowel time... waiting.
But, in utter defiance of yourself, you are slowly coming to enjoy waiting. The slow build of anticipation, even for the most banal of things. The microwave. Lines at the store. A responding text. The cooling of coffee.
Even right now, your ass on the cold flagstone, eyes unfocused on an overcast slate of sky, fingers drumming tunelessly, a spark of contentment swims somewhere in your intestines. This is okay. Things are okay. You are okay. You are waiting for a friend, and that is okay.
At the sound of footsteps, your vision focuses, and you look down—but it's not Sarah's gaze that greets you.
"'Sup," Aaron says.
"'Sup," you reply automatically.
Fuck.
He stands there, mid-step. "You waiting for Sarah?"
No, you're waiting for the statistically improbable yet very desirable meteor strike to obliterate you from the face of Earth. "Yeah."
"She and Cass should only be half an hour," he says. You suppose he meant that assuringly. "You been here long?"
You wish people would stop asking you about time. "No," you say, not sure if it's true or not. Not caring, either.
"Cool, cool. Well, I've got a spare key." And he easily steps over you and unlocks the door. "C'mon in."
So you do, hammering your frown into a vaguely polite line.
Aaron is Cassie's... well, he's her something. Not boyfriend. Not exactly a fuckbuddy. But between rather frequent sex and enjoyment of each other's company, the best you can come up with is that they're a something.
You shut the door behind you, your skin savoring the warmth. And already, Aaron is methodically moving around the rooms, flipping light switches. You found this odd, at first. Until Sarah and Cassie visited your place one time, and Cassie asked why you kept your home so damn dark.
You didn't have an answer, so you made one. "Electricity bills."
Cassie bought it. Sarah sure as hell didn't.
Apparently satisfied with illuminating the place, Aaron ambles into the kitchen. You tense slightly as he passes the knife block. "You want a beer?" he asks, cracking open the refrigerator.
"I'm good."
"You sure?"
"Maybe later."
He nods, fishing himself out an IPA.
You sit down on the couch. Almost immediately, Aaron turns on the TV. You give a little start at the sudden burst of sound. You hope he didn't notice.
"Sorry," he says, sprawling down next to you. He smells like testosterone.
He can't even spend five minutes without background noise. Aaron always has a headphone on one ear or his car radio on or a computer playing something or other. Sedatephobia, clearly.
Instead of grabbing the remote and throwing it through the TV, you decide to be reasonable and look at the moving images instead. The news. Great.
Guy in a suit being led into court. Glasses. Goatee. Seems... familiar.
"The Jefferson case," Aaron declares.
"What?"
"Yeah, Mark Jefferson." He points his bottle at the screen. "Teacher from Arcadia Bay. Date raped a bunch of his students, and took pictures. Some crazy shit like that. I haven't really followed it."
"Huh."
"Yeah."
You both watch for a while. Apparently, they can televise court proceedings in Oregon. Your brain strains in two directions; one half wants to run as far away from anything to do with Arcadia Bay. The other half wants to go bury itself on that beach. Both make compelling arguments.
"Bullshit," Aaron says.
You blink. "What is?"
He points at the screen again. "This. A guy rapes a bunch of girls or whatever, calls it art, and a shitload of people are defending him. That's bullshit."
You shrug.
"I mean, look at him. Teenage girl's wet dream. Authority figure, experienced, famous-but-not-too-famous. Kind of good looking—well, I wouldn't fuck him—doing the whole bachelor-artist thing. And that's the only reason!" He marches to the refrigerator, pulls out another beer. He pops the cap and sends it flying across the room. "I mean, some people are saying those girls actually wanted it. Some people are saying that—that he was driven to this, because the world can't appreciate 'true art'! I mean, what the fuck does that even mean? Can you believe that shit? If he was an ugly deformed old dude, they'd be calling to have him drawn and quartered."
"That's how it always is."
"And that's a fucking travesty!"
"I know."
He sighs, deflating as the indignation leaves him. "I can't watch this shit anymore. You wanna play Call of Duty?"
The thought of shooting even virtual people makes your stomach contort. But you smile easily. "Sure," you say.
0-0-0-0-0-0
When the third day came, you destroyed yourself.
You don't remember what you were doing, exactly. Those first two days after killing Damien felt so... normal. And the third felt normal too.
And then, you realized: day three. Cannot REGRESS.
And you then you realized Damien was gone.
And then you realized your best friends were gone.
And then you realized that you were alone.
0-0-0-0-0-0
The mirror, in this darkness, is almost not a mirror.
"You wouldn't kill a friend."
"But you'd die for me, wouldn't you?"
0-0-0-0-0-0
On the third night, you were sitting on your bed.
In one hand, your phone. In the other hand, your folding knife.
Damien said he thought about killing himself. Why didn't he? He knew what was coming. He knew you were coming.
Did he want closure? For himself?
For you?
What do you want?
You look at your phone, at Sarah's number and her picture—her sticking her tongue out at you.
How much effort would it take you to cut your own throat?
0-0-0-0-0-0
Your phone rings.
You drop it, terrified, your nerves raw.
It's Sarah.
She's calling you.
Why is she calling you?
You pick up your phone. Your hand is shaking.
You answer.
"Sarah," you whisper hoarsely.
"Day three. Time to talk," she says.
You nod, forgetting she can't see it. "Yeah," you say quietly. "Yeah."
0-0-0-0-0-0
She comes over and you tell her everything.
She's sitting down. You sit down. Then you stand up. Then you walk around. Then sit down again. Sometimes you're stock still. Sometimes you can't stop gesturing.
The more you speak, the more absurd the story sounds. The less you believe yourself. The more you think you may indeed be insane. That this may indeed be your dying dream.
But Sarah asks no questions. She simply listens, her eyes never leaving you, unreadable. You wish she would say something.
When you tell her about digging up Kurt, she says nothing.
When you tell her about torturing Kyle, she says nothing.
When you tell her about shooting Damien in the head, she says nothing.
Say something. Say something. Please.
Your throat is scraped rough and dry from talking.
"Please... say something."
Sarah looks at you. Into you. Through you.
"I believe you."
And for the first time since Arcadia Bay, you are afraid.