4

Do you get nightmares often?

…

….

Hmm? Really now? That’s interesting. Funnily enough, I always tend to get a different answer to that question. It makes sense for that to be the case for you, and, logically, everyone’s experience with dreams tends to be quite different based on their own life. That’s actually not what makes the answers distinctly different, though. It really depends on what people classify as ‘nightmares’.

Nightmares are typically defined properly as dreams that are ‘frightening’; they tend to startle you to a state of bein’ awake. That’s how people discern a ‘nightmare’ from a dream. But you know, that ain’t all a nightmare can be. Just because someone doesn’t jump up shittin’ themselves in a haze don’t mean they had a good dream, if they had one at all. Sometimes what are “nightmares” can be premonitions. They can be repressed memories of traumatic past experiences, or they can be so abstract that the dreamer remembers only the vague feelings of the nightmare itself. The only constant is the feelin’ of dread, but sometimes the dread exists only in the nightmare. Even if your mind doesn’t remember, your body will remember that sensation, and you ask yourself, ‘What was that?’ The problem with them, though, really arises when you can’t find a way to stop them. Some may think not understanding ‘em is the worst possible problem, but if you don’t understand ‘em and you keep having ‘em, what then? It’s a hopeless cycle that you can’t escape from, because humans need to sleep. That makes the terror compound, and eventually, one dreads the very idea of havin’ to go to sleep, even though sleep should be a welcome part of daily life.

My habit of staying out so late was because of that very feelin’. It started around the end of elementary school—

Every night, I found myself having the same ol’ dream.

I’d hear the sounds of the spring cicadas surroundin’ me. It was unusually hot for spring, and I tapped my foot as my patience was wearing thin. I was waiting for something. It was gettin’ way too late in the evening, and it felt like I had been waiting for a real long time. A nostalgic black car would eventually pull up in front of me, as if my wish was suddenly granted. I wanted to go home–that was always the thought on my mind. The door to the backseat would slowly open on its own, inviting me in. I couldn’t see who was driving it, but I entered the car anyway. I was waiting for it, after all. As soon as I entered, the door shut by itself, and the car wasted no time leaving.

The surroundings became a blur almost immediately, and I couldn’t even tell where I was being picked up from anymore. I wanted to go home, and I believed I was right in assumin’ that’s what my driver knew, too. I usually knew how long it would take to get home, and I knew my sister would usually pick me up from school, so it felt odd when I realized someone else was in the car with the driver.

Both of their presences were unsettling, and my adrenaline spiked when we stopped suddenly. The world finally stopped being an incomprehensible blur, but now it was colored oddly. Blues were yellows, greens were red, reds were purple. Nothing seemed to be in place correctly, but at the very least, there was a street we were on.

A phone at the console of the car would start ringin’. Phones creeped me out as a kid, and the moment one rang, the only thing I could do was freeze. Once it started ringing in the dream, I felt myself paralyzed until it stopped.

It never stopped.

The vibratin’ of it echoed in my skull, and it felt like my head was gonna explode. All I could do was cry and close my eyes. I wanted to cry over the phone, to, in some naive desire, hopefully stop the pain by simply bein’ louder. I could feel my throat gettin’ more and more hoarse; time feelin’ like it went on forever.

And then, there was a single sound. It was incredibly loud, like thunder right above your head. Except that thunder was from within the car. It scared me enough to stop my crying, and with my head already turned to the window, I opened my eyes.

Openin’ my eyes, all I saw was the street painted in a beautiful haze of purple. There was someone there, in that splash of purple. I was overcome with a sense of envy. It was so beautiful that I couldn’t really process it, and I immediately felt deeply sick. My insides rushed to my mouth, as if I was being turned inside out.

Slowly, my intestines came out foot by foot, small and large. Slimy and acidic, passin’ through my mouth onto the car floor with a wet thud. Then came the stomach, the liver, my lungs, and finally my heart—each agonizingly worming their way out of my mouth as I stopped bein’ able to breathe. My heart came out with its valves still attached to the insides of my body, almost like a spool of noodles. Holding the beating organ in my hands, it was the last thing I remembered before waking up.

As I said, I’d have this dream, this nightmare, every single day. There was one week during my sophomore year when I refused to sleep because I dreaded reliving that dream. I never told anyone about it until that point, and the only person I did tell was Yeon. I lied to everyone else who noticed I didn’t sleep at all, including my family. Made up a story about it being some sort of dare I made with people I didn’t even actually know. I think that week was the closest I ever came to just fully breaking mentally. Like, I mean, if I gave in, I don’t think I would’ve come back.

How long do you think humans can stay awake for? Apparently, the record is 11 days, but, simply put, most people can’t go past 72 hours. It’s deemed unethical to force anyone to stay up that long, so modern-day doctors can’t even research it. 2 days is all it takes for your mind and body to start failin’ bit by bit.

Stayin’ up for 24 hours is the typical limit; it slows your ability to think, you may start hallucinatin’ just a teensy bit, and you’re probably gettin’ real fuckin’ moody at this point. At 36 hours, the hallucinations become more intense, and you’re uncontrollably falling asleep. ‘Microsleep’ is what it’s called; you’ve definitely seen it before, whether it’s in person or media. The worst part about it, even though it only lasts a few seconds, is that you don’t even know when it’s happenin’ until you jolt all the way awake. Time starts to become abstract, and day and night are at this point interchangeable. Slowly, you become more and more empty; the only thing filling you up is the desire to close your eyes.

Once you’re at 48 hours, that emptiness reaches your perception. The world starts to feel more and more like a dream. The hallucinations are getting worse, and any remaining physical balance you had is slowly slipping away. Ah, I haven’t really mentioned this, but a person still needs to eat and drink during this time. Since they’re not sleeping, they may overcompensate by eating more, and if they’re trying not to sleep, they’ll no doubt be puttin’ in their body whatever they can to stay awake. The cardiovascular system is already struggling while this is happening, so it’s real appreciative when you dump a bunch of caffeine into it. Have you ever mixed two energy drinks together? It really makes you feel like a scientist doin’ some shit you ain’t supposed to. Put that in your barely holding on self, and now you’ve got too much energy and an impending crash that’ll make you feel like your whole soul is turning off.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. That’s all you start hearin’. Your heart becomes the only thing remindin’ you that you exist, unfortunately, as a human being. It pounds in your head more than anywhere else, over and over and over and over again. The constant throbbing in your skull just urges you to find any sort of relief, but the only relief is to put your head down. You can’t do that, though. The moment you do, your eyes will close on their own, and you’ll start to see what you’ve been escaping from the whole time, so in comparison, the throbbing isn’t so bad. Seeing and hearing a Lancelot that wasn’t really there wasn’t so bad either, compared to that. It’s only been 72 hours, so it should be easy to keep going forward from there… is what I thought. Naturally, my hubris was answered swiftly. Past this point, I don’t really remember much besides being conscious for a bit longer, except eventually wakin’ up in the hospital I frequented as a child. It was like time fast-forwarded by me sitting on the remote in a weird way, but now the remote is stuck in the abyss of the couch cushions, and I can’t go back to what I just missed.

No one’s told me exactly what happened during that time, but I was wrapped in bandages when I came to. I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly I had gotten myself into. I was out for at least three days according to the doctors, and besides my family, Yeon was the first person to see me. I had never seen them cry before, so I was startled when they started sobbin’ while standing next to me. I could barely move without there being severe pain, so all I could really do was look at them. I didn’t offer any words of comfort; I just looked at them as they grabbed my hand softly and tenderly. They were so full of self-loathing back then because they were the only person I told. They pushed the blame for it getting this bad onto themselves.

What’s fucked up, though, is that normally when this sort of thing happens, the person should feel guilty, right? Guilty for making the ones who care about her worry so much and do their best to take care of her due to a destructive, selfish act. I didn’t feel an ounce of it. If anything, I only felt annoyance. Questions like ‘why do these people care?’ and ‘what do they get out of keeping me alive?’ permeated my mind. I could only think of the situation as something that came about because people were dumb and wasting their time, rather than it being my own fault. In my head, I was logically avoiding goin’ insane because I reached a breaking point. I failed to understand the fact that not telling anyone else about the issue itself caused this whole situation to spiral as it did. Even if I still tried to stay up as long, I do believe something better would’ve occurred than what actually happened.

Regardless, my mental state was clearly not in the best spot. Remember how I mentioned me and Yeon were together until I broke it off? I did it while in the hospital. She’d visit me every day while I was there recovering, even helping out with my physical therapy. Reed was there too sometimes, and he did his best to try to make me laugh to no avail. She was even more of a presence than my sister, who only visited me once. Until one day, I just outright told Yeon I no longer cared and didn’t want to see her anymore. That was the second time I saw her cry, and the last time I saw her while I was at the hospital. Reed eventually stopped coming too, but only when I was able to walk on my own.

Oh, and just to be clear, I’m not telling you this desiring pity or needing you to feel sorry for me. I don’t care what you think of me—I’m purely telling you the story as it is. Who I was is still a part of who I am now, and it’s important to never forget that, I think. I hold onto my regrets tightly so I remember—to avoid making those kinds of decisions again. Stepping into this world purposefully, it’s best you keep that in mind too.

Mama sent me to therapy immediately. Therapists didn’t like me very much, though, because I just refused to engage with them. The only thing that ended up helping was getting back to training physically once I was able. Well, that, and the prescribed drugs, I guess. Pushing myself to the point of needing to sleep somehow blocked out the nightmare, but only sometimes. Drugs helped stabilize my mood and keep my sleep schedule more regular, but I tried taking them as little as possible. Either way, the training was stress-relieving and far better than simply staying up. Yet, the deeper the night became, the more anxiety consumed me, and I couldn’t so easily go back to sleep.

Anyway, when I pushed myself to exhaustion and fell asleep, the world went black, and I woke up as if I hadn’t slept at all. I never set alarms because my internal clock was very sensitive to sunlight. No matter what time I went to sleep, if it was while the sun was gone, I would wake up when the sun was back. Without fail, I’d be incredibly nauseous after waking up while gaspin’ for air. I’d have a full cup of water near my bedstand and down it as soon as I caught my breath. After that, I’d just sit there for a while.

Sometimes I’d gaze around my mess of a room, littered primarily with books. Reading was the only thing I had the drive to do outside of anything physical. I used to collect the toys that those heroes on TV used, and sometimes I’d be tempted to look for them again to try and regain a little bit of joy, but I’d never go through with it. I’d just figure I’d buy another book, that will at least do somethin’ for me, right? Clothes were also strewn about everywhere. The floor, bed, bean bag chair—there were all sorts of articles everywhere. My room was at its cleanest when I did laundry. They say one’s room is a reflection of one’s mental state, so I’ll let you read into that however you want.

No matter how hard I try, once I’m awake, I can’t go back to sleep. That’s true now, and was especially true back then. My morning routine basically consisted of waking up, training, basic hygiene, skincare, haircare, choosing my outfit, and then going to school. Sometimes I’d eat breakfast. If I took it with me, I’d give it to a kid on the bus. I’d typically avoid eating if I had the dream the previous night. The nausea and sensation of throwing up my organs stayed with me for most of the day when that happened, so I just wouldn’t eat anything until I got back home. I did force myself to eat despite that once, and proceeded to projectile vomit in the cafeteria before rushing to the bathroom. Honestly, vomiting has never been as painful as it was that day. Great reason for a teenager to stop eating food, right? Anyway, the day we’re on was one of those days.

Woke up at what, probably 6 AM? I doused that cup of water as soon as my breathin’ got right, and it always tasted real good. Putting on my glasses, I saw just how much of a mess my room was. Not the worst it had been. Because of my lack of appetite, food waste became a real problem in my room at one point. By then, the issue was nonexistent, but that didn’t change how hard it was to navigate my room if you weren’t me. I didn’t always read the books I had, but I sure had a lot of them, and I loved to stack them. Can’t say why beyond it told me which ones I’ve read, but I also just liked how it looked. One wrong step in my room and you’d set off a domino effect among the various stacks. My movement through my room was subconscious at this point, even if a new mess was added. I just adapted to whatever was there.

My routine lasts for about an hour, but at the time it went somethin’ like this. I’d warm up with some dynamic stretching, focusing especially on my joints and hips. Afterward, the workout proper would have looked like: 60 pushups, 50 pike pushups, 50 squats, 5 sets of planking, and 10 sets of jump rope. I’d go for runs on the weekend, when I had more time. It was otherwise just really inconvenient to try to make it back before I had to be ready for the bus. I did this routine pretty much every day, not out of necessity for my physical goals, but more because I had too much energy. If I didn’t, I’d get too antsy and get real into the mood of pickin’ fights with people. Like, if it was really bad, I’d just start asking whoever I thought was tough. The problem with that was that no one in school was strong enough on their own, so I’d need to fight groups of people in order to have any sort of real contest. Calling it a contest is disingenuous, though. It was just a lazy excuse to satiate physical desire, and a harmful one at that.

Dad got up around the same time. Mom was not at all a morning person, so she always woke up after him. She had ten alarms to make sure she got up, but Dad tended to be the actual alarm for her. This morning, though, I didn’t see him until I was about done with my routine and heading to the bathroom to shower and get ready.

Our house was a one-story with some decent living space. 4 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, an open kitchen connected to the living room, and even a separate dining room. The furniture was plain; the drab mahogany stuff you’d see in furniture stores all over the south. It was intended for five people, but our planned third sibling never got their chance to be with us, unfortunately. Mama and Dad didn’t try again after that, and we reserved the 4th bedroom for guests, or even as a small private space for anyone’s use.

“Good morning.” Dad’s deep voice always greeted me with those words when he was sitting down in his recliner. I didn’t always say it back, but I did acknowledge it with a slight gaze towards him. He tended to his newspaper without so much as even a cursory glance at the world around him. It was well understood in our house that once he began reading it, the Earth would have to split into two for him to stop. Or at least, whatever held the same sort of value. He read it rather fast, so it was never as much of a concern as it was a nuisance when his input or attention would be convenient. Somehow, he knew exactly when Mama would be up, and breakfast would be made, and always timed his reading to be done exactly as it was prepped for us all to eat.

He wasn’t a particularly emotive person, but he sure was passionate with his words. Whenever he felt like speakin’, that is. See, my grandad was rather harsh on him during his childhood, admonishing him for every little opinion or thought he voiced out loud. It’s instilled into him that nothin’ he says is worthwhile, which can sometimes feel like passivity. He is a very action-driven person, though, so words were never necessary for him. His eyes, which often found themselves hidden by those thick, rectangular-framed glasses, spoke for him more often than not.

Mama was the stark opposite; a lark who didn’t know when to shut up.

“He said good mornin’ to ya now! Say it back! Good morning, dear,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek as she passed by his recliner. ‘See, that ain’t so hard, Kyra! It’s the little things that matter in life, but you don’t get that yet. You young’uns don’t got any concept of manners or time these days. Good grief. Good grief! Two girls and ain’t either of ‘em know how to act like people! Just what are we gonna do, Webster?” Webster was our dog and Mama’s primary conversation partner. He looked at Mama with a blink and lay his head back down on his bed, not caring too much about the usual morning talk.

Webster was a black Lab of around 14 years old at this point. He was Tasha’s dog more than anyone else’s, but honestly, you could never tell he was 14 when he was awake. The old man was active at all times of the day and could probably outrun you. Mama swore that he understood human language perfectly, and if not that, human emotion through words. I think she said that mainly to cope with the idea that Webster was the only one who responded to her incessant talking (with his barks), but she’d recount stories of him being Tasha’s guardian angel. She thought the two shared some sort of mental link.

One time, during her middle school years, while Tasha was outside, she was harassed by some boys for dressing more masculine. She wasn’t the biggest fan of more girly-style stuff, even as a child, and neither of our parents particularly minded it, ’cause she knew how to style herself well on her own intuition. Anyway, as my Mama recounted, she saw Webster lookin’ outside with the damndest gleam in his eye. When she followed his gaze, she didn’t see anythin’. Tasha was at a park, a good walk away from their house at the time, and Webster was the type to bark at anyone he saw coming towards the house. So Mama was a little confused, to say the least, when he kept pawing at the door and barking at it a few seconds after she thought it was nothing to worry about.

She figured it was just him needing to use the restroom, so she opened the door without any further thought. According to Mama, she ain’t ever seen him run as fast as he did then. It only took a few seconds before he was gone completely. Mama is an easygoer type, though, so she just shrugged her shoulders and gave it to the end of the day for him to get back.

Sure enough, he was back with a Tasha that had blood pourin’ from her nose and bruises all over her body. Webster also had blood runnin’ from his nose too, and apparently, they both had the same exact face as they looked at Mama. I didn’t believe it when Mama first told me the story, but lemme tell you somethin’. I’ve never seen a dog glare at me the way Webster did as the doubt crept onto my face. I outright told Mama she was lying, and the damn dog headbutted me! When I looked at him, it was so strange. His eyes had this sort of determination that I only ever saw once again in my life from a human, but never again in an animal. Whatever was goin’ on in that small brain of his, he wanted me to believe every word my Mama was tellin’ me. That’s what my soul was tellin’ me, at least.

As she told it, which was a recount of what Tasha told her, as soon as Webster showed up, Tasha immediately started sluggin’ on those kids. They got distracted by him barkin’, so she took the opportunity and just whaled on ‘em. Webster would join in too, biting whoever he could. No one was supposedly hurt that bad, but it was enough to make people stop messin’ with Tasha for how she dressed. In fact, I want to say that was the inciting incident that made people start followin’ her around like she was their boss. Tasha hated it at first, especially when they’d get off the bus with her and try to follow her home. She told them off a few times, but some of them were just drawn to her, guys and girls alike. Eventually, it was too much of a hassle to send them off.

She became a sort of mini-gang leader during her time in school; just her presence and her astute followers got her in trouble for ‘intimidation’ of the student body every now and then. Supposedly, I was “under protection” as well, but being friends with Lance did a lot for my status, not that it mattered to me. By the time that no longer mattered, Tasha had already graduated, so that sort of thing was basically rendered null. Not surprising that I got into a lot of fights not too long after that, huh?

Gettin’ ready never took too long. Besides basic hygiene, the most time-consuming thing was doing my hair. I liked straightening it, but I also really loved giving it an inward curl using a technique I taught myself and just improved over time. Well, Mama showed me the idea at first. In concept, it’s pretty simple, just using a hot iron curl and a rounding brush, but it requires some developed dexterity, especially to do it quickly.

I decided to wear a simple black linen set comprised of a short sleeve unbuttoned top and pants that went down to my ankles with a white t-shirt underneath the top, and accessorized with simple studded earrings.

Depending on how nauseous I was feeling on a given day, I’d either eat breakfast with barely any time to spare as the bus came, or I’d skip it altogether.

Eatin’ absolutely nothin’, I made my way out the door. I could hear Mama start to yell about the food I was leavin’, but I didn’t care to listen. The bus would be here soon, but that meant I just had to wait. Waiting was fine enough, yet there was someone standing on the sidewalk where I usually stand, smoking a cigarette. Dark, short loc’d hair, fully blacked out sunglasses, a studded red leather jacket on top of a black turtleneck, rounded out by pale blue bell bottoms over black boots. They had gold bands around each loc, each one with a different design. Their hands were adorned with various rings, some connected by a chain that led to a bracelet on their wrists. Had silver hoop earrings to top it all off, and of course, I knew who it was the moment I saw her exhaling cigarette smoke so passionately. Only Tasha could smoke so early in the morning with fresh vigor.

I questioned why she was standing in the spot I usually did when waiting for the bus, but paid no mind. She was probably gonna say something to me before I got on the bus. She had a real annoyin’ habit of holdin’ you up to tell you something just before you had to leave. Just one of the many things that pissed me off about her personality. And you know, sure enough, I stood there for minutes, my eyes on her all the while, and the only thing she did was smoke that cigarette in silence. The moment I started moving to be in a position to get on, she tugged my jacket hard.

“I’m drivin’ you.” She said it plainly with a sharp tone. The bus still stopped at its usual spot and opened the side door. The driver looked at both of us for a few seconds; not a single emotion changed on his face. He was the quiet type of bus driver, the type who, if they did speak, it was because you fucked up. For a moment, I really wanted him to say somethin’. He had been around long enough to be my sister’s bus driver back when she was in high school, so he knew he was holding me back. Unless there was a way out, I was stuck in this situation. I had no good reason to refuse her, and he was otherwise my only way to school. So, even if just for a little bit, I really hoped he would call out to me to get on the bus. Naturally, that’s not his style. Our business was between us, and he knew that, so the door closed, and the orange bus left on its way towards the sunrise.

Tasha let go of my jacket and began to slowly walk towards her car. She had this almost lazy way of walking, as if she had no energy and was gonna stumble at any moment. Every time she walked up to me with a motivated cadence, I found her terrifying. The car itself was a white 1971 Mustang, something I still don’t know how she got her hands on. She treated that thing better than she treated any partner I saw her with, and it made me wary of even getting near the car. That wasn’t the reason I didn’t walk with her this time, though. I just didn’t feel like it.

When she opened the door, she realized I wasn’t on the other side, and turned around really slowly to look at me, standing at the same spot as before. There was a small pause before she closed the door and started walking back towards me with the tiniest pep in her step. I could see her raised eyebrows above her sunglasses, but just the sight of her walking towards me made me look away. She stopped in front of me, takin’ a long puff of her cigarette before blowing the smoke into my face. I didn’t flinch and kept my eyes cast away and downward.

“So you are smokin’ again. I ought to knock you the fuck out just for not listenin’ to me,’ she had told me on numerous occasions before she didn’t want me smokin’, but I could only blame her for making me want to. Besides, she never even tried helping me get off the damn things. It was always just ‘don’t do it’. ‘But you know, I’ve possibly got other reasons to beat your ass. I hear about how you treat our folks, and you made Reed cry yesterday. Is that last part true?”

“Don’t know, I left before I saw something as sorry as that.” I can’t remember if I really meant that, honestly. Thinking about it now, it really hurts to remember it was even feasible for those words to leave my mouth. Tasha took one more puff of her cigarette before throwing it onto the sidewalk and smothering it with her foot. Her gaze sat on the concrete for what felt like eons before she, rightfully in my opinion, launched her fist into my liver. My legs became incredibly wobbly, and my entire consciousness shook just from how hard she hit me. I would’ve fallen to my knees, but she grabbed the collar of my shirt and started dragging me. Without saying a word, she practically threw me into the car, and it amazes me still how I didn’t manage to get a concussion. She slammed the door shut, forcing my legs into the seat, not even giving me a chance to take off my backpack. Wouldn’t take her long to loop around and get in the driver’s seat.

I was in too much pain to really say anything, and while that pain was slowly getting overtaken by anger, I couldn’t bring myself to retaliate even in words. A deep part of me wanted that punch, you know? I didn’t want my way of thinking to be correct, even then. Being admonished, being hurt, and being reminded that I was an awful person felt ‘correct’. Maybe I’m a masochist, cause it honestly felt good too. So, with those feelings being there, how could I argue against them?

“Put your damn seatbelt on,” she said, the car’s engine roaring in agreement.

The school itself was only about 20 minutes away. Traffic isn’t bad either, so it’s a pretty chill straight shot. Despite that, the car ride felt like it slowed down to a crawl.

There was no music playing in the car, and for a while, Tasha didn’t say anything.

It was just the two of us in a deafening silence that lingered and grew heavier. I could barely even hear the cars outside, not like there were many. I had no intention of saying anything, but I desperately wanted to in some capacity just to break the unease.

My body felt as if it was being suffocated and crushed by the weight of the silence itself, and I swear to you I thought by the time we got to school, I’d be flattened down to a pulp. Of course, that would never happen. Probably. Didn’t change the fact that the fear was for real, though.

I was gettin’ all twitchy, which was pretty uncharacteristic. I tend to be a still sitter, no matter the context, believe it or not, but the anxiety was making me fidget uncontrollably. It was bolstered by the sudden inner heat that burned through my body. It didn’t make me as hot as it did itchy, though, which is the worst part. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, and the AC was on, even if only mildly, but I was still getting hot.

And yeah, it just, well, stayed like that. Every building we passed was suddenly far more interesting to look at and think about. The weather was serene, and I desperately wanted another car not to notice the red light at an intersection and just run it. Do something, anything, to disrupt the stale air.

“Let me ask you somethin’. If you keep actin’ like this, Kyra, where do you think the road leads?” A sincere question left my sister’s lips. I remember it very clearly—there wasn’t a hint of anger in her voice, just melancholy. I wasn’t so absent-minded as not to recognize that then, but telling her ‘I don’t know’ felt like the worst possible thing I could do. Day by day, it was increasingly obvious I was headed towards destruction, but hey, who has time to admit that sort of thing, right?

“Wouldn’t you know? You talk like we’re so different.” With the silence being broken, it was far easier to get comfortable again. When it comes to battles of words, I will always outdo. Not necessarily win, but I’ll last longer than you.

“We aren’t, which is the problem. Everyone knows that, including you.” She shot back at me immediately. Out of all people, she was someone who could shut me down. It’s part of why I hated talking to her. She was logical, but unlike Yeon, she’s a lot more animated and cutthroat. She acknowledged your feelings and knew how to tear them down with ease. That came from personal knowledge, either having witnessed or experienced those feelings herself. There wasn’t an extreme age gap between us, but at this time, I think she was around 26.

Unfortunately, this was a trait I unknowingly took from her.

“At some point, and I’m only going to tell you this once, your choice to throw away the world around you will destroy you. You won’t even realize it when it happens, only when it’s way too late. Don’t know if it’s clear, but I’m tryna warn you.” Its clarity was what pissed me off the most.

The light flashed green, and the drive continued on. For a moment, there was silence and peace. If you saw the scene, you’d probably be able to convince yourself that I took what she said to heart.

“Guess no one warned you when you threw away yours.”

I remember how distinctly cold my tone was. The contempt was sown in from the very moment those words were even conceived in my head, and I made sure every ounce could be heard and felt as I spoke.

Ever since I was a kid, I have always found the idea of murder to be absolutely abhorrent. I didn’t think there was any valid excuse for a human to kill another human, and as I got older, that idea never changed, but I got angrier. Despite believing that humans should never kill one another, it was hard to ignore just how good we were at doing it. There is no greater threat to humans than other humans. Maybe you don’t agree, considering what you’ve seen and heard, but I still believe in that. If you’re human, and you’ve decided that the best course of action is to take the life of another human, then live with that burden for the rest of your life. Don’t be upset when death comes for you, too. If you think someone deserves to die, especially by your own hands, figure out why you deserve to live. That sort of fire…

Anyway.

Tasha was still a human. When that incident happened, she changed as a person. Became more distant, emotionally unavailable, and would just disappear for months at a time without a word to our parents or me. I honestly think Reed was hit the hardest by the friend group due to his deep affection for her. She refused to tell anyone, even on that night I saw her bein’ held by my mom as she broke down into a cryin’ mess. She didn’t say a single word; she just cried all night. I shouldn’t have been surprised, then, that the sound of a gun cocking next to my eardrum was the next thing I heard. The metallic object was placed on my temple with a subtle, but intense amount of pressure.

My gut sank farther than I thought it could. I was in a state of shock. Like, seriously? In the broad daylight of the mornin’? Does she just carry the gun with her at all times? And aiming it at me, of all people? What I said was uncalled for, even though I recognized that in the moment, but how would I have ever expected that to be the retaliation?!

“Let’s be real clear, Kyra,’ she began, a heavy tone being present in her voice that I had never heard before, ‘you don’t get just how fragile human life is. Just like how I could end your life right now, I could lose mine before the day is over. Mama and Dad could get shot up before you get back home, and what are you gonna do? Huh? I remember when you were bitchin’ about how you couldn’t tell Lance that you loved him with those words exactly after he moved, so what do you think?” It quickly became way too overwhelming for me, and I shut down. I wasn’t going to rebuke that in the slightest. She was right, I never told Lance ‘I love you’, and when I realized that after he was already gone, I think that was when I had my first ever outburst of any sort. Tasha was the one who held me and listened to my ridiculous ramblings about what a bad girlfriend I was.

The pressure left my temple, and I could hear the gun being put back into the console of the car. The anxiety stayed with me. Tasha ain’t the type of person to do somethin’ like that just because it’s ‘effective’ or because she ran out of patience. I knew her, and I knew that she didn’t waste any words or actions. The unease that wrestled within my core came from my thoughts looping over themselves, trying to convince myself to listen to her. She had a poignant point, yet I still couldn’t bring myself to believe in her words. I didn’t want to believe the pain I put myself and others through was for nothing. There had to be a point to it that would end in a way that worked out for everyone, right? That’s what a lot of us think at that age.

At some point, we were at the school. My mind was racing too much to really notice the other kids going up the steps to the needlessly big establishment. The last thing Tasha said to me that day was, “You’d better apologize to Reed. And mean it.”

---

See you in Chapter 5, Hero…