No One Cares To Talk About It
It was kind of like deja vu, in some ways. Though Freddie could hardly remember what his mother had been like when she was healthy, he could remember quite clearly what she had been like in the weeks before her death. The mania wasn’t something he was used to, but he recognized the low. He recognized the hiding, the attempts at covering up everything that was so clearly... wrong. He recognized enough that, when he arrived at the house to see the crowd of people inside, he looked almost too quickly around for some kind of sign that things were off. And when he couldn’t find Effy and no one knew where she was, well. That was only more reason for the panic in his throat to rise, bitter and all too familiar.
The locked bedroom door was even worse, and Freddie couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to have to call another ambulance, if he hadn’t been watching another person die in front of his face without realizing it. He didn’t want to make her more nervous than she already could have been, though -- and with the locked door and the note on the wall, he couldn’t help but think her paranoia was likely sky high. He remembered paranoia better than almost anything else he had witnessed with his mother, after all. With only one knock, quiet and careful, he spoke through the door softly, hoping he would be heard over the din of the crowd and the pounding bass coming from lower in the house.
“Effy, come on. Unlock the door, let me in. Just unlock the door, please.”