By all means, this is nowhere near the weirdest thing she has ever done. Yet part of him feels like it is.
Maybe it was more “normal” when there was an actual plot, his name surrounded by others. But it’s not like that right now—not when her eyes melt into her skull as she stares at his screen. Corneas burn. Everything tangles into a knot of impending isolation.
Is it even impending anymore? Or is that something else? She can’t tell. It’s not like it matters.
“I just realized,” she says as he records her words, “despite everything, I’ll still have to go to English class tomorrow.”
It wasn’t his whining that struck her, but rather the fact that it was past midnight. It’s not like anyone was awake, but even if they were, she still would’ve recorded her audible thoughts.
It’s nice to have someone to listen to… even if that someone is yourself. There are perks. For one, she doesn’t have to think of a response when listening to earlier thoughts that she decided to verbalize. Two, she can’t help but agree with everything she says. Wise minds think alike, right? Well, makes sense for the same mind to think alike.
She deletes the voiced note anyway. It wasn’t that important. She’ll feel it tomorrow—the anxiety. She’s aware that he can choose not to worry…
…but if he chooses not to worry, then she’ll just be really bored.
With a long exhale, she tortures herself for a bit longer, knowing that it’ll be even harder to wake up tomorrow. That’s only something she’s required to do—she has to wake up sometime before 6:30 AM.
She finds reason in requirement.
Summer is approaching. There won’t be a requirement to get up early for school. Maybe some days she won’t even find a reason to get out of bed.
The idea is disturbingly appealing.
Hard metal plunging into skin and gnawing at bones isn’t all it’s sought out to be. It might seem painful and even feel painful for a blinding second, but after that second passes, you’re brought to another place.
The ridge slams against his temple once before coming down again, falling at the hand of gravity. 9.8 m/s… or would it be -9.8 m/s? It’s not like anything can fall up. Is m/s even the correct measurement? It’s velocity, right?
It’s kinda nice when your brain just shuts off. The dry layer of skin on each hand—due to your excessive use of washing with dish soap—fades into numbness. Texture turns into static. Noise tunes out. No more punching around in your brain! No more yelling! No more names!
But the moment your subconscious stirs—the moment you distantly wonder about which Bill Hader films you have yet to watch, your gears start up and you’re completely fucked. Back to reality; back to thinking, left with only your own thoughts; back to feeling, the stored oil beneath the dry coat of flesh on your hands; back to the noise, the most excruciating abuse of all.
And that’s when Vic realizes something truly terrifying: even her imagination won’t save her.
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