Page 4

By the time Nell was walking up her driveway, she barely had the energy to move anymore.

Dropping the bike had been stupid. But it was only going to hold her back if she’d tried to run with it, and she wouldn’t have been able to ride it—not in the rain, and certainly not in this hellish storm.

She flinched as a car passed her on the street. Its headlights flashed her, causing her to shake harder than she already was. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to hold it together as the drops pounded on the back of her neck.

Rain and roads and her did not mix. In any way. On foot or not.

Any minute now she was going to shatter; she could feel it.

The familiar sense of dread filled her gut like a kettle. Any minute now it would boil over, and the steam of panic would make its shrill scream through her spout. She was on the brink of screaming herself.

This rain, the possibility of Barrett calling the police, and those red and blue lights flashing through her window…

She shook harder and fumbled up the concrete stairs to her doorway, her hands slipping on the knob as she opened it and stumbled into the dry house.

“Janelle.” A yelp greeted her, and she managed to lift her heavy head enough to notice the audience.

All the dinner guests she’d forgotten about had a direct line of sight to her entrance.

Her mother was already out of her seat and rushing down the hallway with a horrified twist to her face.

Her dad looked as startled, but the guests, whom she recognized from church, glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes.

She had to look drunk, tripping over her feet the way she was.

She wished she were drunk.

“Oh, sweetheart. What happened? You’ve been gone forever! I was worried sick.” Her mom grabbed her trembling shoulders.

Nell’s tongue was too heavy to lift and form any words, but she did manage a strangled noise that sounded like a blend of a grunt and a cry. If she could speak, she’d beg her mother to let her go.

She needed air. She needed space.

She spoke with her hands and pushed her mother away, and the others at the table started to rouse and move closer for a better look. Nell had reached her limit.

The kettle’s shriek reminded her of the tire’s screech, and she had to push past everyone that was circling her to get to her room. They all tried to calm her down, all tried to ask what was wrong.

Was she hurt? Did something happen? Why was she wet?

Nell held her breath. If she breathed, she would crumble, and there were too many eyes to witness it.

Instead of breathing or speaking, she simply waved a hand in an attempt to reassure them all that she was alright before retreating into her bedroom.

The moment her door was shut and locked, she fell to her knees and choked on the breath she’d been holding.

She scoured her pockets for the packs of cigarettes she’d just bought. Her heart sank as she took in the soggy box.

Each ragged gasp urged her forward.

Dumping them on the ground, she fell to her knees and searched through them for even one that was dry enough to light. Her hands brushed them, hoping for something.

None were dry, but they would have to do. She picked one up and fumbled with her lighter, attempting to flick a flame to life.

Countless attempts finally produced a spark, and several more brought a flame long enough to get to the butt of the cigarette.

At last, it lit, and she gulped lungfuls of smoke into her throat as if it were oxygen and she was rising from a drowning wave.

It was the second clear breath she’d taken all day.

The screaming kettle in her head quieted as the boiling softened and cooled.

Panic still clawed at her body and tore at her chest, but at least now she could take breaths deep enough to make it subside.

The smoke had been the only thing that helped three months ago, then slowly it started to help less. The alcohol she found hidden away when she was in middle school was next. She needed it more than normal people should.

In these moments, when she felt like a rag doll being tossed around, these were the only things that made her human again.

But after three months of relying on them the same way she relied on oxygen and water, their effects were weakening. They still helped, but now they only numbed her slightly.

She needed them more often, in larger quantities, or she needed to find something different.

She exhaled the last smoke of her first cigarette out the bedroom window and immediately grabbed another.

With her right hand, she held it to her lips, her left hand scratching at the softening pressure in her chest. The mix of salt and rainwater on her cheeks dried as time went on, leaving behind rough streaks.

By the time the feeling completely subsided, the guests had long since eaten their meals and left the house. One of the cigarette packs was completely gone, and one was stuffed under her mattress for safekeeping.

She grabbed the expensive bottle of perfume her mom had given her on her birthday a month ago and spritzed it over every corner of her room to get the smell away.

Her parents probably already knew, but she felt the need to hide it anyway, like a naughty child hiding candy wrappers.

She opened her bedroom door and peeked out. A small tray was on the ground outside her room, with a plate of food gone cold.

She picked it up and closed herself in once again to devour the meal out of necessity rather than enjoyment.

When it was done, she set it down on her bedside table and finally began undressing. Her clothes were only slightly damp now, and she slipped out of them. She was about to throw her jacket in the clothes hamper when she remembered the other small thing hidden away in her pocket.

She reached in and pulled out the small plastic guitar pick. It would go nicely with the rest of her collection.

She crouched and lifted her bed skirt, uncovering and opening the shoe box she kept hidden there. Lifting the lid, she studied the contents inside.

Various paints and brushes for Sam, who always says you can never have too many art supplies.

A pink plush and a pink bow and hair clips for Minnie, who claims pink is the happiest color and proves it by wearing it every single day.

Nell dropped the pick into the box with the show ticket, guitar string, and folded piece of paper for KC, who never lets a day go by without creating music on her beloved instrument.

It was an assortment of things she’d taken just because she couldn’t resist something as soon as it reminded her of her friends. This was only one box. There were three others stuffed under the bed.

Her mother theorized that not talking about these people or avoiding anything that had to do with them was normal for someone with Nell’s trauma.

But Nell never told her that she thought about them constantly .

That she stole things that reminded her of them, so it was like having a piece of what they could have had one day—a fraction of a future that never happened.

It was thinking about them that made nights like this as terrible as they were. When the world started to crush her, they were the only thing she could think of.

She closed the box and shoved it back under the bed with the others.

With that away, she crawled into bed without cleaning herself up. Nell was too exhausted to stand in a shower or stay awake in a bathtub.

She curled into a ball with the dry, crisp covers brushing her bare skin and closed her eyes to pretend she couldn’t hear the screech of tires, smell the burn of smoke, or dream the screams of her friends endlessly ringing through her mind.

She could only make out three words.

You did this.

You did this.